Roland Clarke's Blog, page 23
December 22, 2019
Review / Warning of ‘promotional service’ by Wid Bastian / Genius Media / Kairos Phoenix Company
I rarely re-blog posts but this needs exposure. AUTHORS! A WARNING! PROMOTIONAL SCAM!
Please read the original post from Christoph, about how a charity book project was scammed into receiving nothing despite great sales.
Share on social media to stop this evil scammer conning more victims!
Here is a little warning about a “service” I subscribed to recently:
Wid Bastian of Genius Media who now has a new business named Kairos Phoenix Company (KPC).
https://www.facebook.com/widb1
https://www.bizapedia.com/wy/kairos-phoenix-company-llc.html
I’m usually sceptical when it comes to professional indie author support but was taken in by his string of box sets. So many authors couldn’t be wrong?
Our book, Do No Harm, A collection of Medical thrillers, did well. Thanks to advertising and our own huge efforts we made USA Today and gathered 1.5 millions page reads during the short time it was in KU.
Two charities were named for this set, both 501c3 charities in the US and were to receive the pre-order proceeds. The charities advertised and marketed the set along with the authors. I’ve seen predominantly the marketing efforts from charities and the authors involved – actually next to nothing from his company.
Anyway, when…
View original post 375 more words
December 17, 2019
Sparkle or Skaði
My mind is already churning around the themes for the 2020 WEP/IWSG Challenges. There are 3 options:
Standalone Stories inspired by the individual themes. Six separate spontaneous seasonal stories.Sparkle Anwyl case. Six episodes of a new Snowdon Shadows case for my Welsh detective and her partner-lover, Kama. The threads for this are scribbles with substance.Skaði, Goddess, giantess, huntress and snow-stealth specialist. More Norse mythology with a twist – and a few more kennings. Not sure why Skaði is at a cafe with my favourite artist or his sunflowers.
[image error]Skadi by Michael Jorvik
[image error]Eve Myles as Sparkle Anwyl
[image error]
I could try doing a poll but comments seem better – if I get any. Tell me what you would like to read, please.
December 11, 2019
#WEP/IWSG December Challenge – Footsteps
Time for the WEP+IWSG Challenge and another attempt at a change of scenery and style. DC Sparkle Anwyl is on extended leave so a character from a previous Challenge reappears.
Warning: there are several attempts at literary devices, specifically kennings. For those stumped, I’ve deciphered the head-scratchers at the foot.
Note: A kenning is a metaphorical compound phrase that replaces a single, concrete noun. A kenning employs figurative language to represent the simpler concept, such as using the phrase “battle-sweat” to refer to blood. Kennings are plentiful in Old Norse and Old English poetry and prose.
[http://www.literarydevices.com/kenning/]
For other flash pieces in the December Challenge, visit: https://writeeditpublishnow.blogspot.com/2019/12/wepiwsgthe-december-challenge-is-open.html
[image error]
Snowfall Spirit
Threat-cries echo in Nökkvé. The Holy Darkness stretches forever across the winter-blanket. Answering howls on the snow-breath affirm friends travel the self-same path of power.
Silver-face smiles her blessing on our journey granting light as I slide ski-swift over fresh frozen-tears.
Fur-girdled hunters silent-shadow me, protectors – even if of Fenrir’s race. Noble and wise denizens. Teeth sharp from natural prey. Flesh from those facing lights-end. Grim but just. A tooth-claw ending.
Balance. Season’s passage.
Life dies and is reborn.
Our deep-slumber Solstice whisper-sighs our presence.
Sleeping shadows stir and join our gathering.
Tracks appear, converge. Distant specks arise on the silent-fall, become threads weaving towards our annual heart-call.
I’ve visited time-turning-age to ensure spirit-breaths re-forge the natural order.
For I am Skaði. Goddess, giantess, huntress and snow-stealth specialist.
Size is not the issue. Speed is. The endless-revival needs sentient-life to affirm our faith.
[image error] Skadi Hunting in the Mountains(1901) by H. L. M.
Moonlight glistens on a spreading pool. I stoop. A wound-sea but no sounds of battle.
Earth Mother’s blood seeping too soon. Salt-tracks on my cheeks. Stings. My wealth-chambers reel. Is there time to save her?
Foul-howls tear the bleak-black embrace. Hounds baying. Wild shapes thunder past. Asgard-Riders with the Harrier of Hosts driving the fear-spreading soul-hunt.
Most quail and run. I remain tall. The wolf-pack crouch, baring fangs.
Hooves pound and swirl snow-dust as Oðinn wheels Sleipnir around so the spirit—swarm surrounds us.
I confront Slain Tamer, caressing his eight-legged horse. “My Breaker of Rings. What prey tonight?”
Never question the dread Huntsman of the Otherworldly Host, unless your sagas are entwined. But I ignore our wedded bliss.
He sneers and doffs his crooked head-hider. “My Snow-Stepper. You never fear even me. Why have you ceased your journey? For me?”
I shake my head as I kneel on the earth. “You? The Ruler of Treachery holds no fear.” I point to the death-stain. “But this evil does. Jörð, sister-wife bleeds. Blood-steps we need to heal with Solstice song and ceremony”
My shared-husband dismounts. His blinded eye reads the blood-runes staining the snow. “You are my Wise God-bride. This is the sweat-scent my hounds and host pursued. The Earth Mother dies from the weapon-weather man reaps. Will you ride with this harried Horse-wolf to save her? Will the wolves run with the hounds?”
I smile at his heart-bait. “Great ring-giver, you soar above the earth-coat. I will swift ski below matching your hunting pace. Will your hounds join the wolf-pack? It would torment Fenrir further.”
“The Wolf of Winter will be driven away. But healing Jörð must be soonest. Onwards.”
Together, our packs race time to reach the Gathering of the Nine Realms.
Deities and denizens mass around us.
“Welcome, Fenrir-Bane. Welcome Snow-Dancer. Do the shadow-wolves and wild-hounds hunt together tonight?”
Oðinn dips his hat to me. My heart stirs.
“Our Liege-Lord and I follow the self-same battle-sweat trail. Our Mother, Jörð is dying. Abused and abandoned by greed and ignorance within Midgard. Join our healing as we prepare a path for Sól’s return.”
The life-song rises from the Gathering. Deep chords from Oðinn’s male-band. Sky-climbing phrasings from my stepdaughter Freyja and our female searers. Wolves and hounds howl-lead the life-denizens. The voices weave, the Rite resonates, and the Nine Realms pulsate.
Our music echoes throughout Nökkvé. The Holy Darkness diminishes.
The life-bringing light returns as Sól, our golden goddess drives her chariot across the canopy.
Jörð breathes. Death-dew dissolves from Earth Mother’s flourishing footsteps
**
Kennings Decoded
Asgard-Riders = The Wild Hunt
Battle-sweat = Blood
Bleak-black = Night
Blood-runes = Blood traces
Breaker of Rings = Oðinn
Death-dew = Blood
Death-stain = Blood
Fenrir-Bane = Oðinn
Frozen-tears = Snow
Great ring-giver = Oðinn
Harrier of Hosts = Oðinn
Head-hider = Hat
Heart-bait = Gift/Temptation
Heart-call = Rite
Horse-wolf = Oðinn
Liege-Lord = Chief, Leader, or Oðinn
Lights-end = Death
Ruler of Treachery = Oðinn
Salt-tracks = Tears
Silent-fall = Snow
Silver-face = Moon
Slain Tamer = Oðinn
Snow-breath = Winter Wind
Snow-Stepper = Skaði
Snow-Dancer = Skaði
Wealth-chambers = Mind & Heart
Weapon-weather = War
Winter-blanket = Snow
Wound-sea = Blood
See also Wikipedia’s List: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_kennings
***
Word Count 675: FCA
Comments are welcome as usual and the following applies:
[image error]
December 9, 2019
Nano Notches
After I recorded the final word count for my 2019 NaNoWriMo attempt, I began wondering, ‘Am I a cheat? What is a NaNoWriMo win? How did I get here?’
If a win means writing 50k words of a new work in November, then I’m a cheat. How many times?
The rules have been flexible for many years, and over the years, I’ve adapted those rules to fit my situation.
I’m no longer a ‘purist’ after a few NaNo successes. Nowadays, my draft outlines written in October are always part of the attempt. I always copy my outline and write over it. Even notes and comments to myself now become part of my ‘splurge’ draft novel.
My declining ability to write/type long and fast enough to tackle a fresh 50k has put paid to new creations. Anyway, with a few drafts clamouring for completion, adding to the heap seems foolhardy. So, I reuse drafts already written.
2019 was my ninth year of doing NaNoWriMo, but I’ve only worked on seven different novels. This year was a revision of last year’s success so a perversion of the rules.
My first attempt was in 2011, when my outlines were rough notes—a scrappy road map with room for detours. However, I’d already resorted to planning after my debut novel, Spiral of Hooves, was taking 13 years to publish as my plotlines kept changing.
Here’s a run-down of my NaNoWriMo journey:
2011: The Last Leaf. I wrote 50k but didn’t know how to validate. Preparation—minimal research and a scrappy road map. A fantasy novella and part of my ‘Gossamer Flames’ saga.
2012: Wyrm Blood. 54,817 words—a validated win. Preparation: detailed research and outline. Sequel to a draft mystery, called ‘Wyrm Bait’.
2013: Tortuous Terrain. 56,169 words—a validated win. Preparation: detailed research and outline. Sequel to ‘Spiral of Hooves’ awaiting reader demand.
2014: Fates Maelstrom. FAIL with zero words after poor preparation. Intention was to relocate a Dartmoor draft novel to North Wales.
2015: Fates Maelstrom. 70,274 words—a validated win. Preparation: detailed research and outline. Dartmoor novel was heavily re-written to introduce my Welsh police detective Sparkle Anwyl. Originally, Book 1 of Snowdon Shadows series.
2016: Eagle Passage. 55,612 words—a validated win. Preparation: detailed research and outline using a Heroine’s Journey plotline. An alternative history set in a 21st century Viking Age with airships.
2017: Ruined Retreat. 60,264 words—a validated win. Preparation: detailed research and outline. Last true fresh draft-win. Originally, Book 3 of Snowdon Shadows series.
2018: Fevered Few. 54,599 words—a validated win. Preparation: this started life as a collection of short stories about Sparkle Anwyl prior to Fates Maelstrom. So, I devised an outline plot to bookcase the stories and provide the framework for new material. Cheating?
2019: Fevered Fuse. 68,535 words. A revised version of ‘Fevered Few’, with a revamped title, an amended plot and new scenes. I worked on a new outline/order in October—and even made notes. But was it a real win? Is it even Book 1 of the Snowdon Shadows series? ‘Azure Spark’–my A to Z story–is a prequel of sorts.
What is on the cards for NaNoWriMo 2020? Perhaps, it will be a chance to revise a draft from the archives. Another cheat?
‘Seeking A Knife’? Part of the Snowdon Shadows series—originally the sequel to ‘Fates Maelstrom’. Although, half-written–before Sparkle’s sexuality evolved–I need to rewrite earlier Books first.
‘Wyrm Bait’? An old mystery I regret filing away after detailed comments from a reputable British editor, who was positive while suggesting a logical approach to the rewrite.
I will have to plan further ahead if I intend to write anything. October will leave things too late. With MS an MS gets tougher every year—even an MS MS.
[image error]
However, I’m amazed at one genuine win—my short story selection for the forthcoming IWSG Anthology. I never expected ‘Feather Fire’, my attempt at a MG story, to make it past discerning judges. I was wrong and stand alongside some great fellow writers. So, I congratulate those other writers and thank the judges.
Nearer the release date, I’ll share some nuggets from the research behind the adventure set in 1944.
For now, I’ll share the announcement of the winners of the IWSG Anthology Contest!
[image error]
Coming May 5, 2020 –
Voyagers: The Third Ghost
Middle grade historical/adventure
Featuring these stories and authors:
The Third Ghost – Yvonne Ventresca
Winter Days – Katharina Kolata
Feathered Fire – Roland Clarke
The Ghosts of Pompeii – Sherry Ellis
Dare Double Dare – Louise MacBeath Barbour
The Blind Ship – Bish Denham
–A World of Trouble – Rebecca M. Douglass
The Orchard – Beth Anderson Schuck
Return to Cahokia – L.T. Ward
Simon Grey and the Yamamba – Charles Kowalski
We’d like to thank our amazing judges:
Elizabeth S. Craig, author and honorary judge
Dianne K. Salerni, author
Lynda Dietz, editor
S.A. Larsen, author
Rachna Chhabria, author
Lindsay Davis Auld, agent – Writers House
Tonja Drecker, author
David Powers King, author
Journey into the past…
Will the third ghost be found before fires take more lives? Can everyone be warned before Pompeii is buried again? What happens if a blizzard traps a family in East Germany? Will the Firebird help Soviet sisters outwit evil during WWII? And sneaking off to see the first aeroplane–what could go wrong?
Ten authors explore the past, sending their young protagonists on harrowing adventures. Featuring the talents of Yvonne Ventresca, Katharina Gerlach, Roland Clarke, Sherry Ellis, Rebecca M. Douglass, Bish Denham, Charles Kowalski, Louise M. Barbour, Beth Anderson Schuck, and L.T. Ward.
Hand-picked by a panel of agents, authors, and editors, these ten tales will take readers on a voyage of wonder into history. Get ready for an exciting ride!
December 4, 2019
#IWSG – Role-play Reverie
Why am I getting repetitive? Because it’s that time again.
Yes, that one.
Created and hosted by the Ninja Captain himself, Alex J. Cavanaugh, the Insecure Writer’s Support Group monthly blog post is here and so am I, insecure, although a chunk less since I’ve finished another WIP draft for this year’s NaNoWriMo.
[image error]
I finished the revision before Thanksgiving so had a few days grace. And time to worry about this post and my WEP-IWSG flash on the theme of Footprints. But for the latter, don’t expect another Sparkle tale as she’s off-duty after a tough month. Instead, I’m revisiting another character’s world.
More insecurity/stress inducing -great for the MS, not- is the editing.
I’m trying to get my head round modern grammar rules: en-dashes, em-dashes, ellipses, etcetera. Whatever I learnt at school in the last century seems wrong—or old-fashioned. Was that last em-dash correct? Just when my fuddled brain sees the light, I get hit for six. [In cricket terminology. In baseball lingo, a homerun?]
Do editors differ in terms of style? AP or Oxford? Brits or Yanks?
Plus, this post comes with a warning: I’ve still got old IWSG posts to visit from months back – buried in the daily avalanche of emails. A never-ending avalanche. So, expect a visit in 2020. You’re filed.
Anyway, on to the IWSG monthly question which will result in more fascinating posts elsewhere.
[image error]
December 4 question – Let’s play a game. Imagine. Role-play. How would you describe your future writer self, your life and what it looks and feels like if you were living the dream? Or if you are already there, what does it look and feel like? Tell the rest of us. What would you change or improve?
My fingers fly furiously over my keyboard. Finished correcting my latest novel—Book 8 in the Snowdon Shadows series. Yet more challenging cases for DI Sparkle Anwyl. Yet more animating accolades for Roland Clarke. Grin inanely, autograph another book, drink another toast with my agent. Life is great and comfortable for me, my wife and our furry family. Exotic escapades entice. Relaxed, warmth spreads from my chest to my body—to everyone.
Screech of brain-brakes.
Book 1 isn’t even ready. Is it Book 1 or just backstory? My fingers and brain are cramped. Sparkle is only a DC—Detective Constable. The ending feels flat. No agent. No publisher.
The only MS is my chronic illness.
So, hold the Role-play Reverie.
I fear I’m writing to leave a legacy of words to a family who doesn’t care. Most of our money goes to them—not to even an editor who can tackle my mixed-up words/grammar. Why bother to write?
To sleep, perchance to dream.
Because I dream of someone having a use for my scribblings—once I’ve found the best way to end the current WIP.
Is publication ambitious or justified? Necessity or luxury? Reality or Role-play?
*
The awesome co-hosts for the December 4 posting of the IWSG are Tonja Drecker, Beverly Stowe McClure, Nicki Elson, Fundy Blue, and Tyrean Martinson!
(You must agree these guys all have commitments too—but they are the best. Ticker-tape applause for all of them—plus toasts too.)
Purpose of IWSG: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
November 6, 2019
#IWSG – Rabbit Warren
I’m getting repetitive but it’s that time again – although
this is written in advance as I’ll explain.
OK – Created and
hosted by the Ninja Captain himself, Alex
J. Cavanaugh, theInsecure Writer’s Support Groupmonthly
blog post is here again – and so am I, insecure, although a chunk less as I
scheme ahead to NaNoWriMo.
Yes, NaNo is my reasonable excuse for writing this as All
Hallows Eve creeps ‘candily’ closer.
My decisive plan to revise ‘Fevered
Few’ as my 2019 NaNoWriMo project is still on track – even though One Drive
has locked some files. Thank goodness I have multiple saves elsewhere. Shame I
can’t read my scribbled notes. This renewed novel, now called ‘Fevered Fuel’
entails a restructured plotline, new scenes, rewrites – and some rabbit warren
detours
Anyway, on to the IWSG monthly question.
[image error]https://www.gettyimages.com.au/
November 6
question – What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever googled in researching a
story?
I’m a research addict who attempts to get my facts right –
sometimes mid writing sprint. But even while researching a topic at the correct
moment, I end up getting distracted. I dive down rabbit holes at the slightest appearance
of a tail.
However, these detours are fascinating not strange.
Is ‘strange’ researching corpse decay and poisons? Not for a
crime writer. Nor I expect are medical conditions like amnesia – for my WIP – or
wondering what it’s like living as an identical twin – another Sparkle Anwyl
case.
I’ve even delved into how far crows – corvids – travel, but
Sparkle is adopted by a jackdaw. All normal then.
But I’ll highlight three stranger examples.
In a previous project, I wanted the antagonist to feel predestined
for greatness. And I found a rabbit hole called caul bearers.
Interesting strange but not macabre strange. If you want to know more: “This is
the place for caul bearers to dispel caul bearer myths, to learn, connect, and
heal…a place for caul bearers to call “home.” https://caulbearersunited.webs.com/”
Back to Detective Sparkle Anwyl and more normal research –
if you are into alcohol. She likes a good black drink, stronger than her daily coffee,
like Guinness, or her local brew, Darkside of the Moose – https://purplemoose.co.uk/products/case-of-12-darkside.
However, I needed something more unusual so went digging and found this: “An Irish
Car Bomb, Irish Slammer, or Irish Bomb Shot is
a cocktail, similar to a boilermaker, made by dropping a bomb shot of Irish
cream and whiskey into a glass of stout.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Irish_Car_Bomb
Enough fiction. My health has taken me down some strange
paths, some weird but others invaluable. Hence, I’ll leave you with this old article,
although I’d travelled the rabbit run a few years earlier:
“After a review of scientific studies, researchers say
extracts from marijuana plants can help treat pain and spasticity symptoms in
people with multiple sclerosis.” https://www.healthline.com/health-news/researchers-say-cannabis-can-benefit-people-with-multiple-sclerosis#1
Shame it’s illegal in Idaho.
*
The awesome co-hosts for the November 6 posting of the IWSG
are Sadira Stone, Patricia
Josephine, Lisa
Buie-Collard, Erika
Beebe, and C. Lee McKenzie!
(You must agree these guys all have
commitments too – but they are the best. Ticker-tape applause for all of them –
plus toasts too.)
Purpose of IWSG: To share and encourage. Writers
can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak.
Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a
safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is
officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts
on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you you have
conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement
for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your
fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments.
This group is all about connecting!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to
say.
October 16, 2019
#WEP/IWSG October Challenge – Horrible Harvest
Today’s offering for the WEP+IWSG Challenge is the climax of the piece I wrote for August’s Red Wheelbarrow prompt – HERE. However, I’ve changed the POV, and as some people requested, we are back with Detective Sparkle Anwyl, who is a guest at the wedding. Enjoy – if I do not scare you with the gory finale of my vampire tale.
[image error]
Another Horrible Harvest
Saturday 8th August 2015
The glass goblet of crimson wine looks tasty. Maybe
not summery but tempting.
Yet Mina is hesitant. Scared. Unlike the Mina Westenra
of the Goth Patrol, ready to tackle a bully or a ghoul.
A for Atypical.
Kama bites my ear, then notices my stud-tapping. “What
did the elderly guy say to her. Or is it hard to lip read from here?”
“A welcome. Something about his addiction to blood. He
freaked Mina out. Not the Goth reaction I remember. Acting has changed my
friend.”
Has policing changed me? Enriched if meeting Kama is included.
“If that’s human blood, this could be a crime scene.”
“Or a vampire case. That ghost was a cold case, not outside our remit as detectives. Anyway, we’re off duty. Let’s watch and listen, cariad.”
My school friend’s behaviour jangles every nerve and
tattoo. Why?
The old man? A for Ancestry. V for Victim. P for
Plasma.
He can’t be Owain Glyndwr, even if I’m proud to be
Welsh and await the return of our national hero.
Another actor?
The best man finishes reading email greetings to the
married couple, then nods to the elderly man.
“I’m cutting my speech short in favour of the wisdom
of our host and hero.”
Owain springs to his feet, belying his reputed years.
“Over the centuries, I’ve watched and waited. History
says I’ll return to set Wales free from the conquerors’ yoke. But blood is the
charm today, and we’re all here to celebrate this blessed union instead. I
could regale you with tales of battles and feuds, with horrors wrought and
deeds undertaken. But my life was nothing compared to the future ahead for Mina
and Dafydd.”
With a wink towards Mina, he raises his glass of
crimson wine. “Welcome to the Glyndwr Dynasty. This is your century. May
you and my Great Nephew have many decades of fun ahead.” Facing the gathering,
he continues, “Ladies, lords, friends, join me for a bridal toast. May you
thrive and spawn many generations, Mina and Dafydd.”
He drains his glass.
No excuse needed to drink – in
moderation. Even if us guests are served champagne – and there might be a crime
lurking.
Mina smiles but doesn’t touch her
glass.
“Your actress friend is scared to
drink hers. A poisoned chalice, perhaps.”
My tattoos tingle at the scene. P
for Poison. M for Murder. R for Revenge.
“I never knew her to refuse
alcohol as a teenager.”
Mina reaches for a glass – of
fruit juice.
Her stand-in father, Victor
Frankel leans over to Dafydd, who mouths back, ‘Your moment.’
Victor rises.
“In the sad absence of Mina’s
late father, I’ve been proud to give her away to another special person and
talented actor. As their director, I see a fruitful partnership ahead – even under
another’s direction.”
We all laugh or clap. He pauses,
then removes a sheaf of paper from his jacket.
“I’d like to thank our host, the irrepressible Owain
Glyndwr, for making today possible. As a descendent of the last true Prince of Wales, it’s fitting
this ancestral home is where I’m announcing the next film from Oriole Productions –
Horrible Harvest.”
Suitable
cheers and foot stamps. My tattoos tingle – a pleasing sensation for once. E
for Excitement and Error.
“Our
new tale of bloody murders, duplicitous intrigue and evil disguised as good will
star our talented couple – and chill our audience. Perhaps, our usual smoke and
mirrors will garner its own harvest of honours. This will be our version of
that classic, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. But transposed to
the mist shrouded but beautiful mountains of North Wales.”
[image error]
The
evidence is in the speeches. Case resolved. Everyone plunges back into
festivities.
Congratulations
are due the glowing couple.
Mina
and I embrace. I tease her.
“Not
the Goth you threatened to run away with. But he’s a catch.”
“Even
as a teen, I wanted attention. Just as you wanted to fight injustice. And I
guess your partner is—”
“Another
injustice warrior. Kama – the best woman and detective in my life.”
The
untouched glass is behind her. Tempting me to smell and taste its contents.
Kama
distracts Mina. “So, when we get married, you must both attend the
celebrations. No date yet, but we’re making plans. Not straightforward…”
Letting
my distraction distract, I step behind and take the cup.
Musty
but not sulphurous. I dip my finger in, then lick it.
R
for Robust and E for Energising.
Time
to REVAMP our fears.
I
hand Mina the goblet. “An unusual concoction that suggests blood. But it’s not
a case for our forensic guys. Maybe special effects are responsible. Enjoy it
without fear.”
She sips, then smiles, and laughs.
“Better
than blood. Also, revitalising. I will get addicted.”
“The
power of suggestion. Blend fruit juice, red wine, herbs and spices. Call it
blood. And throw in vampires.”
***
Word Count 830: FCA
Comments are welcome as usual and the following applies:
[image error]
#WEP/IWSG August Challenge – Horrible Harvest
Today’s offering for the WEP+IWSG Challenge is the climax of the piece I wrote for August’s Red Wheelbarrow prompt – HERE. However, I’ve changed the POV, and as some people requested, we are back with Detective Sparkle Anwyl, who is a guest at the wedding. Enjoy – if I do not scare you with the gory finale of my vampire tale.
[image error]
Another Horrible Harvest
Saturday 8th August 2015
The glass goblet of crimson wine looks tasty. Maybe
not summery but tempting.
Yet Mina is hesitant. Scared. Unlike the Mina Westenra
of the Goth Patrol, ready to tackle a bully or a ghoul.
A for Atypical.
Kama bites my ear, then notices my stud-tapping. “What
did the elderly guy say to her. Or is it hard to lip read from here?”
“A welcome. Something about his addiction to blood. He
freaked Mina out. Not the Goth reaction I remember. Acting has changed my
friend.”
Has policing changed me? Enriched if meeting Kama is included.
“If that’s human blood, this could be a crime scene.”
“Or a vampire case. That ghost was a cold case, not outside our remit as detectives. Anyway, we’re off duty. Let’s watch and listen, cariad.”
My school friend’s behaviour jangles every nerve and
tattoo. Why?
The old man? A for Ancestry. V for Victim. P for
Plasma.
He can’t be Owain Glyndwr, even if I’m proud to be
Welsh and await the return of our national hero.
Another actor?
The best man finishes reading email greetings to the
married couple, then nods to the elderly man.
“I’m cutting my speech short in favour of the wisdom
of our host and hero.”
Owain springs to his feet, belying his reputed years.
“Over the centuries, I’ve watched and waited. History
says I’ll return to set Wales free from the conquerors’ yoke. But blood is the
charm today, and we’re all here to celebrate this blessed union instead. I
could regale you with tales of battles and feuds, with horrors wrought and
deeds undertaken. But my life was nothing compared to the future ahead for Mina
and Dafydd.”
With a wink towards Mina, he raises his glass of
crimson wine. “Welcome to the Glyndwr Dynasty. This is your century. May
you and my Great Nephew have many decades of fun ahead.” Facing the gathering,
he continues, “Ladies, lords, friends, join me for a bridal toast. May you
thrive and spawn many generations, Mina and Dafydd.”
He drains his glass.
No excuse needed to drink – in
moderation. Even if us guests are served champagne – and there might be a crime
lurking.
Mina smiles but doesn’t touch her
glass.
“Your actress friend is scared to
drink hers. A poisoned chalice, perhaps.”
My tattoos tingle at the scene. P
for Poison. M for Murder. R for Revenge.
“I never knew her to refuse
alcohol as a teenager.”
Mina reaches for a glass – of
fruit juice.
Her stand-in father, Victor
Frankel leans over to Dafydd, who mouths back, ‘Your moment.’
Victor rises.
“In the sad absence of Mina’s
late father, I’ve been proud to give her away to another special person and
talented actor. As their director, I see a fruitful partnership ahead – even under
another’s direction.”
We all laugh or clap. He pauses,
then removes a sheaf of paper from his jacket.
“I’d like to thank our host, the irrepressible Owain
Glyndwr, for making today possible. As a descendent of the last true Prince of Wales, it’s fitting
this ancestral home is where I’m announcing the next film from Oriole Productions –
Horrible Harvest.”
Suitable
cheers and foot stamps. My tattoos tingle – a pleasing sensation for once. E
for Excitement and Error.
“Our
new tale of bloody murders, duplicitous intrigue and evil disguised as good will
star our talented couple – and chill our audience. Perhaps, our usual smoke and
mirrors will garner its own harvest of honours. This will be our version of
that classic, Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. But transposed to
the mist shrouded but beautiful mountains of North Wales.”
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The
evidence is in the speeches. Case resolved. Everyone plunges back into
festivities.
Congratulations
are due the glowing couple.
Mina
and I embrace. I tease her.
“Not
the Goth you threatened to run away with. But he’s a catch.”
“Even
as a teen, I wanted attention. Just as you wanted to fight injustice. And I
guess your partner is—”
“Another
injustice warrior. Kama – the best woman and detective in my life.”
The
untouched glass is behind her. Tempting me to smell and taste its contents.
Kama
distracts Mina. “So, when we get married, you must both attend the
celebrations. No date yet, but we’re making plans. Not straightforward…”
Letting
my distraction distract, I step behind and take the cup.
Musty
but not sulphurous. I dip my finger in, then lick it.
R
for Robust and E for Energising.
Time
to REVAMP our fears.
I
hand Mina the goblet. “An unusual concoction that suggests blood. But it’s not
a case for our forensic guys. Maybe special effects are responsible. Enjoy it
without fear.”
She sips, then smiles, and laughs.
“Better
than blood. Also, revitalising. I will get addicted.”
“The
power of suggestion. Blend fruit juice, red wine, herbs and spices. Call it
blood. And throw in vampires.”
***
Word Count 830: FCA
Comments are welcome as usual and the following applies:
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October 2, 2019
#IWSG – To Read or Not To Read
Created and hosted by
the Ninja Captain himself, Alex
J. Cavanaugh, theInsecure Writer’s Support Groupmonthly
blog post is here again – and so am I, insecure, although a chunk less as I scheme
ahead to NaNoWriMo.
Last month, I was meant to be
submitting my Pitch
Wars 2019 submission. The required query
letter, one-page synopsis, and the first chapter of my completed manuscript seemed
achievable by the September 25th-27th deadline. But I was
unsure if I had a “completed and polished full-length, fiction manuscript”. I
decided it was incomplete and ‘dusted’ more than ‘polished’.
So, what started as an insecure month,
evolved into a decisive plan to revise ‘Fevered Few’. The short stories at
its heart are becoming episodes and memories driving the main story. And I’m
working on a new way to open this renewed novel, now called ‘Fevered Fuel’
and slated for its rewrite as my 2019 NaNoWriMo project.
Anyway, on to the IWSG monthly question.
October 2 question
– It’s been said that the benefits of becoming a writer who does not read is
that all your ideas are new and original. Everything you do is an extension of
yourself, instead of a mixture of you and another author. On the other hand,
how can you expect other people to want your writing, if you don’t enjoy
reading? What are your thoughts?
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Are any ideas new and original?
All writers borrow from others in some measure. Even Shakespeare
borrowed – retold tales. Like others, he built on the past weavings of different
storytellers – ancient Greek playwrights, medieval histories, and folklore. Can’t
we do the same?
For me, reading is like settings and people – enjoyable fuel
for the little grey cells.
All this feeds and inspires my writing about Detective
Sparkle Anwyl of the North
Wales Police/Heddlu
Gogledd Cymru – and other scribblings and scratchings.
I’d like to believe Sparkle is unique, but I know she has loaned
traits and actions from others. Perhaps, she will inspire someone herself.
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*
The awesome co-hosts for the October 2 posting of the IWSG
are Ronel
Janse van Vuuren, Mary
Aalgaard, Madeline
Mora-Summonte, and Ellen @ The Cynical Sailor!
(I have to admit how
much I admire these guys as I know they have commitments too – like Ronel’s
recent release. Ticker-tape applause for all of them – plus toasts too.)
Purpose of IWSG: To share and encourage. Writers
can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak.
Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a
safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to say.
Posting: The first Wednesday of every month is
officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your
thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you you
have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of
encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and
connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and
return comments. This group is all about connecting!
Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!
Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.
Every month, we announce a question that members can answer
in their IWSG post. These questions may prompt you to share advice, insight, a
personal experience or story. Include your answer to the question in your IWSG
post or let it inspire your post if you are struggling with something to
say.
September 17, 2019
The Quest for Home – Virtual Book Launch
Yesterday I re-blogged Jacqui Murray’s post about Prehistoric Fiction. Today it’s her new release taking centre stage.
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Driven from her home. Stalked by enemies. Now her closest ally may be a traitor.
Chased by a ruthless and powerful enemy, Xhosa flees with her People, leaving behind her African homeland, leading her People on a grueling journey through unknown and perilous lands. As they struggle to overcome treachery, lies, danger, tragedy, hidden secrets, and Nature herself, Xhosa must face the reality that her most dangerous enemy isn’t the one she expected. It may be one she trusts with her life.
The story is set 850,000 years ago, a time in prehistory when man populated Eurasia. He was a violent species, fully capable of addressing the many hardships that threatened his survival except for one: future man, the one destined to obliterate any who came before.
Based on a true story, this is the unforgettable saga of hardship and determination, conflict and passion as early man makes his way across Eurasia, fleeing those who would kill him. He must be bigger-than-life, prepared time and again to do the impossible because nothing less than the future of mankind is at stake.
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Book information:
Title and author: The Quest for Home by Jacqui Murray
Series: Book 2 in the Crossroads series, part of the Man vs. Nature saga
Genre: Prehistoric fiction
Available at: Kindle US Kindle UK Kindle CA Kindle AU
Jacqui answers some Questions
1. How did early man tell time?
Early man didn’t care about hours or minutes. What drove him was how much sunlight remained before he must return to wherever he would be sleeping that night (maybe a cave, a cliff wall, or behind a thistle barrier). As a result, they indicated time in the future by pointing to a place in the sky where the sun would eventually reach. He might say, “Return by this point” to mean, “Return when Sun reaches this point in the sky.”
2. What does a ‘hand of Sun’s travel’ mean?
A ‘hand’ quantifies the amount of time it takes Sun to travel the distance of a hand held up to the sky. A finger would be about fifteen minutes and an hour about four fingers, or a hand. This is one of the ways the earliest People measured the passage of time. Test it yourself. Hold a finger up next to the Sun. It will take about fifteen minutes for the Sun to reach the far side of your finger.
3. Why are these characters so violent?
The answer to this question is simple: They had to be. If Homo erectus hadn’t been violent 850,000 years ago, he—and we as a species—wouldn’t have survived. Man wasn’t yet the apex predator. Our skin was too thin, claws too short, and teeth useless for defense. What we did have that those who preyed on us didn’t was a thoughtful brain (well, the beginnings of one).
Jacqui will be visiting blogs September 16th-30th to chat about The Quest for Home. Some of the questions she’ll cover:
How do you know these people are as smart as they seem?Their speech is too sophisticated.Convince me they can communicate as well as it sounds like they do with just gestures, hands, and facial movements.Could primitive man build rafts as suggested in this story?Was there really a giant upright primate like Giganto (Zvi’s friend)?What does ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ side mean?How did early man tell time?What does a ‘hand of Sun’s travel’ mean?Why are these characters so violent?I am not reading these books in order. Does it matter?Could Xhosa (the main character of The Quest for Home) really have traveled with a wolf companion?The Quest for Home hints at a spiritual side to man. Is that accurate?This is part of a series. What’s that about?How does the trilogy Dawn of Humanity tie into the trilogy Crossroads?What’s the relationship between Xhosa (and Homo erectus) and animals?What one characteristic would you say allowed Xhosa to survive in a world populated with Sabretooth cats, violent volcanoes, and predatory species who liked to eat man?
The schedule from September 16th-30th of who Jacqui will visit and the question number (from the list above) she’ll answer are here:
https://worddreams.wordpress.com/2019/09/16/qfh-book-launch/
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Author bio:
Jacqui Murray is the author of the popular Building a Midshipman, the story of her daughter’s journey from high school to United States Naval Academy, the Rowe-Delamagente thrillers, and the Man vs. Nature saga. She is also the author/editor of over a hundred books on integrating tech into education, adjunct professor of technology in education, blog webmaster, an Amazon Vine Voice, a columnist for NEA Today, and a freelance journalist on tech ed topics. Look for her next prehistoric fiction, In the Footsteps of Giants, Winter 2020, the final chapter in the Crossroads Trilogy.
Social Media contacts:
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Jacqui-Murray/e/B002E78CQQ/
Blog: https://worddreams.wordpress.com
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/jacquimurraywriter/
LinkedIn: http://linkedin.com/in/jacquimurray
Pinterest: http://pinterest.com/askatechteacher
Twitter: http://twitter.com/worddreams
Website: https://jacquimurray.net
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Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Northern shore of what we now call the Mediterranean Sea
Pain came first, pulsing through her body like cactus spines. When she moved her head, it exploded. Flat on her back and lying as still as possible, Xhosa blindly clawed for her neck sack with the healing plants. Her shoulder screamed and she froze, gasping.
How can anything hurt that much?
She cracked one eye, slowly. The bright sun filled the sky, almost straight over her head.
And how did I sleep so long?
Fractured memories hit her—the raging storm, death, and helplessness, unconnected pieces that made no sense. Overshadowing it was a visceral sense of tragedy that made her shake so violently she hugged her chest despite the searing pain. After it passed, she pushed up on her arms and shook her head to shed the twigs and grit that clung to her long hair. Fire burned through her shoulders, up her neck and down her arms, but less than before. She ignored it.
A shadow blocked Sun’s glare replaced by dark worried eyes that relaxed when hers caught his.
“Nightshade.” Relief washed over her and she tried to smile. Somehow, with him here, everything would work out.
Her Lead Warrior leaned forward. Dripping water pooled at her side, smelling of salt, rotten vegetation, mud, and blood.
“You are alright, Leader Xhosa,” he motioned, hands erratic. Her People communicated with a rich collection of grunts, sounds, gestures, facial expressions, and arm movements, all augmented with whistles, hoots, howls, and chirps.
“Yes,” but her answer came out low and scratchy, the beat inside her chest noisy as it tried to burst through her skin. Tears filled her eyes, not from pain but happiness that Nightshade was here, exactly where she needed him. His face, the one that brought fear to those who might attack the People and devastation to those who did, projected fear.
She cocked her head and motioned, “You?”
Deep bruises marred swaths of Nightshade’s handsome physique, as though he had been pummeled by rocks. An angry gash pulsed at the top of his leg. His strong upper arm wept from a fresh wound, its raw redness extending up his stout neck, over his stubbled cheek, and into his thick hair. Cuts and tears shredded his hands.
“I am fine,” and he fell silent. Why would he say more? He protected the People, not whined about injuries.
When she fumbled again for her neck sack, he reached in and handed her the plant she needed, a root tipped with white bulbs. She chewed as Nightshade scanned the surroundings, never pausing anywhere long, always coming back to her.
The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky. Sweltering heat hammered down, sucking up the last of the rain that had collected in puddles on the shore. Xhosa’s protective animal skin was torn into shreds but what bothered her was she couldn’t remember how she got here.
“Nightshade, what happened?”
Her memories were a blur—terrified screams and flashes of people flying through the air, some drowning, others clinging desperately to bits of wood.
Nightshade motioned, slowly, “The storm—it hit us with a fury, the rain as heavy and fierce as a waterfall.”
A memory surfaced. Hawk, the powerful leader of the Hawk People, one arm clutching someone as the other clawed at the wet sand, dragging himself up the beach.
He was alive!
It was Hawk who offered her People a home when they had none, after more than a Moon of fleeing for their lives through lands so desolate, she didn’t know how anyone survived. Finding Hawk and his People, she thought she’d found a new homeland.
Her last hunt with Hawk flashed through her mind—the stone tip they created like the Big Head’s weapon, how she had hung by her ankles from a tree trunk to cross a deep ravine. How he grinned when she reached the other side, chest heaving but radiant with satisfaction. He told her many of his warriors shook with fear as they crossed. His pride in her that day glowed like flames at night.
For the first time in her life, she felt Sun’s warmth inside of her.
She looked around, saw quiet groups huddled together, males talking and females grooming children. Pan-do bent over a child, whispering something in her ear but no Hawk.
Where is he? But she didn’t ask Nightshade. The last time she’d seen the two together, they had fought.
She couldn’t imagine a world without Hawk. They had planned to pairmate, combine their groups into one so strong no one could ever again drive her away. She hadn’t known there were enemies worse than Big Heads until Hawk told her about the Ice Mountain invaders. They attacked Hawk’s People long before Xhosa arrived. Hawk had killed most and chased the rest back to their home, icy white cliffs that extended from Sun’s waking place to its sleeping nest, bereft of plants and animals. When he saw where they lived, he understood why they wanted his land.
The children of those dead invaders grew up and wanted revenge.
Someone moaned. She jerked to find who needed help and realized it was her. She hoped Nightshade didn’t hear.
He glanced at her and then away. “All the rafts were destroyed.”
She shook, trying to dislodge the spider webs in her brain. Hawk’s homebase was squashed between a vast stretch of open land and an uncrossable pond. They should have been safe but the Ice Mountain invaders attacked in a massive horde. Her People—and Hawk’s—were driven into the water. The rafts became their only escape. Floating on a log platform to the middle of a pond too deep to walk across was something no one had ever done but they must or die. The plan was the rafts would carry the People to safety, away from the Invaders.
That hadn’t worked.
“There were too many enemy warriors, Xhosa,” and Nightshade opened and closed his hands over and over to show her. “More than I have ever seen in one place.”
Images of warclubs slashed through her thoughts, flying spears, the howls of warriors in battle. Many died, beaten until they stopped moving, children dragged screaming from mothers. The giant female—Zvi—sprinting faster than Xhosa thought someone her size could, the children El-ga and Gadi in her arms, a spear bouncing off her back. Her size stunned the enemy, immobilized them for a breath which gave Zvi the time she needed to reach safety.
Almost to himself, Nightshade motioned, “I’ve never seen him this brave.”
Xhosa didn’t understand. “Him?” Did he mean Zvi?
“Pan-do. His warriors attacked. They saved us.” Nightshade locked onto the figure of Pan-do as he wandered among the bedraggled groups, settling by an elder with a gash across his chest and began to minister to the wound.
“I remember,” Xhosa murmured. When the People were trapped between the trees and the water, prey waiting to be picked off, Pan-do’s warriors pounced. That gave Xhosa precious time to push the rafts out onto the water. It seemed none of the enemy knew how to swim. Pan-do sliced through the Ice Mountain invaders without fear, never giving ground.
Nightshade motioned, “He isn’t the same Leader who arrived at our homebase, desperate for protection, his People defeated.”
Xhosa’s hands suddenly felt clammy. “Is Lyta alive?”
Since the death of his pairmate, before Xhosa met him, Pan-do’s world revolved around his daughter, Lyta. He became Leader of his People to protect her. When he arrived at the People’s homebase, Lyta stood out, unusual in an otherwise homogenous group. First, it was her haunting beauty, as though she shined from within, her hair as radiant as Sun. Awe turned to shock when she walked, her gait awkward on malformed feet. She should have been destroyed as a child but Pan-do said he had never considered it. He explained that in Moons of migration, before joining Xhosa’s People, Lyta had never slowed them down. He didn’t expect that to change if the two groups traveled together.
And then she spoke. Her voice was like bird’s song and a gift to People exhausted from the day’s work. It cheered up worried adults and put smiles on the faces of children, its melodic beauty convincing them that everything would work out.
It was more than a Moon after his arrival before Pan-do told Xhosa what he valued most about his daughter. Lyta could see truth simply by watching. No one could hide a lie from her, and she never hid it from her father. Pan-do kept it secret because the people it threatened might try to silence her. He only told Xhosa because Lyta had witnessed a conversation about a plan to kill Xhosa.
One of the people Lyta didn’t recognize but the other, he was someone Xhosa trusted.
When Nightshade nodded, Yes, Lyta lives, Xhosa relaxed but only for a moment.
“Sa-mo-ke?”
Nightshade nodded toward a group of warriors. In the middle, eyes alert and hands energetic, stood Sa-mo-ke.
She sighed with relief. Pan-do’s Lead Warrior was also Nightshade’s greatest supporter outside of the People. When he first arrived, Sa-mo-ke spent Moons mimicking her Lead Warrior’s fighting techniques until his skill became almost as formidable as Nightshade’s with one critical difference. While Nightshade liked killing, Sa-mo-ke did so only when necessary.
Nightshade motioned, “Escape came at a tremendous cost, Xhosa. Many died, the rafts were destroyed, and we are now stranded in an unfamiliar land filled with nameless threats.”
It doesn’t matter, she whispered to herself. We are good at migrating.
She jerked her head around, and then motioned, “Where’s Spirit?”
The loyal wolf had lived with people his entire life. He proved himself often while hunting, defending his packmates, and being a good friend. An image flitted across her mind, Spirit streaking toward the rafts, thrusting his formidable body like a spear through the shocked hordes. The enemy had never seen an animal treat People as pack. Then, the wolf swimming, paws churning the water into whitecaps, gaze locked onto Seeker. Endless Pond was too deep for him to touch the bottom so his head bobbed up and down, feet paddling like a duck’s as he fought to stay above the surface.
Nightshade gestured, “The attackers almost killed Spirit.”
She bit her lip, concentrating. “I remember Mammoth’s trumpets.”
The rare hint of a smile creased his mouth. “Another of Pan-do’s tricks. It saved Spirit and probably all of us. He brayed like a herd of Mammoth thundering toward the shoreline. The invaders fled for their lives.”
Pan-do is clever.
Nightshade grimaced. “But the storm worsened and the rafts foundered. Many of the People managed to cling to logs long enough to crash onto this shore. Then, they saved others. But many died.”
He opened and closed his hands to show how many.
A stillness descended as Nightshade’s gaze filled with a raw emotion he never showed. It shook Xhosa. Nothing frightened her Lead Warrior.
She gulped which hurt her insides. Shallow breaths worked better. Rolling to her hands and knees, she stood which made her head swim and she threw up.
Finally, the dizziness subsided and Xhosa asked, “Hawk?”
Nightshade peered around, hands fidgeting. He examined something on the ground, toed it with his foot. “When the tempest destroyed the rafts, he dragged many to shore, to safety. The last time, he did not return. I tried to find him.”
Soundless tears dampened her face. Nightshade touched her but Xhosa focused on a trail of ants and a worm burrowing into the soft earth. Her vision dimmed and she stumbled, fell, and then crawled, happy for the pain that took her mind off Hawk. When she forced herself up, everything blurred but she inhaled, slowly, and again, until she could finally see clearly.
How dare Hawk die! We had plans. Xhosa shoved those thoughts away. Later was soon enough to deal with them.
“His People—do they know?”
