M.A. Ray's Blog, page 6

The Christmas Tree Effect: A Guest Post by Robert Franks

This is the third of my guests, Robert Franks. He’s an author, an artist, and an all-around charmer. Sit back and let him take you on a ride through:

The Worlds of The Glass Apple
(The Christmas Tree Effect)

 Robert Franks

 So M.A. Ray has issued me with the challenge of writing about the worlds of The Glass Apple, and why I like them so much, giving me only 1000 words to work with.

Challenge accepted!

We’ll start with Ethelbert Gobswistle (main protagonist, eccentric wizard, completely dotty, occasionally sharper than the Reaper’s Scythe), and his attempt to describe the multiverse. What he calls The Christmas Tree effect.

Think of the star on top of the Christmas tree. This represents us, in real time, as we are now. All our history lies behind us, untouchable and inalterable. On the first branches below it are three baubles. These represent parallel worlds, almost exactly the same as ours, but lagging behind our time by a few seconds.

On the next set of branches are 9 baubles, at slightly different heights on the branches, yet more parallel worlds, all gradating further back in time.

On the branches below are 81 baubles, this time covering the time periods a couple of centuries ago, the worlds of Queen Victoria, of Charles Dickens, and worlds with a more noticeable twist to them. You have the worlds of Steampunk, or where wars had different victors or were never fought at all.

And so it continues, all down the Christmas tree, expanding exponentially, some worlds mirroring perfectly our own world’s histories, some so different as to be whole new worlds.

Then there are the people of these worlds. We’ll take, as an example, Jason Crowanhawk, the young hero of the story, and Gobswistle’s grandson. In all the worlds of a similar history he will/does or has exist(ed). As with all living creatures (and some inert creatures), he has a soul, a spiritual projection of everything he can be and will be, existing in the ether of existence, but somehow also within him. This soul is connected to all Jasons, throughout all realities, like a giant octopus with an infinite number of limbs, each touching just one Jason throughout all the timelines.

Jason, of course, is unaware of this.

He’s far too busy (at the moment at least) being enamoured of Cholena, the beautiful daughter of the Indian chief of Chochmo, in ancient America.

Oh, yes, Jason’s time-travelled. Didn’t I mention?

But, as was pointed out earlier, history that has already happened is untouchable and inalterable. So just how the heck has Jason time travelled?

I’ll tell you.

Through the Gateway.

Now stop your groaning, yes I know, I know it’s an old fantasy and sci-fi trope. The most memorably recent of which is in the movie and following TV series Stargate. But it is also a feature of myths and legends across the world. And anyone who reads my books knows I love to include obvious and obscure Easter Eggs of mythology.

So.

The Gateway.

In the world of The Glass Apple, it is of Celtic/Gaelic origin, an intricately carved archway of Celtic scrollwork, with a stone seat either side. It is sentient – indeed, two spirits (or powries) inhabit it, both being the spirits of beings who have willingly sacrificed themselves to both protect and open the Gateway. The Gateway appears when needed, sometimes through summoning, and sometimes because it just knows, and allows passage to those requiring it. But the past it takes the traveller to, rather than being their own past, is in reality a parallel world that is identical to their own, but still existing in the time period they wish to travel to.

A sort of loop hole in the paradox of time travel.

So is this how Jason time-travelled?

Well …

Yes and no.

He has travelled through the Gateway, but this is not how he is currently a 21 year old man in the body of a 14 year old boy.

There is a second way.

A soul transfer.

In a world similar to his own, his counterpart was fatally injured in a car crash. But at the moment of death, when the soul removed it’s cord from his counterpart’s body, an eldritch being “pushed” Jason’s own cord from his body, up into his soul and back down into his counterpart’s body.

Years passed as he was trapped in this parallel world, yet when he escaped and returned back to his own body, hardly a day had passed. In the Celtic and Nordic tales of the little folk, time passes differently in their world. Something similar happened here!

Why do I like these worlds so much? Hmm. Difficult. I think my best answer would be: I used to get frustrated with these tales of time-travel where people make changes, Two Pines go to Lone Pine (Easter egg) and it all gets just so convoluted.

In the world of the Glass Apple, history is history. It cannot be changed.

But the future of another world can be.

And this is vital to the Glass Apple series.

I hope you enjoyed reading this, and I’ll see you at the Gateway!

About the Author

Robert Franks was born in Norfolk, England. His father was a dairy farmer, his mother a nurse and his sister a frequent sparring partner. Brought up in the middle of the Norfolk countryside, he grew up with JRR Tolkein, Anne Macaffrey and Alan Dean Foster for company. Oh, and 12 dachshunds, a welsh collie, two pekinese, a great dane, two bassett hounds, innumerable farm cats, a rabbit hutch of both rabbits and guineapigs,a golden pheasant, some chickens and a rather cantankerous old goose.

He wrote from an early age, completing his first full length novel at the age of 15. It was never published, but certain characters never went away, and have resurfaced in his most recent books, The Glass Apple Series.

He worked as a shop manager for many years, and his writing was put, for the main part, to one side.

The first three chapters of The Glass Apple were finished way back in 1997, but again work took priority. In the winter of 2009, he was made redundant when his shop was closed. Since then he has returned to his first love, writing.

The first four books of the Glass Apple series (The Glass Apple; Spider’s Web; Song of the Shaman; Legacy of the Abandoned One) are available in both paperback and kindle. The 5th book, Child of Mount Pelion, is scheduled for release 2016.

A spin off series of 4 steampunk themed books, under the collective name of The Eldritch Shards, is also planned. Aimed at a mature audience, the first book, Harlequin Glass, follows Marie, Etain’s grand-daughter, and her life in an alternate world version of New Orleans.

*

You can join Robert Franks on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/TheGlassApple/) to shop for all his books and check out the news!

Tour Guide Tuesday: Broadriver

The town of Broadriver lies deep in the swamps to the east of Brightwater, in the ruin of Tangletree Palace. Most of the outbuildings have fallen into disrepair, and the building of carefully-coaxed trees is growing out of shape. The tree-sap windows have mostly broken, and the floors sprout roots, but that hasn’t stopped Angus Xavier, aka Angus the Red.

The self-styled King of Bandits came to the swamps about fifteen years ago and found the Palace abandoned. Undeterred, Angus the Red made himself and his band at home, and soon turned the derelict building into a haven of vice.

The Bandit King has his limits, and enforces them with an iron fist, but most of what you’re looking for can be found in Broadriver. It’s become a popular vacation spot with those in the know, and a popular business destination for those in deeper. Most of Broadriver’s revenue comes from gambling, with different games held in the various family chambers, but Angus himself occupies the royal suite. He has twenty-two children by nine different women, but only one son.

Broadriver also maintains a museum of magical treasures for the curious and drunk in what was once the stable. The museum is surprisingly well-curated and its collections well-researched. Don’t miss the Orb of Palentar or the Foundation Stone of Tangletree itself.

Auras

Every caster, everyone with magical potential in Rothganar, has an aura. It’s important to note before I go on that I don’t mean “aura” in pretty much any real sense of the word, but have appropriated it for my own use MUA HA HA HA HA *ahem*.

There are some people who don’t have an aura at all, and thus can’t draw power from the planet. There are some people (I call them witches) who produce their own power, little batteries of magical energy. They don’t draw from the planet either, or cast spells. A witch’s aura always shows to the Sight in rainbow colors. Trained or untrained, though, most people have the potential to draw through their auras, and do whether they know it or not. The effects might range from a slight nudge in probabilities to turning objects to gold with a touch, or giving everyone around the wings of a chicken, or extending food to cover unexpected guests.

Each person with an aura has a color, and any spell they cast takes on that color, so you might get navy-blue fire, lightning of shocking pink, or a shield that responds to strikes with green ripples. A caster will only ever see the color of their aura when producing an effect; otherwise, it is invisible to their Sight.

Auras even have some effect After the death of magic, but I’d rather not spoil things.

Pylira: A Guest Post by S.L. Perrine

I have a lot of writer friends. Lucky me! Enjoy a guest post by my pal S.L. Perrine.

~*~

In a world of magic and betrayal, one can only expect more.

The lands were in turmoil. Perpetual war pushed people to flee. Five men and their families crossed the land, and eventually fled to the open sea. When they reached a new continent, a new land was born. Pylira. A new land with old possibilities. The climate is ever changing. It’s people forever at peace. Until one thinks he should be set higher than the rest.

They should have known nothing lasts forever. Pylira flourished, but when war came, it changed the people, but more, it changed the land. The four realms: Corinthia, known for its fishermen, lay in the south-east; Regalis, which supplied dairy to the lands, lay in the north-east; Largania, known for its production of steel is north-west; Ormshire, is known for its crops of wheat, rice, soybeans and corn. It lays in the south-western corner of the realm. In the center of it all is the King and Queen in Hearthstone Palace. Deep beneath the keep, a bright red light illuminates the hills around the palace. The power source of the land.

The four realms worked together harmoniously without disruption for nearly thirty years. It was hard for any to believe when the most trusted of the realms turned against the King. A curse was enacted on him for his treachery, but he did not suffer nearly as much as the people of all the realms.

The lands became a barren waste. Bark of the trees dried, leaves wilted and fell. Yellow and brown replaced the vibrant colors that once flourished. Lakes and streams held nothing more than a trickle of life. Only enough to keep the earth below soft and pliable. Even the clouds changed. Their ominous colors remained forevermore, but the threat of rain never came.

Some fled, in search of a new land. Others vowed to see the curse through, and help reanimate the realms. Most moved to Corinthia. Lord Cantothos served his king, allowing safe passage from his realm into the heart of Hearthstone. Others remained where they were. Keeping to the live they had worked so hard for. To make certain the land could be as it once was.

Those who were in Ormshire at the time of the curse, held a different fate. The once thriving realm was desecrated to a land of filth, poverty and misery. The rich soil that once profited, was now nothing more than quick sand. An endless pit into the depths of the ruin that has become a fallen realm. It’s lord, a self-proclaimed King is entrapped in the body of a great beast. When he moves, stone breaks loose of the castle walls. Fire overwhelms the great throne room with his every breath. Spike holes remain in the wood beams at his head. Whether from his head or his tail, no one knows.

This is the life of the world. It may crumble with no hope of resurrection, or be restored to its former glory. Telling which, would ruin the surprise.

~About the Author~

SL PERRINE is a wife to a mechanic and mother of four crazy teenagers (3 are boys) who eat her out of house and home. While raising her kids, she has obtained three degrees, and now works to feed this bunch as a Registered Medical Assistant in a private physician’s office in the city she currently resides.

She is working toward obtaining her Bachelor’s Degree in Creative Writing with a concentration in Fiction, to further her writing career.

~Find Out More~

Website: http://www.slperrine.com/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/slperrine/

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/sl_perrine/?hl=en

Tumblr: http://slperrine.tumblr.com/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/PerrineShannon?lang=en

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8326583.S_L_Perrine

Snippet Sunday #14

For Snippet Sunday this week, a little piece of an untitled work in progress (yes, I know, I have a million). This one’s about Kirsten Kalt, and it ought to go in a Tales from the Knights collection, if I can get my act together.

~*~

The familiar kid-again smell of the barn enveloped Kirsten as soon as she stepped inside. It was much warmer in here; the bodies of the reindeer made it a pleasant place to be in winter, even if it cooled off quick after they left. She yanked her mittens off with her teeth and put back her hood, never mind the flyaway hair it gave her.

It was quiet here, at least for now, and she stuffed her mittens into her pockets and blew out a sigh. She’d forgotten the bad parts of home in the middle of the missing it, just like always.

The house was even more crowded than she’d remembered, which only made sense. All the brothers and their wives and children, plus a couple of the sisters and their husbands and children, in to visit blasphemous little Kirsten… yeah, it made sense. Besides all them, there was Mama, with a woolen blanket around her shoulders, taking up three times the space an old lady ought to.

She finger-combed her hair, which never helped matters really, just made it crackle and zap, and leaned back against the door. There was somebody in here—she could tell because a lantern burned on a stall divider’s hook, and not even the tiniest Kalt would’ve left it. Ivar’s kids especially. Shit, she couldn’t even count how many he was up to. There were little ones and middle ones and older ones, even a baby. His wife must be exhausted. Kirsten could only be glad her skills hadn’t been called upon to deliver another screaming red thing.

Yet.

She sucked in another draught of the ordinary-life scent: sweet hay and dry oats, straw and shit, reindeer milk fermenting, richly sour, in the shed attached to the barn. Whoever was in with her, she couldn’t see, but now that she relaxed, she heard the rhythmic shuff-shuff of a currycomb. One of the hundredth generation (most likely) of barn cats chased a mouse, scuttling and scuffling.

“League of Dragons”

Today’s book is the last in a series, Naomi Novik’s Temeraire novels. I figure I should let you know that before I go on. I’ll try not to give spoilers, but instead to talk about how the series as a whole affected me. If you aren’t familiar with the series, you can take a look at the first book, His Majesty’s Dragon, on Ms. Novik’s website.

The concept behind the series is awesome, just the kind of thing I love to read: a Royal Navy captain becoming a dragon rider (!) to fight Napoleon. There are so many dragons in this series, and they’re very well-characterized, well enough to love or hate on their own merits.

Novik’s prose is excellent. That wins a lot of points with me. I like the plot overall; but I felt like the pacing was off, especially in the latter books of the series (where the story becomes something of an enticing travelogue), and in this last book in particular. It was overall delicious, but I wish more of the battles had been actually written out. At least twice, at pivotal moments, the text cut to the aftermath instead of showing me what had happened, and I love the battle scenes in this series, so I was a little disappointed.

Overall, though, I strongly recommend the first book at the very least, just so you can see if you like the taste of it. I loved it enough that I am just miserable that it’s over. If Novik should revisit the world in the future, I demand more Granby. He was my favorite.

 

Approaching the Throne

from The Book of the Sun

To approach the Queen of Heaven on Her Throne, the ways are three: Right doing, right speaking, right thinking.

Right thinking is the way of Her chosen, for from right thinking flows every blessing of the right path. Therefore, let no blot of unkindness, nor of ungratefulness, nor of unclean things, appear upon the brightness of your mind. Instead dwell upon your Queen, that you may come to Her arrayed in all the soul’s glories.

Right speaking comes from right thinking in the way that a stalk of corn comes from the seed under the light of the Queen’s face. If the seed be blighted, so too will be the product of it, should it grow at all. Though fair words may spill forth from the lips, if the mind is tainted, so will be the speech.

Right doing floods from right thinking like the rains the Queen sends to the ground. Just as sometimes She must hide Her face, so too does right doing sometimes appear as wrong, but every one in his mind must adjudge his own actions, and find them correct. Even if the action is correct, it cannot be considered a step toward the Queen unless it springs from rectitude of mind.

To approach the Queen of Heaven on Her Throne, the ways appear three, but in truth there is only one way, which is right thinking.

Sir Vandis Vail

Of everyone I have, Vandis is the most difficult character to write. He demands a lot of my brainpower, especially because he’s smarter (or smart in a different way, maybe) than I am. He’s the Head of the Knights of the Air, so he’s a priest as well as an administrator. Lately he’s feeling more and more the stress of fulfilling the duties of his station as well as handling a Squire (Kessa No-Name) and a difficult Junior (Our Hero).

Vandis’s dialogue is a particular challenge. Often I’ve rewritten the same line about a hundred times, and it’s still not right, which is why I’m grateful for both first readers and editor.A lot of people really like Vandis, even if they don’t like his filthy mouth. I’ve found it’s easiest when I write him in conversation with his Lady Akeere, who’s given him the ability to fly. His top speed in flight is something like Mach 2. He’s a tiny supersonic jet, and that’s incredibly fun to write as well.

The thing about Vandis some people don’t know is that he falls on the asexual spectrum. He’s got some strong romantic feelings toward his Lady, but he rarely experiences any sexual desire, considering it a waste of valuable time.

If you haven’t met him and would like to, he’s heavily featured in Saga of Menyoral, and appears in his own story, A Wing and a Prayer, which you can read in its entirety on the site: Part One and Part Two at the links.

Rough Passages: A Guest Post by K.M. Herkes

Please welcome the second of my guests, K.M. Herkes, to talk about the world in her Rough Passages stories.

Tour Guide Tuesday: Commoduce Island

This unassuming island in Semoulian Bay hosts the largest, most notorious prison in Rothganar, from which visitors are always turned away and most prisoners never return. Today I’ll take you there, if you’d like to go. Lucky you — you’ll get to come back.

On the south side of the island, as far from the city as possible, is a great firepit kept constantly burning, to consume the bodies of the dead. Some surviving prisoners make soap from the fat and ash, and this is sold on the mainland as a curative, as well as (in different packaging) a tchotchke for the morbid tourist. If the wind is wrong, the choking smoke from the prison’s permanent pyre floats over the city.

The prison itself is a square building with a central courtyard in which executions take place, though the executions often prove unnecessary. Square windows in the thick walls, too high to exit from safely, enable prisoners to see the gallows and the headsman’s block, though some choose to fling themselves out of one. The prison contains seven floors and maintains a guard station for each. Most guards have no other home, and are often disgraced watchmen. Tents or blankets hanging from the low ceilings provide the only privacy.

If a family’s sole support is imprisoned, often they all simply move to Commoduce Island. Forgotten children make up a large portion of the population.

Survivors of the prison include Lucky Max Bradley, Wynn, and Ripper Jones.