Sean Gibson's Blog
February 3, 2021
Internet runs out of content, debases itself by interviewing me
New post up on seangibsonauthor.com:
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https://www.seangibsonauthor.com/post...
September 29, 2020
A preview of some Heloise holiday shenanigans and supporting a good cause
I've always been a fan of holiday ghost stories in the grand Victorian tradition. I mean, what's a better pairing than festive yuletide joy and the terrifying prospect of someone returning from the dead to haunt you?
Given that this has been a particularly crappy year for so many, many reasons, I figured that I couldn't possibly make it worse by adding to that canonical body of literature with my own spin in the form of a new Heloise and Grimple tale, You Can't Hide from Chriskahzaa. (Note: it's entirely possible this story will make the year worse. I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped.)
(Okay, it could have been helped by me just not doing it. But, I did it. So, you're screwed. Sorry/not sorry.)
The story will be dropping in November, about a month before the much-ballyhooed release of the new full-length Heloise adventure The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True on December 15th (a book the clearly drunk folks at Publishers Weekly called "clever, twisty, and bursting with sidesplittingly funny one-liners" in a starred review). The main reason I'm putting it out is in an effort to raise some funds and awareness for Impact Justice (impactjustice.org), an organization that works to forge a new path to a justice system that is fair for all through innovation, research, policy, and advocacy.
So, keep your eyes open (I won't say peeled, because ouch and gross) for more details on how you can get your sweaty little hands on this story to tide you over until the big book drops in December--and, more importantly, how you can help support the path to equal justice.
In the meantime, here's a brief preview of coming attractions to whet your appetite or wet your whistle (FUN WITH HOMONYMS!).
Take care, dear friends and readers--of yourself and each other. And be prepared for a whole bunch of terrible jokes in the coming months...
YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM CHRISKAHZAA
There are few things in life I love more than a good tradition , and one of my favorites is the annual Chriskahzaa holiday song festival in the bustling city of Lurvaine.
They take their Chriskahzaa celebrations very seriously in Lurvaine, to the point where those who don’t exhibit enough holiday cheer, at least in the estimation of Lurvaine’s legendarily dour city watch, are press-ganged into work crews that are forced to string up magical twinkle lights across the city while imbibing the city’s traditional nog, a heady mixture of egg whites, fresh cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, and massive quantities of spiced krumk .
The song festival—which, not coincidentally, also involves the consumption of significant quantities of nog —showcases bards from across Erithea, each vying to have their song chosen as the Song of the Season, an honor that confers both status (most bards would happily stab their own mothers for the title) and lucrative popularity (local wizards mass produce magical recordings of the songs, which an eager and adoring public happily purchases).
I’ve attended the festival many times. And, I’ve consumed more than my fair share of nog, though I can neither confirm nor deny the rumor that I once prevailed in a drinking contest against legendary lush Bordan Bilderbuff, a 7-foot mountain of a man who, rumor has it, has more than a bit of giant blood in him, and who has been known to drink a keg of ale before breakfast as a means of cleansing his pallet for his beloved apple cinnamon oatmeal. But, I have never officially entered the contest…
Until this year, that is, though I’d actually come to Lurvaine at the request of the festival’s organizer, a fellow bard named Glamfair Flutestick , who had reason to believe someone was going to try to sabotage the festival in a most diabolical way.
Why did Glamfair have this rather unusual concern? Well, I think it’s because he’d received a note that read, and I quote, “I am going to sabotage the Chriskahzaa holiday song festival in Lurvaine in a most diabolical way.” It went on to add:
I’m pretty sure that the festivities begin on the 17th day of Destember, but if you could confirm that for me by return post, I’d appreciate it. It just wouldn’t do to engage in diabolical sabotage on the wrong day. Wait—I’m staying anonymous. I almost forgot. Never mind; I will figure it out. But you really should post the dates more regularly on the board in the town square, or somewhere else that people who like to anonymously engage in diabolical sabotage congregate.
Your Wicked Servant,
Someone You Know Better Than Yourself
So, while we might not have been dealing with a criminal genius (though he did manage to stay anonymous, at least), it’s Glamfair’s job to take any threat to the festivities seriously because no one, not even the Crime Lords of Sessalaunt, would dare to disrupt holiday activities in Lurvaine. Glamfair was in high dudgeon—though that was nothing new—so he reached out to the smartest, bravest, and most mellifluous adventurer he knew.
I arrived in Lurvaine accompanied by my adventuring partner, a rather annoying hill giant named Grimple. Granted, he’s smart for a hill giant, but that’s not saying much. He recently got sideways with an undead wizard, which resulted in him getting temporarily transformed into a sickly gnome with enormous hands and a terribly posh accent, but he’s gotten better (though he still has the stupid accent) .
“Now then, I say, where’s this Glimmer Tootprick you’ve been telling me about?” asked Grimple in his inimitably idiotic way.
“Glamfair Flutestick. For the fifty-forth time.”
“No, no—that’s only the fifty-third, eh what?”
“You’re forgetting right after lunch.”
“Oh, right. Pip, pip.”
Inanities complete, Grimple and I made our way to Glamfair’s house, which could only be described as “palatial.” Apparently, there was good money in comforting tradition and nostalgia.
Glamfair opened the door and ushered us in quickly, looking nervously over our shoulders. He slammed the door behind us and leaned against it, exhaling loudly. “Thank you for coming, and so quickly.” He peeked out through the window at the rapidly darkening sky. Clouds threatened snow, though I couldn’t tell if they were natural clouds or manufactured by the town’s wizards, who did a bustling trade in snow creation in advance of the festival.
Refreshments awaited us in a parlor, and while I contented myself with a cup of tea and a biscuit, Grimple proceeded to hoist the teapot itself and then eat an entire bowl of what turned out to be wax fruit . Glamfair looked aghast, but didn’t say anything, intimidated, perhaps, by Grimple’s size and his enormous club, Banger.
“Do you know anything more about this anonymous rabble rouser?” I asked, biting daintily into my biscuit .
Glamfair grimaced. “Maybe. The festival kicks off at mid-day tomorrow and I am just sick about the whole thing. I’ve been running the festival for twenty years and never once have we had anything like this happen. Oh, sure, we’ve had a few people end up the worse for wear after too much nog, but we’re very adept at treating the aftereffects of overindulgence—those priests of Bacchalius can work wonders with their healing magics. But, never once—not once—have we had someone threaten the festival itself.” Glamfair pulled a flask out of the voluminous pocket of the robe/muumuu thing he was wearing, shakily unscrewed the cap, and took a deep pull.
“So, Glammy,” I asked in my gentlest, most understanding voice, “are you absolutely sure this is a legitimate threat? Could someone maybe be messing with you?”
“No, Heloise, I think this is very real,” he said. He reached back into his…outfit situation…and handed me a folded up piece of paper.
I opened it and read it out loud for Grimple’s benefit (technically, he can read, but he only knows curse words with any degree of confidence):
We’re getting very close to that diabolical sabotage that I mentioned in my last note. I know now that the 17th of Destember is, indeed, the first day of the festival, so I will be sure to act on time. I hope you are ready for chaos. Actually, I hope you aren’t ready, because it would undermine the effect of the chaos if you were prepared for it. I guess I shouldn’t warn you so much probably. But, you are doomed—DOOMED! (Sorry for the shouting—it just seemed like I would be doing it if I were delivering this message in person, but it feels a little rude in writing. Please accept my apologies—for the shouting, I mean. I am not going to apologize for the havoc I will wreak on the festival. You and I both know that we’ve done it before and are capable of doing it again.)
Not wanting to offend my host, I tried to be tactful. “I can understand why you’re so concerned.” You know, tactful is hard, and you really have to watch what you say. Forget it. “Except for the fact that this guy is a moron—and yes, I’m sure it’s a man, both because no one else would be this stupid, and because only a man wouldn’t just ask someone what day the festival starts on. So, you know, I don’t really get why you’re concerned. Post a few extra guards, tell them to be on the lookout for a blithering imbecile with dangly bits, and have at it with the songs and the boxnuts and the nog.”
“If only it were that easy,” sighed Glamfair dramatically.
“It is that easy,” said Grimple. “You don’t even need extra guards. I’ll keep an eye out, eh what?”
“That’s like a blind person saying he’ll keep an eye on invisible person.”
“Pip, pip.”
“No!” exclaimed Glamfair, surprising both me and Grimple. He rose shakily to his feet. “There are…things you don’t know. Things from my past. Things that could…that could...” He swallowed hard. “That could kill a lot of people.”
Grimple and I exchanged glances. Mine was intended to convey concern at the serious shift of the conversation; I’m pretty sure Grimple’s was meant to convey concern that the chocolate-covered biscuits were gone.
Given that this has been a particularly crappy year for so many, many reasons, I figured that I couldn't possibly make it worse by adding to that canonical body of literature with my own spin in the form of a new Heloise and Grimple tale, You Can't Hide from Chriskahzaa. (Note: it's entirely possible this story will make the year worse. I'm sorry. It couldn't be helped.)
(Okay, it could have been helped by me just not doing it. But, I did it. So, you're screwed. Sorry/not sorry.)
The story will be dropping in November, about a month before the much-ballyhooed release of the new full-length Heloise adventure The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True on December 15th (a book the clearly drunk folks at Publishers Weekly called "clever, twisty, and bursting with sidesplittingly funny one-liners" in a starred review). The main reason I'm putting it out is in an effort to raise some funds and awareness for Impact Justice (impactjustice.org), an organization that works to forge a new path to a justice system that is fair for all through innovation, research, policy, and advocacy.
So, keep your eyes open (I won't say peeled, because ouch and gross) for more details on how you can get your sweaty little hands on this story to tide you over until the big book drops in December--and, more importantly, how you can help support the path to equal justice.
In the meantime, here's a brief preview of coming attractions to whet your appetite or wet your whistle (FUN WITH HOMONYMS!).
Take care, dear friends and readers--of yourself and each other. And be prepared for a whole bunch of terrible jokes in the coming months...
YOU CAN'T HIDE FROM CHRISKAHZAA
There are few things in life I love more than a good tradition , and one of my favorites is the annual Chriskahzaa holiday song festival in the bustling city of Lurvaine.
They take their Chriskahzaa celebrations very seriously in Lurvaine, to the point where those who don’t exhibit enough holiday cheer, at least in the estimation of Lurvaine’s legendarily dour city watch, are press-ganged into work crews that are forced to string up magical twinkle lights across the city while imbibing the city’s traditional nog, a heady mixture of egg whites, fresh cream, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar, and massive quantities of spiced krumk .
The song festival—which, not coincidentally, also involves the consumption of significant quantities of nog —showcases bards from across Erithea, each vying to have their song chosen as the Song of the Season, an honor that confers both status (most bards would happily stab their own mothers for the title) and lucrative popularity (local wizards mass produce magical recordings of the songs, which an eager and adoring public happily purchases).
I’ve attended the festival many times. And, I’ve consumed more than my fair share of nog, though I can neither confirm nor deny the rumor that I once prevailed in a drinking contest against legendary lush Bordan Bilderbuff, a 7-foot mountain of a man who, rumor has it, has more than a bit of giant blood in him, and who has been known to drink a keg of ale before breakfast as a means of cleansing his pallet for his beloved apple cinnamon oatmeal. But, I have never officially entered the contest…
Until this year, that is, though I’d actually come to Lurvaine at the request of the festival’s organizer, a fellow bard named Glamfair Flutestick , who had reason to believe someone was going to try to sabotage the festival in a most diabolical way.
Why did Glamfair have this rather unusual concern? Well, I think it’s because he’d received a note that read, and I quote, “I am going to sabotage the Chriskahzaa holiday song festival in Lurvaine in a most diabolical way.” It went on to add:
I’m pretty sure that the festivities begin on the 17th day of Destember, but if you could confirm that for me by return post, I’d appreciate it. It just wouldn’t do to engage in diabolical sabotage on the wrong day. Wait—I’m staying anonymous. I almost forgot. Never mind; I will figure it out. But you really should post the dates more regularly on the board in the town square, or somewhere else that people who like to anonymously engage in diabolical sabotage congregate.
Your Wicked Servant,
Someone You Know Better Than Yourself
So, while we might not have been dealing with a criminal genius (though he did manage to stay anonymous, at least), it’s Glamfair’s job to take any threat to the festivities seriously because no one, not even the Crime Lords of Sessalaunt, would dare to disrupt holiday activities in Lurvaine. Glamfair was in high dudgeon—though that was nothing new—so he reached out to the smartest, bravest, and most mellifluous adventurer he knew.
I arrived in Lurvaine accompanied by my adventuring partner, a rather annoying hill giant named Grimple. Granted, he’s smart for a hill giant, but that’s not saying much. He recently got sideways with an undead wizard, which resulted in him getting temporarily transformed into a sickly gnome with enormous hands and a terribly posh accent, but he’s gotten better (though he still has the stupid accent) .
“Now then, I say, where’s this Glimmer Tootprick you’ve been telling me about?” asked Grimple in his inimitably idiotic way.
“Glamfair Flutestick. For the fifty-forth time.”
“No, no—that’s only the fifty-third, eh what?”
“You’re forgetting right after lunch.”
“Oh, right. Pip, pip.”
Inanities complete, Grimple and I made our way to Glamfair’s house, which could only be described as “palatial.” Apparently, there was good money in comforting tradition and nostalgia.
Glamfair opened the door and ushered us in quickly, looking nervously over our shoulders. He slammed the door behind us and leaned against it, exhaling loudly. “Thank you for coming, and so quickly.” He peeked out through the window at the rapidly darkening sky. Clouds threatened snow, though I couldn’t tell if they were natural clouds or manufactured by the town’s wizards, who did a bustling trade in snow creation in advance of the festival.
Refreshments awaited us in a parlor, and while I contented myself with a cup of tea and a biscuit, Grimple proceeded to hoist the teapot itself and then eat an entire bowl of what turned out to be wax fruit . Glamfair looked aghast, but didn’t say anything, intimidated, perhaps, by Grimple’s size and his enormous club, Banger.
“Do you know anything more about this anonymous rabble rouser?” I asked, biting daintily into my biscuit .
Glamfair grimaced. “Maybe. The festival kicks off at mid-day tomorrow and I am just sick about the whole thing. I’ve been running the festival for twenty years and never once have we had anything like this happen. Oh, sure, we’ve had a few people end up the worse for wear after too much nog, but we’re very adept at treating the aftereffects of overindulgence—those priests of Bacchalius can work wonders with their healing magics. But, never once—not once—have we had someone threaten the festival itself.” Glamfair pulled a flask out of the voluminous pocket of the robe/muumuu thing he was wearing, shakily unscrewed the cap, and took a deep pull.
“So, Glammy,” I asked in my gentlest, most understanding voice, “are you absolutely sure this is a legitimate threat? Could someone maybe be messing with you?”
“No, Heloise, I think this is very real,” he said. He reached back into his…outfit situation…and handed me a folded up piece of paper.
I opened it and read it out loud for Grimple’s benefit (technically, he can read, but he only knows curse words with any degree of confidence):
We’re getting very close to that diabolical sabotage that I mentioned in my last note. I know now that the 17th of Destember is, indeed, the first day of the festival, so I will be sure to act on time. I hope you are ready for chaos. Actually, I hope you aren’t ready, because it would undermine the effect of the chaos if you were prepared for it. I guess I shouldn’t warn you so much probably. But, you are doomed—DOOMED! (Sorry for the shouting—it just seemed like I would be doing it if I were delivering this message in person, but it feels a little rude in writing. Please accept my apologies—for the shouting, I mean. I am not going to apologize for the havoc I will wreak on the festival. You and I both know that we’ve done it before and are capable of doing it again.)
Not wanting to offend my host, I tried to be tactful. “I can understand why you’re so concerned.” You know, tactful is hard, and you really have to watch what you say. Forget it. “Except for the fact that this guy is a moron—and yes, I’m sure it’s a man, both because no one else would be this stupid, and because only a man wouldn’t just ask someone what day the festival starts on. So, you know, I don’t really get why you’re concerned. Post a few extra guards, tell them to be on the lookout for a blithering imbecile with dangly bits, and have at it with the songs and the boxnuts and the nog.”
“If only it were that easy,” sighed Glamfair dramatically.
“It is that easy,” said Grimple. “You don’t even need extra guards. I’ll keep an eye out, eh what?”
“That’s like a blind person saying he’ll keep an eye on invisible person.”
“Pip, pip.”
“No!” exclaimed Glamfair, surprising both me and Grimple. He rose shakily to his feet. “There are…things you don’t know. Things from my past. Things that could…that could...” He swallowed hard. “That could kill a lot of people.”
Grimple and I exchanged glances. Mine was intended to convey concern at the serious shift of the conversation; I’m pretty sure Grimple’s was meant to convey concern that the chocolate-covered biscuits were gone.
July 15, 2020
Tell us your favorite fantasy book and WIN AN ARC of The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True!
Like so many of us, Heloise the Bard was conceived in the backseat of a car.
Not in the usual way, perhaps. I mean, nothing conjugal occurred, except possibly betwixt a few axons and dendrites obscenely cavorting about in my gray matter, the naughty little minxes. But, the idea for Heloise really did begin in the backseat of a car—a stranger's car, no less—during my commute several years ago, when I decided to see if I could make use of those short minutes of blessed quiet time to try to fit some writing into my otherwise insane life.
That ultimately begat the serial adventure The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, published on my Goodreads blog (dip your toes in it here). It was a tale directly shaped and influenced by the choices of fellow Goodreaders, which made it even more ridiculous than it already was. It was fun. A lark. I ultimately published it as a collected work, but it doesn’t have a lot of narrative cohesion (though, to be fair, neither does its author).
Still, Heloise stuck with me, and I eventually decided that she needed a proper story, one planned from start to finish, in which she could shine even brighter and, perhaps, burnish the legends of some other adventurers who really needed the help.
And thus was born The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.
The good folks at Parliament House Press have made the questionable choice to publish it coming up on December 15. It’s available for preorder in paperback and preorder on Kindle, and will be available in other formats (including audiobook) as we get closer to release date.
It’s both a love letter to and a deconstruction of the many fantasy stories I’ve consumed in my life, and if you have ever enjoyed Terry Pratchett (his work, I mean, you perverts), cracked a joke while playing D&D, done your own MST3K-style commentary over Lord of the Rings, or dig bad puns and grammar jokes, well, you might not hate it. It comes highly recommended to me by myself, but I don’t trust that asshole much, so take that with a grain of salt.
Given how incredibly important Goodreads was to launching Heloise, and to celebrate Fantasy and Sci-Fi week, I want to share a few digital ARCs of the book with you all. To be eligible to win one, just do the following: name your favorite fantasy book in a comment below this blog post by Sunday, July 19. I’ll pick 5 winners and contact them on Monday, and they’ll soon find themselves rolling their eyes and cursing my (not that) good name because they made such a terrible choice.
The world is an awful and scary place sometimes. Especially right now. It feels good to escape into a fantasy world every once in a while, and especially to laugh. I hope Heloise can help you do that, and maybe realize that light and hope still exist and that we’ll find our way back to them.
There are innumerable amazing people in this world and so many wonderful things. All of you, and your love for and amplification of the power of story, make my life infinitely better.
Thank you, and keep reading, my friends.
Not in the usual way, perhaps. I mean, nothing conjugal occurred, except possibly betwixt a few axons and dendrites obscenely cavorting about in my gray matter, the naughty little minxes. But, the idea for Heloise really did begin in the backseat of a car—a stranger's car, no less—during my commute several years ago, when I decided to see if I could make use of those short minutes of blessed quiet time to try to fit some writing into my otherwise insane life.
That ultimately begat the serial adventure The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, published on my Goodreads blog (dip your toes in it here). It was a tale directly shaped and influenced by the choices of fellow Goodreaders, which made it even more ridiculous than it already was. It was fun. A lark. I ultimately published it as a collected work, but it doesn’t have a lot of narrative cohesion (though, to be fair, neither does its author).
Still, Heloise stuck with me, and I eventually decided that she needed a proper story, one planned from start to finish, in which she could shine even brighter and, perhaps, burnish the legends of some other adventurers who really needed the help.
And thus was born The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.
The good folks at Parliament House Press have made the questionable choice to publish it coming up on December 15. It’s available for preorder in paperback and preorder on Kindle, and will be available in other formats (including audiobook) as we get closer to release date.
It’s both a love letter to and a deconstruction of the many fantasy stories I’ve consumed in my life, and if you have ever enjoyed Terry Pratchett (his work, I mean, you perverts), cracked a joke while playing D&D, done your own MST3K-style commentary over Lord of the Rings, or dig bad puns and grammar jokes, well, you might not hate it. It comes highly recommended to me by myself, but I don’t trust that asshole much, so take that with a grain of salt.
Given how incredibly important Goodreads was to launching Heloise, and to celebrate Fantasy and Sci-Fi week, I want to share a few digital ARCs of the book with you all. To be eligible to win one, just do the following: name your favorite fantasy book in a comment below this blog post by Sunday, July 19. I’ll pick 5 winners and contact them on Monday, and they’ll soon find themselves rolling their eyes and cursing my (not that) good name because they made such a terrible choice.
The world is an awful and scary place sometimes. Especially right now. It feels good to escape into a fantasy world every once in a while, and especially to laugh. I hope Heloise can help you do that, and maybe realize that light and hope still exist and that we’ll find our way back to them.
There are innumerable amazing people in this world and so many wonderful things. All of you, and your love for and amplification of the power of story, make my life infinitely better.
Thank you, and keep reading, my friends.
April 19, 2020
Take a Peek Beneath My Covers: A Preview of The Camelot Shadow
Given how many people said they appreciated getting a preview of The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton (if only so they could confirm that they want to avoid it like flesh-eating bacteria, colonoscopies, and circus peanuts), I thought I’d post the first few chapters of The Camelot Shadow—I’m in the business of giving people what they don’t want.
As a reminder, you can also still check out the first installments of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple—get it while it’s hot, or at least tepid. It's the only way to get properly prepared for The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.
THE CAMELOT SHADOW
PRELUDE
He grimaced as he watched the last of the men flee into the cave, threadbare tunics flapping over woad-streaked bodies. It was a trap, of course, and a poorly disguised one, but he was not concerned—though they outnumbered him five to one, the men, little more than tangled thickets of hair draped atop emaciated limbs, posed as little risk to him as a fly alighting on its back might threaten a highland cow.
Still, he knew that she was involved. Nimue. The cowards huddled in the cave would offer scant resistance, true, but the same could not be said of her. He should have killed her decades before, but he had chosen to be merciful; he would not make the same mistake again.
The man rubbed a hand across his jaw, dirty fingertips leaving dark smudges that stood in stark contrast to the light brown stubble they covered, as he stepped out from behind the hedge where he had concealed himself. They would expect him to enter boldly, and so he would.
As he crossed the threshold of the cave, he detected a faint flutter, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of sleep-encrusted eyes, but he had no time to consider the sensation, for the men—“druids,” he thought with a sneer—attacked instantly, chanting and gesticulating wildly. Before their energies could coalesce, however, he raised his right hand, barked an arcane syllable, and sent crackling blue light bursting from his extended fingertips to strike the nearest man before it arced to the second, creating a chain lightning that quickly consumed all five and left them nothing more than withered husks.
The man shook his head with contempt, the smell of charred flesh a satisfying testament to his foes’ weakness. His attention did not linger long on their corpses, however, for he sensed that the woman was near, and he would need all of his remaining strength to face her.
He turned warily, eyes darting from side to side as he prepared to exit the cave. He did not see her, but he knew she was there. Balling his fists at his side, he stepped forward.
Everything shattered. His body collapsed as his mind splintered into tiny fragments, each one embedding itself into the cave’s jagged walls. He screamed, a raw, primal howl, as his nerves caught fire. He whimpered as his power, the very fiber of his being, fled from the cave, beyond the desperate grasp of the last conscious bits of his essence.
As he drifted into darkness, a dreamless slumber he knew could last for decades, perhaps centuries, he took grim satisfaction in knowing that he had prepared himself even for this unlikely outcome. He could recover what he had lost—he would simply need to find it. When he awoke…
CHAPTER ONE
As companions went, they were quieter than most, but their silence did little to diminish the pleasure he took in their company. To the contrary, their tranquility, interrupted occasionally by a satisfying crackle or whispered hint of friction, enhanced their appeal, as they never offered advice unsolicited, yet never failed to provide information. The ancient tome that currently rested in his lap was among the most prized in his vast collection, and as he carefully turned a vellum page, he marveled once again at its smooth feel, like the leaf of an orchid, and at the elegant script that covered its surface.
Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam had spent countless hours amidst the towering bookshelves and sliding ladders of his library, which housed one of the most impressive private collections in all of Queen Victoria’s England, his mind ranging far afield while his body remained ensconced in the worn leather chair in which he now sat, its creased surface conforming to fit the contours of his body with the familiar touch of an intimate companion. It was with the certainty that he would spend much of his life in this very room that he had first cultivated his well-manicured beard, hoping that it would give him the distinguished look of an academic. A sheepish smile crossed his lips as he recalled the youthful notion that a man’s appearance was indicative of wisdom, though the beard—now snowy white, save for a few persistent brown rivulets—remained.
He raised his eyes to the window to watch as snowflakes fell from the sky with a nonchalance that seemed defiantly at odds with their short lifespans. The blowing wind made him grateful for the warm glow that emanated from the library’s fireplace, an antique structure surrounded by a bronze relief that depicted a parade of ancient gods. In the evening, the fire would cast shadows across the wall, presenting a fierce struggle worthy of those same gods, one that raged until the blaze had burned itself out. Despite his failing eyesight, Alfred often read by the light of the fire alone, as he found the combination of ancient knowledge and flickering flames even more intoxicating than the Scotch—the Macallan, always—that fueled his late-night reading vigils.
Tonight, however, rather than reading, he would instead embark on a cold carriage ride to a dreadfully dull dinner party at the estate of another of the county’s most prominent families. Though bored to the verge of catatonia by such proceedings himself, his wife, Ellen, was fond of such galas, and it was in deference to her wishes that he continued to attend them, despite the fact that she was no longer well enough to accompany him.
Alfred rose and stretched. He heard a crack and felt a discomfiting pop, prompting a symphony of groans. Years had passed since he could rise without pain in one extremity or another, though, on the whole, he remained remarkably fit, his slender figure devoid of the extra carriage so common to his contemporaries. The pallor in his cheeks, however, indicated too many hours spent in the library. Earnest, blue-gray eyes peered out through pince-nez spectacles, and his neatly trimmed beard conveyed a stately elegance that his frequently arched eyebrow quickly dispelled. His voice, a deep baritone only just beginning to roughen from the rigors of long discussions, was warmly authoritative, and it was not uncommon even for people he had only just met to defer to his judgment.
Alfred moved toward the fireplace, picked up a poker, and prodded the logs, shifting them to smother the flames. Unlike his neighbors, he did not retain a retinue of full-time servants, relying instead on the many talents of his manservant, Stephen, and his house-maid, Sally. Sally did her best to keep the house, far too large for her alone to tend, free from cobwebs, though she had given up on the rooms her master and mistress no longer frequented, brokering an uneasy truce with the dust mites that had taken up residence within them in exchange for their tacit agreement to refrain from inhabiting the rooms they did use.
With the fire extinguished, Alfred walked to the window and gazed out over the grounds of his estate. Though scarcely mid-afternoon, daylight had already begun to fade. He watched as a stiff breeze gave the snowflakes free reign to flutter about before they alighted on the ground atop their predecessors. They reminded Alfred of the people with whom he would dine this evening—at a glance, they appeared identical, their clothes and mannerisms muted echoes with a shared origin, but a closer examination revealed the idiosyncrasies each possessed. A wry smile touched his lips as he considered the fact that “flake” served as such an apt descriptor for those same individuals.
After casting a last glance over his shoulder at the shelves where his bound companions rested, Alfred slowly descended the spiral staircase that led to his bedroom. Though dinner invitations came less frequently of late, social functions still took place far too often for his liking, and each time he received a summons, he gave serious consideration to ignoring it and taking up the hermit-like existence his peers predicted for him after Ellen inevitably succumbed to her illness. Doing so, however, would only further distance him from the last vestiges of the life they had enjoyed together, and there was always the hope that this evening would prove different.
Alfred shook his head ruefully and smiled as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His father had once upbraided him for being too much of an idealist, but Alfred had never quite given up on believing in something beyond the practical, though he tended to ignore such feelings. With his father long since gone, however, Alfred supposed that, at least for a night, he could allow his more quixotic side a temporary victory. Perhaps this evening would be different.
CHAPTER TWO
Alfred stepped down from the coach and pulled his long coat tightly around his body. The snow had ceased, and the calm of the winter landscape was broken only by the squeaking arrival of other carriages. Judging by the steady stream of people spilling out from those that had already arrived, the inclement weather would have little effect on attendance.
“I would prefer not to make it a late evening,” said Alfred, turning to face his servant. “Would you return in, say, three hours?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Stephen, snapping the reins and turning the coach back toward home.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder, savoring the majesty of the tableau before him. The moon hung low in the cloudless sky, and the stars flickered like the flames of the fire he had so recently snuffed. Despite the temperature, he would almost have preferred to remain outside.
Shaking his head and exhaling, he turned and walked to the front of the house, a stately manor well suited to one of the nation’s more prominent families. That its current occupants included the recently deceased Duke of Welshire’s widow and her frivolous brood brought a grimace to Alfred’s face, an expression he nimbly turned to a smile as the door opened in response to his soft knock. “Good evening, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said the Duchess’s butler, a thin man dressed immaculately in livery, as he took Alfred’s coat, hat, and muffler.
“Evening, Geoffrey. You are in for a long night, I fear.” Alfred inclined his head back over his left shoulder, indicating the arrival of yet another carriage.
The butler’s expression remained impassive. “So it would seem, my lord. The guests who have already arrived have availed themselves quite freely of the Duchess’s sherry, and if she continues to allow it to flow so liberally, I’m afraid many of our dinner guests will also be joining us for breakfast.”
Alfred chuckled. “Were it my party, I might suggest—purely as a hypothetical, mind you—that you water down the drinks halfway through dinner. By then, most of the guests will be past the point of noticing, and perhaps they will be more amenable to the prospect of departure if the water serves the dual purpose of sobering them up.”
The butler allowed himself a brief smile. “An excellent suggestion, my lord, but one I will have to give you full credit for if we’re forced to implement it and the Duchess finds out.”
“I shall happily take responsibility—if she blames me, perhaps I will be fortunate enough to be omitted from the guest list in the future.” Alfred patted the man lightly on the shoulder and moved past him into the hallway.
Nearly a score of people occupied the drawing room when Alfred entered, and voices from the adjacent room told him that more were present. He spotted the Duchess on the far side and began to make his way over to pay his regards, eager to discharge the onerous task. Before he could reach her, however, a bulky man blocked his path.
“Waltzing by without even a nod, old man?” The statement was accompanied by a wink and an outstretched hand.
Though the speaker appeared older, he was, in fact, two years Alfred’s junior. The man’s ample midsection, red cheeks, and gleaming pate contributed to his prematurely aged appearance, and a slight stoop only added to the perception that he was well into his dotage rather than just beginning it. His smile was warm, however, and the woman standing next to him, a wispy and wrinkled matron with a shock of gray hair that hung limply to one side, beamed when she saw Alfred.
“Benjamin! Lucille!” exclaimed Alfred as he grasped the man’s hand. “I thought your affairs would keep you away until next week.” He sketched a small bow to the woman, who laughed and extended her own hand, palm down, to Alfred, who kissed it lightly.
“I managed to complete a few deals early, and the weather was simply dreadful, so we decided to return home,” replied Benjamin. He offered a wry grin. “And, of course, Lucy wouldn’t have missed the Duchess’s dinner for all the tea in China, though I did my best to purchase it in place of actually having to attend.”
Alfred laughed. “A transaction from which you would have no doubt prospered.” He had never met anyone as shrewd as Benjamin Bradshaw, a man whose business empire, begun with a fruit cart when he was six years old, was built on the foundation of his ruthlessness in procuring the best deal. Alfred’s father had invested in some of a much-younger Benjamin’s more adventurous schemes, most of which, despite their seemingly scant chances for success, resulted in a healthy return for their investors. Over the past decade, Alfred had granted Benjamin the right to manage his own fortune, a decision he had no cause to regret.
“I am glad you are here,” said Alfred, looking around the room and shaking his head, “though I suspect that the truest of the bluebloods do not share my sentiment.”
“There will come a day when new money will simply be money, but until then, I will take great pleasure in offending with my presence.” Benjamin smiled as Lucille patted him gently on the arm. Though she had never possessed great beauty, a charming blend of common sense and a nurturing nature had won over her pragmatic husband who, with his philandering days long past, appreciated her more every day.
“At least we seem to have timed our arrival well,” noted Alfred as the guests began to make their way to the dining hall.
“True—if nothing else, the Duchess sets a fine table. And, she spares no expense when it comes to purchasing the finest brandy,” said Benjamin.
Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I suppose she procures it from you?”
Benjamin winked. “If I’m going to have to tolerate these people, the least I can do is ensure that I have something worthwhile to drink.”
After paying Duchess O’Malley the necessary compliments, the trio took their seats in the dining room. Servants poured libations with such efficiency that glasses rarely dipped below half full, despite the high rate of consumption. Alfred was seated across from Benjamin and Lucy, who sat at the end of the table, as far away from the Duchess as possible.
To Alfred’s right sat a man he had never seen before. The man was clearly younger than Alfred, but how much younger he could not say, for though the man’s clean-shaven face lacked age lines, wary brown eyes made him appear older. His closely cropped black hair complemented attire that was so fashionable as to make the man appear out of place at a gathering that consisted primarily of wizened matrons, curmudgeonly widowers, and overfed, elderly couples.
Though seated, Alfred could tell that the man stood several inches taller than he, and the cut of his suit hinted at an impressively broad-shouldered physique. Despite the din of conversation around him, the man stared silently down at the table, idly swirling the dregs of a glass of wine and apparently oblivious to Alfred’s examination. Lucy sought to draw the man from his solitude, but he responded only with small nods or in a monosyllabic monotone, though Alfred thought he detected an Irish accent. The only truly useful information he divulged was his name, Brendan Quinn, and the manner in which he distinctly pronounced the two syllables of his first name and rolled his r’s at least confirmed Alfred’s speculation as to his nationality.
Dinner proved unexpectedly enjoyable. The couple seated to Alfred’s left, a stodgy old pair whose contempt for egalitarianism so far exceeded the bounds of decorum that it was charming, provided ample entertainment. Benjamin took great pleasure in goading the couple into increasingly vehement exclamations as he went deeper into his cups. It was shortly after the old man had banged his fist on the table and shouted, “Those born without money do not deserve money!” that Alfred began to notice that Brendan Quinn was watching him.
At first, he thought that the man was looking past him to the couple on his left, either entertained, or appalled, by the conversation; as dinner progressed, however, Alfred realized that Quinn focused on him alone. Lucy continued her efforts to engage the stranger, but each time she tried, he deflected her attempts. After a while, she gave up and turned her attention to the conversation taking place between her husband and the old couple, leaving Quinn to continue his observations uninterrupted.
Alfred began to strategically place objects, such as a napkin or fork, in positions that allowed him to use reaching for them as a pretext to turn toward Quinn, but each time he did so, the man contrived to be looking away, or down at his plate. Though he felt his eyes on him all night, not once did Alfred successfully catch Quinn in the act of staring at him.
At the meal’s conclusion, the guests separated, the women to the parlor to gossip and the men to the drawing room to smoke pipes and “talk business,” a euphemism for their own unsavory brand of gossip. Benjamin yawned theatrically and announced that he was rather fatigued from their travels and ready to depart immediately. A grateful Lucy smiled at her husband before turning toward Alfred. “Will you remain, dear?”
Though Stephen would arrive soon with the carriage, Alfred had observed Brendan Quinn heading into the drawing room with the other men, and the stranger’s odd behavior had piqued his curiosity. “I will undoubtedly regret this decision, but I believe I shall.” He kissed Lucy’s hand once again, earning him a smile in response before she wandered off in search of the Duchess to say goodbye, leaving Benjamin and Alfred alone.
“Wonderful, isn’t she?” said Benjamin, beaming as he watched his wife disappear.
Alfred shook his head, a gesture his friend missed. Benjamin’s unabashed tenderness toward his wife stood in such stark contrast to the coldness of his professional demeanor—not to mention the wandering eyes and hands that had plagued him in his younger years—that it never failed to surprise him. “You are a most fortunate man, Mr. Bradshaw.”
Benjamin placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish Ellen were here too, old chap. No change in her condition, then?”
“None for the better; none for the worse. For the latter, I suppose I should be thankful.”
“While I was away, I obtained the names of a few more doctors—don’t give up hope.”
“I appreciate your efforts, my friend.” Alfred appeared as though he wanted to say something more, but no words followed.
Benjamin smiled sadly. “You’ll join us for supper Tuesday as usual, I hope?”
Alfred managed a nod. “Of course.” They shook hands, and Benjamin turned to depart. Alfred grabbed his arm before he managed to take more than a step. “Before you go…what do you make of this Brendan Quinn?”
“It’s unlike a stranger to show up to one of these dinners unaccompanied, or at least without some bloody toff trying to introduce him to everyone.”
“I could not rid myself of the notion that he was staring at me throughout dinner.”
“I know you’re lonely these days, old man, but don’t flatter yourself—he’s too young for you. And, terribly sorry to say, considerably more attractive.”
“He is hardly my type. Obviously, I prefer men with money.” Alfred leered, and both men laughed.
“You will…” began Benjamin.
“…let you know what I discover, yes,” replied Alfred, his eyes bright.
CHAPTER THREE
Alfred nodded to familiar faces as he entered the drawing room, his nose wrinkling as he caught the pungent scent of a particularly strong—and cheap—cigar. Under normal circumstances, he would make a quick circuit of the room to exchange pleasantries and then depart. Tonight, however, he was determined not to leave until he had satisfied his curiosity, and to do that, he would need to draw Brendan Quinn into conversation.
He spotted the man by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, his face expressionless as Alfred approached. “Mr. Quinn.”
Quinn seemed not to have heard, as his eyes remained fixed on some unknown object across the room. After a moment, however, he glanced furtively from side to side, as if seeking to ensure that no one was listening. At last, he responded, his voice both stern and lilting. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of joining me on balcony for a brief conversation?”
Alfred’s eyebrow shot up. “You do realize that it is the middle of winter, and hardly a pleasant evening. Men of my age find that their aches and pains, even if momentarily dulled by the cold, tend to worsen with prolonged exposure to it.”
“I’ve no wish to cause you discomfort, but it would be better if our discussion took place in private. I ask only for a moment, my lord—it is of the utmost importance.”
Curiosity warred with caution and, after Alfred stared at Quinn for a moment, the former won out. He nodded his assent and followed Quinn.
Alfred marveled as Quinn made his way across the room. The man moved with fluid grace, each foot lightly skimming the floor’s surface as he walked. He navigated a meandering path through the maze of brandy snifters and pipe smoke so subtly that their exit went unnoticed. Emerging onto the balcony, Quinn led them to a spot that offered no clear lines of sight from either the parlor or the drawing room, and together they stood gazing out over the darkened grounds. Alfred’s breath clouded before him, and he savored the crisp chill in the air. The bitter cold of the afternoon had diminished, replaced by a mild night draped in a velvet-black sky punctured by gleaming star bits.
Alfred did his best to force the rapidly forming questions from his mind, focusing instead on the majestic landscape before him. At last, Quinn spoke. “I understand you are a highly regarded scholar.”
“I suppose you might say that I know quite a lot about very little of consequence,” replied Alfred, confused. “I think ‘highly regarded’ does me more credit than I deserve.” Alfred crossed his arms as the cold seeped into his bones. “I confess, however, that I am puzzled as to why this discussion could not have taken place indoors. My scholarly efforts are hardly a topic worthy of secrecy.” Something in Quinn’s voice put Alfred on edge, and he could not be sure if the chill he suddenly felt so keenly could be attributed solely to the temperature.
Quinn paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your particular area of expertise involves our Roman and Anglo-Saxon roots, with a particular emphasis on the so-called ‘dark ages,’ correct?”
Alfred rubbed his forehead with his right hand, perplexed. “In my youth, I had the privilege of studying under Professor Eric Aubrey, one of the finest Anglo-Saxon scholars that ever lived, at Cambridge, and his tutelage sparked a life-long interest that—”
“And your expertise extends to the subject of King Arthur?” interrupted Quinn, leaning in close, his voice low.
Alfred was taken aback at the man’s sudden intensity. “I have published a few trifling monographs on the subject.” Alfred had amassed an impressive collection of Arthurian lore in his library, including some exceedingly rare and coveted tomes. He began to worry that Quinn had somehow learned of his collection and was, perhaps, a book hunter in search of his fortune. Now on guard, Alfred glanced toward the house, hoping an inebriated guest might stumble out onto the balcony, but no such aid arrived.
“Your country, and your Queen, have need of that knowledge,” said Quinn, interrupting Alfred’s thoughts. “Do you consider yourself a patriotic man, Lord Fitzwilliam?”
“I take pride in Britain’s rich cultural heritage, and in her tremendous achievements in the arts and sciences. As for the Queen, she is a benevolent ruler.” He was not especially enamored of the Crown’s rampant colonization efforts and attempts to “civilize” indigenous “savages,” but, under the circumstances, Alfred felt that withholding that particular opinion might prove a wiser course of action.
“A suitably cautious answer.” Quinn looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “I seek your assistance in a matter that I’m sure is close to your heart.” He paused. “Your wife…she is ill?” The pause sounded rehearsed, as though the man needed to practice sounding sympathetic.
Alfred’s face hardened. “You refer to a matter I do not wish to discuss.”
“My intent is not to bring you discomfort, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said Quinn, “but instead to offer you a chance to help prevent others from experiencing your pain.”
Alfred turned away, placed his palms down on the balcony, and leaned forward. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, his breath forming a misty cloud. “I am not in the habit, sir, of assisting those who would use my grief as a means of coercion.”
“I’m not a diplomat, my lord—I’m a soldier,” replied Quinn, sounding almost contrite. “As it stands, however, the member of my organization who wishes to speak with you was unable to come himself, and so he sent me instead.”
“Who is it who wishes to speak with me, then, Mr. Quinn?”
“This will explain all.” Quinn reached inside his jacket and produced a sealed envelope. There was no writing on the outside, nor was there anything remarkable about the seal itself. He held it out to Alfred.
Alfred stared hard at Quinn as he accepted the envelope. Alfred opened the letter, turning back toward the balcony to make better use of the moonlight.
The letter was dated three days previously.
My Dear Lord Fitzwilliam,
Please accept my most sincere apologies for sending this missive in lieu of calling upon you in person. I am afraid that I am confined to my quarters, and Tuesdays are such irritable days anyway—I have yet to experience one that was not, for one reason or another, particularly unsociable. Generally speaking, they are terrible days for travel.
In my stead, I have sent Mr. Brendan Quinn, a man of great intelligence and even greater accomplishment, particularly on the field of battle. He is a loyal servant of Her Majesty, but he is not, I fear, the most cordial of men. Mr. Quinn possesses a rather unique ability to transform mundane interactions into confrontational exchanges, for such are of the type with which he is most familiar.
This would, perhaps, be an ideal moment to introduce myself. My name is Henry Milner, and I belong to an organization that, though secret, falls directly under the Queen and her cabinet’s purview. Our group has existed for nearly 300 years and, God willing, will survive long after we are gone. Our raison d’être is simply stated: protect the British government and expand its power, influence, and magnificence. The endeavors we undertake, however, are often far more complex.
I shall not go on at length about the history of our organization, though I strongly suspect that you would find it fascinating. In fact, I refrain from sharing not from any reticence on my part or any potential lack of interest on your part, but simply because I am not allowed. Perhaps, if you are kind enough to acquiesce to the proposal outlined below, I may be able to reveal a few tidbits of interest at some point in the near future.
While our initiatives vary widely, and I confess that some are distasteful to men of honor (one of the reasons, perhaps, that men like Mr. Quinn are in our employ, though perhaps I treat him unfairly), there are times when I have the privilege of undertaking a task that has the potential to provide such benefit to the Empire, and the world at large, that I sink to my knees and give thanks to my Creator for allowing me the opportunity to be a part of this organization, one that has the resources and wherewithal to achieve the impossible. I am currently engaged in such an undertaking, one that it is my greatest hope you will be willing to assist us with.
When God calls upon men to make sacrifices for the greater good, we cannot help but heed the call, no matter how much pain we must endure. Were it within my power to make this request without bringing you sorrow, I would do so. Alas, however, it is only by reminding you of the horrible pain you now endure that I can convey to you the sanctity of our mission.
Consumption and other wasting diseases plague our nation. Each year, thousands of individuals, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, lose their lives while our most brilliant physicians wring their hands helplessly. I understand that your wife has been suffering for some time; I myself lost a cousin just last year.
There is hope, however. Our organization may have the means to stem the tide of consumption, and we may be able to prevent the spread of other illnesses as well, ensuring that no one ever need suffer the tragic and premature loss of a loved one again.
These claims undoubtedly sound outlandish, and I do not doubt that you will regard them—rightly, I might add—with skepticism. I, too, had doubts, but I now believe it not only possible, but, in fact, most probable that we can achieve this goal. In order to do so, however, we must recover a long-lost artifact, and it is for this reason that I seek your assistance.
Like you, I was fortunate enough to study under Professor Aubrey, though my tutelage occurred several years after yours; he always spoke most highly of you. When I read your recent monograph speculating on the final resting place of our legendary King Arthur, I knew at once that you were the right man to assist us in our endeavor.
I understand that this must be quite perplexing, and I can practically hear you wondering aloud what your knowledge of Anglo-Saxon England has to do with curing disease. I assure you that the two are inextricably linked, and that, with your aid, we may very well be able to accomplish the unthinkable and make miracles an everyday occurrence.
I pray that I do not ask too much of you by seeking an audience, a chance to convince you of the veracity of our claims and to ascertain whether you have the knowledge to assist us in our search. On the back of this letter, you will find an address. If it pleases you, I would be honored to host you at that address at the hour of 4:00 PM on Friday, 17 January. Fridays are very agreeable days, perhaps owing to their position in the week. Whatever the reason, I find them very accommodating, days that one can depend upon to provide succor no matter what ignominious events Tuesdays and those dastardly Thursdays have wrought.
You needn’t respond with any indication as to whether you have chosen to come; your appearance, or lack thereof, at the appointed hour will provide sufficient response. While I feel that are many compelling reasons for you to come, I certainly have no wish to coerce you.
Regardless of whether we meet next week (a meeting, incidentally, that I would look forward to greatly, as it is always pleasurable to converse with a man of such scholarly reputation, particularly one who is as esteemed a peer of the realm as you, my lord), I pass along my kindest regards and admiration for your academic accomplishments.
Warmest Regards,
Henry Milner
Alfred turned back toward the house as he finished reading, but was not surprised to find himself alone on the balcony.
As a reminder, you can also still check out the first installments of The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple—get it while it’s hot, or at least tepid. It's the only way to get properly prepared for The Part About the Dragon Was (Mostly) True.
THE CAMELOT SHADOW
PRELUDE
He grimaced as he watched the last of the men flee into the cave, threadbare tunics flapping over woad-streaked bodies. It was a trap, of course, and a poorly disguised one, but he was not concerned—though they outnumbered him five to one, the men, little more than tangled thickets of hair draped atop emaciated limbs, posed as little risk to him as a fly alighting on its back might threaten a highland cow.
Still, he knew that she was involved. Nimue. The cowards huddled in the cave would offer scant resistance, true, but the same could not be said of her. He should have killed her decades before, but he had chosen to be merciful; he would not make the same mistake again.
The man rubbed a hand across his jaw, dirty fingertips leaving dark smudges that stood in stark contrast to the light brown stubble they covered, as he stepped out from behind the hedge where he had concealed himself. They would expect him to enter boldly, and so he would.
As he crossed the threshold of the cave, he detected a faint flutter, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of sleep-encrusted eyes, but he had no time to consider the sensation, for the men—“druids,” he thought with a sneer—attacked instantly, chanting and gesticulating wildly. Before their energies could coalesce, however, he raised his right hand, barked an arcane syllable, and sent crackling blue light bursting from his extended fingertips to strike the nearest man before it arced to the second, creating a chain lightning that quickly consumed all five and left them nothing more than withered husks.
The man shook his head with contempt, the smell of charred flesh a satisfying testament to his foes’ weakness. His attention did not linger long on their corpses, however, for he sensed that the woman was near, and he would need all of his remaining strength to face her.
He turned warily, eyes darting from side to side as he prepared to exit the cave. He did not see her, but he knew she was there. Balling his fists at his side, he stepped forward.
Everything shattered. His body collapsed as his mind splintered into tiny fragments, each one embedding itself into the cave’s jagged walls. He screamed, a raw, primal howl, as his nerves caught fire. He whimpered as his power, the very fiber of his being, fled from the cave, beyond the desperate grasp of the last conscious bits of his essence.
As he drifted into darkness, a dreamless slumber he knew could last for decades, perhaps centuries, he took grim satisfaction in knowing that he had prepared himself even for this unlikely outcome. He could recover what he had lost—he would simply need to find it. When he awoke…
CHAPTER ONE
As companions went, they were quieter than most, but their silence did little to diminish the pleasure he took in their company. To the contrary, their tranquility, interrupted occasionally by a satisfying crackle or whispered hint of friction, enhanced their appeal, as they never offered advice unsolicited, yet never failed to provide information. The ancient tome that currently rested in his lap was among the most prized in his vast collection, and as he carefully turned a vellum page, he marveled once again at its smooth feel, like the leaf of an orchid, and at the elegant script that covered its surface.
Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam had spent countless hours amidst the towering bookshelves and sliding ladders of his library, which housed one of the most impressive private collections in all of Queen Victoria’s England, his mind ranging far afield while his body remained ensconced in the worn leather chair in which he now sat, its creased surface conforming to fit the contours of his body with the familiar touch of an intimate companion. It was with the certainty that he would spend much of his life in this very room that he had first cultivated his well-manicured beard, hoping that it would give him the distinguished look of an academic. A sheepish smile crossed his lips as he recalled the youthful notion that a man’s appearance was indicative of wisdom, though the beard—now snowy white, save for a few persistent brown rivulets—remained.
He raised his eyes to the window to watch as snowflakes fell from the sky with a nonchalance that seemed defiantly at odds with their short lifespans. The blowing wind made him grateful for the warm glow that emanated from the library’s fireplace, an antique structure surrounded by a bronze relief that depicted a parade of ancient gods. In the evening, the fire would cast shadows across the wall, presenting a fierce struggle worthy of those same gods, one that raged until the blaze had burned itself out. Despite his failing eyesight, Alfred often read by the light of the fire alone, as he found the combination of ancient knowledge and flickering flames even more intoxicating than the Scotch—the Macallan, always—that fueled his late-night reading vigils.
Tonight, however, rather than reading, he would instead embark on a cold carriage ride to a dreadfully dull dinner party at the estate of another of the county’s most prominent families. Though bored to the verge of catatonia by such proceedings himself, his wife, Ellen, was fond of such galas, and it was in deference to her wishes that he continued to attend them, despite the fact that she was no longer well enough to accompany him.
Alfred rose and stretched. He heard a crack and felt a discomfiting pop, prompting a symphony of groans. Years had passed since he could rise without pain in one extremity or another, though, on the whole, he remained remarkably fit, his slender figure devoid of the extra carriage so common to his contemporaries. The pallor in his cheeks, however, indicated too many hours spent in the library. Earnest, blue-gray eyes peered out through pince-nez spectacles, and his neatly trimmed beard conveyed a stately elegance that his frequently arched eyebrow quickly dispelled. His voice, a deep baritone only just beginning to roughen from the rigors of long discussions, was warmly authoritative, and it was not uncommon even for people he had only just met to defer to his judgment.
Alfred moved toward the fireplace, picked up a poker, and prodded the logs, shifting them to smother the flames. Unlike his neighbors, he did not retain a retinue of full-time servants, relying instead on the many talents of his manservant, Stephen, and his house-maid, Sally. Sally did her best to keep the house, far too large for her alone to tend, free from cobwebs, though she had given up on the rooms her master and mistress no longer frequented, brokering an uneasy truce with the dust mites that had taken up residence within them in exchange for their tacit agreement to refrain from inhabiting the rooms they did use.
With the fire extinguished, Alfred walked to the window and gazed out over the grounds of his estate. Though scarcely mid-afternoon, daylight had already begun to fade. He watched as a stiff breeze gave the snowflakes free reign to flutter about before they alighted on the ground atop their predecessors. They reminded Alfred of the people with whom he would dine this evening—at a glance, they appeared identical, their clothes and mannerisms muted echoes with a shared origin, but a closer examination revealed the idiosyncrasies each possessed. A wry smile touched his lips as he considered the fact that “flake” served as such an apt descriptor for those same individuals.
After casting a last glance over his shoulder at the shelves where his bound companions rested, Alfred slowly descended the spiral staircase that led to his bedroom. Though dinner invitations came less frequently of late, social functions still took place far too often for his liking, and each time he received a summons, he gave serious consideration to ignoring it and taking up the hermit-like existence his peers predicted for him after Ellen inevitably succumbed to her illness. Doing so, however, would only further distance him from the last vestiges of the life they had enjoyed together, and there was always the hope that this evening would prove different.
Alfred shook his head ruefully and smiled as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His father had once upbraided him for being too much of an idealist, but Alfred had never quite given up on believing in something beyond the practical, though he tended to ignore such feelings. With his father long since gone, however, Alfred supposed that, at least for a night, he could allow his more quixotic side a temporary victory. Perhaps this evening would be different.
CHAPTER TWO
Alfred stepped down from the coach and pulled his long coat tightly around his body. The snow had ceased, and the calm of the winter landscape was broken only by the squeaking arrival of other carriages. Judging by the steady stream of people spilling out from those that had already arrived, the inclement weather would have little effect on attendance.
“I would prefer not to make it a late evening,” said Alfred, turning to face his servant. “Would you return in, say, three hours?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Stephen, snapping the reins and turning the coach back toward home.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder, savoring the majesty of the tableau before him. The moon hung low in the cloudless sky, and the stars flickered like the flames of the fire he had so recently snuffed. Despite the temperature, he would almost have preferred to remain outside.
Shaking his head and exhaling, he turned and walked to the front of the house, a stately manor well suited to one of the nation’s more prominent families. That its current occupants included the recently deceased Duke of Welshire’s widow and her frivolous brood brought a grimace to Alfred’s face, an expression he nimbly turned to a smile as the door opened in response to his soft knock. “Good evening, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said the Duchess’s butler, a thin man dressed immaculately in livery, as he took Alfred’s coat, hat, and muffler.
“Evening, Geoffrey. You are in for a long night, I fear.” Alfred inclined his head back over his left shoulder, indicating the arrival of yet another carriage.
The butler’s expression remained impassive. “So it would seem, my lord. The guests who have already arrived have availed themselves quite freely of the Duchess’s sherry, and if she continues to allow it to flow so liberally, I’m afraid many of our dinner guests will also be joining us for breakfast.”
Alfred chuckled. “Were it my party, I might suggest—purely as a hypothetical, mind you—that you water down the drinks halfway through dinner. By then, most of the guests will be past the point of noticing, and perhaps they will be more amenable to the prospect of departure if the water serves the dual purpose of sobering them up.”
The butler allowed himself a brief smile. “An excellent suggestion, my lord, but one I will have to give you full credit for if we’re forced to implement it and the Duchess finds out.”
“I shall happily take responsibility—if she blames me, perhaps I will be fortunate enough to be omitted from the guest list in the future.” Alfred patted the man lightly on the shoulder and moved past him into the hallway.
Nearly a score of people occupied the drawing room when Alfred entered, and voices from the adjacent room told him that more were present. He spotted the Duchess on the far side and began to make his way over to pay his regards, eager to discharge the onerous task. Before he could reach her, however, a bulky man blocked his path.
“Waltzing by without even a nod, old man?” The statement was accompanied by a wink and an outstretched hand.
Though the speaker appeared older, he was, in fact, two years Alfred’s junior. The man’s ample midsection, red cheeks, and gleaming pate contributed to his prematurely aged appearance, and a slight stoop only added to the perception that he was well into his dotage rather than just beginning it. His smile was warm, however, and the woman standing next to him, a wispy and wrinkled matron with a shock of gray hair that hung limply to one side, beamed when she saw Alfred.
“Benjamin! Lucille!” exclaimed Alfred as he grasped the man’s hand. “I thought your affairs would keep you away until next week.” He sketched a small bow to the woman, who laughed and extended her own hand, palm down, to Alfred, who kissed it lightly.
“I managed to complete a few deals early, and the weather was simply dreadful, so we decided to return home,” replied Benjamin. He offered a wry grin. “And, of course, Lucy wouldn’t have missed the Duchess’s dinner for all the tea in China, though I did my best to purchase it in place of actually having to attend.”
Alfred laughed. “A transaction from which you would have no doubt prospered.” He had never met anyone as shrewd as Benjamin Bradshaw, a man whose business empire, begun with a fruit cart when he was six years old, was built on the foundation of his ruthlessness in procuring the best deal. Alfred’s father had invested in some of a much-younger Benjamin’s more adventurous schemes, most of which, despite their seemingly scant chances for success, resulted in a healthy return for their investors. Over the past decade, Alfred had granted Benjamin the right to manage his own fortune, a decision he had no cause to regret.
“I am glad you are here,” said Alfred, looking around the room and shaking his head, “though I suspect that the truest of the bluebloods do not share my sentiment.”
“There will come a day when new money will simply be money, but until then, I will take great pleasure in offending with my presence.” Benjamin smiled as Lucille patted him gently on the arm. Though she had never possessed great beauty, a charming blend of common sense and a nurturing nature had won over her pragmatic husband who, with his philandering days long past, appreciated her more every day.
“At least we seem to have timed our arrival well,” noted Alfred as the guests began to make their way to the dining hall.
“True—if nothing else, the Duchess sets a fine table. And, she spares no expense when it comes to purchasing the finest brandy,” said Benjamin.
Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I suppose she procures it from you?”
Benjamin winked. “If I’m going to have to tolerate these people, the least I can do is ensure that I have something worthwhile to drink.”
After paying Duchess O’Malley the necessary compliments, the trio took their seats in the dining room. Servants poured libations with such efficiency that glasses rarely dipped below half full, despite the high rate of consumption. Alfred was seated across from Benjamin and Lucy, who sat at the end of the table, as far away from the Duchess as possible.
To Alfred’s right sat a man he had never seen before. The man was clearly younger than Alfred, but how much younger he could not say, for though the man’s clean-shaven face lacked age lines, wary brown eyes made him appear older. His closely cropped black hair complemented attire that was so fashionable as to make the man appear out of place at a gathering that consisted primarily of wizened matrons, curmudgeonly widowers, and overfed, elderly couples.
Though seated, Alfred could tell that the man stood several inches taller than he, and the cut of his suit hinted at an impressively broad-shouldered physique. Despite the din of conversation around him, the man stared silently down at the table, idly swirling the dregs of a glass of wine and apparently oblivious to Alfred’s examination. Lucy sought to draw the man from his solitude, but he responded only with small nods or in a monosyllabic monotone, though Alfred thought he detected an Irish accent. The only truly useful information he divulged was his name, Brendan Quinn, and the manner in which he distinctly pronounced the two syllables of his first name and rolled his r’s at least confirmed Alfred’s speculation as to his nationality.
Dinner proved unexpectedly enjoyable. The couple seated to Alfred’s left, a stodgy old pair whose contempt for egalitarianism so far exceeded the bounds of decorum that it was charming, provided ample entertainment. Benjamin took great pleasure in goading the couple into increasingly vehement exclamations as he went deeper into his cups. It was shortly after the old man had banged his fist on the table and shouted, “Those born without money do not deserve money!” that Alfred began to notice that Brendan Quinn was watching him.
At first, he thought that the man was looking past him to the couple on his left, either entertained, or appalled, by the conversation; as dinner progressed, however, Alfred realized that Quinn focused on him alone. Lucy continued her efforts to engage the stranger, but each time she tried, he deflected her attempts. After a while, she gave up and turned her attention to the conversation taking place between her husband and the old couple, leaving Quinn to continue his observations uninterrupted.
Alfred began to strategically place objects, such as a napkin or fork, in positions that allowed him to use reaching for them as a pretext to turn toward Quinn, but each time he did so, the man contrived to be looking away, or down at his plate. Though he felt his eyes on him all night, not once did Alfred successfully catch Quinn in the act of staring at him.
At the meal’s conclusion, the guests separated, the women to the parlor to gossip and the men to the drawing room to smoke pipes and “talk business,” a euphemism for their own unsavory brand of gossip. Benjamin yawned theatrically and announced that he was rather fatigued from their travels and ready to depart immediately. A grateful Lucy smiled at her husband before turning toward Alfred. “Will you remain, dear?”
Though Stephen would arrive soon with the carriage, Alfred had observed Brendan Quinn heading into the drawing room with the other men, and the stranger’s odd behavior had piqued his curiosity. “I will undoubtedly regret this decision, but I believe I shall.” He kissed Lucy’s hand once again, earning him a smile in response before she wandered off in search of the Duchess to say goodbye, leaving Benjamin and Alfred alone.
“Wonderful, isn’t she?” said Benjamin, beaming as he watched his wife disappear.
Alfred shook his head, a gesture his friend missed. Benjamin’s unabashed tenderness toward his wife stood in such stark contrast to the coldness of his professional demeanor—not to mention the wandering eyes and hands that had plagued him in his younger years—that it never failed to surprise him. “You are a most fortunate man, Mr. Bradshaw.”
Benjamin placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish Ellen were here too, old chap. No change in her condition, then?”
“None for the better; none for the worse. For the latter, I suppose I should be thankful.”
“While I was away, I obtained the names of a few more doctors—don’t give up hope.”
“I appreciate your efforts, my friend.” Alfred appeared as though he wanted to say something more, but no words followed.
Benjamin smiled sadly. “You’ll join us for supper Tuesday as usual, I hope?”
Alfred managed a nod. “Of course.” They shook hands, and Benjamin turned to depart. Alfred grabbed his arm before he managed to take more than a step. “Before you go…what do you make of this Brendan Quinn?”
“It’s unlike a stranger to show up to one of these dinners unaccompanied, or at least without some bloody toff trying to introduce him to everyone.”
“I could not rid myself of the notion that he was staring at me throughout dinner.”
“I know you’re lonely these days, old man, but don’t flatter yourself—he’s too young for you. And, terribly sorry to say, considerably more attractive.”
“He is hardly my type. Obviously, I prefer men with money.” Alfred leered, and both men laughed.
“You will…” began Benjamin.
“…let you know what I discover, yes,” replied Alfred, his eyes bright.
CHAPTER THREE
Alfred nodded to familiar faces as he entered the drawing room, his nose wrinkling as he caught the pungent scent of a particularly strong—and cheap—cigar. Under normal circumstances, he would make a quick circuit of the room to exchange pleasantries and then depart. Tonight, however, he was determined not to leave until he had satisfied his curiosity, and to do that, he would need to draw Brendan Quinn into conversation.
He spotted the man by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, his face expressionless as Alfred approached. “Mr. Quinn.”
Quinn seemed not to have heard, as his eyes remained fixed on some unknown object across the room. After a moment, however, he glanced furtively from side to side, as if seeking to ensure that no one was listening. At last, he responded, his voice both stern and lilting. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of joining me on balcony for a brief conversation?”
Alfred’s eyebrow shot up. “You do realize that it is the middle of winter, and hardly a pleasant evening. Men of my age find that their aches and pains, even if momentarily dulled by the cold, tend to worsen with prolonged exposure to it.”
“I’ve no wish to cause you discomfort, but it would be better if our discussion took place in private. I ask only for a moment, my lord—it is of the utmost importance.”
Curiosity warred with caution and, after Alfred stared at Quinn for a moment, the former won out. He nodded his assent and followed Quinn.
Alfred marveled as Quinn made his way across the room. The man moved with fluid grace, each foot lightly skimming the floor’s surface as he walked. He navigated a meandering path through the maze of brandy snifters and pipe smoke so subtly that their exit went unnoticed. Emerging onto the balcony, Quinn led them to a spot that offered no clear lines of sight from either the parlor or the drawing room, and together they stood gazing out over the darkened grounds. Alfred’s breath clouded before him, and he savored the crisp chill in the air. The bitter cold of the afternoon had diminished, replaced by a mild night draped in a velvet-black sky punctured by gleaming star bits.
Alfred did his best to force the rapidly forming questions from his mind, focusing instead on the majestic landscape before him. At last, Quinn spoke. “I understand you are a highly regarded scholar.”
“I suppose you might say that I know quite a lot about very little of consequence,” replied Alfred, confused. “I think ‘highly regarded’ does me more credit than I deserve.” Alfred crossed his arms as the cold seeped into his bones. “I confess, however, that I am puzzled as to why this discussion could not have taken place indoors. My scholarly efforts are hardly a topic worthy of secrecy.” Something in Quinn’s voice put Alfred on edge, and he could not be sure if the chill he suddenly felt so keenly could be attributed solely to the temperature.
Quinn paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your particular area of expertise involves our Roman and Anglo-Saxon roots, with a particular emphasis on the so-called ‘dark ages,’ correct?”
Alfred rubbed his forehead with his right hand, perplexed. “In my youth, I had the privilege of studying under Professor Eric Aubrey, one of the finest Anglo-Saxon scholars that ever lived, at Cambridge, and his tutelage sparked a life-long interest that—”
“And your expertise extends to the subject of King Arthur?” interrupted Quinn, leaning in close, his voice low.
Alfred was taken aback at the man’s sudden intensity. “I have published a few trifling monographs on the subject.” Alfred had amassed an impressive collection of Arthurian lore in his library, including some exceedingly rare and coveted tomes. He began to worry that Quinn had somehow learned of his collection and was, perhaps, a book hunter in search of his fortune. Now on guard, Alfred glanced toward the house, hoping an inebriated guest might stumble out onto the balcony, but no such aid arrived.
“Your country, and your Queen, have need of that knowledge,” said Quinn, interrupting Alfred’s thoughts. “Do you consider yourself a patriotic man, Lord Fitzwilliam?”
“I take pride in Britain’s rich cultural heritage, and in her tremendous achievements in the arts and sciences. As for the Queen, she is a benevolent ruler.” He was not especially enamored of the Crown’s rampant colonization efforts and attempts to “civilize” indigenous “savages,” but, under the circumstances, Alfred felt that withholding that particular opinion might prove a wiser course of action.
“A suitably cautious answer.” Quinn looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “I seek your assistance in a matter that I’m sure is close to your heart.” He paused. “Your wife…she is ill?” The pause sounded rehearsed, as though the man needed to practice sounding sympathetic.
Alfred’s face hardened. “You refer to a matter I do not wish to discuss.”
“My intent is not to bring you discomfort, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said Quinn, “but instead to offer you a chance to help prevent others from experiencing your pain.”
Alfred turned away, placed his palms down on the balcony, and leaned forward. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, his breath forming a misty cloud. “I am not in the habit, sir, of assisting those who would use my grief as a means of coercion.”
“I’m not a diplomat, my lord—I’m a soldier,” replied Quinn, sounding almost contrite. “As it stands, however, the member of my organization who wishes to speak with you was unable to come himself, and so he sent me instead.”
“Who is it who wishes to speak with me, then, Mr. Quinn?”
“This will explain all.” Quinn reached inside his jacket and produced a sealed envelope. There was no writing on the outside, nor was there anything remarkable about the seal itself. He held it out to Alfred.
Alfred stared hard at Quinn as he accepted the envelope. Alfred opened the letter, turning back toward the balcony to make better use of the moonlight.
The letter was dated three days previously.
My Dear Lord Fitzwilliam,
Please accept my most sincere apologies for sending this missive in lieu of calling upon you in person. I am afraid that I am confined to my quarters, and Tuesdays are such irritable days anyway—I have yet to experience one that was not, for one reason or another, particularly unsociable. Generally speaking, they are terrible days for travel.
In my stead, I have sent Mr. Brendan Quinn, a man of great intelligence and even greater accomplishment, particularly on the field of battle. He is a loyal servant of Her Majesty, but he is not, I fear, the most cordial of men. Mr. Quinn possesses a rather unique ability to transform mundane interactions into confrontational exchanges, for such are of the type with which he is most familiar.
This would, perhaps, be an ideal moment to introduce myself. My name is Henry Milner, and I belong to an organization that, though secret, falls directly under the Queen and her cabinet’s purview. Our group has existed for nearly 300 years and, God willing, will survive long after we are gone. Our raison d’être is simply stated: protect the British government and expand its power, influence, and magnificence. The endeavors we undertake, however, are often far more complex.
I shall not go on at length about the history of our organization, though I strongly suspect that you would find it fascinating. In fact, I refrain from sharing not from any reticence on my part or any potential lack of interest on your part, but simply because I am not allowed. Perhaps, if you are kind enough to acquiesce to the proposal outlined below, I may be able to reveal a few tidbits of interest at some point in the near future.
While our initiatives vary widely, and I confess that some are distasteful to men of honor (one of the reasons, perhaps, that men like Mr. Quinn are in our employ, though perhaps I treat him unfairly), there are times when I have the privilege of undertaking a task that has the potential to provide such benefit to the Empire, and the world at large, that I sink to my knees and give thanks to my Creator for allowing me the opportunity to be a part of this organization, one that has the resources and wherewithal to achieve the impossible. I am currently engaged in such an undertaking, one that it is my greatest hope you will be willing to assist us with.
When God calls upon men to make sacrifices for the greater good, we cannot help but heed the call, no matter how much pain we must endure. Were it within my power to make this request without bringing you sorrow, I would do so. Alas, however, it is only by reminding you of the horrible pain you now endure that I can convey to you the sanctity of our mission.
Consumption and other wasting diseases plague our nation. Each year, thousands of individuals, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, lose their lives while our most brilliant physicians wring their hands helplessly. I understand that your wife has been suffering for some time; I myself lost a cousin just last year.
There is hope, however. Our organization may have the means to stem the tide of consumption, and we may be able to prevent the spread of other illnesses as well, ensuring that no one ever need suffer the tragic and premature loss of a loved one again.
These claims undoubtedly sound outlandish, and I do not doubt that you will regard them—rightly, I might add—with skepticism. I, too, had doubts, but I now believe it not only possible, but, in fact, most probable that we can achieve this goal. In order to do so, however, we must recover a long-lost artifact, and it is for this reason that I seek your assistance.
Like you, I was fortunate enough to study under Professor Aubrey, though my tutelage occurred several years after yours; he always spoke most highly of you. When I read your recent monograph speculating on the final resting place of our legendary King Arthur, I knew at once that you were the right man to assist us in our endeavor.
I understand that this must be quite perplexing, and I can practically hear you wondering aloud what your knowledge of Anglo-Saxon England has to do with curing disease. I assure you that the two are inextricably linked, and that, with your aid, we may very well be able to accomplish the unthinkable and make miracles an everyday occurrence.
I pray that I do not ask too much of you by seeking an audience, a chance to convince you of the veracity of our claims and to ascertain whether you have the knowledge to assist us in our search. On the back of this letter, you will find an address. If it pleases you, I would be honored to host you at that address at the hour of 4:00 PM on Friday, 17 January. Fridays are very agreeable days, perhaps owing to their position in the week. Whatever the reason, I find them very accommodating, days that one can depend upon to provide succor no matter what ignominious events Tuesdays and those dastardly Thursdays have wrought.
You needn’t respond with any indication as to whether you have chosen to come; your appearance, or lack thereof, at the appointed hour will provide sufficient response. While I feel that are many compelling reasons for you to come, I certainly have no wish to coerce you.
Regardless of whether we meet next week (a meeting, incidentally, that I would look forward to greatly, as it is always pleasurable to converse with a man of such scholarly reputation, particularly one who is as esteemed a peer of the realm as you, my lord), I pass along my kindest regards and admiration for your academic accomplishments.
Warmest Regards,
Henry Milner
Alfred turned back toward the house as he finished reading, but was not surprised to find himself alone on the balcony.
March 16, 2020
A Tradition Unlike Any Other
Just because March Madness and the Masters have been canceled due to impending apocalypse doesn’t mean we need to forego sacred springtime rituals.
A year ago, my son, who was five at the time, came home from school very excited at the prospect of catching a leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day. He’d heard all about them in school, how they lived at the end of a rainbow, had a pot of gold, and so on, and so forth. He’d even learned a trick or two about luring them into a trap.
My daughter, who was three at the time, was all in favor of her big brother’s plan to go leprechaun hunting. Problem was, though, that she just couldn’t remember that big, huge word. Leprechaun—that’s a vocabularic nightmare for a tiny tyke. So, she decided to substitute the only other three-syllable word she could think of: Hanukkah.
And so a grand new tradition was born.
We spent a merry time that day chasing the Hanukkah in hopes of capturing the pot of latkes hidden at the end of his menorah. And no, when the sun set and the day was done, we hadn’t found one—alas. But, we sure had a lot of fun.
Hope, even in the midst of a pandemic, springs eternal. I’ll be back out there tomorrow, beating the bushes to find one of those little bastards and eat his delicious potato pancakes.
I hope you, your loved ones, and your friends can still find some joy in life (with appropriate social distancing, of course). Stay safe out there, my friends, and never let go of the wonder and absurdity that makes life magical.
Slainte, and shalom.
A year ago, my son, who was five at the time, came home from school very excited at the prospect of catching a leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day. He’d heard all about them in school, how they lived at the end of a rainbow, had a pot of gold, and so on, and so forth. He’d even learned a trick or two about luring them into a trap.
My daughter, who was three at the time, was all in favor of her big brother’s plan to go leprechaun hunting. Problem was, though, that she just couldn’t remember that big, huge word. Leprechaun—that’s a vocabularic nightmare for a tiny tyke. So, she decided to substitute the only other three-syllable word she could think of: Hanukkah.
And so a grand new tradition was born.
We spent a merry time that day chasing the Hanukkah in hopes of capturing the pot of latkes hidden at the end of his menorah. And no, when the sun set and the day was done, we hadn’t found one—alas. But, we sure had a lot of fun.
Hope, even in the midst of a pandemic, springs eternal. I’ll be back out there tomorrow, beating the bushes to find one of those little bastards and eat his delicious potato pancakes.
I hope you, your loved ones, and your friends can still find some joy in life (with appropriate social distancing, of course). Stay safe out there, my friends, and never let go of the wonder and absurdity that makes life magical.
Slainte, and shalom.
September 4, 2019
It’s Official: More Heloise is Coming from The Parliament House in December 2020!
Bad news, dear readers: you’re going to be subjected to more Heloise.
For those of you who are just joining us—which would be most of you, or the sane ones anyway—a few years ago, I wrote a choose-your-own-adventure style comic fantasy serial called The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, which achieved nearly a 50% approval rate with readers in the Gibson household. It began as a lark, as I struggled to find writing time and decided to see what I could do with the brief chunks of quiet I had during the ride-sharing portion of my commute.
Turns out that riffing on favorite fantasy tropes with a group of ridiculous and eclectic characters works okay under those circumstances, and very few people viscerally hated the outcome, so I decided to write a proper Heloise novel.
I know—crazy, right? Even crazier is that someone actually wants to publish it.
So, gird your loins, reading public, for the release of the tentatively titled THE PART ABOUT THE DRAGON WAS (MOSTLY) TRUE, coming to a bookstore or reading platform near you in December 2020 (or thereabouts) from the good folks at The Parliament House Press. (More details here.)
Will it have action, adventure, danger, intrigue, romance, and epic quests?
No, not really. I mean, kind of. It’ll have a lot more in the way of bad smells, cluelessness, bickering, annoyingly cheerful prestidigitators, and androgynous bog people.
More details to come, of course—far more than you want to know, undoubtedly—including how you might be able to score yourself an advance copy, and possibly even a hardcopy with my signature illegibly scrawled across the title page so that you have extra kindling for those cold winter nights.
For now, I’ll say this: I’m so incredibly grateful for the support of the GR community, not just for Heloise, but for The Camelot Shadow, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, and all of my other ridiculous writing endeavors. It’s a dark and divided world we live in these days, so I’m so very thankful I’ve found a place where I can hang out with people who, regardless of race, gender, creed, sexuality, nationality, or politics, stand united by a love of stories and, quite often, a desire to find and celebrate our common ground—and the wonderful diversity that exists within that common ground—rather than attack each other’s differences.
Hey, Sean—I Think You’re Tops; How Can I Help?
I’m glad you asked, adoring fan. More guidance on that very topic to come—all in due time, my willing army of minion shills.
For those of you who are just joining us—which would be most of you, or the sane ones anyway—a few years ago, I wrote a choose-your-own-adventure style comic fantasy serial called The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, which achieved nearly a 50% approval rate with readers in the Gibson household. It began as a lark, as I struggled to find writing time and decided to see what I could do with the brief chunks of quiet I had during the ride-sharing portion of my commute.
Turns out that riffing on favorite fantasy tropes with a group of ridiculous and eclectic characters works okay under those circumstances, and very few people viscerally hated the outcome, so I decided to write a proper Heloise novel.
I know—crazy, right? Even crazier is that someone actually wants to publish it.
So, gird your loins, reading public, for the release of the tentatively titled THE PART ABOUT THE DRAGON WAS (MOSTLY) TRUE, coming to a bookstore or reading platform near you in December 2020 (or thereabouts) from the good folks at The Parliament House Press. (More details here.)
Will it have action, adventure, danger, intrigue, romance, and epic quests?
No, not really. I mean, kind of. It’ll have a lot more in the way of bad smells, cluelessness, bickering, annoyingly cheerful prestidigitators, and androgynous bog people.
More details to come, of course—far more than you want to know, undoubtedly—including how you might be able to score yourself an advance copy, and possibly even a hardcopy with my signature illegibly scrawled across the title page so that you have extra kindling for those cold winter nights.
For now, I’ll say this: I’m so incredibly grateful for the support of the GR community, not just for Heloise, but for The Camelot Shadow, The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton, and all of my other ridiculous writing endeavors. It’s a dark and divided world we live in these days, so I’m so very thankful I’ve found a place where I can hang out with people who, regardless of race, gender, creed, sexuality, nationality, or politics, stand united by a love of stories and, quite often, a desire to find and celebrate our common ground—and the wonderful diversity that exists within that common ground—rather than attack each other’s differences.
Hey, Sean—I Think You’re Tops; How Can I Help?
I’m glad you asked, adoring fan. More guidance on that very topic to come—all in due time, my willing army of minion shills.
June 6, 2019
The Sticky-Handed, Unsung Heroes of Infertility Treatment
Every woman who has a baby has superhero-level powers of endurance and an uncanny ability to function through discomfort and pain. That’s doubly true for any woman who first goes through infertility treatment, which is a physically, mentally, and emotionally brutal rollercoaster. I couldn’t endure either of those experiences with half the grace and stamina I’ve seen pretty much every woman I know exhibit—especially my wife, though, given her decision to consent to marrying me, you might reasonably conclude she is a masochist and so therefore better equipped to withstand agony.
Now, I’ve never given birth. And, I’ve only gone through IVF as the dude giving (though by no means calling) the shots, not the one getting stuck a million times with tiny needles filled with hormones until my ovaries turn into giant grapefruits. I’ve also never killed someone during war, saved the life of a gunshot classmate, or made a decision to eliminate thousands of jobs. In other words, there are a lot of things I’ve thankfully never experienced that I assume are insanely difficult and so emotionally scarring that they irrevocably change one forever.
With respect to things I have experienced, however, I feel confident that masturbating into a cup for the purpose of creating children while a nurse impatiently taps her foot because you’re under a time crunch belongs in the same echelon of high-stress activities.
Let’s not discount just how much pressure is heaped onto a would-be dad’s sloping, unimpressively muscled shoulders when your name rings out, like a gunshot in Bambi’s forest, in a crowded waiting room. No matter that everyone in the room can empathize with your situation; it’s still awkward that they know you’re being summoned to tickle your giggleberries and spunk into a cup in a room just down the hall. No one wants to make eye contact or acknowledge the Herculean feat of concentration required under the time-sensitive circumstances. As soon as a nurse calls your name, you cease to exist, a perverted pariah whose hand no one wants to give a comforting squeeze.
The nurse escorts you to a bathroom-cum-love-yourself lounge, one accoutered with a comfy leather chair creased and molded by the asses of a thousand men with ugly, slow, bad-at-swimming sperm. She asks you for identification to confirm that you are who you say you are, as though it’s common practice to send in a pinch hitter to provide half of the clay to make one’s own offspring. To further ensure the legitimacy of the genetic material awaiting release, you have to sign a form attesting that the sample you’ll soon provide is, in fact, yours, and not a friend’s beautiful, Michael Phelps-like sperm that you’ve smuggled into the bathroom in a test tube taped to the inside of your thigh.
Only then do you receive the tools of the trade: a cup (seal unbroken, so you know that no one else has snuck in some swimmers before you), a pen (to write your name on the cup, no consideration being made for the difficult task of holding a pen with sticky fingers), and a walkie-talkie to notify the nurse when you’ve completed your mission (“turn to channel three”). Overwhelmed by the moment, you forget to ask the code word you should use to indicate that you’re finished—Cochise? Kablam? Heck of a job, Brownie?—and so decide you’ll worry about that later, after you’ve determined whether to make use of the other equipment in the room.
To help you take matters in hand, the doctor’s office has kindly provided an array of stimulatory material, from high-class gentlemen’s magazines to a curated selection of provocative videos on both DVD and VHS, which can be played on the first TV/VCR/DVD combo you’ve seen since college. Not wanting to contemplate the amount of genetic material already covering said visual stimulants and unsure of the ethical repercussions of watching girl-on-girl action while contributing to the conception of your children, you elect to rely on your normally fertile imagination, only to have it prove as impotent as your sperm and as fickle as your recalcitrant reproductive rod, which remains unpersuaded that the need for timely and effusive production warrants a stand-up performance in such an unhospitable environment. “I’m not a piece of meat,” it reminds you testily (even if it technically is). “Where’s the romance, brother?”
The rational part of your brain ticks down the seconds, knowing that your unconscious wife is even now having a gaggle of eggs plucked from her softball-sized ovaries, as the emotional side of your brain urges your unresponsive tickle stick to rise to the occasion.
Somehow, against all odds, you manage to rouse it to action, and when you’ve finally produced a sufficient quantity of what the doctor’s office once poetically described as “wheat-colored” baby juice, you considerately wipe and wash your hands before picking up the walkie-talkie, flicking the power on, turning to channel three, and saying, eloquently, definitively, and with your voice in no way cracking, “Uh…I’m done, I think?”
Your part in the undertaking complete, you grit your teeth through the uncomfortable brush of cotton boxers on skin chafed from the urgency and vigor required under such pressing circumstances to rush to your wife’s side as she groggily comes to. Despite your own traumatic experience, you must now lend her your strength, nurse her through her recovery, and, possibly, catch her when she faints in the bathroom after you get home before frantically rushing her back to the doctor’s office so they can say, without apparent concern, “Oh, yeah—that happens sometimes.”
Does any of this make you a hero? Well, yeah—you just made half of a baby in a cup. That’s not easy. Sure, it’s easier than making half of a baby in an overinflated ovary, and it’s probably easier than mixing those two halves in a petri dish and painstakingly placing the resulting embryo inside of a possibly hostile womb. But it’s still harder than, say, taking a nap. It requires intense focus, moral fortitude, manual dexterity, and above-average aim (note to medical equipment manufacturers: the opening of those cups could be bigger).
Going through infertility treatment sucks—there’s no way to pretend otherwise. So, whatever the result of your journey, gentlemen, take heart that you’re not alone, and do not go quietly into that good night. Stride boldly into it with whatever sounds you need to make in order to create your baby. Feel good about your contribution, and look forward to congratulatory handshakes if and when the glorious day arrives that you welcome what will be a life-changing bundle of pure and radiant joy.
Just maybe wash your hands first, eh?
Now, I’ve never given birth. And, I’ve only gone through IVF as the dude giving (though by no means calling) the shots, not the one getting stuck a million times with tiny needles filled with hormones until my ovaries turn into giant grapefruits. I’ve also never killed someone during war, saved the life of a gunshot classmate, or made a decision to eliminate thousands of jobs. In other words, there are a lot of things I’ve thankfully never experienced that I assume are insanely difficult and so emotionally scarring that they irrevocably change one forever.
With respect to things I have experienced, however, I feel confident that masturbating into a cup for the purpose of creating children while a nurse impatiently taps her foot because you’re under a time crunch belongs in the same echelon of high-stress activities.
Let’s not discount just how much pressure is heaped onto a would-be dad’s sloping, unimpressively muscled shoulders when your name rings out, like a gunshot in Bambi’s forest, in a crowded waiting room. No matter that everyone in the room can empathize with your situation; it’s still awkward that they know you’re being summoned to tickle your giggleberries and spunk into a cup in a room just down the hall. No one wants to make eye contact or acknowledge the Herculean feat of concentration required under the time-sensitive circumstances. As soon as a nurse calls your name, you cease to exist, a perverted pariah whose hand no one wants to give a comforting squeeze.
The nurse escorts you to a bathroom-cum-love-yourself lounge, one accoutered with a comfy leather chair creased and molded by the asses of a thousand men with ugly, slow, bad-at-swimming sperm. She asks you for identification to confirm that you are who you say you are, as though it’s common practice to send in a pinch hitter to provide half of the clay to make one’s own offspring. To further ensure the legitimacy of the genetic material awaiting release, you have to sign a form attesting that the sample you’ll soon provide is, in fact, yours, and not a friend’s beautiful, Michael Phelps-like sperm that you’ve smuggled into the bathroom in a test tube taped to the inside of your thigh.
Only then do you receive the tools of the trade: a cup (seal unbroken, so you know that no one else has snuck in some swimmers before you), a pen (to write your name on the cup, no consideration being made for the difficult task of holding a pen with sticky fingers), and a walkie-talkie to notify the nurse when you’ve completed your mission (“turn to channel three”). Overwhelmed by the moment, you forget to ask the code word you should use to indicate that you’re finished—Cochise? Kablam? Heck of a job, Brownie?—and so decide you’ll worry about that later, after you’ve determined whether to make use of the other equipment in the room.
To help you take matters in hand, the doctor’s office has kindly provided an array of stimulatory material, from high-class gentlemen’s magazines to a curated selection of provocative videos on both DVD and VHS, which can be played on the first TV/VCR/DVD combo you’ve seen since college. Not wanting to contemplate the amount of genetic material already covering said visual stimulants and unsure of the ethical repercussions of watching girl-on-girl action while contributing to the conception of your children, you elect to rely on your normally fertile imagination, only to have it prove as impotent as your sperm and as fickle as your recalcitrant reproductive rod, which remains unpersuaded that the need for timely and effusive production warrants a stand-up performance in such an unhospitable environment. “I’m not a piece of meat,” it reminds you testily (even if it technically is). “Where’s the romance, brother?”
The rational part of your brain ticks down the seconds, knowing that your unconscious wife is even now having a gaggle of eggs plucked from her softball-sized ovaries, as the emotional side of your brain urges your unresponsive tickle stick to rise to the occasion.
Somehow, against all odds, you manage to rouse it to action, and when you’ve finally produced a sufficient quantity of what the doctor’s office once poetically described as “wheat-colored” baby juice, you considerately wipe and wash your hands before picking up the walkie-talkie, flicking the power on, turning to channel three, and saying, eloquently, definitively, and with your voice in no way cracking, “Uh…I’m done, I think?”
Your part in the undertaking complete, you grit your teeth through the uncomfortable brush of cotton boxers on skin chafed from the urgency and vigor required under such pressing circumstances to rush to your wife’s side as she groggily comes to. Despite your own traumatic experience, you must now lend her your strength, nurse her through her recovery, and, possibly, catch her when she faints in the bathroom after you get home before frantically rushing her back to the doctor’s office so they can say, without apparent concern, “Oh, yeah—that happens sometimes.”
Does any of this make you a hero? Well, yeah—you just made half of a baby in a cup. That’s not easy. Sure, it’s easier than making half of a baby in an overinflated ovary, and it’s probably easier than mixing those two halves in a petri dish and painstakingly placing the resulting embryo inside of a possibly hostile womb. But it’s still harder than, say, taking a nap. It requires intense focus, moral fortitude, manual dexterity, and above-average aim (note to medical equipment manufacturers: the opening of those cups could be bigger).
Going through infertility treatment sucks—there’s no way to pretend otherwise. So, whatever the result of your journey, gentlemen, take heart that you’re not alone, and do not go quietly into that good night. Stride boldly into it with whatever sounds you need to make in order to create your baby. Feel good about your contribution, and look forward to congratulatory handshakes if and when the glorious day arrives that you welcome what will be a life-changing bundle of pure and radiant joy.
Just maybe wash your hands first, eh?
May 14, 2019
Manifesto of an Independent Non-Candidate for President
I’ve formally decided that I will be the only person NOT running for President in 2020, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have ideas. So, all of you 8 million people who ARE running, please take note, and feel free to steal any (and preferably all) of these.
-Don’t be an asshole. Other people can have different opinions, and they probably have what, at least to them, is a valid reason for those opinions. Listen to them. Try to understand. And, ultimately, know that it’s okay to disagree with each other—respectfully. (One exception: Nazis. They don’t have valid reasons, are not very fine people, and it’s okay to disrespectfully disagree with them. And pee on them.)
-Try to make someone else’s life a little bit better every day—take a few extra seconds to say hello, compliment someone, open a door, help someone carry a package, or thank someone for doing something to help you.
-I don’t know what I don’t know and reserve the right to evolve my thinking when I learn about a different perspective or gain information from someone more informed on a given topic (note: all straight white males will be required to adopt this philosophy).
-Platforms are stupid. A good idea is a good idea, and having one point of view about abortion doesn’t mean you have to have a “related” view about foreign policy or the economy, for example.
-Try to do the most good for the most people all of the time—if you do that consistently, everyone will be better off overall, even if sometimes some people are less well off in a particular instance (we all need to make sacrifices for the greater good sometimes).
-Education reform needs to be prioritized—not just higher ed, where we should be exploring any and all options to make getting the kind of education people need to be successful in life affordable—but in elementary and secondary schools, which are criminally underfunded and underappreciated.
-2nd Amendment defenders, we don’t want to take away your guns, but for the love of Pete’s dragon, can we agree that there are some needlessly powerful weapons out there that are too easy to get and that we need to do something about because no amount of “good guys with guns” is going to stop a lunatic from using them to kill people? And can we all at least agree that kids shouldn’t have to worry about getting killed in mass quantities when they’re at school and talk about what we can do about that in a sane and rational way, and be open to maybe giving something up for the greater good (see point above)?
-Any and all Tina Fey-penned or produced content will be required viewing.
-Keanu Reeves will be appointed Secretary of Commenting on What Happens After We Die. No one else may opine.
-Richard Splett will be appointed Secretary of State.
-Everyone needs to read a book at least once in a while.
-People loving people is always a good thing, no matter what form that takes or how those people are biologically constructed.
-Jon Bon Jovi will write a new national anthem, and we’ll each honor it in our own way (I will do so by playing air guitar).
-Don’t be an asshole. Other people can have different opinions, and they probably have what, at least to them, is a valid reason for those opinions. Listen to them. Try to understand. And, ultimately, know that it’s okay to disagree with each other—respectfully. (One exception: Nazis. They don’t have valid reasons, are not very fine people, and it’s okay to disrespectfully disagree with them. And pee on them.)
-Try to make someone else’s life a little bit better every day—take a few extra seconds to say hello, compliment someone, open a door, help someone carry a package, or thank someone for doing something to help you.
-I don’t know what I don’t know and reserve the right to evolve my thinking when I learn about a different perspective or gain information from someone more informed on a given topic (note: all straight white males will be required to adopt this philosophy).
-Platforms are stupid. A good idea is a good idea, and having one point of view about abortion doesn’t mean you have to have a “related” view about foreign policy or the economy, for example.
-Try to do the most good for the most people all of the time—if you do that consistently, everyone will be better off overall, even if sometimes some people are less well off in a particular instance (we all need to make sacrifices for the greater good sometimes).
-Education reform needs to be prioritized—not just higher ed, where we should be exploring any and all options to make getting the kind of education people need to be successful in life affordable—but in elementary and secondary schools, which are criminally underfunded and underappreciated.
-2nd Amendment defenders, we don’t want to take away your guns, but for the love of Pete’s dragon, can we agree that there are some needlessly powerful weapons out there that are too easy to get and that we need to do something about because no amount of “good guys with guns” is going to stop a lunatic from using them to kill people? And can we all at least agree that kids shouldn’t have to worry about getting killed in mass quantities when they’re at school and talk about what we can do about that in a sane and rational way, and be open to maybe giving something up for the greater good (see point above)?
-Any and all Tina Fey-penned or produced content will be required viewing.
-Keanu Reeves will be appointed Secretary of Commenting on What Happens After We Die. No one else may opine.
-Richard Splett will be appointed Secretary of State.
-Everyone needs to read a book at least once in a while.
-People loving people is always a good thing, no matter what form that takes or how those people are biologically constructed.
-Jon Bon Jovi will write a new national anthem, and we’ll each honor it in our own way (I will do so by playing air guitar).
October 18, 2018
More stories are on the way—I’m not just sitting on my ass (well, metaphorically speaking)
I should note that I am, literally, sitting on my ass, if only because it’s more comfortable than sitting on my face, though, when so doing, my nose does make for a nice, one-legged George Jetson-like chair support.
Of late, I’ve had a few folks politely inquire as to when I’ll be putting out some new stuff (and by “politely inquire,” I mean eloquent inquiries such as, “Hey, jagoff, stop being a lazy asshole and write something new, will you? There are only so many times I can torture myself with your prior mediocrities.”). (Being a writer is the best, I tell you. And I mean that sincerely—no matter offensively phrased, when someone wants to read more of your stuff, it’s a good feeling.)
So, I thought I’d provide a quick and probably unsatisfying update (stow it, peanut gallery, before you start cracking jokes about how my updates are like my lovemaking—being correct and being nice aren’t always the same thing, you know). When you’ve got a crazy-busy full-time gig and little ones, as many of you know, free time is at a premium, which makes the writing process a lot slower than I’d like it to be. And, even when stories have been written, the whole trying-to-get-a-book-deal thing means that they spend a lot of time circulating amongst agents who, I think, look at my work like I do asparagus at a dinner party: smile politely, shake your head, and say, “Wow, that looks great, but I really don’t like it when my pee smells.”
So, while I do have a new Heloise book written, it’s not yet ready to share with the general public, though maybe I’ll post a few pages at some point in the near future if enough people indicate that it’s likely that they will die if they’re unable to read it (I mean, the Hippocratic oath applies to writers, right?). I’m hard at work on a new story as well, and I’ll provide some updates on that when and if I think it’s going to stick. (No, it’s not the long-awaited Camelot Shadow sequel, but I promise that will happen down the road.)
“Well, that’s all well and good,” I hear the polite inquirers saying, “but what am I supposed to do in the meantime if I need to read something soporific on those nights I’m tossing and turning in bed?”
Were I a less well-mannered individual, I might suggest that you suck it; fortunately, I’m exceedingly courteous, so I will provide a few helpful suggestions.
If you’ve already worked your way through The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, The Camelot Shadow, and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton (and I hope that, if you’ve read and enjoyed The Camelot Shadow, you’ve checked out Strange Task—it sets up some things that will bear fruit in future sequels), you might want to check out the following reviews, which are basically short stories/scripts. I like to exercise the creative writing muscles on GR now and again, so keep your eyes peeled (but not literally, because gross) for similar output in the future.
A pilot script for "Doctor, Doctor," a sitcom starring Doctor Strange and Doctor Doom
A pilot script for "Days of our (Future) Lives," a teen dramedy starring the Uncanny X-Men
An account of my abduction by aliens who wanted me to explain human mating habits
If you’re still incredibly desperate for reading material, I’d also suggest digging through the archives of this blog, where you’ll find flights of wit, fancy, and wonder, mainly from the commenters who are taking shots at the material.
I am so incredibly grateful to all of you who have taken time to hang out with my stories and who continue to support me and show an interest in future work—I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: every writer, no matter what they say, writes to be read, and the reason I do that is because I’m so indebted to the many incredible writers who have made me think, laugh, cry, or just generally entertained me over the years. If I can do the same for someone somewhere along the way, then I’m a happy cat.
As Stan Lee famously said in Mallrats, “You keep reading ‘em, I’ll keep writing ‘em.”
Of late, I’ve had a few folks politely inquire as to when I’ll be putting out some new stuff (and by “politely inquire,” I mean eloquent inquiries such as, “Hey, jagoff, stop being a lazy asshole and write something new, will you? There are only so many times I can torture myself with your prior mediocrities.”). (Being a writer is the best, I tell you. And I mean that sincerely—no matter offensively phrased, when someone wants to read more of your stuff, it’s a good feeling.)
So, I thought I’d provide a quick and probably unsatisfying update (stow it, peanut gallery, before you start cracking jokes about how my updates are like my lovemaking—being correct and being nice aren’t always the same thing, you know). When you’ve got a crazy-busy full-time gig and little ones, as many of you know, free time is at a premium, which makes the writing process a lot slower than I’d like it to be. And, even when stories have been written, the whole trying-to-get-a-book-deal thing means that they spend a lot of time circulating amongst agents who, I think, look at my work like I do asparagus at a dinner party: smile politely, shake your head, and say, “Wow, that looks great, but I really don’t like it when my pee smells.”
So, while I do have a new Heloise book written, it’s not yet ready to share with the general public, though maybe I’ll post a few pages at some point in the near future if enough people indicate that it’s likely that they will die if they’re unable to read it (I mean, the Hippocratic oath applies to writers, right?). I’m hard at work on a new story as well, and I’ll provide some updates on that when and if I think it’s going to stick. (No, it’s not the long-awaited Camelot Shadow sequel, but I promise that will happen down the road.)
“Well, that’s all well and good,” I hear the polite inquirers saying, “but what am I supposed to do in the meantime if I need to read something soporific on those nights I’m tossing and turning in bed?”
Were I a less well-mannered individual, I might suggest that you suck it; fortunately, I’m exceedingly courteous, so I will provide a few helpful suggestions.
If you’ve already worked your way through The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple, The Camelot Shadow, and The Strange Task Before Me: Being an Excerpt from the Journal of William J. Upton (and I hope that, if you’ve read and enjoyed The Camelot Shadow, you’ve checked out Strange Task—it sets up some things that will bear fruit in future sequels), you might want to check out the following reviews, which are basically short stories/scripts. I like to exercise the creative writing muscles on GR now and again, so keep your eyes peeled (but not literally, because gross) for similar output in the future.
A pilot script for "Doctor, Doctor," a sitcom starring Doctor Strange and Doctor Doom
A pilot script for "Days of our (Future) Lives," a teen dramedy starring the Uncanny X-Men
An account of my abduction by aliens who wanted me to explain human mating habits
If you’re still incredibly desperate for reading material, I’d also suggest digging through the archives of this blog, where you’ll find flights of wit, fancy, and wonder, mainly from the commenters who are taking shots at the material.
I am so incredibly grateful to all of you who have taken time to hang out with my stories and who continue to support me and show an interest in future work—I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: every writer, no matter what they say, writes to be read, and the reason I do that is because I’m so indebted to the many incredible writers who have made me think, laugh, cry, or just generally entertained me over the years. If I can do the same for someone somewhere along the way, then I’m a happy cat.
As Stan Lee famously said in Mallrats, “You keep reading ‘em, I’ll keep writing ‘em.”
July 20, 2018
Live outside the U.S. but want a FREE copy of Heloise and Grimple? You're not alone anymore...
Goodreads very awesomely makes it easy to do Kindle giveaways for my ones of readers (as opposed to thousands, or even tens) in the United States. Less readily available are easy Kindle giveaway options for my 3.4 readers outside of the U.S.
(3.4, you ask? Well, turns out there’s a dude in Denmark who kinda sorta might want to maybe eventually read something I wrote, but he’s pretty “meh” about the whole thing. Australians, conversely, have asked me to very kindly never bother them again. I’m a beloved icon in Antarctica, though.)
So, while we’re doing a Kindle giveaway for The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple in the U.S. through July 30 to celebrate my finishing the first draft of a new Heloise book (click here to enter if you’re in the U.S. and haven’t yet done so, you recalcitrant sinner!), I wanted to at least give folks elsewhere in the world a way to get some free goodies.
Let’s make this easy: if you’re not in the U.S. and you want to get a FREE copy of Heloise & Grimple, here’s what you need to do by the end of your day on July 30:
1) Add the book to your to-read list (like you haven’t already)
2) Share the link to this blog post on your GR update feed so other friends can join the fun
3) Post a comment below letting me know you’ve done those two things
Once you’ve done that, I’ll send you a message asking what format you prefer and what email to send to—it’s that simple!
(Not sure you want to take that plunge? Check out a preview of the shenanigans.)
Happy reading to all!
(3.4, you ask? Well, turns out there’s a dude in Denmark who kinda sorta might want to maybe eventually read something I wrote, but he’s pretty “meh” about the whole thing. Australians, conversely, have asked me to very kindly never bother them again. I’m a beloved icon in Antarctica, though.)
So, while we’re doing a Kindle giveaway for The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple in the U.S. through July 30 to celebrate my finishing the first draft of a new Heloise book (click here to enter if you’re in the U.S. and haven’t yet done so, you recalcitrant sinner!), I wanted to at least give folks elsewhere in the world a way to get some free goodies.
Let’s make this easy: if you’re not in the U.S. and you want to get a FREE copy of Heloise & Grimple, here’s what you need to do by the end of your day on July 30:
1) Add the book to your to-read list (like you haven’t already)
2) Share the link to this blog post on your GR update feed so other friends can join the fun
3) Post a comment below letting me know you’ve done those two things
Once you’ve done that, I’ll send you a message asking what format you prefer and what email to send to—it’s that simple!
(Not sure you want to take that plunge? Check out a preview of the shenanigans.)
Happy reading to all!
