Toad's Corner

Watcher's Web, Chapter 1 -- Patty Jansen

2011-07-31T00:42:00.000-07:00

Today Toad welcomes Patty Jansen to the House of Toad, who shares the first chapter of Watcher's Web with us today. Thank you Patty!

Wherever Jessica went, people watched her.

Like those two teenage boys leaning on the fence, akubra hats pulled down to shade their eyes. One of them dangled a cigarette in careless fingers, the other swigged beer from a stubby.

Neither was watching her now, but she hadn't missed their gawking, nor their low voices barely elevated over the noise of bellowing cattle, shouts and truck engines.

Wow! See that really tall one?

Bloody hell, yeah.

How'd you reckon she kisses a guy? On her knees?

They laughed, and when she came closer, faced the yard to watch the cattle as if they had said nothing.

Jessica walked past them to the gate, glaring at their straw-covered backs. Well, I bloody heard you. She was used to it, anyway.

It hadn't been the worst thing people said about her. They hadn't said the words ugly, or creepy, or freak, but she had become used to hearing those words, too.

They went into a little hard spot inside her where she scrunched up the hurt, forgot it, and remembered that she might look like a freak, but when she helped John Braithwaite and his mates from the Rivervale Stud Farm at a cattle show and Angus went into one of his fits, they still needed her to get him into the truck without spooking him. No one else could do that. No one knew how she did it, and no one should ever know. Because no one was crazy enough to get into a pen with a stroppy bull, right?

Well, we'll see about that.

She grasped the top of the gate with both hands, stepped onto the middle bar and swung her foot over. Jumped. Landed in sun-baked mud churned with cloven hoof prints, and cow pats.

At least when Angus looked at her, he didn't hide his dislike. A beady eye rolled, a gust of hay-scented air blew from his nostrils. He stiffened, all fifteen hundred-odd kilograms of Brahman bull-flesh of him. Then lowered his head, horns poised.

Someone yelled, 'Watch it!'

No, he wasn't going to charge. He'd charge at the boys, he'd even charge at his well-heeled owner, but never at her. Call her arrogant, but she knew that, and how she knew it would remain a secret, too, thank you very much.

She stopped a few paces inside the pen and crossed her arms over her chest. Well, bugger that. She had a bloody audience. About twenty people, mostly men, sitting on the fence, with cynical hey-look-at-this-mate expressions plastered on their faces.

Beef cattle farmers, their lackeys and other hangers-on, those clowns who had partied in the pavilion last night, those who owned the bulls that had occupied the pens next to Angus'. All their animals were already in the trucks, ready to be taken home from the Pymberton show. None of them with a 'best of show' ribbon, like Angus, and none with a diva mentality.

It looked like the boys had been trying to get Angus to move for a while. The gate on the opposite side of the pen was open, the ramp in place. Brendan held the door to the truck, ready to slam it. Everything about his expression said, rather you than me. The coward.

'Come on, Angus, in you go.'

Men sniggered, including the two teenage boys. The one with the cigarette flicked ash into the pen and said something about a whip.

Now who was more stupid? Them or the bull? You did not frighten such a prize animal if you could help it. He might bolt and injure himself. An unsightly gash would take him off the show circuit for months. Sheesh!

Jessica reached through the fence into the bucket she had dumped there. Her hand came away black and sticky with molasses. Angus loved it.

She inched closer, holding out her hand Come on, look me in the eye, if you dare.

Angus blew out another snort, as if he knew what was coming. Backed into the fence. Met her eyes.

Jessica exhaled. Her breath seeped from her in tendrils of sparkle-filled mist, which sought out Angus' fur and crept over his grey-mottled back, a bit like glitter-glue, but alive.

Jessica lunged for the rope that dangled from Angus' collar. She couldn't quite reach it, and while Angus backed further away from her, scraping along the fence, he planted his hoof on the end of the rope, squashing it neatly in a fresh pile of dung. Just her luck.

A bit closer.

She pulled the mist tighter around him, so his coat sparkled and glittered with lights. His outline became fuzzy. She didn't know what to call it, and had learned not to talk about it to anyone. It wasn't that she could communicate with him, but she could tell him what to do. Sort of. In a weird way she couldn't explain in words. The mist soaked up emotions, as far as bulls have emotions, and dampened them, and she could override them with her own. If it worked.

Her audience had stopped talking. Anyone who watched always did that, even though they couldn't see the mist and didn't realise it influenced them. That was just as well, because she was making an idiot of herself. Angus was being bloody stubborn, his head still lowered, trampling the rope further into the shit. Something must have spooked him badly. Maybe it was the yapping from the dog pavilion. Well, she and Angus seemed to have something in common--she didn't like lap dogs either.

But he was going to get into that bloody truck, preferably before she missed her flight back to Sydney. All kinds of hell would break loose if she wasn't at the school basketball team meeting that night.

Jessica focused on Angus' beady eye and let out another deep breath. More sparkling vapour flowed. Pinpricks of light soaked into Angus' mottled fur. Angus relaxed, stuck out his head to nuzzle her molasses-covered hand.

But then. . .

The threads solidified and the mist spun into tightly-coiled cords, which wove into a formation like a spider's web.

What the hell . . .?

She froze, staring at the writhing construction. It looked like someone had cast a living net over the bull, made of sparkling mist that yanked and stretched of its own volition, or . . . as if something pulled at the other end. There were shadows in a nebulous space over Angus' back, and male voices, just outside the edge of hearing. The web vibrated and strained.

A tug of war between herself and . . . Who was pulling the other end?

In her panic, she broke loose from the construction. The shadows at the other end of the web faded. The strands dissolved into mist once more.

A wet nose touched her palm and Angus' rasping tongue curled around her wrist. The molasses was clean licked-off, but he probably liked the salt of her sweat, because her arms glistened with it. She hoped no one noticed.

Her legs still trembling, Jessica pulled the rope and inched towards the gate. Angus followed her meekly, up the ramp, into the truck, where one of the boys was ready to tie him up.

The onlookers applauded.

Jessica leaned against the truck, forcing herself to grin at her audience.

'Can anyone give me a lift to the airport?'

* * * *

About the author:

Patty Jansen is a writer of primarily hard science fiction, space opera and daft fantasy. She is a winner in the Writers of the Future contest, and her story This Peaceful State of War has been published in their 27th anthology. Patty has also published stories in the Universe Annex of the Grantville Gazette and Redstone SF, and local anthologies and magazines, such as Dead Red Heart, Tales for Canterbury, and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine. Patty blogs at http://pattyjansen.wordpress.com/, about science, writing and about why elephants aren’t big enough. You can also sample some of Patty’s fiction at Smashwords (http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/pattyjansen ) or Amazon (http://www.amazon.com/Patty-Jansen/e/B004MKHXT0/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_pop_1 ).

Watcher’s Web is available on:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004YDN934

Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/56319

There are some reviews on goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/11253301-watcher-s-web

Meet Noor Jahangir

2011-07-24T10:42:00.000-07:00

Today I welcome an old friend of mine, Noor Jahangir, to share a little about his novel, The Changeling King, which was recently released. Welcome, Noor, and thank you for stopping by.

Give us a little background with regard to The Changeling King. What's the story about?

The story follows the intersecting adventures of six teenagers, spanning both time and space. The book starts with Vasch and his war-band of trolls arriving on Earth through a magical gateway. Vasch’s primary mission is to kill a boy called Adam Phelps, because of who the boy will become one day. The gateway was opened on the Earth side by a demon, but the backwash of the energy unleashed travels along the lay-lines and opens a second gateway about twenty miles away. The second gateway is buried beneath the mud at the bottom of a lake. Nathan Celic, his brother Logan and their girlfriends, Salina Phelps and Katrina Standbridge, are out swimming in the lake and get sucked through. They wake up to find themselves prisoners of an alien race called the Alvor, on a world called Eridani.

Salina’s kid brother, Adam, witnesses the whole event from the lakeshore. Karen Rainbow, the detective investigating the case doesn’t believe Adam’s version of events, but when a series of gruesome killings begin, she knows there is a connection between the kids disappearing and the murders. She takes Adam into protective custody and flees across the moors with Vasch and his warband in pursuit.

The sixth teenager is Sultan, a Mughal prince born several hundred years before Adam and the others. He has been trained in statecraft, martial arts and Sufi mysticism. His father’s small kingdom is caught between the machinations of the East India Company and the Mughal Emperor, Akbar. Sultan witnesses his father’s assassination and flees into the jungle. With the hunters closing in on him, he desperately turns to his mystic skills and accidentally transports himself across the cosmos and through time to Eridani; only to be captured by a troll.

Bringing all these story arcs together is the Trollking, a changeling child born amongst the alvor and abandoned in accordance with their traditions. The child is raised by trolls and quickly rises to dominate them, before betrayal sees him return to his place of birth in chains. The changeling discovers his heritage and escapes the city with the aid of a goblin shaman, only to return years later at the head of a horde of trolls and goblins. Now the changeling has reined over Northern Kryllon for a century. His demon allies have warned him that his death will come at the hands of a human child from Earth. So the Trollking sends his most trusted warrior, Vasch, to eliminate the threat. Tortured to the point of madness, Sultan languishes in the Trollking’s prison. And the only gateway back to Earth is the Trollking’s throne room.

Who are some of your literary influences and what aspects of their writing speak to you?

I think the earliest literary influence, indeed the one that first made me aspire to write was CS Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and Wardrobe, which obviously comes through in the whole crossover thing. But I doubt anyone can write in the fantasy genre without also being influenced by JRR Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. I like to think that I’ve read quiet widely in the fantasy genre and when I wrote the original draft of The Changeling King I was reading David Gemmell, Raymond E Fiest and David Eddings.

David Gemmell’s characterisation, his ability to make men with the quality of legend in them come across as flawed humans is something I wanted to emulate. I hope I’ve succeeded in making my characters think, speak and behave in a manner that real people in similar situations would, rather than a bunch of cardboard cut-outs or caricatures of real people. I also love Neil Gaiman’s and Orson Scott Card’s work. Reading their writing is like eating high quality chocolate truffles. I’ve also enjoyed reading George RR Martin, James Barclay, Brent Weeks , Scott Lynch and a few months ago began the Robert Jordan marathon, The Wheel of Time. Non-fantasy influences include Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which continues to influence me and Sidney Sheldon’s sharp sentences and break-neck pacing.

Who is your all-time favourite fantasy character and why does he/she appeal to you?

I’ve got a few favourites, but it’s a throw up between Aragorn from LOTR and Tenaka Khan from David Gemmell’s The King Beyond the Gate. Both of them are lethal with a sword in their hands, but have an inherent nobility and strength of character. Both are also quite tragic figures. The former because he is the heir to a lost legacy and in love with a woman doomed to outlive him, and the latter, because he is caught between two cultures and is forced to choose one over the other. Other favourite characters include Lady Mara of the Acoma from Raymond Feist’s and Janny Wurt’s Empire books, Durzo Blint from Brent Week’s Nightangel trilogy and David Gemmell’s Druss the Legend.

What are some of themes prevalent in The Changeling King?

There are two major themes laced through the whole book. The first is the familiar seen as the other, by viewing our world through Vasch’s eyes, and the other made familiar, through Nathan and the others adjusting to Eridani. The second theme is the longing for home. I wrote the first draft whilst I was at an Islamic boarding school, constantly homesick, and since the age of 11 have never really returned to live at my parent’s home again. I guess that’s why all my characters are homesick too. Vasch wants to go back to Eridani; Sultan wants to go back to Azamabad; Nathan, Logan, Salina and Katrina want to go back to Earth; Adam wants to go back to his mum; and even the Trollking has made his city of birth his capital. There are other themes too, like the absent father and mysticism, that readers will have to figure out for themselves.

Which character in The Changeling King is closest to your heart, and why?

Argh! That’s like asking me which of my kids I love the most! I like most of them, but if I have to choose . . . When I started writing The Changeling King originally, it was Nathan, because he most embodied me at that age. But now, it’s a throw-up between Vasch, because despite being a bit of a monster, he’s a good guy trying to make sense of the world, and Sultan, because he has a sense of duty that forces him to do the right thing, even if he wants to do the opposite.

Essentially, they both have a lot to learn about life and hopefully, over the next few books in the Trollking Saga, they will work it out enough to be happy with who they are.

How did you pull together the ideas for the novel? Was it a gradual realisation for the story or a sudden burst of creative inspiration that *this* was the story you were going to tell?

It started with one idea, with Nathan, Logan, Salina and Katrina playing a game that malfunctions and sends them to Eridani (Tron anyone?). Luckily, several rewrites of the book have created a more unique event to get them to the other world. The rest of the story came through unplanned and unstructured, like a fever that I had to get out of my head by writing my fingers raw. But then a decade of re-imagining and learning my craft has refined and built the story up to what it is today.

Some of the story arcs and characters, e.g. Karen, Sultan and Vasch, were born in the later rewrites. Even the Trollking’s back-story was a late edition. As for whether this was the book I ‘had’ to write, well, my brother’s recently commented that now that I had that gorilla off my back, I could start writing something decent.

Now that The Changeling King is complete and available, do you have anything else in the pipelines? And can you share a little about the story?

I have a few projects running simultaneously, including a non-fantasy YA series and a grown-up fantasy novel. But the most relevant one I suppose is the sequel to The Changeling King, currently titled The Renegade Prince. It’s difficult to say much without ruining the ending of The Changeling King. What I can say is that whilst the original was based predominately on Kryllon, the second book will explore the world of Eridani a lot more. There will be two strong female point-of-view characters and the Earth-side story will also continue. A host of new characters will be joining the cast and the main villain will be the son of the Trollking.

Where can people buy your books or follow your updates?

The Changeling King is available to purchase from the Kindle store and from Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/66828. The book is currently available at a discounted rate through the Smashwords Summer/Winter sale. You can also download two other short ebooks for free; Trial by Fire and The Dvargar of Amundborg. You can ‘Like’ me on my Facebook page http://www.facebook.com/pages/Noor-A-Jahangir, my author’s page on Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4951592.Noor_A_Jahangir, follow me on Twitter @noorjahangir, or follow my blog at http://noorajahangir.wordpress.com and visit my website http://www.trollking.co.uk.

Review: The Caretakers

2011-07-17T02:17:00.000-07:00

Title: The Caretakers

Author: Adrian Chamberlin

Publisher: Dark Continents Publishing

Buy link: http://darkcontinents.com/2011/04/28/the-caretakers/ (paperback)

http://www.amazon.com/The-Caretakers-ebook/dp/B004XTX01A/ref=sr_1_1_title_1_ke?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1309682671&sr=1-1 (Kindle edition)

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/the-caretakers-adrian-chamberlin/1031019015# (Barnes and Noble)

Blurb: Hear the screams. Feel the pain. Face the evil.

As a Cambridge College celebrates a midwinter feast, four uninvited strangers uncover a devastating secret. A secret that must never be revealed… for the love of humanity.

Andy Hughes: a man with a dark past and an even darker future. His search for a missing student will lead him to a confrontation with an evil beyond human imagining…

Rob Benson: a van driver who discovers a dead wild boar in the back of his Transit. A boar that just won’t stay dead…

Jennifer Callaby: Andy’s estranged girlfriend, who discovers the shocking truth of The Caretakers — and the sacred task that they perform…

Jason Franklin: a prisoner who holds the key to the fates of them all, and who may well be their only salvation — if he doesn’t destroy them first…

A disturbing thriller that questions the nature of evil and the price to be paid for the continued survival of the human race – a price that, for some, is too great to pay…

The Caretakers… a Master’s Degree in terror.

Review: The Caretakers plunges readers into a visceral world of horror situated in the fictional college of All Souls in Cambridge. Adrian Chamberlin knows his stuff with regard offering a well-realised setting. Those who’ve read his short story, The Bodymen, in Dark Continents’ The Spectrum Collection, will pick up on certain themes involving delivery truck drivers, forklifts and dead beasts. But any more said on that and it will ruin the nasty surprise. The Caretakers offers a Cambridge you’ve never seen before and, thankfully, never will. All Souls College is suitably gloomy, with a dark history hidden behind the clunch stone walls.

Overall, Chamberlin’s prose is tight, highly descriptive and fast-paced. There were times when I felt he could have gone for a tighter third-person point of view, when viewpoint characters withheld key information as a method to build tension, but the fast pace and incipient sense of horror carried the story through. If gore isn’t your thing, watch out for the finger- and eye-violence. Chamberlin delights in a bit of well-aimed splatter, which had me wriggling in horrified delight.

The main characters, Andy and Rob, are fully developed and, although not likeable, at least admirable. Both go through hell, in some cases almost literally, in an attempt to overcome the evil they have inadvertently been tangled in. At times I felt Chamberlin could have cut back a little on the amount of secondary viewpoint characters he employed, but overall he’s handled the large support cast well with a high degree of authenticity in such a way that you can’t help but engage with them.

The Caretakers combines Lovecraftian themes with the Green Man myth in a reversal of female energies being active/destructive and male energies passive/fertile. The cosmic entity Andraste, is suitably frightening, especially with how she demands that her victims “sing” for her in a novel form of torture that will stay with me for a long, long while. Themes of death/rebirth abound, often in rather grisly situations.

As with all the offerings I’ve encountered from Dark Continents Publishing, The Caretakers is a return to horror in the classic sense. If you’re looking for a gritty, bloody and thought-provoking horror offering then this title will remain in your mind long after you’ve turned the last page. This is a strong first offering for a novel-length work and it can only get more dark and terrifying from here.

Bloody Parchment horror anthology

2011-07-10T02:37:00.000-07:00

We interrupt the usual Toad's Corner schedule with news hot off the virtual press about the SA HorrorFest Bloody Parchment anthology volume one, which was released this past week. This marks the fruits of the first short story competition hosted by the SA HorrorFest in conjunction with its literary component, Bloody Parchment, which began life as a horror reading event each year at the Book Lounge in Cape Town.

While many of the contributors to the anthology are South African, the competition is open to any writer of horror fiction around the world, the winner receiving free edits for his or her novel- or novella-length work. A selection of the top stories will appear in the next anthology, when it is released.

Download your free copy of Bloody Parchment, volume one here.

If you are a writer of short horror fiction (entries open to stories of up to 3 500 words, as well as flash and drabbles), you are welcome to check out our submission guidelines. The closing date is October 31, 2011, so you have ample time to get cracking with those scary tales.

Feel free to mail me at nerinedorman (at) gmail (dot) com if you have any queries.

Daniel Rambin, vampire sidekick

2011-07-03T00:52:00.000-07:00

Today I welcome Sonya Clark to Toad's Corner. She's blogging about one of her characters in the ass-kicking urban fantasy novel, Mojo Queen. Welcome Sonya, and thank you for taking some time out to chat with us.

Early on in the writing of Mojo Queen I knew main character Roxie Mathis needed a best friend. In a moment of mad whimsy a thought occurred to me: vampire sidekick. Gasp! you say, and what kind of sacrilege is this?! Who makes a vampire the sidekick instead of the hero?

Someone fed up with all the brooding, romantic, jailbait-obsessed, oh-so-serious vamps filling up paranormal fiction, that’s who.

Thus was born Daniel Rambin. Although he does hit a few of the standard vamp qualifiers – he’s hot, he’s sexy, he’s dead – he’s not quite a typical vampire either.

The sensibility and world I was creating with Mojo Queen didn’t call for vampire politics or any of the usual types of bloodsucking plots, especially since Daniel is a sidekick. He enjoys tagging along with Roxie on her paranormal investigations, and occasionally he likes to blog about the jobs. He is a beverage connoisseur as might be expected but he’s also a foodie, even though he can’t eat. He likes to take Roxie out to eat and he’s inordinately fond of the Food Network.

Almost right away I realized I had an issue that needed to be dealt with: I had to get rid of any possibility of a romantic relationship between Daniel and Roxie. Roxie would get a love interest, sure, but I didn’t want it to be her best friend and I didn’t want to go down the well-trod path of the love triangle. The perfect solution presented itself. Daniel would be Roxie’s ancestor and they would tell people they were cousins.

Since Daniel was the sidekick he had to have some wacky character traits, the best one of all being his love for belting out classic country songs at the top of his off-key voice. Blame that one on too many over-heated montages set to twee emo or Hot Topic goth, with the vampire walking through the night all brooding and, um, brooding. My vision of Daniel included him singing Conway Twitty in a karaoke bar, flashing a smile at Roxie that bared just a hint of fang. Most of all I wanted Daniel to be a fun character, not like a lot of other vampires.

But he is still a vampire. There came a point in Mojo Queen when I knew that needed to be shown and it chilled me to write the scene. Suddenly I began to see Daniel in a new light. I stopped thinking of him as a wacky sidekick, a character I made up just for a laugh. The more I thought about him the more I wondered about that seemingly goofy choice to make him a fan of classic country. I strongly associate country music with family.

Roxie’s “living” family want nothing to do with her so Daniel is all she’s got. Family are supposed to be the people you can trust the most, and Daniel is that to her. But he – like family – is also the one who could hurt her the worst. There’s a lot of cheese in classic country, but when you look below the surface there’s a lot of darkness too. A lot of murder ballads hidden under the beer soaked cheatin’ songs. Without even trying, I had found the perfect music to correspond to Daniel.

That darkness is part of what brings Roxie and Daniel together. They share a deep bond in their love of the night, the ease they both feel in the spirit-filled dark. Daniel doesn’t have to hide his fangs and Roxie doesn’t have to hide the fact that she can see auras and spectral energy. They are open with each other but Daniel still hasn’t told Roxie everything about his past. Sometimes when he grabs hold of my imagination and whispers possibilities to me, I think about Daniel’s history. His life as a man, his transition to vampire, and what led him to seek out any descendents. Daniel may not be the protagonist or the love interest of Mojo Queen but he is deeply important to Roxie. As I’ve explored his character more he’s become deeply important to me, too. He’s one of my favorite characters I’ve created so far.

Oh, one more thing to tell you about Daniel: Roxie calls him “bubba.” But she is the only one allowed to do that. Anybody else tries it and they might get to see his fangs - without a smile.

Mojo Queen is available from Lyrical Press. Learn more about the author at www.sonyaclark.net (including free reads featuring Roxie and Daniel.)

Link love: Newgate Jig by DJ Cockburn

2011-06-26T02:05:00.000-07:00

Today I'm giving a bit of link love to one of my favourite short story authors, DJ Cockburn, whose Newgate Jig I read a while back. But in general, Lacuna, the online journal of historical fiction, is all-round a great place for quality literature.

Cockburn's Newgate Jig is another installment following the exploits of his daring sword master, Le Méridien, and a very visceral vision of the London of the past. In my mind I've encountered few authors who are able to give their historical fiction such a ring of authenticity. Hats off to Cockburn. In my mind he's one of the best and I know I'm always in for an adventure of sorts when he's at the helm.

So, without further ado, here's the link: http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2011/04/newgate-jig.html

* * * *

Toad is constantly on the look-out for fresh authors to feature on her page. If you write fantasy, science fiction or horror, please drop Toad's PA a mail at nerinedorman@gmail.com and remember to put "Toad's Corner" in the subject line.

Excerpt: Still Life by DC Petterson

2011-06-19T05:35:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

A Plea

From: DYLAN@uchi.edu

Date: Wednesday, Sept 28 08:00:00.0000 AM

To: conner@chicagopolice.gov

Subject: MY MURDER!

Dear Detective Conner,

Someone is trying to kill me! I’m scared, and I’m getting desperate. I’m in the philosophy department at the University of Chicago. Someone in the administration says I’m not worth my upkeep. Please, Detective Conner, I beg you to take this seriously. I need your help. Talk to Nohl Dhen, a graduate student in psychology. She can explain everything. There isn’t much time, and I’m very afraid. Please hurry!

- Dylan

Chapter Two

A Hoax?

Maxwell Conner didn’t let himself fidget as he waited for the professor to read the printed email for the third time. The man looked to have maybe twice Max’s twenty-nine years, and probably an extra hundred pounds, though he stood at least a full head shorter than Max’s own muscular six foot three. Still, he had an air of imposing presence, which he used at the moment simply to make Max wait.

At least it gave Max a chance to study him. It was, after all, Max’s job to be observant. Frank Glade gave the impression of being a comfortable man, one who certainly liked his pleasures—which, from the look of it, ran mostly to an excess of his favorite foods. Even so, his pressed suit contrasted with Max’s rumpled one, his Spartan and uncluttered desk indicated a man of some fastidiousness. The professor’s hair showed quite a lot of gray sprinkled among the remaining strands of deep brown.

I’ll age much more respectably, Max promised himself. His thoughts wandered to his own dad, about Glade’s age, whose hair still was a deep red. Max had inherited the hair color; he’d be unlikely to gray like Glade, and his job as a police detective would be sure to help keep him in far better shape. Much more respectably.

The professor finally looked up and harrumphed. Max guessed Glade had decided the words on the page weren’t likely to differ upon the fourth or fifth reading.

Glade tossed the paper onto his desk. “Detective Conner,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re the victim of a practical joke.”

“My lieutenant had the same reaction,” Max acknowledged. “But you understand, we had to check it out. Parents don’t like hearing their kids are being threatened by the college faculty.”

Professor Glade leaned forward, motioned Max to bend close as if about to reveal a secret, and tapped the printed email with his forefinger. “It says ‘the administration,’ not ‘the faculty,’” Glade said. “Probably meant ‘the board.’ Damn bureaucrats are murder on us all.” And he laughed in a mirthless sort of way, a laugh that struck Max as rather uncaring, given the circumstances.

Max raised his eyebrows and did his best to be patient. “I’m afraid I still don’t get the joke.”

“Of course you don’t,” Glade snorted, and it seemed that his odd laugh tried to break out again.

“Of course not!” He stabbed his finger once more at the email hardcopy. “Nohl Dhen is one of my grad students. She’s got a project with a few of her friends from other departments. I just heard their grant money is running out, and won’t be renewed next quarter. They must have gotten wind, and thought they could make some kind of point.” He shook his head, still smiling, and heaved himself out of his chair. He trundled around the desk. “Come with me, Detective. I’ll introduce you to her.”

They walked down the hall and found a classroom on the far end. Glade opened the door, and Max heard a young voice, a woman’s voice. It reminded Max somehow of his childhood—a breath of moonlight on a misty evening in the woods—an image quite out of keeping with the technological jargon the voice recited. “Decision-Yielding Large-scale Autonomous Network,” she said. “DYLAN. My team and I designed and built him—”

“Detective,” Glade interrupted. “This is Nohl Dhen. Miss Dhen, you’ll have to start back at the beginning.”

The young woman looked up at them, and Max’s awareness suddenly held nothing but her eyes. Those eyes drank up the fluorescent light, yet seemed to have a deep glow of their own, black and smoldering coals nestled above Himalayan cheekbones. He’d seen eyes like that before, somewhere, but the memory eluded him, ran from him as he reached for it. Lost for a moment, his breath caught, his throat constricted. He finally blinked and the spell passed.

A youthful face of darkened bronze framed those eyes, a small nose above heart-shaped lips, the whole surrounded by a fall of hair like shimmering silk. She wore an oversized Cubs sweatshirt and a pair of baggy blue jeans. She had to be in her mid twenties, twenty-five Max guessed, maybe a couple years older. Her feet dangled far from the floor, and she swung them back and forth in a way that reminded him of the innocent energy of a child, holding a vibrant enthusiasm.

She couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, on tiptoes.

Max guessed her clearly Asian features put her ancestry in Vietnam, or maybe Cambodia, as her name also suggested. Nohl Dhen. But something else lay hidden in the deep shade of her skin, and her dark, fascinating eyes…

Max had to force himself to look somewhere else. This is a potential suspect in a hoax, he thought, not a prospect for a date. He hoped his stare, if anyone noticed it, would be interpreted as no more than necessary professional interest. He pulled out of the moment, his tunneled awareness opening to his surroundings.

They stood in a classroom that had been given over to Miss Dhen’s project. And she wasn’t the only one in the room. On a chair in front of Nohl sat a blonde woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a conservative and rather expensive-looking dark tailored suit. Her almost mathematically perfect hairstyle and makeup presented the mask of a professional, or an executive, precise and tasteful without being flashy. Someone who uses her femininity to put people off their guard, Max thought, while not being obvious about it.

The older woman held a small electronic recorder. As Glade spoke, she quickly shut it off and turned to face him.

“Professor,” Nohl said in greeting, and yes, there again was the breath of moonlight Max had heard, “I was just explaining to Miss Aronsen—”

“Lynn Aronsen,” the blonde woman broke in, “of Justin, Blake, and Tortel.” She held out her hand without standing up. Her voice held unusually deep undertones for a woman’s. She spoke crisply and efficiently. “And the two of you are...?”

Glade covered annoyance with his seemingly usual laugh. “Professor Frank Glade. This is Detective Max Conner, of the Chicago Police.” Glade stepped forward, briefly took Lynn’s hand, and then dropped it unceremoniously. “Nohl, is this a lawyer?” he asked.

“I guess,” Nohl began.

“I am,” Lynn clarified.

Max raised his eyebrows. “Does someone here need one?”

“That’s what I was about to discover,” Lynn answered.

Max took the proffered hand she lifted toward him. Her grip, he noted, was strong and firm—no retiring female, this one.

“I was asked to be present as counsel,” Lynn went on, and she looked at Nohl, “but I’m not quite certain by whom.” She turned back toward the others. “Won’t you be seated?” she invited them.

Glade gave his nervous laugh again. He clearly wasn’t used to someone else taking charge. For his part, Max was willing to play along in order to learn the lawyer’s angle. He glanced at his surroundings as he pulled up two more chairs, suddenly aware his earlier fixation on Nohl had distracted him from making needed observations.

Tables surrounded the room, the whiteboards on the walls behind them covered in diagrams and symbols he didn’t understand. The tables supported perhaps a dozen computer monitors and keyboards, with at least as many PCs and laptops sprinkled among them. In one corner stood a large cabinet with glass doors through which Max could see row upon row of electronics, circuit boards, and wiring. Various other devices crowded every surface, items he couldn’t identify, and everything seemed to be connected to everything else by a tangled web of cables.

He noted other, unrelated detritus amid the chaos: the inevitable college-standard pizza boxes and half-full cartons of pop littered the corners, an incongruous department-store mannequin of a boy about ten sat on a table behind him, a chess set and another board game with a myriad of little round pieces occupied a far corner, a deck of playing cards scattered randomly around one monitor. Max smiled to himself. Geeks and their toys, he thought. What else would I expect on a college campus?

“I don’t know what your little stunt was supposed to prove,” Glade said, waving the printout of Max’s email at Nohl.

If he can’t get control of what’s going on, Max thought, at least he’ll intimidate his grad student.

Nohl looked confused for a moment, but her eyes grew more focused and sure. She turned to Max. “You got one, too? An email, I mean. That’s why Ms. Aronsen’s here—”

“I’ll take a look at that,” Lynn said, and snatched the paper from the professor’s hand before anyone could react.

Max made his voice as calm as he could. “College students like pranks,” he said to Nohl, and he eased himself into one of the chairs. “But falsely reporting a crime is against the law. You could be fined, or worse—”

Nohl blinked, and scowled. “I didn’t send those emails to you and Ms. Aronsen,” she rushed. “I don’t even know what’s in them.”

“There’s no crime reported here,” Lynn noted, flicking a painted fingernail against the paper.

Her voice sounded cool and efficient, emotionless and unflinching. “If it had claimed someone had already been harmed, yes, but it doesn’t say that.”

“No,” Max returned, a little taken aback, “but even threatening murder is a crime. This email does imply such a threat has been made.”

Nohl’s eyes widened. But before she could speak, the lawyer did, shaking her head. “Does it imply that? Tell me, do you know who is supposedly being threatened? Is it—well, who?” Lynn’s tone held an intimation of hidden knowledge.

“Whoever this Dylan is,” Max answered, confused. “And it says Miss Dhen here knows about it.”

“I didn’t send the emails,” Nohl repeated, louder. Annoyance crept into her voice, or perhaps a little fear. She reached for the paper, but the lawyer held up her hand, motioning Nohl to wait.

“Someone sent them,” Professor Glade countered. “This project was your idea, Miss Dhen. Everyone knows that.”

“Nohl,” Lynn said, and she patted the student on her knee to calm her. “You’d better tell the detective about Dylan. Don’t say anything more, but tell him who—I mean what—” For an instant, a flash of confusion seemed to line the lawyer’s face. “No, I really do mean who—who Dylan is.”

Max leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. The lengths to which the lawyer went to seem cool and efficient and precise meant her struggle with words must have been intentional. Lawyers, Max knew, had to be good actors. “You have my attention, Miss Dhen. Who is Dylan?”

Nohl took a deep breath. She looked directly at Detective Conner. But then her gaze shifted, focusing past him, over his shoulder. “Dylan,” she said, speaking very deliberately, “say hello.”

“Good afternoon, everyone,” said a voice from somewhere behind.

Max twisted around. He knew no one else had joined them. He would have heard footsteps. And he saw no one else when he turned, only that strange little department-store mannequin he’d noted before. It was the size and appearance of a ten-year-old boy, dressed in a young boy’s jeans and a flannel shirt, with a face of impassive and immobile plaster.

Still motionless, the mannequin spoke again, in a youthful voice gushing with excitement. A speaker must have been mounted somewhere within it. “I’m really happy to meet you, Detective Conner!”

* * * *

Buy Still Life here: http://lillibridgepress.com/book/DCPetterson/Still_Life (including the cool video trailer) and the Amazon page is here: http://www.amazon.com/Still-Life-ebook/dp/B003ZYFCZ6/ref=pd_rhf_p_t_2

DC Petterson has been writing since he was six; science fiction, fantasy, songs, poetry, historical and philosophical essays, and the occasional email. He lives near Minneapolis with his wife, a dog, and a lizard. He has two kids, two grandkids, and a late-model Kia. He enjoys video games, expensive cigars, and single-malt scotch. He works as a software consultant (which has nothing to do with his novel, Still Life), plays guitar and piano, and hasn't the first clue how to write a short bio.

Tea with TC Southwell

2011-06-12T11:21:00.000-07:00

I've known TC Southwell for years. I've beta-read for her in the past, and we've enjoyed many conversations about the publishing industry. Based in South Africa, TC has amassed a fantastic body of work and I am pleased and honoured to have her on Toad's Corner today.

Tell us a little about the stories you write.

I write pretty much exclusively in the science-fiction and fantasy genres, specifically epic or high fantasy set in worlds of my own making. I have one crossover series, The Cyber Chronicles, which combines fantasy and sci-fi. It starts off more fantasy and then becomes almost totally sci-fi from book four, Cyborg. The Queen’s Blade series is pure high fantasy, although it doesn’t rely much on magic. The Broken World and Demon Lord series are also high fantasy, but with a fair amount of magic, and the Slave Empire series is pure sci-fi. My stories are all intensely character driven, and I love all my heroes and heroines, which is why I enjoy writing about them so much.

Which one of your characters are your all-time favourite and why?

That would have to be Blade, my oh so sarcastic and troubled assassin, who captured my heart long ago with his biting wit and underhand good deeds that no one will ever make him admit to. He’s just so complicated and twisted; a complete sociopath with a secret heart of gold.

What are some of the recurring themes prevalent in your stories?

I think my most obvious recurring theme is the element of romance in my stories, which all have a strong hero and heroine who go through the mill to overcome the odds stacked against them and find happiness together. Another common theme is my heroes are usually troubled individuals with horrific pasts, but that’s what makes them so interesting, I find.

How do you approach novel-writing?

The best way I can describe it is ‘channelling’, which is what my agent called it when I told her how I do it. For me, it’s utterly effortless. I simply write the story that pops into my head, and the only thing that slows me down is how fast I can type. If I try to change something, I hit a block, and I have to go back to the point where I made a conscious decision to stray from the story in my head and follow the original track. When I write, I have absolutely no idea what’s going to happen in the next paragraph or even the next sentence sometimes, so for me writing is just as much fun as reading.

You initially released Demon Lord in print in South Africa, this was before the rise in popularity of ereaders and epublishing. How has this shift in emphasis in publishing affected you?

It has given me access to the international market without having to deal with publishers and editors, so my books remain as I wrote them, which is a bonus for me. It means my market is smaller, and I have to do my own marketing, but at the same time I’m able to offer my books at low prices and some for free, since only my e-publisher takes a small cut. I plan to make use of POD (Print on Demand) publishing next, as I have had requests for paperback versions of the books.

Do you have any advice for wannabe authors?

I would recommend they also take the e-publishing route if they have trouble finding an agent or publisher, as this does not preclude them from finding a paperback publisher once they’ve made a name for themselves with e-books, so it can only be beneficial. Other than that, I would advise them to write stories they love, because then other people will love them too. When you’re passionate about something, it shines through.

Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

Stephen Donaldson, C S Lewis and Anne McCaffrey are some of my favourites, although I have read numerous wonderful books whose authors’ names I don’t recall. I think these authors appeal to me because their stories are character driven and have the ability to transport me to a fantasy land for a grand adventure. Of course, I was young when I read CS Lewis’ books – he introduced me to fantasy, and it left a lasting impression.

Do you have any works in progress readers can look forward to?

I will soon be publishing the next six books in The Cyber Chronicles series, which I’m currently editing. These are Book IV, Cyborg, Book V, Overlord, Book VI, Warrior Breed, Book VII, Sabre, Book VIII, Scorpion Lord, and Book IX, Precipice. I want to complete all of them so I can publish them in one go and people can buy the entire series, or the rest of it, if they want. After that I’ll finish writing the seventh book in the Demon Lord series. Then I’ll have to decide which series I want to write another book in next, as they are all on-going – I’m not good at final endings!

Where can people find your books, follow your blog or Twitter feed?

All my books are available on my site http://www.tcsouthwellbooks.com/ with links where people can buy and download the ones that have been published, and also see all the upcoming titles, with their covers, that will be published in the near future. I also have a blog dedicated to the Demon Lord series http://demon-lord-book.blogspot.com/, and I’m on Facebook, too, http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=57950568448 . Nothing on Twitter yet, but that’s something I need to look into when I have a bit of time.

Book review: The Left Hand

2011-05-29T02:00:00.000-07:00

Title: The Left Hand

Author: Serenity J Banks

Publisher: Dark Continents Publishing, 2011

Buy link: http://darkcontinents.com/2010/11/15/left-hand/

Blurb: Meet Eddie Kane: ex-cokehead and current, clueless sidekick to the enigmatic Calif Cryste, badass vampire hunter extraordinaire—and unforthcoming warrior of God. In the midst of a two-man crusade to put a kibosh on the vampire populations currently besieging the tribal lands of the Midwest, Eddie can’t help but notice that the string of death and destruction in their wake has begun to draw a certain, uncomfortable amount of attention from the local media. Enter obsessed FBI Special Agent Doug Degulchi, suspended from the agency over his proofless conviction that these two are “the guys,” and Eddie finds himself an unwilling player in an over-arching drama as Calif’s own misguided sort of apostles begin to fall into place. Meanwhile, the vampire hordes race to multiply their ranks in anticipation of a coming battle even Calif cannot (or will not) predict, and Eddie hasn’t even had a chance to face his own demons yet. Whether or not Eddie’s prepared to accept the truth, though, the second-born is here to wage war… on his own, if he has to.

Review: This novel is so much more than just a badass vampire hunter with a clueless sidekick playing Robin to his Batman. Serenity J Banks plunges readers into a dystopian vision of the American Midwest that left me feeling scratchy behind the eyes by the time I’d finished reading.

Eddie starts out as a weak character who chain-smokes his way through the story. Not only does he have an addictive personality, but he has demons from his dysfunctional upbringing he needs to process before he can take on the undead demons he and his partner hunt. While he may seem passive at first, he slowly grows into himself as he makes sense, in his own way, of the horror that surrounds him and Calif. He is very much an unreliable narrator, and therein lies the beauty of following the tale from his perspective.

Calif is the mystery man, the hero with a purpose who shows rather than tells Eddie what their quest is all about. All I can say, without revealing spoilers, is that all will be revealed, and there is a very poignant raison d’etre for Calif. Though his silence is maddening, readers will later come to and see why exactly. All I can say is that the story is so much stronger for Banks having resisted the temptation of making the man a viewpoint character.

Delgulchi, the hapless FBI agent, follows in the wake of the vampire-busting pair, whose very existence spell the end of his career. His obsession with discovering the truth drives him to the brink of madness.

But Banks returns the undead to the realm of horror, which is a refreshing change in perspective after all the glitter we've experienced in the media. There's nothing sexy about the vampires readers encounter in this story. They're mean, hungry and are more apt to rip your throat out than pause to share pleasantries. Her vampires are frightening and overwhelming.

Threaded through this tale is an alternative viewpoint on the Christian mythos that is not mired in the tired Hollywood ideals of light and dark. Our heroes are tattered, tired and face overwhelming odds.. Mankind is doomed, and its savior is not here at the behest of their redemption. From a broader perspective this appears to be a development of the vampire mythos, but I sense it’s far more than that. Eddie, as the narrator, tries to explain but the only terminology he has available, is based on a Western viewpoint. We view this tale through his subjectivity and I gain the idea that a different character would have applied a totally different explanation to the tale.

In closing, I'll say this much. The Left Hand is not an easy read. But it's definitely one of the most thought-provoking stories I've read all year and I recommend it to readers who like substance, grit and despair in their reading matter. Serenity J Banks is a masterful storyteller and I'll be keeping my eye on her from here on in.

Short story: Scarlet Night by Ashley M Christman

2011-05-22T04:23:00.000-07:00

Ashley M Christman is an urban fantasy writer whose book, The Witching Hour, is available from Lyrical Press. To contact her, visit her website http://ashleymchristman.webs.com.

Today Toad shares Ashley's short story, Scarlet Night.

* * * *

The decadence of the 1920s and its jazz scene had always appealed to me more than the bleak and dreary Victorian or Edwardian ages. The booze, the jazz bands, the brightly lit nightclubs—oh, how I adored them. And no matter how many times I had seen the dabber men in their pressed tuxedos, I never got enough of them. I devoured them, consumed them and sometimes women, but it was the men I adored most of all. The alcohol that filled their blood and the way their hearts seem to beat faster in their chest, pumping more of their elixir throughout their bodies as they grew aroused; that was what I loved.

Tonight was no different. As I made my way across the room, drinking a very expensive champagne, I was on the prowl. Observing every nuance, every subtle twitch of the lips, the gestures of the hands—I knew what I was looking for. And I found him, standing in a corner near the black lacquered piano with a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Even from across the room, I was able to lock on to his scent; the smell of sweat just starting to surface from his pores in the heat of the summer night. As my body slid from the bar stool and slinked through the crowd towards my target, a sense of silent satisfaction washed over me, warming me from the inside. My hand instinctively reached towards him, extending itself, giving him a clear glimpse of crimson painted nails that matched my lipstick. “Do you have a spare?” I asked coolly, with a glint of mischief in my eyes. Everything about this singular moment oozed seduction and sex.

Cole Porters’ “Let’s Misbehave”, began to play as the orchestra leader took his place in front of the gold plated microphone. The parquet flooring of the dance floor was filled with young inebriated couples dancing the Black Bottom to the upbeat melody.

“Spare,” the youth replied with a lithe in his voice, making his statement an obvious question. I pointed to the cigarette hanging from betwixt his fingers. He nodded and stammered, “Oh, terribly sorry. I didn’t realize. I have another, yes.” He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and produced a gold cigarette case. He flipped the clasp open on it and selected a neatly rolled white cigarette.

Reaching into the decadent sparkling clutch that matched my white dress, I produced a fourteen inch cabriole cigarette holder with a rhinestone tip. The young man placed the cigarette in the end of my cabriole and lit it with a match. I took a long drag of it and then exhaled the smoke, making little o’s.

He watched me as I did this, slowly licking his lips. “I’m Edward,” he said in a distinctly British accent. He sounded well educated and upper crust. It was an accent that one would associate with the royal family. He was obviously either very rich or a blue blood, possibly both.

“Do you have a last name Edward?” I questioned with a smirk.

“Cromwell,” he answered returning my smirk with one of his own. It was in that single look from him, that I knew that he was nowhere near as innocent as he appeared. He was a cad, a delicious cad. “What’s your name?”

“Lucy.”

“Do you have a last name, Lucy?”

“Just Lucy for now,” my smirk turned into a grin.

He finished the last of his scotch and set the crystal glass on the tray of a passing waiter. I continued to smoke my cigarette, enjoying the atmosphere and the music. “Do you happen to like long moonlit walks just Lucy?” He grinned at his joke and then took the a puff from his cigarette.

I let out a small chuckle and put out my cigarette in a nearby ashtray. Wrapping my arm around his, I let him escort me out of the club and onto the balmy Parisian streets. Every so often a car would pass or a couple speaking French would walk by. “So tell me something about yourself,” he asked as we stopped in front of the Tiffany’s shop window. The display was a series lamps on one side and signature Tiffany diamonds and silver on the other.

“What do you want to know.” I turned to him, my eyes catching his. Both of ours smoldering like embers fresh from the fire.

“How about your last name to begin with?”

“What is the incessant wish to know my full name?” I replied.

He shrugged, “I’d like to know the name of the woman who has bewitched me.”

Of one thing I was absolutely sure, he was charming. He had managed to successfully combine the naivety of youth and the charming subtle seductions of a man with more worldly knowledge into one complete persona. If he were good in bed, I wouldn’t kill him.

“It’s Kincaid,” I answered stealing the name from a tag that I had managed to glimpse on the inside of his jacket. “Miss Kincaid.” I emphasized the fact that I was single.

He smiled once more and then leaned in to kiss my lips. I kissed him back with a fervent passion that was inappropriate for a sidewalk on the Champs-Elysee. Breaking away from the kiss, I whispered, “My flat is not far from here.”

He smiled and nodded as I pulled him further down the boulevard to a large apartment building with a doorman on the outside. I winked at the doorman as he held the door open and led Edward through the empty lavish lobby to the elevator. The poor guy was either about to meet his maker or be given the opportunity to play for a very long time.

There was a flurry of hands and a sense of urgency as we disrobed. Our clothes were flung here and there, pale flesh touching and caressing as we hit the silk sheets of my palatial bed. I climbed atop of him, mounting his pelvis, but not yet allowing him to enter. My skin began to glow in the darkness as my inner demon took hold. He entered me and I took him. The cantankerous sounds of our love-making, my feeding, filled the room and carried themselves out of the open doors to the balcony and the night. Edward hung above me, kissing me gently. “What are you,” he whispered. I grinned and knew that he wouldn’t die.

Not yet at least.

Tea with Pamela Turner

2011-05-08T05:17:00.000-07:00

Today Toad welcomes the delightful Pam Turner to her corner, author of Death Sword, an urban fantasy featuring angelic conflict, with a difference.

Where did your interest in angels start?

Hard to say. I’ve had a fascination with angels since childhood but Publish Postmy perceptions then were influenced by the Church. It wasn’t until a friend told me about Gustav Davidson’s A Dictionary of Angels that my interest in them intensified. The book blew away almost every preconceived notion I had about angelic beings, holy or fallen.

Your writing suggests you know the area where Death Sword takes place quite well. Care to elaborate?

I’ve lived in Louisville, the setting for Death Sword, since the early 1990s. The Highlands and Old Louisville are areas I often visit. Old Louisville is famous for its Victorian and Italianate houses as well as St James Court, which is where Xariel lives. The Highlands caters to an eclectic crowd and Bardstown Road is a popular area for window shopping and people watching with its specialty boutiques and galleries as well as coffee houses, restaurants, and pubs.

My goal is to write more stories using Louisville as a back drop. For one, when I’m out taking photos, I can say it’s for research.

Was there a specific "a-ha" moment when you came up with the premise for Death Sword or was it a slow, pot-boiler of an idea?

Wish I could remember. I wrote Death Sword for National Novel Writing Month in 2008. I don’t know as there was a specific “a ha!” moment. At some point I wanted it to be a story about a complicated relationship. But I made several changes after the first NaNo draft. Xariel was originally the antagonist and Samael was a minor character. Eventually I wondered what would happen if Samael became so obsessed over Xariel that it pushed him to kill. I guess it’s a story about obsession and a need for vengeance, real or imagined. Anyway, I tore down the original structure, leaving only the framework, and proceeded to rewrite the story. Characters’ names and motivations changed until the book became what it is now.

Who will enjoy this story, and why?

I hope people who enjoy reading urban fantasy (as well as dark fantasy) and paranormals will like it. Also, since Karla is in her early 20s, it might appeal to college students. Those who are drawn to occult stories about demons and angels also might enjoy it. (Crosses fingers.)

Can your readers expect a follow-up to Death Sword?

I’m currently revising the second book, Serpent Fire, which takes place in Louisville shortly after the events of Death Sword. There are four books planned, each one focusing on an angel of death introduced in Death Sword. The first draft of the third book, tentatively titled The Devil Inside is almost finished.

What are the three books you'll always have on your bookshelves and why?

The Stranger (Albert Camus): Camus had a profound impact on my writing, not only with this book but also his short story The Guest.

A Dictionary of Angels, Including the Fallen Angels (Gustav Davidson): This has become my go-to book for angel research. There’s enough information between the covers to write several angel-centric stories.

Dragons and Fantasy Beasts (Finlay Cowan): This is an artist’s reference book but it’s indispensable for anyone who writes fantasy. Not only does Finlay give background information but also references for further study. Even better, creatures from various mythos are profiled, from the familiar (Nosferatu and Medusa) to the more unknown (Zilant and Alkonost). His companion book, Incredible Characters, is another must-have for my bookshelf.

Links:

Website: http://pamelaturner.net

Blog: http://pamela-turner.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/PamelaTurner

Face Book: http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/pages/Pamela-Turner-Author/110336548987093

Email: pamturner97@gmail.com

Introducing J Damask

2011-05-01T00:28:00.000-07:00

Today Toad welcomes an urban fantasy author, J Damask, who offers readers a glimpse into the very different world of Singapore, one that I do not believe we see painted with such magic and beauty, and with an obvious love for the supernatural.

Wolf at the Door is set in Singapore, which is a world away from most urban fantasy novels out there. What do you offer your readers?

A different world/landscape. An unique perspective, that there are also shifter types in places like Southeast Asia, a region itself rich in myths and legends.

Why wolves? And what makes your wolves-who-are-also-people different from those encountered in fiction?

Wolves are my favorite animals. ;)

What makes them different? They are wolves *and* humans. The wolf is inseparable to the human and vice versa. To me, the stereotype of the half-man, half-wolf never really appeals to me. To me, a wolf should be a wolf, four-legged. They are also a people, a race steeped in tradition and culture (in this case, Chinese). They honor the Chinese lunar festivals as much as they honor the hunt and chasing prey.

Tell us more about Jan and some of the conflict she faces.

Jan Xu is the daughter of the leaders of the Xu pack/clan. She is also married with two girls. She faces the dichotomy of being wife, mother, daughter and sister - she struggles and tries to balance all these roles while knowing that she is wolf.

Jan also has a younger sister, Marianne, whom she has a stormy relationship with. This stormy relationship is explored in the novel. She wants the rift to heal, yet Marianne has her own ideas...

Do you have any favourite legends you can share?

have many. *chuckle*

One is the legend/story of Madam White Snake. Madam White Snake is a snake spirit/jin who falls in love with a human scholar. With her maid-in-waiting Green Snake, Lady White Snake wants to live a comfortable married life. Yet, as stories go, things are not smooth. A Buddhist monk is determined to separate White Snake with her human husband, because snake spirits are evil and should be destroyed. He concocts a plan to unmask her for what she is, putting a magical potion in her wine (or tea). As a result, she reverts back to her snake form. Her husband is shocked (of course). A long battle ensues with White Snake imprisoned in the end.

Who are some of your favourite authors and why?

Anne McCaffrey, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Octavia Butler, Frank Herbert - They showed me different worlds where I happily explored. ;) At the same time, I was inspired to write!

I was also inspired by the strong female characters too. [That's why I tend to write strong female characters in my stories... Hehe!]

* * * *

J. Damask is the pen-name of Joyce Chng who writes speculative fiction and has published her fiction in online magazines and small presses like Semaphore Magazine and Crossed Genres. She likes werewolves, steampunk and all things speculative fiction. When she's not writing, Joyce is busy wrangling kids (two girls!), cat-herding and container-gardening. She sometimes wishes she has more time to write. Her website is found at http://awolfstale.wordpress.com.

A wild ride with Sheryl Nantus’ latest offering

2011-04-16T22:15:00.000-07:00

Fans of a Wild West-type setting should sit up and take notice of Sheryl Nantus’ Wild Cards and Iron Horses, which plays out in a frontier town in the American West. With a strong steampunk flavour, the novel tells the story of a dashing gambler, Jon Handleston. He arrives in the upwardly mobile town of Prosperity Ridge, intent on winning a poker tournament so that he can repay an old debt.

But Jon has a problem. An old injury has resulted in his right arm being crippled, and he can only move it with the aid of a clockwork brace of great ingenuity. While this doesn’t aid his card-playing beyond helping him use both hands, the loss of a spring results in the device not working to its full potential; a serious blow to Jon’s confidence.

Sam may just have the answer to Jon’s problem. She’s a maverick for her era: a woman who dresses in men’s clothing and is obsessed with mechanical devices. An engineer extraordinaire, she soon catches Jon’s heart when she offers to help him fix his brace.

But things aren’t all plain sailing. Victor Morton, one of Jon’s bitter rivals, is after the secret of Jon’s brace, which he believes offers the wearer some uncanny advantage at the poker table and he will stop at nothing to ensure the device’s destruction.

Sheryl, as always, delivers a story chock-full of action with memorable characters. I found her steam-powered mechanical horses to be an interesting quirk, and like the fact that she touches on the consequences of industrialisation.

Today Toad also welcomes Sheryl to the Corner for a little Q&A. It's love to have you back here, lady.

Tell me about Jon. How did he come knocking at your door?

I've always loved gamblers in the Old West and thought that I'd bring my own character out to play in the New Old West, as it were. But I wanted him to have a different motivation other than just make money and con sweet women, so I wondered about the circumstances under which an Englishman would find himself in the Western United States.

The Civil War wasn't just between two factions in the United States. It involved many countries who watched and waited to see which side would win with observers on both sides along with many who sought to make money off of the pain and suffering. Unfortunately Jon ends up being pulled along with the family tide when his father sees an opportunity and rushes to exploit it.

Environmental pollution is quite the issue with this story. Care to elaborate?

Well, I put part of the blame for that on Second Life, a virtual world where I visit and play as a clockwork dragon in the steampunk town of New Babbage. We're always talking and joking about the soot and dirt in the air from all the new-fangled inventions and when I started writing Wild Cards I went back and looked over the Industrial Revolution - and it was a dirty, gritty world right from the start. It didn't take much to transplant it to the American Frontier where the fresh air could and would be easily destroyed by the addition and exploitation of the virgin territories.

It's a trade off. Breathing problems for technological advancement. And many are willing to make that trade and/or suffer for what they can get to make their lives better.

Definitely food for thought.

Mechanical horses are a big plot feature with this story. How would these be used? Ridden or to draw carriages?

Well, the idea is to use them to pull stagecoaches but also to provide individual travel - how great would it be to never have to rest your horse or worry about his feed, other than how much coal you shovel into his belly? The only problem is, of course, that you're riding or being pulled by possible bombs, if the pressure ever goes too high and they explode…

You mention an independent nation for Native Americans. How would this have occurred in your setting keeping in mind the actual turn of events in history?

Well, in my version of American History the Native Americans move against the government just after the Civil War, offering a choice - either negotiate for a separate Indian Nation or they'll start up another Civil War for their freedom. Lincoln, seeing a country already exhausted and war-weary, agrees to set apart a huge section of the West for the Indian Nation.

Of course there are and would be internal problems among the Native Americans, but I felt that I couldn't write about the Old West and not mention these First Americans.

Are you planning on returning to your frontier setting with future stories?

I'd like to. I've already thought about exploring outside of Prosperity Ridge and visiting other towns, perhaps even the emerging Indian Nation. But, as with all things, it depends on how sales go and how the muse takes me. Which is a plea to go buy Wild Cards and Iron Horses, of course. I have no shame.

Buy Wild Cards and Iron Horses here: http://store.samhainpublishing.com/wild-cards-iron-horses-p-6042.html

Or visit Sheryl at: http://www.sherylnantus.com/

Some mojo on the side...

2011-04-10T00:12:00.000-07:00

Today toad welcomes Sonya Clark to her corner and features a free, downloadable read that supplements Sonya's upcoming urban fantasy release, Mojo Queen. Mimosas at Dusk is available in a variety of formats.

Sonya Clark writes at a desk equipped with High John the Conqueror root and a mojo hand. She has worshipped at the mother church of country music, traveled the back roads of the blues highway, been to the crossroads at midnight, and though she’s never cooked up a mess of polk salad, she has been to Graceland four times. She lives with her husband and Yorkie in Tennessee.

Learn more at www.sonyaclark.net

MIMOSAS AT DUSK

PDF:

http://ow.ly/42ppR

MOBI:

http://ow.ly/42pqQ

EPUB:

http://ow.ly/42pro

Tea with Lee Mather

2011-04-03T00:02:00.000-07:00

Today Toad welcomes horror author Lee Mather to the corner. Welcome, Lee, and thank you for dropping by.

The Green Man touches on the theme of belief in the supernatural, but also on fears. Care to elaborate?

The story centres on the uncertainty of death and how we use religion, faith and our spiritual beliefs as safety nets. The protagonist in The Green Man is a product of the modern world, where we find it increasingly difficult to place trust and faith in anything not easily explained. It was a natural progression that he would see death, viewed without any support system, as a pretty terrible and hopeless concept. Generally speaking, I think we find comfort in control. We like to have answers to our questions. The fear in death comes from not knowing, from not having control.

Are there any events that sparked off The Green Man?

Not specifically The Green Man – in terms of an origin for the story my Mum once claimed to have seen a "little green man" when I was younger and this used to annoy me as a boy. Her tall tale stuck with me and this is where I got the idea of the clash between two belief systems, and in essence two cultures. I adapted this to be spiritual rather than alien and brought in the premonition and plane crash elements to suit the themes I wanted to address. With regard to writing in general, this is only my second published piece and I guess I got to a point in my life where I wanted to stop thinking about writing something and actually go out and do it instead.

Who are some of your favourite authors, and what is it about their books that keeps you reading?

I do enjoy horror, fantasy, science fiction – but to be honest I’ll read anything with a good heart. As a reader I want to care. As a child, when I first became interested in reading (and writing) I used to love stories with a sense of adventure and heroism – Enid Blyton, Willard Price, that kind of thing. Stories that stick with me these days are usually ones that can operate on a number of levels and make me think.

In terms of modern authors, then Joe Hill is someone I would recommend, in particular his short stories. Twentieth Century Ghosts is a must read, but only a few of the shorts I would class as pure horror so don’t buy it expecting a fright-fest. John Ajvide Lindqvist is also a writer to watch – it’s already had two successful film interpretations but Let The Right One In is a stunning book, particularly juxtaposed against the tween horror culture that is so massive right now. The works of Alan Moore are also well worth a read for the uninitiated out there.

When did you know you had to be a writer?

I remember writing a short called Blue Fire when I was twelve years old for a school project (I drew a lizard man in chainmail for the front cover!). It was a fusion of fantasy and horror thriller – kind of a rubbish fusion of Terry Brooks and Dean Koontz. But I loved piecing it together – and after that my grades in the creative writing bits of English got better and better and I thought that writing was something I could do for a living one day. But my path didn’t take me there straight away. I studied business, went to university, got a job, met a girl, bought a house. But there was an itch – the desire to be a writer never left me, and only recently have I been able to draw enough focus to sit down and actually write. To be honest, what I’ve found is you don’t need much to start a story, the trick I’m still learning is being able to finish one.

How do you approach your writing: do you plot beforehand or write however the story flows?

A bit of both really! I have a concepts file where I’ll jot abstract ideas – and these could range from anything from a full outline, to an idea for a character, or a place, or a scene. I then select one and focus on what I think is particularly interesting about that idea and try to put it in the context of a story. If I don’t have an outline at that point I’ll pull something loose together, with a few points on the qualities the key characters should have as well as any crucial plot points. Sometimes I can have quite a tight focus at this stage and the outline may not differ too much from the end product, but even in the few things I have written to date, I have been flexible enough to let the story or the characters take over. I think you have to be as a writer – the characters need to be as real to you as possible and it makes sense to me that their decisions may take you in a slightly different direction to what you originally planned. The challenge comes from reshaping, from adapting and improving until you come up with something you’re proud of as a writer.

Any useful links?

My website is www.leemather.org.uk which contains details about me and has excerpts of my writing.

I also have a blog site http:\\leemather.livejournal.com where I post articles, interviews and the occasional short story.

And if anyone wants to look me up on Facebook then they are more than welcome!

A Little Midnight Reading by Jess Harris

2011-03-27T01:39:00.000-07:00

The man’s muscles rippled under olive-skin that glistened in the moonlight. Helen’s gaze bonded to his Adonis-worthy physique, covered by only sandals and a short exomis. He extended his hand, and Helen accepted it. He led her through the front doorway toward a narrow boat, which (as can only happen in a dream) was anchored in shallow water just outside her house where her street should have been. Her close-cropped grass was now a beach of pebbles, worn round and smooth by the patient sea.

His eyes drew her toward him, into the water.

Helen faltered when the waves touched her feet. The man tugged gently for a moment, then released her and continued alone. A soundless wind filled the sails and the vessel gave a low groan before slipping away from shore. His continued to face her, bearing a remorseful though not quite pleading expression, as he shrank into the night.

Helen plunged into the icy tide and cried out, “Wait!”

“Wait!” Helen woke from the sound of her own voice, sitting bolt upright, sheets a jumble, cold sweat beading on her face.

She’d had this dream before. She loved, and hated it. Mostly, she resented the way it interrupted her sleep.

Warm milk and a bit of midnight reading usually returned her to a comfortable drowse, so she shuffled groggily toward the kitchen.

As she passed the glass patio doors, where only a few hours before she’d enjoyed a glass of amorgiano and a few chapters of Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, she saw an open book on the table outside.

Disturbing.

In all these years alone in her house, Helen had never, to the best of her formidable memory, left a book outdoors unattended. Yet there it was amongst pine straw and beech leaves on her otherwise gleaming glass-topped patio table.

Bad enough that this absurd dream roused me in the middle of the night, now I have to worry whether I’m losing my mind.

The microwave clock read twelve-seventeen as she placed a cup of milk inside. Two and a half minutes would warm it nicely.

But first she would have to retrieve her book and clean the patio table – Helen could no more abide messy nature remnants on her furnishings than she could leave a beloved book exposed to the elements, once she was aware of either.

As she made her way toward the patio, she paused to straighten a hardcover book on the end table.

Northanger Abbey.

Helen froze.

If Northanger Abbey was here, then what book was on the patio table?

Her arms prickled with gooseflesh as the more important question, who put it there? occurred to her.

She put her hand over the soft flesh of her throat which was puling with the beat of her heart.

An intruder.

Helen laid one arm protectively across her bosom and wished she was wearing more than a nightshirt.

911, call 911… Helen reached for the telephone, lifted the receiver, then put it back down.

And tell them what, that I’ve left my book outside, and would they please retrieve it for me?

Old Mrs. Bergren next door would have a jolly laugh at that.

No police; Helen was on her own.

She lifted her umbrella from its rack by the door and crept down the hall to the bedroom.

A screeching sound pierced the air and Helen jumped, hitting the wall, then felt foolish when she realized that it was only the timer alarm of the microwave.

Helen understood that her thumping had cost her the element of surprise, yet composed herself and continued, cat-quiet, ears perked for even the slightest sound. She pressed her back against the wall as she approached the threshold to her bedroom, then took a long, slow breath. She threw herself inside, umbrella aloft like a samurai’s kitana.

Nothing.

She probed the air, thrusting the umbrella into her closets and under her bed. Satisfied that her boudoir – the most private sanctum of her very private life – was free of outsiders, she donned a robe and continued her search.

She skulked from room to room, sweat dripping from her brow as she grew increasingly certain that, even though she had not yet found the invader, she was not alone.

Helen came last of all to the place she should have suspected foremost, given the sign that had first alerted her. She entered her study.

It appeared perfectly normal at first glance, but something was out of place. She ran her fingers across the rows of books on the wall-to-wall shelves, starting in reference, working through the popular titles, on to the classics…

There – between The Theban poems and The Odyssey, where The Iliad should have been slumbering – a gap.

Her fear turned to rage as she ran through the house and flung open the patio door.

She scanned the small yard, umbrella before her as both sword and shield. The high privacy fence and sparse shrubbery provided a clear view and little concealment.

The yard was empty.

She cocked her head, hands on her hips.

What an odd intrusion.

She had not so much as looked at Homer in months, so there could be no mistaking it; someone had been in her home. They had removed only one item – a thing of no great monetary value – and did not even take it away, but merely left it on the...

Right beneath her gaze, a page turned in the breathless night.

She blinked, squinted, stared at the empty chair.

“Who are you?”

It was a curious thing that now, after the fierce arousal of the previous minutes, Helen felt remarkably un-fearful. She was more than a little irritated, but not in the least afraid. She felt…anticipation? Dare she say even hopefulness?

“Who are you?” She demanded of the nothingness before her.

A head appeared first, flickering like a trick of moonlight. Then she saw freckled arms emerging from a blue shirt. The man – ordinary, middle-aged, with graying brown hair – solidified somewhat as he turned toward her.

Helen’s heartbeat fell from the gallop of confrontation to the familiar shuffle of disappointment.

“You’re not my dream man.”

The ghost looked up, left eyebrow raised in a quizzical arch. Pages flipped, stopping at a woodcut illustration. A diaphanous finger touched the image of the face that launched a thousand ships.

His head tilted upward with a sardonic grin.

“OK, I’m no Helen of Troy either.”

She became aware that her robe had slipped open in her haste. She pulled it shut and said, “I should change into something more appropriate.”

The ghost shrugged and returned his attention to Homer.

“I suppose this is going to be a purely platonic relationship.”

The ghost nodded without glancing away from the book.

Helen huffed.

She returned to the kitchen, silenced the microwave, and tested her milk. She gave it another thirty seconds, sampled it a second time, and was satisfied.

She retrieved Northanger Abbey from the end table before returning to the patio. As she sat next to the once-again invisible reader, she noticed that the pine straw and leaves were missing from the table.

“Where did the nature mess go?”

The reader in the blue polo shirt glimmered back into translucency, and thrust a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the yard next door.

“Well,” Helen said, “you have some usefulness.”

She sipped her milk and settled in for a little midnight reading.

* * * *

Jess Harris is an internationally published writer who is not quite ready to give up his day job as a US Army officer. He is a member of MinnSpec Writers’ Network, MN8 Novelists’ Retreat, founder of SoFriedSpecFic, and adjunct member (strap-hanger) of SA-based Adamaster Writer’s Guild.

He writes: dark science fiction; urban fantasy alternate history; high fantasy with practically no magic; mysteries where anyone, including the lead detective, might wind up dead; humorous horror; and “literary crime fiction” (whatever that means.) His biggest challenge is often deciding what genre a particular piece falls into.

2011-03-20T00:50:00.000-07:00

I’ve a sweet tooth for Sandra Sookoo’s writing, so when I heard she’d started working on SF, with a strong romantic twist, my interest was sufficiently piqued to pick up a copy of one of her latest titles―Damaged Cargo.

What more could a gal ask for: a strong-willed female pirate captain with a penchant for corsetry; a man with a mission to rid a planet of an evil dictator; and a strong-willed crew of misfits, all tumbled together on the Wraith Orchid?

Captain Emma Gardine keeps everyone at arm’s length as she travels the galaxy, always ready to take advantage of an opportunity for a tidy profit or a quick steal. For her, men are merely a means to an end, a way to satisfy her physical urges. Hiding her vulnerability, she goes about her daily business with a tough-as-nails exterior. That is, until she meets Tarik Vertouth, who works his way on board her ship with ulterior motives – hostile takeover. Tarik needs the Wraith Orchid to fulfil his mission: to kill his despotic father, the ruler of the planet Nazulara.

Today Toad welcomes Sandra to her corner for a cuppa tea and a chat about her novel.

I’ve heard you mention on some of your blogs that this one’s very much geared toward Firefly fans. Care to elaborate?

Well, I hadn’t really thrown my hat in the ring with writing SF, so after watching Serenity and not liking it, I bought the Firefly DVDs. I ended up really loving them, which gave me an idea. My husband had been nagging me to write another SF book so I took inspiration from the ship and the costuming of Firefly. Instead of cowboys, I made my crew pirates and had a great time doing it.

Why name the ship the Wraith Orchid?

Now that was interesting. I needed a name for my ship. I’m totally bad at it so I had help from my husband, who is a total sci-fi geek. I chose “orchid” because these plants are rare and varied, kinda like the crew and “wraith” because they slip through galaxies, stealing and generally making trouble. Even though it’s a cargo ship, it needed a grand name.

If you had to pick lead actors for your two main characters, who would be top on your list?

Oh, wow, I’ve never thought about that. I actually based Emma off one of my close friends. This gal has held her own in bar disagreements, neighbor fights and all kinds of stuff, and she does it in heels with a “take no prisoners” attitude. I suppose, if I had to choose, Angelina Jolie would be good, because let’s face it, she looks good with guns strapped to her, LOL. As for Tarik, hmm, maybe Russell Crowe. He does well with serious roles and can be nasty when he needs to.

You offer a social “return” to Victorian norms in your futuristic setting. Why is this? Why would people look back to that era for their styling?

I liked the idea of this because things were simpler then. There was very much a set of rigid rules and norms in place to control society—at least on the surface. In my fictional world, I instituted that as an additional constraint and a breeding ground for pirates. You can’t buck the system if there isn’t a tough one in place. I also adore historical writing so it was only natural to combine the two in this story.

You’ve left some untied threads near the end. Is there a sequel in the pipelines?

You bet. I didn’t think there would be, but somehow, sci-fi is now in my blood and I can’t walk away. This spring I’ll be starting work on the follow-up novel. This will be Tomis’s story as well as one of Tarik’s sisters. I’m excited to begin work on it since the notes are quite expansive and very complicated. Will the Wraith Orchid be back? On the fringes I think. It won’t be about them as much.

Thank you for dropping by at Toad's Corner, Sandra. We hope to have you visit again soon!

Go purchase Damaged Cargo here: http://purplesword.com/zencart/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=4&products_id=58

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Damaged-Cargo-ebook/dp/B00433TYW0/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1295184994&sr=8-2

All Romance e-books: http://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-damagedcargo-454457-143.html

2011-03-13T01:17:00.000-08:00

Title: The Spectrum Collection

Publisher: Dark Continents Publishing

Authors: Simon Kurt Unsworth, John Irvine, Sylvia Shults, Tracie McBride, Adrian Chamberlin, Carsin Buckinham, Maureen Irvine, David M Youngquist, Serenity J Banks and John Prescott.

Buylink: http://darkcontinents.com/2010/11/15/spectrum-collection/

If a collection of well-realised horror is your cup of tea, then The Spectrum Collection won’t disappoint. Tightly edited and engaging, these stories and poems are slivers of horror offering glimpses into other worlds readers can enter knowing that things can end very badly, in all the right ways.

First up is The Elms, Morecambe by Simon Kurt Unsworth. The author sets about weaving his story in a manner that isn’t often as successful as this example: a story told within a story. We learn about Wisher, a haunted man, who tells his story to Nakata, whom I assume to be a journalist of some stripe in an eatery. Although slow-moving, the story nonetheless conveys the sense of a great sadness and a mystery that is never quiet explained. No great denouements here but still thought-provoking.

The direction of Wild Goat Curry by John Irvine became very clear early on in the story and although the concept of a hunter getting his just deserts is an old, dear one, I feel this story misses the mark slightly. It’s well written but the plot needed just that little extra push to give it a stronger twist, because I wasn’t all that surprised or horrified at the ending.

Wicked Appetites by Sylvia Shults takes a playful nod at the current fascination with vampires in contemporary fiction, and elicited a few chuckles on my part although I had a good inkling as to how wrong the tale would go. Once again, I feel the ending could have been stronger but overall Shults delivers an entertaining tale.

Although I’m no fan of poetry, The Tooth Fairy by Tracie McBride is deliciously nasty for my tastes. I was suitably moved to read it out to my partner, and we shared a quiet chuckle.

Adrian Camberlain’s The Bodymen is on my shortlist for one of my favourites in this collection. Offering a nod to classic splatterpunk and Stephen King, and although by no means unique in its subject matter, this little yarn tells the grim tale of an unfortunate series of events surrounding a pet crematorium. To say any more would lead to spoilers.

Another story about just deserts, Lemminaid by Carson Buckinham is quite vivid when it comes to evoking the setting but it was another where I could see the twist coming from a mile away. Still, the end is suitably inevitable for the main character and Buckinham provides some fine, sold writing.

Lost by Maureen Irvine, although offering me the enjoyment of seeing typical husband-and-wife interchanges, didn’t work for me. One of the major issues I had with it was the omniscient point of view, of head-hopping between the wife and the husband. The obvious horror element also didn’t do much to scare me or build tension. Other than that, it’s still an evocative piece.

Archi’s Story by David M Youngquist hit all the right spots for me. Maybe it’s because I’m a big fan of the Rodriguez brothers’ films, or just that zombies are the “it” thing at the moment. This is a novel masquerading as a short story, so in the shorts stakes, it’s not a classic fit for the vehicle. However, Youngquist has created a compelling tale with characters I immediately loved. This is begging for treatment into a longer format or, dare I say it, a screenplay. This one also hits my favourites list.

Maureen Irvine’s Gift from a Vampire is pretty. As far as poetry goes, I’m a poor judge but I did like this piece.

With the current literary trend showing preference for end times-themed stories, The End, by Serenity J Banks, addresses all the issues plaguing modern culture. This is not so much a post-apocalyptic tale of horror as an examination of the futility of human existence in the light of absolute finality. Thoroughly depressing, this tale is not for the squeamish. Well done, Serenity. You’ve got a winner here.

Lest We Forget by Tracie McBride is also on my short list for the hits from this collection. Stark, the tale hints at the horrors of a twisted Orwellian future at the hand of a mysterious dictatorship, it examines the emotions of people who have accepted their lot. There are many subtle undercurrents in this story, which begs a second read.

My Sister Doesn’t Live There Anymore by John Irvine is a haunting mood piece. While it doesn’t have a heavy horror element, the story did offer a somewhat poignant illustration of sorrow.

The End of Leonard Bangston by John Prescott didn’t quite work for me. Perhaps the shades of a Roald Dahl story were too fresh in my mind, but I saw the ending’s shape very early in the piece. Also, while I applaud the visceral detail the author gives in describing the house, I almost felt there was too much style and not enough substance to the tale. Nonetheless, visceral is possibly the right word to go with the story.

Overall, this is a pleasing collection of short stories and, in my opinion, well worth the investment. It reads quickly and, in general, the tales are suitably grim, grisly and dark, as one would expect from a good horror anthology. Go buy this and read it on a rainy night, at your own peril!

* * * *

Have a novel in the F/SF/H genres you'd like reviewed. Email nerinedorman@gmail.com with "Toad's Corner" in the subject.

Rhune: Dawn of Twilight

2011-03-06T05:33:00.000-08:00

Toad welcomes Jason Sonia to her corner today. While the focus of this blog has been on genre fiction, thus far, role-playing games are often popular with readers of genre fiction. Jason's achievement has been the release of his own setting, Rhune: Dawn of Twilight, which offers gamers his vision of a Stormpunk setting. Even better, the primer is available as a free download.

Which role-playing games got you started, and what do you gain from the activity?

I discovered role-playing games (RPGs) through comic books in my early teens, so naturally I was exposed to a lot of material by TSR. The first game I remember playing was a game called Marvel Superheroes. As a fan of the X-Men, I easily absorbed the material and the concept of being a hero. At the time, I was really into Wolverine and I wanted to build a variation of his character so I could join the X-Men. The desire to fight Sentinals and stop dark, government conspiracies appealed greatly to me. Unfortunately, at the time, only one of my friends really liked the game. So, we took turns running each other through battles and that was the extent of my experience as a superhero. Later that summer, another friend suggested we try Advanced Dungeons and Dragons (2nd Edition). We put a small group together and the rest was history. I was hooked.

Unlike comics, RPGs allowed me an opportunity to really explore character concepts that I resonated with. I wasn't a passive participant. I could really get in there and get my hands dirty. As a young teen, this was a wonderful way to explore a number of concepts that a great deal of my peers weren't forced to deal with. There were moral dilemmas, social issues, and a number of themes that demanded I look beyond the surface and try to figure out what was going on - at its heart, the spirit of creativity and investigation snagged me. Moreover, it was something that really excited me with its endless potential. It was a never-ending novel in which I was one of the key stars. It definitely appealed to my ego!

Today, RPGs continue to serve as an outlet of exploration. However, as an adult, it's a much more relaxed journey. Most of the gamers I know enjoy blowing off steam with some dice and a chance to beat down the bad guys (which, sadly, doesn't happen that often in reality). I tend to run a lot of games, so I find a definite enjoyment in telling stories. I especially like when the characters in those stories have complex (dare I say devious) reasons for adventuring. I find RPGs both emotionally and intellectually satisfying - much in the same way a great film draws you away - except they require you to be active. They require you to be involved. There's a certain interconnectedness about an RPG group that you don't see everyday. That, and gamers have a quirky, weird sense of humor. I like that, too.

Tell me more about Pathfinder.

The Pathfinder Roleplaying Game is an elegant revision of the 3.5 edition of the world's most popular roleplaying game. When Wizards of the Coast (WoTC) announced in fall of 2007 that they were going to release the 4th edition of Dungeons and Dragons, a huge cross section of the 3.5 community started to look for other alternatives. Luckily, the people over at Paizo Publishing, LLC (who had developed both Dungeon Magazine and Dragon Magazine under license for WoTC) had taken steps to develop their own version of the game and Pathfinder was born. I'm sure there's a lot more to it, but they'd really have to step up and speak. I'm not the man for the job (yet).

People interested should definitely check them out, though. http://paizo.com/ should get you there.

Where does Rhune originate? What is Stormpunk?

Rhune: Dawn of Twilight was born in the spring of 2006 in a little coffee shop called Aghora in Houston, Texas. Having evacuated from New Orleans, La for Hurricane Katrina, I was one of many New Houstonians trying to make sense of what I was doing and where I was going. I spent a lot of time reading, doodling, and talking with my friend Tom about what made heroes really potent figures. Naturally, we spoke at length about Joseph Campbell's Hero With a Thousand Faces, the Star Wars movies, and everything Tolkien. It was long before we started to look a little deeper and I started to study Norse myth (which, ironically, I had never had much of a connection with - I tend to favor Mediterranean myth). I started to read more about Ragnarök, Heimdallr, and Odin's Sacrifice.

At the same time, I was starting to submit material to Dungeon and Dragon magazines. I wasn't having much luck and when I voiced this, Tom simply asked me, "If you have these strong ideas about a particular setting, why not write them down and create it yourself." At the time, I scoffed at the immensity of the work and shrugged my shoulders. I simply didn't have the time or resources.

Years later, after I moved to Kuwait for work, I found I had both. So, I wrote Rhune: Dawn of Twilight.

Was it difficult creating your world?

Building the outline wasn't hard. I've been gaming for over 17 years and I know what sort of material makes it into splat books. I know you need to build enough to keep people engaged, but open enough so that anyone can tell their particular story in that setting. Designing a world means details, but only to a point. I kept this in mind when I was building the outline. Once I had what I felt was a strong starting point, I just moved forward.

Then I wrote, designed, revised, wrote, revised, wrote, and wrote some more. Luckily for me, I had a lot of practice with Wolfgang Baur's Open Design (http://wolfgangbaur.com/default.aspx ).

After a while, I started looking for artists (and this is where things got expensive). I discovered I had to communicate with them on a much different level, but once I achieved that, the product really started to come together. All in all, I think I built Rhune: Dawn of Twilight in about 8 months. Obviously, I've been holding it close to my heart a lot longer than that, but that's really what it took in terms of production. I know that since Rhune: Dawn of Twilight released at Gen Con, we've had to make several small revisions, Currently, though, I think it's a strong product that really syncs with the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game system.

Stormpunk is a term I coined to describe what happens when you merge traditional steampunk with Norse myth, Ragnarök, and planar travel. At its heart, Rhune has a wild-eyed, cold as hell, kind of feel to it. It has technology, but it also has the gritty issues the come along with industrialization. It's supposed to leave the player feeling a little small and a little dirty.

What does Rhune offer players?

I'm a big fan of the old material that White Wolf put out in the 1990s. I lovedVampire: The Masquarade, Mage: The Ascension, and the whole World of Darkness. What I think made that venue so successful wasn't necessarily its ties to the supernatural (although I'd be a fool to ignore those elements), but it's clear and concise adaptation of character archetypes in its various games. You had personas that were believable - and therefor easily playable - because they were based from a reality we saw daily. I loved that idea (and it's not new - Joseph Campbell and Carl G Jung both covered the concepts) and wanted to take it further. So, I focused on letting ideas become driving forces for the people of Rhune: Dawn of Twilight. I looked at racial boundaries, national boundaries, and what sorts of groups would drive what sorts of ideas. I wanted it to mirror reality a little, too. So, I gave people less concrete to stand on and forced different groups to try and explain Ragnarök in their own ways. Alongside the rampant spread of industrialization, this got interesting...

I believe Rhune: Dawn of Twilight offers players an opportunity to play characters that step outside of the traditional fantasy genre by giving them a world that isn't much different then their own, at least socially. The people of Midgard face a complex problem (Ragnarök - effectively the end of the world) and everyone has a different idea about what should be done. Some want to stop it. Some believe its divine justice. Some believe its just another conflict to be won. Some people are rushing towards it. Some people think it's a big lie. Some people simply don't care.

If you were to be a character from Rhune, what would you be?

I think I'd play a witch. They have a connection to something alien that most people in Rhune: Dawn of Twilight simply don't get. They're not necessarily good OR bad, but they are definitely different. They definitely scare people. After that, I'd have to switch gears and play a dwarves cleric - for much the same reasons I'd play a witch. They're a concrete class that has little room for doubt. They know (or so they think) the gods, their Will, and what must happen at Ragnarök. I think that sort of blind devotion would be a blast. To never question? To never doubt? Yeah,I think I could ham that up a little.

Where can people find Rhune?

People interested in Rhune: Dawn of Twilight can download the primer from Rhune's website:

http://www.rhunedawnoftwilight.com/

There's also maps and adventure suggestions. The best part? It's all free.

Meet Liz Strange

2011-02-20T02:08:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes Liz Strange to her corner. If you're interested in vampire fiction with a difference, Liz is sure to offer up a saga worthwhile taking a look into.

When did you know you wanted to be a writer?

I think I knew I wanted to be a writer at about the age of three, when I started my first series of books about a bird family. I couldn’t physically write yet so I dictated them to my mother. But when I seriously thought about pursuing a career as a writer? That happened in the summer of 2008. I’d had stories and abandoned novels I’d worked on over the years, and My Love Eternal (my first published book) was pulled out of a dusty box and revised.

Was there a defining moment where you got the idea for your first published novel?

My novel was inspired by things I liked and things I didn’t like in the vampire fiction I’d read. As my readers will find, my stories are much darker than many of the others in the "paranormal romance" market, verging on being horror. My vampires are monsters and they know it, but they still have enough of their humanity remaining to be empathized with.

Why vampires? What is it about these creatures of the night that appeals to you?

I like the idea of living forever, in both an amazed and horrified kind of way. It would be incredible to experience so many things, see the world around you change, but it would also be terrible to watch those who get close to you eventually die. There is something beautiful, and yet haunting about the idea of vampirism.

If you were to go into solitary confinement for a year, which are the three books you'd take with you and why?

Oh, hard one. Ok, if only three I’ll say The Picture of Dorian Grey, Interview with the Vampire and A Handmaid’s Tale.

Describe your writing process.

I am a write as I go kind of girl. I very rarely have an outline, though I do make notes to myself as I go along about things I should follow up on. I am very serious about my research though. If I’m going to reference a geographical area, or a different time period I want to be as accurate as possible.

Care to share a bit about your upcoming projects?

I am working through the edits on the final book in my Dark Kiss Trilogy, Born of Blood and Retribution. I’ve finished two other novels and a novella that I hope to get out into the marketplace soon.

Thanks so much for having me at Toad’s Corner!

Useful links:

Website: www.lizstrange.com

Twitter: www.twitter.com/LizStrangeVamp

Tea with Cassandra Jade

2011-02-13T08:28:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes Cassandra Jade, author of Death's Daughter.

Tell us a little about yourself and what got you started with writing?

I’ve always just loved reading and telling stories. There was something magical about being able to turn a page and be in a whole new situation and I loved creating as much as I loved experiencing. I particularly loved creating new characters and throwing them into the craziest situation I could imagine. When I was fifteen I had to write out a list of goals that I wanted to accomplish within ten years for school. I decided I wanted to finish writing a novel. From then I started focusing more on working through to the end of my stories but it has only been in the last few years that I’ve managed to find the time.

Who are your three favourite authors and why?

My favourite would have to be Traci Harding because she created one of my favourite characters (Tori Alexander from the Ancient Future Trilogy). Her mix of fantasy and history (and recreation of history) completely captivated me when I was in school and is still one of my favourite reads today.

There are so many other authors but I would have to go with David Eddings and Terry Pratchett as my next two favourites. Both write fantasy but use humour to really engage the reader. Pratchett does this in an over-the-top manner that makes you laugh out loud while Eddings seems to slip the subtle sarcasm into the narration and makes you smile.

Why do you write?

I write because I like to find out what would happen if… I’m always asking what if and by writing fantasy I can play out any scenario I like and lead the characters to a logical resolution. I think that is what really kept Death’s Daughter going. I wanted to know what would happen if everything you believed about your life wasn’t true. Admittedly, the question has been asked before but it is one of those questions where there are infinite answers depending on who you ask and how they react.

How do you go about crafting a story?

Usually I’ll start with something simple, like an outline of a character or a single scene or something that gets my attention. I’ll spend time playing with the idea in my head and add different elements to it and slowly the idea starts to take shape. At this stage I know whether this is just a passing idea or something I want to spend time developing and I decide whether I want to start taking notes on it or not.

Eventually the idea ends up in a notebook and it may stay there forever, particularly if I’m currently working on something else. If it gets to the stage where I’m going to turn it into an actual story, I will write an outline of events and do some character mapping and then I’ll start writing the first draft. Quite possibly I need to take a more methodical approach to crafting a story in the future but at the moment I like that at each stage I step back and think about what I’m doing and I can jump between ideas and notebooks.

Sum up Death's Daughter in three words.

I tried. I really did and I cannot think of three words that would sum up Death’s Daughter. The best I could come up with was: Desperately seeking escape from destiny – which is five words and more of a classified advertisement than a summary.

Useful links:

My blog is Cassandra Jade in the Realm (http://cassandrajade.wordpress.com).

My Twitter is @darkened_jade

An excerpt from Death’s Daughter can be read on Lyrical Press (http://www.lyricalpress.com/deaths_daughter_excerpt)

Short Fiction: The Accident by WJ Hill

2011-02-06T03:02:00.000-08:00

It was an accident. Daniel never meant to hit the hitch-hiker who had suddenly jumped out in front of him with his thumb held out. He slammed on the brakes and tried to swerve. The screech of tyres on the tarmac – followed by the thud of the hitch-hiker's body hitting the bonnet would ring in his ears for the rest of his life. Trembling, he got out of the car and went to look at the scene. The long, winding country road was empty. No witnesses. He swatted the idea away. Daniel Moynahan was a decent, law-abiding citizen and would do right by this person, whoever he was.

The hot summer day was drawing to an end and, despite the hazy heat, Daniel shuddered. Nausea welled up in his belly as the implications of the accident began to filter through the sense of dissociation that was taking over. On autopilot, he rounded the front of the car and, to his surprise, saw no visible damage.

The sickening thud of the hitch-hiker hitting the bonnet, followed by the brief darkening of the windscreen as he rolled over the front of the car replayed in Daniel's mind. He had just hit someone and possibly killed him. Why was there no damage to the car? He walked around to the back, fascinated and a little scared. Was he losing his mind? Had he imagined the collision?

Well, he had definitely hit the brakes. The stink of burning rubber wrinkled his nose before he even saw the twin lines where he had skidded to a halt. A feeling of being watched crept into his consciousness, nudging him to look further into this. It occurred to him to check the overgrown ditch. There should have been a smell of blood – or worse – his logic told him. If he had really hit someone, that was. Still, Daniel pushed aside all notions of just writing it off as an hallucination and decided to investigate. He knew that, if he didn't, he would spend the rest of his life asking himself why not. Besides, there was always the chance that it was just an hallucination. He had to be sure.

There was a crowbar in the back, behind the driver's seat. He went back to the car and took it out, then went along the ditch, using the crowbar to pull away the berry-laden brambles, starting from where the bonnet of the car was, and working backwards. When he reached the end of the skid marks, he almost gave up, but curiosity and a desire to resolve this compelled Daniel to continue the search for the hitch-hiker's body, which he just knew was somewhere along here. On the fringes of his awareness, he could sense a pleading to keep going, to uncover the truth of the matter, as if the hitch-hiker was standing beside him, urging him on.

Unwilling to let him down, Daniel kept walking along, poking and pulling at the undergrowth along the ditch, ignoring the cold fingers of fear that were creeping up his spine. The hitch-hiker was somewhere along here, he just knew it. A brief glimpse of dirty blond hair and intense blue eyes widened in surprise and horror flashed through Daniel's mind. The feeling grew stronger, as if the hitch-hiker was waiting for him in the ditch, ready to spring out and shout, “Gotcha!”

But it wasn't quite like that after all. The next pull at the brambles and bindweed revealed a dirty trainer and a bit of denim. Daniel gulped and pulled the curtain of weeds up anyway, and uncovered more denim, soaked, rotten and stuck to the maggot-eaten corpse. Flies buzzed up in an angry cloud as he yanked at the undergrowth. Light glinted off the frame of a pair of broken spectacles that hung halfway off the ruined face. Horrified, Daniel stepped away and threw up. He put his hand on his heart as he passed by the spot where the body lay on the way back to his car, then called the police. As he waited for them to arrive, the oppressive feeling of being watched faded, as if the hitch-hiker was glad to have been found at last.

* * * *

Toad welcomes submissions of guest blogs, short stories, poems, art and excerpts from published and (some) selected unpublished authors. Please mail nerinedorman@gmail.com for further information

Tea with Manda Benson

2011-01-30T08:26:00.001-08:00

Today Toad welcomes Manda Benson, author of a number of SF novels, for both adults and younger readers.

You have built a very detailed setting. Where did the initial spark for your milieu occur?

In Pilgrennon’s Beacon, the physical setting in the story is real locations in the British Isles. Because of this, planning the book in this respect required far less thought than my fiction that involves more fantastic places. However, it required much more in the way of active research.

Because I wanted locations to feel authentic, I had to visit places and study maps of areas I wasn’t familiar with in order to get a feel for them. In a way, it was more complicated than writing a story set in a purely fictional setting, as the landscape can’t be warped to fit the plot, and there are certain limitations to suspension of disbelief if you’re going to add something to an existing place for the purpose of the story.

The greatest influence on the book was undoubtedly the Outer Hebrides. The Isle of Lewis is made up of breathtaking landscapes, yet its beauty is in many ways desolate and barren, and treacherous. The wind tears over crags and peat moorlands with no trees to offer shelter. The stony cliffs and empty beaches stand against the wrath of an ocean which the size and shape of the island make it impossible to escape. Of the sparse stone houses that do exist on Lewis, many

lie in ruins, and there seem to be more graves than living people.

If you go to Harris, the landscape there looks like it could be the surface of a moon. I was captivated not only by the islands’ wild beauty, but by how forbidding and even slightly sinister they were. Adding a mysterious beacon on an island with a haunted lighthouse (the haunted lighthouse is real; the beacon isn’t) seemed a great way to make a really atmospheric setting for a technothriller.

In terms of the social landscape Beacon is set against, I use a political structure for the society in some of my other books that’s very different to the sort of democracy we see in politics today. The series of which this book is the first volume is about the revolution that leads to this radical new society.

The Star Archers have their progenitor in Pilgrennon's Beacon. Tell us more about your archers and their origin.

Readers of the Galactic Legacy books (Dark Tempest and the forthcoming In the Shadow of Lazarus) might recognise some references and similarities between the two worlds. Galactic Legacy, Pilgrennon’s Children, and Days of the Meritocracy (not yet published) are three distinct series that span different eras of a common history. Pilgrennon’s Children is near future and set mostly on Earth, Days of the Meritocracy is a few hundred years from the present and set within the Solar system, and Galactic Legacy is in the distant future, when a large

portion of the Galaxy has been colonised.

I wouldn’t like to say anything too specific about the connections between them, partly because I think this sort of thing is best left to mystery and reader interpretation, but also because I might have an idea for a book at some point in the future that would invalidate something I’d earlier said!

You offer readers a very British SF viewpoint. How does your world view differ from the standard tropes?

I write about what I know. A large proportion of the book-buying public are American, but it would be no use me setting a book in America, because I’ve never been there and I don’t know enough about it to make it realistic. I think (or rather hope) that most people would prefer to read something authentic about an unfamiliar place and culture than read a book that doesn’t do justice to a place and culture they already know.

Pilgrennon's Beacon isn't quite YA fiction, although your protagonist is quite young. What are some of the prevalent themes in the novel and why do you think it appeals to a broad readership?

The thing is, I didn’t start writing Pilgrennon’s Beacon or plan the series as being for any particular age group. I simply had a story that demanded to be written, so I wrote it. I’d had the idea of the origins of the Meritocracy and how it was sparked by a feud between two scientific luminaries in the autumn of our modern era for some years, but neither of these characters seemed the right PoV to work with, and I had never really been sure how to put these ideas into a novel. As the idea continued to develop in the back of my mind during a hiatus and while I was writing some other things, another character, a girl who knew very little about her own past, came into the picture and I realised at once that this was her story.

When I sent it to writer friends to critique, a number of them commented that it worked well as a YA book. Initially I thought this wouldn’t work because the book was too grim and the ideas were too complicated and "grown up", but as it turns out, these are apparently the sort of things a lot of young people look for in fiction.

Pilgrennon’s Beacon is in essence a near-future Pandora story. It’s also a story about a feud, about vengeance, forgiveness, and about self discovery. Central to the plot are the relationships between Dana and two other adult characters who follow the creator-destroyer-preserver motif. One person who beta read the book with the caveat that he didn’t really connect with child characters enjoyed it for the adult characters’ stories. I hope this book has something for everyone.

What are the three most important SF works any SF author should have on their shelf, and why?

I’m going to sidestep that question in a way. I don’t think it’s particularly important to possess or even read science fiction in order to write science fiction. Science fiction is any fiction with a speculative scientific element. It doesn’t have to conform to any sort of stereotype, and you don’t have to write it to a formula. What constitutes a good book tends to be a matter of taste on one hand, and on the other a lot of pretty awful fiction by most people’s standards has been grouped under the broad umbrella of SF. So, the most important books?

Firstly, get a style manual. If you want to write anything, you’ll want other people to be able to read it. I’ve heard a few times, mostly from unpublished writers, that things like punctuation don’t matter and that the editor who eventually accepts their books exists to fix such problems. That’s rot. An editor’s job is to make sure the book is in the publisher’s house style and to correct mistakes. If there are twelve errors in every paragraph, that goes beyond the remit of correcting mistakes. It means the writer can’t use the English language properly. You wouldn’t go to a job interview or a friend’s wedding wearing Wellington boots and clothes you’d worn to muck out a stable in, would you?

Poor command of the written word looks unprofessional and means readers are likely to reject it without giving the story a chance. So proofread your writing carefully. Buy a style manual, read it, and try to follow it to your best ability. That means either the Oxford Style Manual

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Oxford-Style-Manual-Robert-Ritter/dp/0198605641/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1293718642&sr=8-1 or the Cambridge Handbook

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Butchers-Copy-editing-Cambridge-Copy-editors-Proofreaders/dp/0521847133/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1293718767&sr=8-2

for those in the UK, or the Chicago Manual of Style

http://www.amazon.com/Chicago-Manual-Style-16th/dp/0226104206/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1293718957&sr=1-2

or the Associated Press Stylebook

http://www.amazon.com/Associated-Press-Stylebook-Briefing-Media/dp/0465012620/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1293718923&sr=8-1

for those in the USA.

Secondly, buy a factual resource on the area you’re writing in. If you’re writing a novel about quantum mechanics, get a good quantum mechanics textbook.

Read relevant scientific articles in magazines and on websites. There’s always going to be a proportion of speculation and conjecture in science fiction, but the stronger you ground that in what’s already known, the more believable it will be and the more inclined readers will be when you need them to suspend disbelief or make a conceptual leap. Also, you can get some great ideas for novel premises just reading about current research.

Lastly, although science fiction with bad science is bad science fiction, science fiction with bad characters is bad fiction. Read a wide variety of books of all genres, not just SF, and analyse what works about the characters in the books you enjoy. The third book can be any book with characters you connect with, for whatever reason. Join online writing groups and discuss

characterisation methods to help you integrate realistic characters meaningfully in your plots.

You own Tangentrine Ltd, the publisher of Pilgrennon’s Beacon and two of your other books. Why did you decide to set up your own business to produce your books?

I submitted Pilgrennon’s Beacon to a lot of agents and a few publishers that accept unsolicited submissions. I got requests for more and nice comments, but no offers. Often publishing professionals commented that it was just too unusual to be commercial or they didn’t like the science-fiction aspect of it.

After that I gave up and left it to rot on my hard drive for a few years, along with a few other novels and novellas and one dreadful novel that was the first one I wrote, but this particular book kept coming back to haunt me. Pilgrennon’s Beacon is intended to be the first part of a series, and I kept getting the urge to write the next book. I couldn’t justify spending time on something that would be unpublishable on the grounds that I’d been unable to sell the first book, yet this was interfering with my ability to get on and write new books.

I looked into what call themselves "self publishing companies" – publishers like Lulu and Createspace that will publish any book for little or no upfront fee and take a cut of the profit from selling it, but I quickly realised these weren’t going to be appropriate for my requirements. They didn’t allow enough control over the design of the book, and the charges per book printed meant I would have had to price the books unacceptably high. Instead, I decided to set up a publishing company and contract a printer, which works out more cost effective as you only pay the printer rather than having to pay a middleman as well, and the quality of the books is much better.

Would you recommend self publishing to other authors?

No, not unless you have experience writing and you’re prepared to do a lot of research and work. If you’ve just finished writing your first book, chances are there are going to be a lot of things wrong with it that you don’t yet have the experience to spot. Put the book away for a few years and write some more, then see if you still feel the same way about it. Self publishing needn’t be very expensive, but bear in mind that, to create a product that looks professional, you will have to learn typesetting and design (or pay someone else to do them for you). I was fortunate in that I have friends who are graphic designers and editors to give me advice and do a few thorough proofreads. You will also have to pay for industry-standard software and manage your business’s finances.

If a reputable publisher wants to publish your book, I’d still say let it. Self publishing really is a lot of work if you want to do it properly. Good publishers have contacts and money to throw at marketing, so you will nearly always sell more books that way. Getting a bit less money per book sold and sacrificing some editorial control is worth that in my opinion. If you’re going for electronic publishing only, even then the good small e-presses offer a stronger option by having connections with vendor sites. When my book Dark Tempest was published by Lyrical Press, a significant proportion of sales came through a vendor called Fictionwise. Established publishers are able to set up agreements with this sort of vendor to make their books more prominent and

attractive to buyers.

For those who are ready to try self publishing, I shall be running some more articles to do with the matter on my blog soon.

http://adventuresinselfpublishing.blogspot.com

Pilgrennon’s Beacon is the first volume in a series. Can you tell us more about the other books?

The series is called Pilgrennon’s Children. I am currently writing the next book, The Emerald Forge, which I hope to publish sometime in 2012.

Useful links...

UKAmazon

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pilgrennons-Beacon-Children-Manda-Benson/dp/0956608027/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1293719272&sr=8-1

UKKindle

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pilgrennons-Beacon-Children/dp/B004E113SE/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1293719272&sr=8-2

US Amazon

http://www.amazon.com/Pilgrennons-Beacon-Children-Manda-Benson/dp/0956608027/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1293719250&sr=8-1

US Kindle

http://www.amazon.com/Pilgrennons-Beacon-Children-ebook/dp/B004E113SE/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1293719218&sr=8-2

Read an excerpt on Smashwords

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/31139

Tea with Kelly Harmon

2011-01-23T02:09:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes Kelly Harmon to her corner.

What made you realise you wanted to be a wordsmith, and what career path did

you follow to get there?

I’ve always written fiction. I can’t remember a time that I didn’t want to be a writer.

I scribbled constantly in a three-ring binder full of loose-leaf all through grade school. At home, I would use my mom’s Royal manual typewriter, eking out one or two typed pages a day before my fingers would smart from those sticky keys.I harangued my parents continually for an electric typewriter, which I finally received for my 12th birthday. That’s when I really started churning out the words. (That’s also when I taught myself to type–I still can’t use my

right pinky to shift.)

I studied journalism in college because I thought it would offer me more job opportunities than an English degree would. It did, but not many.

What are, in your opinion, some of the most important interests an author should cultivate?

In order to write well, I think authors need to know a great deal about people and relationships. Knowing what makes people tick, or what motivates them, enables a writer to create believable characters. It’s the tiny details, knowing the psyche of a character, and writing it into the book, which will make the straight-A, goody-two-shoes character’s sudden leap into hitch-hiking and

prostitution seem believable, rather than just convenient for the story’s sake.

Relationships are very telling about people. In a book, if the husband treats his wife like dirt, but bows and scrapes to his mother...what does that tell the reader? Maybe the guy’s just an ass, or a Momma’s Boy. On the other hand, he might have some psychological problems that manifest in other ways. A good author would know how this guy will react in certain situations – and in other

relationships – and use that information to carry the plot forward.

Was there any specific event that sparked off Blood Soup?

It wasn’t an event, so much as a research jaunt, that sparked the idea for the story.

I’m an avid genealogist, and at the time I was writing Blood Soup, I was putting together a family cookbook which included a recipe for a special-occasion soup called "Czarnina" (char-NEE-nah), or, in English: blood soup.

Despite the title’s connotations, blood soup isn't so sinister a meal. Blood constitutes only a small fraction of what is used to create the broth. The other ingredients are fairly routine and include cloves, peppercorn and fresh apples and pears to create a sweet-and-sour soup. The soup is dark in color (czarnina means “black”) and I’d toyed with using the title as a play on words for the dark theme of the story.

Instead, my mind continued to return to “blood” as the key to the story.

As I worked through the plot, I thought of ways blood could be used for healing or as a medicinal ingredient. Taking it a step further, I wondered at the efficacy of using blood to save the life of another person: Could blood from a well person pull a dying person back from the brink? Could it strengthen a weak constitution? I considered whether or not a person could subsist on a diet of mostly blood...human or animal. And, what happens to someone who develops such a taste, so much so, that it’s like an addition?

That line of questioning solidified Prince Amalric’s character: he was a weakling as a child and fed blood to fortify him. He came to crave it as a youngster, often demanding it. He reveals his strong temper - like an addict - when someone has eaten the last bowl of soup which he considers his.

Although King Theodicar set in motion the events which lead to Amalric’s eventual rule, Blood Soup is actually about Amalric , whose blood lust was thrust upon him by a determined father and who must come to realize that he’s not the rightful heir to Borgund.

And that's how Blood Soup came to be.

Briefly share what Blood Soup's all about.

Blood Soup is a story about murder, betrayal and comeuppance.

The story opens with a pregnant Queen Piacenza. Her husband, King Theodicar, naturally hopes for a male heir. The Queen is from Omera, where the first born rules, no matter the sex of the child. This causes no end of friction between them.

The Queen’s nursemaid, Salvagia, casts runes about the birth. Over and over, they yield the same message: “A girl child must rule or the kingdom will fall to ruin.” The women are convinced the baby will be a girl.

When the queen finally gives birth, the nurse and the king are equally surprised, and Theodicar is faced with a terrible choice. His decision will determine the fate of his kingdom. Will he choose wisely, or will he doom Borgund to ruin?

What advice do you have for anyone considering being a wordsmith as a career option? (this includes being a journalist.) What should they study and what career options are available?

If you want to write fiction, don’t find a writing job at all. Get a degree in something else you enjoy and take some writing classes on the side. Choose something that pays a decent wage and/or is a job someone is always looking to fill. This way, you’ll have a skill set you need to make some money while you’re waiting for your novels and short stories to be published.

(Yes: this advice runs completely counter to what I did, which was to study journalism in college and work for newspapers. I found the experience invaluable when it comes to learning about human nature; but the hours were long and stole time I could have been devoting to writing fiction.)

There’s another reason I advise studying something other than writing: you’ll gain extensive knowledge in another subject which you can use in your fiction.

For instance, if you study archeology...you can write a novel - even a series of novels - with the main character being an archeologist or the setting being an archeological dig. Your writing will be richer for your having studied the subject so extensively already. Imagine not having to do all that research!

If you want to write non-fiction for a living, an English or journalism degree (or even, public relations/advertising) could lead to a variety of jobs: reporting, writing brochures or sales literature for foundations or large companies, translation, advertising, etc.

You could go the reporter route...but there’s more money to be made in freelancing. The difference is: you’ve got to work harder for the freelance dollars. You’ve got to make your own leads, find your own stories, and be organized enough – and driven enough – to make it work for you.

High-paying writing jobs often require specialized experience: medical writing, legal writing, engineering, etc. If you want a high-paying writing job, explore those venues.

Can you write non-fiction and fiction? Sure, I do it all the time. But I’m not certain you can make a full-time career out of either if you do them together.

That being said: your mileage may vary. No matter what you decide... good luck!

Useful links:

Website/Blog: http://kellyaharmon.com

Twitter: @kellyaharmon

Read the first two chapters for free at Scribd:

http://www.scribd.com/doc/27623529/Blood-Soup-by-Kelly-A-Harmon

Buy Links:

Eternal Press Link: http://www.eternalpress.biz/searches.php?genre=22

Also available on Kindle:

http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Soup-ebook/dp/B003B658CK/ref=tmm_kin_title_0?ie=UTF8&m=AG56TWVU5XWC2

Fictionwise: http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/b96782/Blood-Soup/Kelly-Harmon/?si=0

Short Fiction: Deepening Twilight by AE Rought

2011-01-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

The angel breezed by, wings sparkling and halo askew. She giggled, a high sweet sound in the deepening twilight. A devil followed close behind, tail dragging in the gravel, pitchfork snagged on the angel’s skirts.

Then, their mother walked past. Each engrossed in their pursuit of sweet treats, and all oblivious to me.

I lay beneath a golden maple, upon the carpet of autumn’s splendor. A chill breeze unsettled my costume in its passage. And, the fallen leaves whispered softly beneath my weight--complaining, displeased that my blood stained them crimson…

* * * *

AE Rought is compulsive. Coffee, writing, chocolate, coffee, writing… When not indulging in hunky heroes, gorgeous heroines and their tangled lives, AE can be found crafting, beading, watching Ultimate Fighting on TV, maybe even walking the dog. Luckily, her real life gun-slinging, sword-swinging hero of a husband tolerates that little personality quirk pretty well. So do her kids. The cat, however, not so much—he still walks across the keyboard on occasion.

Links:

www.aerought.com

www.twitter.com/aerought

www.facebook.com/AERought

2011-01-09T01:03:00.000-08:00

THIS week Toad welcomes Sheryl Nantus to her corner. A few of you may remember the review that appeared for Blaze of Glory late last year. Well, Sheryl's back for a spot of Q&A. Welcome, Sheryl!

Sheryl was born in Montreal, Canada and grew up in Toronto, Canada. A rabid reader almost from birth, she attended Sheridan College in Oakville, graduating in 1984 with a diploma in Media Arts Writing.

During her 15 years of working in private security, she was stationed at the United States Consulate in Toronto, as well as many hospitals in the greater Toronto area. Needless to say, she saw a lot of interesting things and people from which she draws her characters and situations in her speculative fiction writing.

She met Martin Nantus through the online fanfiction community in 1993 and moved to the United States in 2000 in order to marry. A firm believer in the healing properties of peppermint and chai tea, she continues to write short stories, poetry and novels while searching for the perfect cuppa.

What made you choose superheroes for Blaze of Glory?

I've always loved superheroes and enjoy reading comic books and watching movies that have superheroes. This might go back to one of my earliest memories of running down the hallway with a towel tied around my neck and leaping into the air to fly... and breaking my little toe. Not so good on the flying, then or now.

I wrote Blaze of Glory because I wanted to do my own version of how supers could be created and what sort of world they would fit into. Or be pushed into, depending on how you look at it. How would the government react to having supers around? And what if you didn't want to be a hero or a villain...

Which are your two favourite, all-time super hero and super villiain, and why?

Oooh.... tough one. I love Wonder Woman because she's a tough old broad who doesn't take crap from anyone, especially men and she's been around forever. Oracle/Batgirl because she's a capable woman who doesn't let her disability keep her down. Iron Man 'cause RDJ jr. is so edible. Superman because he's, well, Superman!

Villains... that's tougher. I've always been bothered by supervillains who set themselves up for failure by leaving the back door open or allowing the good guy to thwart their evil plan because they forgot to set the timer or something. If I had to pick one it'd be Adrian Veidt from Watchmen because his evil is just so... good. No mercy, no emotions at all. And he gets the job done in terrifying form.

Brown Betties and fluffy white cats have featured in Blaze of Glory as well as What God and Cats Know. Any reason why?

Well, the Brown Betty is from my past - my grandmother, God bless her, always stated that there was nothing that couldn't wait for a cuppa tea. And as I've gotten older I've found this to be a pretty useful philosophy to go by (with the exclusion of life-threatening injuries, of course).

The white cat, well... her name was Jazz and she stayed with me for 17 years, coming with me from Toronto, Canada to the United States in 2000 when I got married. I still miss her horribly along with her bestest friend, Razzmatazz, a tortoiseshell cat, so they visit me every once in a while in my books. Hopelessly emotional sappy stuff.

Tell us more about Jo Tanis, your protagonist in Blaze of Glory.

Hmm, where to start?

She grew up in that awkward generation right in the middle of computers coming onto the scene and changing the world, creating new jobs and destroying others. After trying a number of retail jobs she fell into working at the Bookworm's Hideout as a way of staying alive during another recession and finding comfort and support from David Tierney, the store owner. He needed a clerk who could work cheap and she needed a job.

Of course, until she got mugged one night...but that's another story.

Can we expect further adventures from Jo Tanis and her crew of supers?

Right now I'm working on a sequel dealing with the consequences of Jo's actions in Blaze of Glory. There's a whole lot of problems sprouting up from her decisions and she has to deal with them. And, of course, Hunter.

Care to spill the beans on your next release?

I recently had my steampunk western romance, Wild Cards and Iron Horses, come out from Samhain Publishing in ebook form - the paperback version will be released in August 2011! And the paperback edition of Blaze of Glory is scheduled for a February 2011 release so keep an eye out in your local stores!

Wild Cards and Iron Horses:

Their love rides on a spring and a prayer…

During the recent Civil War, a soldier risked his life to save Jonathan Handleston—and lost. With the help of an advanced metal brace on his crippled hand, Jon now travels from one poker tournament to the next, determined to earn enough money to repay the man’s debt.

Prosperity Ridge is supposed to be the last stop on his quest, but his brace is broken and he needs an engineer to repair the delicate mechanisms. The only one available is Samantha Weatherly, a beautiful anomaly in a world ruled by men.

Sam is no fool. Jon is no different from any other gambler—except for his amazing prosthetic. Despite a demanding project to win a critical contract to develop an iron horse, she succumbs to the lure of working on the delicate mechanisms. And working with the handsome Englishman.

Like a spring being coiled, Samantha and Jon are inexorably drawn together. Sam begins to realize honor wears many faces, and she becomes the light at the end of Jon’s journey to redemption. The only monkey wrench is Victor, a rival gambler who will stop at nothing to make sure Jon misses the tournament. Even destroy Jon’s and Sam’s lives.

What are the three secrets of being a successful author?

Well, I'm not sure if I'm "successful" by anyone's definition, but I'll play along!

First, get your butt into the chair and write. Something, anything, just write. Ideas are fine but until you put them down on paper they're just floating in the air.

Second, don't be afraid to submit to publishers. Agents and publishers are always looking for new talent and you might just be what he/she is looking for! If you don't submit you can't get published and so forth. Yes, you'll get rejected but you have to learn to let it roll off your back and get back into the game. Just remember that all the authors you enjoy and read had to start somewhere...

Third, Read! Read! Read! Read books on the writing craft, read nonfiction books, read poetry, read fiction in your own genre and others. Pick up that western romance, that medieval book on printing, that science-fiction haiku poetry book. Don't limit yourself to any one genre or area - you never know what will fall into your stories and make them richer and fuller.

Useful links:

Blaze of Glory: http://samhainpublishing.com/books/blaze-of-glory

Wild Cards and Iron Horses: http://samhainpublishing.com/romance/wild-cards-and-iron-horses

What God and Cats Know: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1_21&products_id=192

Sheryl's website: www.sherylnantus.com

Thank you for dropping by today, Sheryl. I'm looking forward to reading Wild Cards and Iron Horses, and I'll definitely be inviting you 'round for another cuppa soon!

* * * *

Are you a published F/SF/H author? Do you have genre-fiction related resources? If so, Toad would like to hear from you. Email Nerine at nerinedorman@gmail.com and remember to put "Toad's Corner" in the subject line.

Meet Hank Quense

2011-01-02T02:34:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes author Hank Quense who, according to a family legend, was born around the middle of the last century, but he says no one in the family believes the legend. He lives in New Jersey, about fifteen miles outside of Manhattan, the entertainment center of the galaxy (if you listen to the people who live in Manhattan).

He has three books in print and ebook versions: Tunnel Vision, Fool's Gold and Tales From Gundarland. A fourth, Zaftan Entrepreneurs, will become available at the end of this month. He also has an ebook on fiction writing: Build a Better Story.

Which are the three most important SF works you'd recommend to someone who's never read the genre before? And why?

You asked about SF, so I'll restrict my answer to SF and exclude fantasy. Douglas Adams is number one. After that, Azimov and Heinlein―Adams because he's so off the wall and enjoyable, and because he changed the expectations of scifi; Azimov because he exerted so much influence; and Heinlein because his books, especially the latter ones were such great fun to read.

Do you listen to music while writing and, if so, who are your favourite composers/artists, and why?

I always listen to music while I write. Beethoven and Verdi are my favorite composers. Artists? Kiri Te Kanawa, Sarah Brightman, Dave Brubeck, George Lewis are on the top of my list.

Tell us a bit about your latest release and who it would appeal to.

Tales from Gundarland, published last spring, is a collection of six humorous short stories and two novellas. The common thread is that they all take place in Gundarland, a country located in a parallel universe close to ours. Gundarland is populated by humans, dwarfs elves and other races.

Zaftan Entrepreneurs is book one of the Zaftan Trilogy. The trilogy combines Scifi and fantasy. The zaftans are a nasty alien race who are merely hostile when in a good mood. A zaftan mining ship discovers Gundarland and sets out to plunder its mineral wealth. A dwarf miner, upset by robots trespassing on his land, declares war on them. The novel is part adventure and part corporate and political satire.

I think anyone who enjoys reading Douglas Adams, Terry Pratchett, Chris Moore or Tom Holt will like these stories

Does your environment influence what you write?

I don't think my environment does, but my experiences do. All of my characters (whether deliberate or not) display tunnel vision to an alarming degree. Watching folks interpret events through their own set of tunnel vision filters is one of my favorite pastimes. Just listen to a politician rewrite history (i.e. using tunnel vision) so it satisfies and/or justifies his current position is often amusing and more frequently alarming.

Do you think science fiction will regain some of the old popularity it enjoyed during the 1950s and 1960s?

I'm not sure. Ereaders like Kindle and iPad have the capability to greatly change the way people read as well as what they read. So perhaps the electronic readers will lead to a resurgence of scifi. Possibly because it will be so easy to obtain and carry around ebooks. A further consideration is that the online book stores like Amazon and iStore have a wealth of books that are not available in traditional book stores. For instance, I love to read Tom Holt's novels, but as a British author, his books aren't readily available in book stores over here or in the public libraries. But they are available online and can be instantly downloaded. I find that I buy a lot more books since I got an iPad.

Is there a little bit about your current work in progress you feel comfortable sharing?

I love rewriting Shakespeare's stories; they have such great plots. I also love redoing myths of Merrie Olde England. Camelot, Robin Hood and Isolde are some of the ones I've worked on recently. My current project is a masterpiece. In one short novel, I'm playing havoc with Shakespeare's Hamlet and Othello plays while using another of his characters, Falstaff, as the link between the other two. This could cause a resurgence in interest in the Bard's work.

Or maybe not.

Are there any SF authors you'd recommend readers keep an eye on?

Not necessarily SF, but certainly genre authors: Peadar O'Guilin (an Irish author) and Eugie Foster (an American).

What are your top five tips to aspiring writers?

a) Don't stop. b) Write your stuff, not some other author's stuff. c) Don't get discouraged by lack of acceptance by publishers and agents. What do they know? d) See a), b) and c). E) See d)

Does reading your stories have any possible side-effects?

I'm glad you asked that because there are precautions that should be taken by readers. First, check with your doctor to determine if you are healthy enough to take part in spontaneous laughter. Second, if you are suffering from a contagious disease such as the flu or a cold, wear a mask to limit the spread of airborne germs when you laugh out loud. Finally, no one should read my stories while driving a car or operating heavy machinery.

Links?

You want links? Here you go:

You can keep up with my writing adventures at: http://hankquense.com. You can find links on my books on that site.

My blog is at: http://hankquense.com/blog

My Facebook fan page is: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Hank-Quenses-Fiction-Writing-Page/102293491907?v=wall

You can follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/hanque99

On Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/hankquense

Review: Blaze of Glory

2010-12-19T11:16:00.000-08:00

Title: Blaze of Glory

Author: Sheryl Nantus

Publisher: Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 2010

Buy-link: http://www.amazon.com/Blaze-Glory-Sheryl-Nantus/dp/1609280121/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1283854209&sr=1-2

Jo Tanis, better known to millions of viewers around the world as Surf, is a superhero who can control electromagnetic waves to devastating effect. Partnered with Mike, whose hulking robotic suit lends him superhuman strength, they fight against super villains. There’s only one problem. It’s all lies.

Controlled by the sinister Agency, all the supers’ fights are rigged, and when the proverbial paw-paw really hits the fan with the arrival of aliens, humanity is unprepared to deal with the hostile attack. It’s up to Jo and a motley team of B-list supers to get down and dirty and save the day.

Having encountered Nantus before with her novel What God and Cats Know, I looked forward to her latest offering and wasn’t disappointed. Little quirks, like her penchant for the ubiquitous Brown Betty teapots and a fluffy white cat somewhere in the narrative make me smile, but what makes the story is this author’s characterisation.

Jo isn’t some twenty-something waiflet, and certainly has her job cut out for her when she inadvertently takes on the role of wrangling a mismatched group of erstwhile villains, odd couples and individuals. Superheroes many of the cast may be, but Nantus shows us their human side and also their fragility, so I’m happy to report, no Mary Sues or Marty Stus here unless we consider our freaky alien invaders.

If super heroes and witty exchanges are your cup of tea—and be warned, there’s plenty of tea-drinking going on behind the scenes—then I reckon this novel pushes all the right buttons. Oh, after some mention of alien ships resembling giant avocados hovering menacingly above major global cities. This is a fast-paced novel packed full of punches that has a storyline that could probably show some Hollywood producers a thing or two about what constitutes a satisfying superhero tale. Nantus has done good here and I’m keen to see what else she’ll be bringing to the table in the future.

Tea with Karen Michelle Nutt

2010-12-12T11:47:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes author, Karen Michelle Nutt to her corner for a cuppa tea and a bit of chit-chat.

Welcome, Karen!

Tell us about the first genre fiction novel you read that has made a lasting impression on you... and why.

Baby Island by Carol Ryrie Brink. I read it when I was about nine years old. From page one, I was swept away. Baby Island is the story of two young sisters, Jean and Mary, who were on their way to join their father in Australia, but end up marooned on an island with four babies. How they manage to survive is both fun and charming in this engaging story. It was the first time a book thoroughly captivated me. I couldn’t wait to read another book and enter another world created by an author. My next pick was a paranormal, The Ghost of Dibble Hollow by May Nickerson Wallace and my love for the genre has never waned. I still have these two books on my bookshelf.

Out of all your characters, is there one who is especially dear to you?

I have to choose one? LOL! Okay, it would have to be Dougray from Lost in the Mist of Time. He has a wonderful sense of humor and I love that in a man.

If you could spend a day in his/her company, what would you plan to do?

I would meet Dougray for lunch at the The Long Dock restaurant that overlooks the Cliff of Mohr (Ireland.) I’ll order the fresh quiche and he’ll order the smoked fish. For dessert we’ll have the chocolate and pecan brownies. I’d say we’d share, but Dougray loves his sweets. Heck, what am I saying, so do I. After lunch, we’ll do a little exploring. One can see the Aran Islands, Galway Bay and the mountains in Conemara. The view is spectacular!

What are of your latest release's outstanding qualities and why should people read this story?

Creighton Manor - The story is a spellbinding time travel voyage, filled with passionate seduction, shocking deceit and grand adventure of discovery.

Where did you have your last holiday and did anything outstanding inspire your writing?

How about a virtual holiday? I came across a site for Bodie, a ghost town in California, and it brought back fond memories of my adventures with my cousin there. We did a little behind-the-scenes exploring. At the time, we didn’t realize we shouldn’t be in those areas. Oops, but what a wonderful time we had. The reminiscing had me thinking about a “steampunk” time travel. It’s a WIP right now.

If you were given three wishes, what would they be?

1. Enough time in the day to write would be wonderful.

2. Someone to clean my house. lol

3. The ability to time travel.

Useful links:

http://www.kmnbooks.com

http://kmnbooks.blogspot.com/

Tea with Sonya Clark

2010-11-14T10:36:00.000-08:00

Welcome to urban fantasy author Sonya Clark, who graces Toad's Corner this week. Sonya's debut novella, Bring on the Night, introduces readers to her world of vampires in werewolves, but Mojo Queen is coming soon, bringing an intriguing glimpse into the doings of magic practitioners in a contemporary Southern setting. This is an author who pushes all of Toad's buttons, in all the right places. **grins**

* * * *

Tell us a bit more about your setting for your debut novella, Bring on the Night, and does this tie in with your novel Mojo Queen in any way?

Bring on the Night is set in a fictional town called Concord. Most of the action takes place in the rougher part of town on the waterfront. What I envisioned was a sort of semi-abandoned industrial area like what you’d find in a city with a failing economy. All the blue-collar middle class jobs are gone, and what’s left is poverty and predators. The setting, along with many other aspects of the story, was very noir-inspired.

Bring on the Night and Mojo Queen are unrelated stories, but they do have something in common: people living outside the bounds of normal society, trying to do the right thing and help others.

Obviously you love vampires. How are yours different from the standard vampiric themes gadding about in the media today?

In Bring on the Night vampire Jessie is not afraid to drink straight from the tap, so to speak. She’s sexy and flirty but she’s there to break heads, not fall in love. With vampire Daniel in Mojo Queen, I made him basically a sidekick just because I wanted a vampire that wasn’t a main character. Usually vamps get the headlining role. Neither of them are broody, love-obsessed, or at all interested in passing themselves off as high school kids. I want to write vampire-free stories too but at some point I know I have to write something where the vampires are evil. Sometimes you just have to let monsters be monsters.

Which one of your characters do you resonate with the most, and why?

In Bring on the Night it would probably be Brandon, the curious journalist who discovers vampires are real and at one point asks Jessie to show him her fangs. I’d probably do something really stupid like that in a similar situation, let curiosity overrule fear and good sense. In Mojo Queen it’s the main character, Roxanne Mathis. Without really thinking it through I gave her my love of music and it changed the character. You look at the world through the lens of what you’re passionate about, because that’s what you’ve studied, even if informally. With a love of music being so much a part of who I am, it’s almost impossible to keep it out of anything I write. So far she’s the character that has been the most informed by that.

What are the top three movies you'd have in your collection and what is it about them that makes you revisit them?

I love Christopher Nolan’s Batman movies – love the intensity of them, love how they took what is really a crazy ridiculous idea (vigilante in a bat suit!) and made it fit with the world we live in now. Especially Dark Knight – the metaphors at work in that movie alone are dissertation-worthy.

The Princess Bride is like an old friend. There are few situations in life that a quote from that movie would not be relevant to.

There’s not been a movie vampire I really loved yet, but I have high hopes for Dark Shadows. I’ve been waiting for Johnny Depp to play a vampire since I was fifteen!

Who is your all-time favourite villain, and why?

I’m having a hard time thinking of a villain that didn’t go through some sort of redemptive story arc. If I can count villains like that, I have to go with Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I always loved how he thoroughly embraced being a vampire, even after he changed from villain to anti-hero.

Care to spill the beans with regard to your works in progress?

My next novel-length work will be a sequel to Mojo Queen, tentatively titled Red House. MQ is set in Nashville, which was hit by catastrophic flooding this past May. In deciding whether or not I wanted to deal with that in a fictional setting, I thought about what it might do to have that kind of energy unleashed through the spiritual plane. People are uprooted when a natural disaster strikes. What happens to the spirits that haunt a place when that place has been smashed by the enormous energy of a flood? I’ve got some ideas about that, and I’m doing some research about ghost stories from this area as well as other major floods, plus some other things.

I always have other projects going on, too, for fun or to experiment. I’ve found that when I challenge myself, even if I fail it somehow manages to push my writing forward. So that’s cool.

* * * *

Useful links:

http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=245

http://sonyaclark.webs.com/

Whispering Bones: an excerpt

2010-11-07T12:08:00.000-08:00

Today Toad welcomes horror author Rita Vetere to her corner, to share an excerpt from her recently released Whispering Bones (Lyrical Press). Rita's writing offers the classic retro horror feel evident in such classics as The Omen, Rosemary's Baby and their ilk. Her characters are real, three-dimensional people who go through harrowing experiences. I'm happy to say this is not a book you read late at night when it's storming outside. Or you could... **grins**

* * * *

“Let’s get on with it. It’s the last load. I want to get back.”

The men began emptying the cart of its gruesome cargo, jostling her. Terrified, she listened to the sickening thuds as corpses were thrown into the pit, colliding with the bodies already there. Suddenly, shockingly, Isabella was lifted up. “No... No!” She felt herself falling. Then, the blinding pain of impact as she landed among the dead.

The stench, the slimy feel of rotten flesh... Death surrounded her. More bodies landed beside her, on top of her. Panicked, she screamed, “Take me to the Lazaretto... please! It cannot be far, I beg you.”

The cloaked and masked monster towering above the pit said as he grabbed a shovel, “There is no place at the Lazaretto for the sick any longer. It already overflows with the dead and dying. You have been brought to Poveglia.”

Isabella moaned in despair. Poveglia was a disposal site, nothing more.

The other man spoke. “Tomaso... We could try on our way back to the mainland. Perhaps the Lazaretto will take her. She is but a child—”

“Shut up. I’ve no intention of stopping there, only to be turned away. Then what? Return here to do what we should have done in the first place? No. Look at her. She is already dead.”

The cruel words struck Isabella like stones. Although close to death, a smouldering rage began to build inside her. She looked up at the pizzicamorti, leaning on their shovels at the pit’s edge. Her gaze slid back and forth between the two men and came to rest on the dark form of the man who had refused to help her.

In that moment, something happened.

Her delirious mind cleared. For a split second, Isabella perceived her situation with complete lucidity. She could surrender herself to God’s will. Accept her fate, knowing her immortal soul would soon be reunited with Mamma and Papa in the afterlife. Or she could choose another, darker path—one which had opened before her as a result of this outrage. Isabella heard a sinister whisper. Take revenge. The callous man showed no mercy, no remorse for what he was about to do. She could go unforgiving into the darkness, her soul be damned.

Perhaps if the evil man had not chosen that exact moment to fill his spade and send a shower of dirt over her; perhaps if he had not acted at that precise second, Isabella might have followed the path of light. Perhaps. But the man made his choice and Isabella made hers. She opened and allowed the dark entity which had spoken to her to slither inside.

When the earth struck her open sores, Isabella’s rage exploded. A powerful force surged in her, a roiling, dark energy that breathed life into her once again. Lifting her head, she spoke directly to the man, the one called Tomaso, who had condemned her to be buried alive.

“A curse on you...and on your house... You will be made to pay for this deed... With a death worse than that which you have decreed for me... All of you. Until the very last...perishes.”

Isabella fell back onto her deathbed. The knowledge dawned that she had only been a vessel for the dark power which had risen in her, causing her to speak the words. She found she did not care. A cold satisfaction took hold of her when she saw the masked man hesitate before lifting his spade again. For a moment, instead of the stink of corpses surrounding her, she smelled only his fear. Suddenly, spade after spade of earth rained down on her as the man began to rapidly shovel. He carried out his execution, cursing as he buried Isabella alive.

Isabella could no longer move. Layer after layer of dirt covered her. It entered her nostrils when she tried to breath. It covered her open eyes, blinding her. Earth filled her mouth. It tasted like death, but her heart was cold now and she welcomed it.

* * * *

Liked this? Buy Whispering Bones here: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=product_info&cPath=1_52&products_id=275&zenid=6oecjfs9l3kpk2r4gannru6bq5

Tea with John Everson

2010-10-24T03:42:00.000-07:00

John and I have known of each other since the mid-naughties (I think that’s what they call that era) and he’s been putting out dark, evocative horror for quite some time. Toad would like to thank John for sparking some time out of his busy schedule to drop by her corner.

Tell us about the day you knew you had to start writing.

I don't think I could narrow it down to a "day"...but I've known since I was in grade school that I was going to be a "writer" of some kind. As a kid, I was a voracious reader (mostly of classic SF and fantasy) and I remember back in 3rd or 4th grade trying to write a "space opera" short story along the lines of Isaac Asimov's galactic foundation. When I went to high school, I worked as an editor of the student newspaper, writing music reviews and an opinions column, as well as news. That paper was where my very first piece of fiction appeared, a short vignette about a man who commits suicide. In hindsight, I wonder if that subject focus worried my teachers! I knew in high school that I was going to major in journalism, which I did at the University of Illinois, and while I was there, I wrote some short fiction for a creative writing class, along with poetry and song lyrics. And I worked almost every day there at the student newspaper--again doing both feature interviews/reviews and news. I always liked the more colorful writing best.

I didn't start trying to sell my fiction until a couple years after I graduated college, but I knew that I'd make my living at writing early on. My first job out of college was at a community newspaper. Later, I went on to pay the mortgage by working as an editor at a music magazine, and then for a medical trade publication. Along the way while working those "dayjobs" I wrote an increasing amount of dark fantasy/horror fiction, and slowly racked up publication credits for short stories until my first book-length collection of short fiction, Cage of Bones & Other Deadly Obsessions, was published by Delirium Books in 2000.

What is your all-time scariest movie, and why?

I think Alien has to rank in the top five there. It has the perfect balance of dark mood and claustrophobia mixed with the terror of a malevolent unknown. The "monster" is both intelligent and deadly and the environment is dark and enclosed, as the crew are all trapped on a spaceship with the creature. The mystery of what the alien wants to do with the bodies of the crew helps make the movie more than simply a cat-and-mouse kill game. It's really one of the best horror films ever made. More recently, I've liked the intensity of French films like High Tension and Martyrs. The endings of both films either resonate or alienate the viewer, but the naked intensity of both keep you gripping the cushions on the couch throughout. Or, at least, they did me!

Do the things you write about scare you and, if so, are there bits of text where you had to sit back and say, "Oh my god, what have I let loose?"

The events that I write about don't scare me per se...because I'm in control of them. So from that perspective, I'm not afraid or threatened by what I write. I don't "freak myself out" because I don't really believe in my heart that a demon is going to come reaching out of the cracks in the wall at any of the hotels I stay in, as one does in my novel Sacrifice. That said, the "themes" that I write about definitely draw from my fears. In my new novel, Siren, which is out this month from Leisure Books, the lead character is a man named Evan, who is an aquaphobe. Evan's back-story is that he was unable to save his son from drowning due to his phobia of the water, and at the start of the novel he is essentially "the walking dead", just going through the motions of life while being eaten alive from the guilt of watching his son die. I am not an aquaphobe--I love the water!--but since I finished my first two novels, Covenant and Sacrifice, I became a parent. And one of the most horrible feelings that I think every parent has is the fear that you can't protect your child from the bad things in the world. That's a "paralysis" of sorts along the same lines as Evan's aquaphobia. You simply can't save your children from everything they are likely to face in their lives. That's one of the most frightening feelings you can have, I think.

Do you have any amusing incidents that have occurred at book signings?

One thing I've learned over the past couple years is that bookstores are frequently frequented by very...interesting...characters! I have done a couple dozen book signings for each of my three previous novels, and in almost every store I end up meeting someone who is memorable...frequently because of the odd things I learn from them. I've had a man in an electric orange jumpsuit scream at me because he had lost relatives to a serial killer (in reaction to my novel Sacrifice) and I've gotten a lecture from a bag lady about sexual abuse and misogyny (in reaction to hearing the premise behind my novel The 13th). I've had a man tell me about how his wife was "hit on" by Adolf Hitler. In Nashville, I met an enlisted man in uniform who produced a Chinese fighting star from a pocket and proceeded to tell me about a number of ways that you could kill a man. And once, in Cincinnati, I had to laugh when a woman's child hit the alarm button on the escalator near my signing table and froze the entire escalator system for a large Barnes & Noble store.

When you write horror, what is the most important factor contributing to an authentic sense of the genre?

The most important factor in horror is to capture the emotion of fear. Regardless of whether the horror story deals with vampires, zombies, werewolves, a serial killer, a malicious demon or a creeping deadly virus...the common thread of them all is the fear that the characters have of the monstrous challenge they need to overcome. Horror is about our fear of the unknown and its potentially terminal impact on us. If you can capture that fear in your character and translate it to the reader effectively, you've written a good horror story.

Tell us more about Siren. Who will enjoy this novel?

I think anyone who's ever felt a deep pain, or been obsessed by desire will appreciate this novel. Siren, as I said, follows Evan, an aquaphobe, who moves from a sort of "living death" to reclaiming his life thanks to the influence of a true Siren. Ligeia, the sexy creature who lures him into the water for the first time in his life and away from his wife, also re-awakens Evan to the pieces left of his life that he still values. But when he comes to his senses and tries to escape from Ligeia's embrace, well...a woman scorned is bad. A Siren scorned is mythologically bad.

Useful links.

I have a website and blog at www.johneverson.com, where information on all my fiction, artwork and music is available. You can also sign up for my monthly e-newsletter there, at www.johneverson.com/list.htm.

To order most of my books, take a look at my page on Amazon.com at: http://www.amazon.com/John-Everson/e/B002BMHL52/

To find some of my rarer small press releases, from e-books of my short fiction collections to some of my rare hardcovers, check out the "John Everson" section at The Horror Mall: https://www.horror-mall.com/John-Everson-p-1-c-296.html

Carol Hone and Edge of Humanity

2010-10-17T01:57:00.000-07:00

Edge of Humanity is a very special story. Blending steampunk elements such airships and a fascinating culture of bioengineering, Carol Hone brings a detailed milieu to life. Here quagga (a now not-quite-extinct form of zebra) are useful pack animals, dodos have been domesticated, ghosts can be used for ammunition, and magic and science have fused into some remarkable hybrid technologies. Not quite fantasy and not quite science fiction, Hone’s setting is a plunge into a world where surprises lurk around every turn and nothing is quite what it seems.

Carol, thank you for stopping by Toad’s Corner to share a little of your magic.

Tell us about Kara and the origins of Edge of Humanity.

Edge of Humanity came about because I wanted to use the world I’d already developed in a novella-length story. This world has a curious and possibly lunatic mix of pseudo-sciences like acupuncture and herbology along with ghosts and trinketology—my invented pet favourite. I threw them into a steampunkish background, stirred and stomped on the mixture, then simmered it for a while.

Kara, the female protagonist in Edge of Humanity, was an adventure in writing a character who is not quite who she thinks she is, or it can be hoped, who the reader thinks she is. She became the somewhat unreliable narrator of a story within the story, though these two strands eventually merge into one another. I was drawn to the idea of the mind being a foreign land that no one ever sees in exactly the same light.

Along the rocky path to writing this, I learned a lot about the process of insinuating hints and clues into a story so that they can combine and deliver that “aha!” feeling when the answers click into place. By the time I reached the ending I was very deep into Kara’s character and found it both cathartic and simple to write. A warning here—though I would call this a romance adventure, don’t expect this to be a standard romance. I mostly wanted to have a go at turning the reader’s mind into a pretzel. Pretzels, come to think of it, do a fair imitation of that mind-numbing construction, the Mobius strip. Plus you can eat them.

Your setting borrows not only from fantasy but a healthy dose of SF. How did you realise your biomechanical mages?

I loved the idea of combining a technological device with some organic magic. Hence the biomechanical mages, who I’ve termed trinketologists, can take ingredients such as branches, metal objects, rock, jewels and so on and turn them into a device that will function for the lifetime of the bio-mage who created it. To supply the magical energy required to run these devices they harvest the animus of living things, mostly from animals, like the songster beetle in Edge of Humanity, but also sometimes from plants.

One character in the story has a coveted long gun that is a fusion of metal and plant. This weapon fires the rare gheist ammunition, which is derived from the ectoplasm of ghosts. Being hit by this ammunition either kills in a spectacular fashion, or causes insanity. It also begs the question as to how society would regard and use something this good at killing if it required the use of a ghost that might once have been a close relative. I like that sort of moral question coming up as the result of a world device.

You write about extinct creatures. Why quaggas and dodos? How do you give them the breath of life?

Oh, I had a terribly logical reason for putting them in—because I wanted to. Sorry, but dodos are sorely neglected in adult fiction, and so are those gorgeous zebras, the quaggas. Unfortunately for the dodos they ended up as the equivalent of chickens and so tend to be seen on the end of a kebab stick. The quaggas made a lovely pack animal. The stripes are to die for. I guess I also did have a notion of drawing attention to the tremendous ability of humanity to drive species to extinction.

Describe your writing process. Do you plot or do the words just flow?

I do a combination of both. I plot the major events as much as I seem to need to. I generally have a good idea of the main characters and a visual idea of the finale or a scene close to it in my head. Also I sort out the background and an overlying reason for writing the story, and then I go for it. If I get bogged down at any point I start plotting in more detail. I like to throw in things as I write that have the potential to twist the plot into different directions. Sometimes they get used in the story, other times not.

The fun times are when something links to something else in an unexpected way. Or you get stuck in a cul-de-sac and suddenly one of those weird plot thingies turns into a vital ingredient that sets the plot churning over again.

Who are some of the up-and-coming authors worth looking out for? And your all-time established favourites?

Old favorites range from the very old like Robert Heinlein and Zelazny and TH White to recent YA authors Philip Reeves and Phillip Pullman or the urban fantasies of Karen Chance. I’m also keen on Emma Bull, who I’m reading right now, as War for the Oaks is so yummily well written.

Care to share a bit about your works in progress?

I’ve got a steampunk universe that’s in the early stages. Tentatively titled, Mia, post-apocalyptic and I’d like to plonk it into the middle of the Pangea Ultima map when all the continents get squashed together, though it’s not likely humanity will still be around by then. My favourite quirk with that one should be my frankenstructs, a sort of frankensteinian clone that’s used by one of the nations as either cannon fodder or slaves.

I also have Needle Rain going through the beta reading phase, and it’s set in the same world as Edge of Humanity. It’s of far larger scope and I get to run a lot more of my nifty concepts though the story. Like my Immolators who are elite warriors created by Needle Masters who use a magical type of acupuncture. The bio-mechanical magic makes an appearance, of course, and I play around with the side effects of my female protagonist being over-dosed on needles and thus susceptible to possession by ghosts.

Magience, my first novel where I used the world of Edge of Humanity should, it can be hoped contracted and released within the next year or so, and is currently under consideration with an editor.

Useful links:

The Critters Workshop: http://www.critters.org/

Lyrical Press: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=authors&authors_id=150

Carol’s website: http://carolhone.com/

Tea with Sara-Jayne Townsend

2010-10-10T09:39:00.000-07:00

This week Toad had tea with author Sara Townsend, who was happy to share a little about her experiences at writing cons.

Tell us more about some of the conventions you’ve attended.

There’s a difference between ‘conventions’ and ‘conferences’ and I’ve attended enough of both to be able to tell the difference. Conventions usually feature panels, where a group of people discuss a topic. Conferences have talks―one person discusses a topic, and it tends to be a bit more structured. People will often dress up in costumes for conventions―this doesn’t happen at conferences.

Conventions I attend regularly include FantasyCon and EasterCon. FantasyCon is the annual convention of the British Fantasy Society and is usually in September. “Fantasy” in this case tends to embrace the genres of dark fantasy, horror and SF, as well as more traditional fantasy. EasterCon, also known as Odyssey, is another annual con, specialising in SF (film, TV and books) and is generally held somewhere in the UK over the Easter Weekend (hence the name).

This year was my first year attending World Horror Con, which is hosted by the Horror Writers’ Association and is generally in North America, but this year was in Brighton. I also regularly attend the Winchester Writers’ Conference, held in June every year at Winchester University, and the St Hilda’s Crime & Mystery Conference, held in Oxford in the summer. The latter two involve staying in student dorms, which can be quite an adventure in itself―trotting down the corridor in your pyjamas to the toilet block is a whole different experience when you’re over 30, than when you’re an 18-year-old student.

Did you get to see any of your favourite authors? If so, who, and what was especially memorable about their presentations?

As a crime fan, I particularly like the St Hilda’s Conference, because it’s quite a small conference and you get pretty up-close and personal with a lot of crime writers. Val McDermid is a regular speaker at St Hilda’s, and her talks are always very entertaining. She has a lot of time for new writers too.

PD James did a particularly interesting talk at St Hilda’s recently, in which she talked about a writer selling film rights, and the difficulties of converting a book to a film. I got the opportunity to talk to her afterwards, about the film adaptation of her story Children of Men. She felt the film version was very different from her story, but she enjoyed the film, and she said she would rather have a good film that was different from her story, than a bad film that was faithful to the original.

Do you have any amusing anecdotes relating to conventions that you’d like to share?

Not so much amusing but I have a couple of inspiring stories I’d like to share with you.

My contract with Lyrical Press arrived just a couple of days before I left for the St Hilda’s Mystery Conference last year. I was therefore still deciding whether it was the right thing for me. My dreams of publication had always involved print copies of my book and signing sessions, and I knew that signing up with LPI would involve electronic publication with no guarantee of a print book, so I was still considering whether they were the right publisher for me.

That first evening at St Hilda’s I happened to find myself, quite by chance, sitting next to a literary agent at dinner. This particular agent I had met before, and in fact she has rejected two of my novels, including Suffer the Children. But in spite of that she had encouraging things to say about both, and is a lovely person, and I don’t bear her any grudges. Over dinner I told her about the contract I’d been offered and asked her what her professional view was on this. She encouraged me to go for it, relaying her view that e-publishing was going to become big business over the next few years and all publishers were going to have to find a way of working with it, as e-books were here to stay. Encouraged by her opinion, when I returned home from the conference I signed the contract.

I have another story about the first year I attended the Winchester Writer’s Conference. I had arranged to meet with two agents for my one-to-one pitch meetings, and for my third meeting, which had to be with someone other than an agent or editor, I chose Sally Spedding, who as a writer of crime and supernatural novels I thought might be able to offer me some helpful advice.

The two agent appointments were first, and I pitched my recently-finished crime novel to them. Although they both offered helpful comments on how I could improve, they both felt the novel wasn’t yet saleable, and I came away feeling somewhat deflated. But then I had my appointment with Sally, who had read the first chapter of my crime novel, Death Scene, and she said it was the best thing she’d read all weekend, I had talent and I had an idea worth sticking with. My meeting with Sally made my weekend. I have stayed in contact with her since then, and she has continued to be extremely supportive and encouraging. I came out of the agent appointments thinking I should just shelve the book and work on something new, but after meeting Sally I was encouraged to start sending it out again.

I tell these stories because sometimes just one person you meet at a con can change your future.

As an author, what do you think is the most important aspect of attending a convention?

The most important thing is to not be afraid of talking to people. The only way to meet people at conventions is to go up and introduce yourself. People are generally friendly and everyone wears name badges, so it’s easy to spot people that you think you might like to meet. The best place to meet people is in the bar. So don’t be shy. If you see an author whose books you really like, go and tell them so. Another good conversation opener is approaching someone you saw on a panel―perhaps they made a point that you thought was a particularly good one. When you’re an unpublished writer you are sometimes tempted to put successful writers up on pedestals, but in reality all writers are the same, and we all like talking to someone who’s got intelligent or encouraging things to say about our writing.

You should also not be afraid of going by yourself. Plenty of people go to cons alone, and everyone’s looking for someone to talk to. If your worst fear is that you’ll stand all by yourself all evening, find someone else who also looks a bit lost and go and talk to them. Another good place to meet people at cons is at meal times, especially if you’re staying in the con hotel. Some of the most interesting conversations at cons happen over breakfast.

If you’re a writer with a book coming out, make sure you don’t go anywhere convention-related without your business cards or promotional material about your book. Whenever you chat to anyone, you should give them a business card. I learned this the hard way at World Horror Con. We arrived on Friday night, dumped our stuff in the room, and headed out to the bar. I then found myself talking to all manner of interesting people and my business cards were back in the hotel room.

There are usually book launches at cons. Try and get to as many as you can, even if they are for writers you are not familiar with. You never know who else you will meet there, and it’s worth investing in a new author. They might get the opportunity to return the favour one day and buy your book.

Are there any conventions you think fit the bill as “The top conventions to attend before you die?”

It really depends on what you want to get out of them. A convention geared towards your particular genre as a writer, such as World Horror Con for horror writers and Easter Con for SF writers can be invaluable, and everyone writing in the genre should attend at least one.

I would recommend the Winchester Writers’ Conference for anyone starting out in their writing career, or who is beginning to pitch their novel, because it’s the best place to meet agents or editors there. I can’t really speak for any of the US writer-orientated Cons. I know there are a lot of them, but I’ve only attended UK ones.

Some conventions, however, are just geared towards fans, and only geeky fan girls (or boys) will get anything out of them. Personally speaking, as a die-hard Buffy the Vampire Slayer fan, I would very much like to attend at least one Buffy Con before I die.

* * * *

Sara-Jayne Townsend writes horror and crime fiction. Whichever genre she writes in, somebody always dies in a horrible way. By day, she works as a personal assistant at a medical college. By night, she kills people off in her stories.

She is a UK-based writer, living in Surrey with her guitarist husband and two cats, but spent most of the 1980s living in Canada after her family emigrated there.

Her first novel, Suffer the Children, was released by Lyrical Press, Inc as an e-book this year.

She is founder and chair person of the T Party Writers’ Group, the longest-running writing group in London specialising in genre fiction.

Her website can be found at: http://sarajaynetownsend.weebly.com

You can also catch up with her ramblings on books, writing and commuting life on her blog, at http://sayssara.wordpress.com

When it Mattered

2010-09-12T03:41:00.000-07:00

My eyes opened in the pre-dawn darkness and I reached out, surprised that you weren’t there. Then I remembered.

I felt my way through the house to the back yard and lifted my face to the black sky. I started a deep breath but my throat refused the grit and miasma.

I closed my eyes and stretched my arms wide. I whispered, “I’m ready,” and stood motionless until my shoulders ached and my arms collapsed against my sides.

I went inside, washed with cold water, dressed by candle light, and left for the office.

I lingered in the driveway to watch the sunrise. The same dust that hid the stars now threw the morning’s first light across the horizon in blazing splashes of vibrant orange and red. When the last blush turned gray I hurried off to work. The few vehicles on the freeway were heading the opposite direction, out of the city.

The skyline wasn’t the one you knew. Many buildings were shattered, others stood untouched. Rubble and derelict cars littered the streets. The few people still downtown stared at, then through me, their blank faces and tattered clothes gray with dust.

My building was covered in dust and ash, but intact.

I drove down into the parking garage and felt my way through the dark to the stairwell. When I got to my office I was winded from the long climb. I averted my eyes from the silver frame on my desk to avoid your smile. My fingers glided over my desk and chair, absorbing warmth from the hand-rubbed mahogany, caressing the soft leather. As the familiar furnishings enveloped me, I reflexively touched the computer’s power switch. No hum, no light, no messages to read. But I knew that.

I pulled hard copies from the filing cabinets. I read reports, tallied invoices and cross checked spreadsheets; the company was thriving when the world died.

At 11:30 I took a bottle of water and a peanut butter sandwich from my briefcase and started back toward the stairs, past gray cubicles with black nameplates that stood in rows like headstones.

I descended, guided by the cool railing, until my footsteps echoed off the marble walls of the lobby.

The statue in the park―the one you liked with the woman and the birds―was still there, but the horse and rider had fallen. I chewed the taste out of my bread, staring without interest at a pile of refuse on a bench until dark eyes peered out. I offered the remainder of my sandwich and water. Two boney hands stretched out, slowly, as if hoping that I would change my mind and take the food away. When I persisted, an irresolute grip enclosed the offering. I waited until muffled sounds of eating seeped out of the newspapers and gray-brown rags. No words expected, none given.

By the time my watch read 12:32 I was back at my desk, pulling hard-copies, reading reports, tallying invoices and cross-checking spreadsheets.

I worked until my vision blurred, then groped my way past the workstation-graveyard down the stairwell to the parking garage. I started my car and checked the fuel: enough to get me home and back for the rest of the week, or perhaps the rest of my life.

On my first day with the company I vowed that someday I would have a top floor office. Sixteen years, two months, and three weeks later I made CFO. Did you count the days too? I think you did, but for different reasons.

I wish I’d missed you when it mattered.

Back in our kitchen, I turned from the missing wall and listened to cereal crackle as water poured over it.

I imagined Rascal dancing on his hind legs. I could see him whirling, eyes sparkling, pink tongue flicking in and out with his happy panting. Then I remembered that his body was with yours somewhere in the rubble that used to be our bedroom.

I never believed that the meteor storms would come. I would have been home with you instead of working late the night our home was cut in half. I wanted the corner office with a view of the park.

I went outside and closed my eyes, stretched my arms wide, whispered, “I’m ready,” and stood motionless until my shoulders ached and my arms collapsed against my sides.

I’m ready.

* * * *

Useful links:

http://realityimagined.wordpress.com

http://mustangscorral.blogspot.com

* * * *

Jess Harris is a writer who is not quite ready to give up his day job as a US Army officer. He’s been published in Sniplits.com, among others. He is a member of MinnSpec Writers’ Network, MN8 Novelists’ Retreat, founder of SoFriedSpecFic, and adjunct member (strap-hanger) of SA-based Adamaster Writer’s Guild.

He writes dark science fiction, urban fantasy alternate history, high fantasy with practically no magic, “literary crime fiction” (whatever that means) and humorous horror. His biggest challenge is usually deciding what genre a particular piece falls into.

Go figure.

Pamela Hearon and The Timestone Key

2010-09-05T07:20:00.001-07:00

This week Toad welcomes Pamela Hearon, author of The Timestone Key, to her corner for a cuppa tea and a quick chat.

* * * *

Tell me about the blinding moment of realization that led to you realizing you wanted to be an author.

Well, when I was three years old…J No kidding, I don’t ever remember not wanting to be an author. My mom still has poems I wrote her as soon as I could write and understood the concept. I’ve always loved words. I love languages and etymology, can be absorbed by a thesaurus or a dictionary. My dad is a bit of a writer, and I believe the passion was in my blood at birth.

What sparked your concept for The Timestone Key and how did you set about writing it?

I’ve read King Arthur stories all my life. I can never get enough of them. So, a few years ago, I planned a trip with my husband during which we would drive around England, going from one Arthurian site to another. An idea germinated in my mind on the first day. By the time we left, I had a full-blown story. When we got home, I started putting it on paper, and six months later, I had a rough draft. It was dreadful, but I didn’t know that at the time. I thought it was fabulous! A gazillion rewrites later, it was ready for publication.

Who will enjoy reading The Timestone Key and what are the underlying themes running through the work?

The underlying themes are “follow your heart”, and “you must be happy with yourself before you can be happy with anyone else”. This story will appeal to readers of romance, fantasy, and lovers of King Arthur stories. But the latter should be forewarned—I give my own twist to the legends!

What is the most challenging thing about being an author?

Hands down, finding time to write. Life doesn’t stop for me to get my ideas down on paper. Sometimes, I find myself snatching bits of time from here and there, but I think about the next scene all the time. My mind is always on point!

Who is your most influential author, which work of theirs do you keep returning to and why?

I know it’s a strange combination, but I idolize Jennifer Crusie and Diana Gabaldon. I try to think out of the box like Crusie (Bet Me) but try to use a flowing, narrative style like Gabaldon when description is called for (Outlander). Another huge influence is my critique partner, Kimberly Lang. She’s taught me things about the romance genre I never picked up as a reader.

Do you have any advice for people considering writing their first novel?

Just do it. Don’t be daunted by rules or word length or getting published. Show yourself you can get that first story down on paper. After that, you’ll either be fed up with it or hooked. Then, on the rewrites, you can worry about the rules, word length, and getting published J

* * * *

Pamela Hearon believes in magic. Since childhood, her favorite stories have been those that go beyond what can be explained and plunge her into the world of the inexplicable. But now she doesn’t just enjoy the magical stories of others; now she creates her own. And through the years she’s grown to understand that magic doesn’t limit itself to a stone releasing a sword. It also encompasses a woman’s heart opening to love.

Because nothing could be more magical than a flower growing from a seed or a comet’s tail stretching across the sky, Pamela enjoys gardening by day and star-gazing by night.

A Southern girl at heart, she now lives in the Midwest with her husband, her real-life hero who captivates her with his own special magic.

Visit Pamela on her website at www.pamelahearon.com or email her at pamelahearon@gmail.com.

The Timestone Key can be found at www.lyricalpress.com/the_timestone_key

Review: Dark God Descending

2010-08-30T09:47:00.000-07:00

Title: Dark God Descending

Author: Tony-Paul de Vissage

Publisher: Sam’s Dot Publishing

Buy-link: http://www.genremall.com/fictionr.htm#darkgoddescending

Dark God Descending is a classic scenario of the conflict when an old world meets the new, offering readers a fresh spin on the vampire mythos that author De Vissage brings vividly to life. It is evident the author spent many long hours researching ancient Mayan history, and it shows, as I could clearly picture the sights, sounds and scents of the hidden city of Nikte-Uaxac.

Semris is of a race of demons and is the divine emperor of Nikte-Uaxac, but his crown does not rest easily on his brow, as he is filled with a deep-rooted restlessness, especially when his twin brother falls in love with a mortal woman, something previously considered impossible. When Semris is kidnapped by a less-than-ethical scientist, he embarks on a misadventure that will change his outlook on eternity forever.

When archaeology student Tuck follows Dr Westcott into the wildest jungles of Central America, he becomes an unwitting accomplice in an act of kidnapping. He redeems himself by realising that the “giant bat” they captured is in fact a person, and their bond of friendship transcends the barriers of human versus non-human.

Deviously conniving Dr Westcott will stop at nothing to gain power, wealth and recognition and, although his actions cause great pain for those he harms, he inadvertently also brings about great change, but I’m not going to give away any spoilers in this review save to say, read it for yourself if the overarching theme presses the right buttons.

Dark God Descending reads like a classic Indiana Jones adventure with a dark and bloody spin, and I had no real idea how the story was going resolve. Semris’s naïveté experiencing 21^st-century culture was touching, and I enjoyed watching the unfolding relationships between the various characters. Although the ending is bitter-sweet, suitable justice is meted out.

Short story: Cassandra's Cargo by DJ Cockburn

2010-08-08T10:32:00.000-07:00

George Harding lay in his hammock and closed his eyes. He knew that the gloomy room he found himself in was a delusion of the malaria that chilled his blood, but it felt so real he could smell the bodies pressed against his.

Boots echoed on stone and stopped beside him. Rough hands pulled manacles off his ankles and hauled him to his feet. His legs quivered as though unused to carrying him, which was a familiar sensation because George Harding's flaccid muscles often protested at his weight. He looked down to see not the pale paunch that he was accustomed to, but the contours of a muscular African half his age. His head recoiled upward. The rows of prone Africans that he had been pulled out of stretched into the gloom. The sight drove out all thought of a comfortable hammock because he simply couldn't imagine the terror screaming through him.

He wrenched an arm free and drove his elbow into a face, his fist into another, and the hands holding him slackened just enough. Shouts chased him into the gloom, but he was already at a wall at the end of the rows of bodies. A ladder gave him the choice of up or down. He climbed up for no reason that he could name.

Another wall in front of him. He turned and ran between more rows of chained men. A man in trousers swung a staff at him. It was aimed at his face and the joy of ducking under it and hurling the man to the floor was as real as the terror that flung him at the next ladder. There was light shining above it. The light of the sun. The light of hope that caressed his shoulders as he climbed and dazzled his eyes so that he did not see what hit his head and dashed him back to the floor below.

He had no doubt that the boots thudding around him were real, and so was the burning pain they crunched into him. He wrapped his arms around his head, not to protect himself so much as to hide from the nightmare that consumed him. The kicks stopped and it took him a moment to recall the shout that had stopped them. His arms were wrenched away from his head, and he found himself looking upon the most blessed sight he could have dreamed.

A white man.

A white man, who had the authority to give orders. An angelic sight from his tattered shoes to his yellow teeth. The appraising look in the man's eyes belonged less to an angel than to a farmer sizing up cattle at a market. The angel barked an order in a language that George Harding felt he should understand but didn't. Iron fingers prized his mouth open and the angel rolled back his lips and nodded approvingly.

No rescue would come from this man. Manacles clamped George Harding's ankles again, and he was bundled down several ladders to be dragged back into the light. He was not even surprised to find himself shoved into a line of similarly manacled and naked Africans, shuffling out of the fort toward the masts of a ship. Knowing there would be no rescue did not stop him shouting "I am George Harding" over and over again, but his mouth would not form the words so nobody listened.

* * * *

"Bugger."

George Harding heard his own voice with relief. There were no manacles, no ships, and his hand was still white and plump when he managed to focus his eyes on it. He was still George Harding, His Britannic Majesty's agent in Bathurst. Still trying not to die of malaria before somebody in Whitehall remembered to give him a pension. His worst tribulation was not that he had been sold into slavery, but the salty taste that told him his throbbing gums were bleeding again. He tried not to think about how much he had paid that surgeon for his new set of teeth, and concentrated on thinking about what he would do to the man with his own tooth extractors when he next saw London. They hurt more than the rotten set they replaced.

He swung himself out of his hammock and yelped at a stab of protest from his ankles. It was only gout, not manacles. Stupid thought. He pulled off his clammy shirt and flung it on the floor for the houseboy to pick up. He opened the drinks cabinet and found a bottle of brandy and a glass. The malaria surprised him with a last tremor, splashing the brandy over the papers strewn across his desk. "Bugger."

He opened another bottle and measured out fifty drops of laudanum. His head stopped spinning, and he could even read the label on the bottle. He could also see how little was left in it, and he formed an almost coherent prayer that the mail packet would arrive soon. The replenishment of laudanum would more than make up for the lack of mail.

He drank brandy from the bottle and grimaced when it was so hot it almost burned his tongue, but it was worth it for the calm that it brought. He'd feel up to looking at some paperwork in a minute.

"Please Massa!" Harding turned round to see the middle-aged houseboy in the doorway. Harding grunted.

"Boat come, Massa."

"Boat? What boat? Packet's not due for another week and the buggers are always late."

The boy's forehead furrowed. "Boat come, Massa."

Why couldn't someone teach these buggers to speak the King's English? Then again, Harding was uncertain that King George himself could understand him through these teeth, whichever King George it was that wore the silk stockings at the moment. He elbowed past the houseboy and stepped outside. The sun flayed at his bare back, and added its share of discomfort to the steam bath of Bathurst in October. The tangle of mangrove surrounded what his documents of appointment called his 'residence' and the garrison officers called 'Harding's Hovel', except where the liquid mud of the River Gambia provided the anchorage that got the navy excited about the place. Then they needed a battery and a dockyard and a poor bloody acting-governor to make sure the Union Jack went up and down the pole every day. Too much to expect the Navy to think about the miasma that would rise up from the swamp and give the poor bloody acting-governor three bouts of malaria for every hoist of the flag.

"Typical bloody Navy," he muttered to himself, as he waddled to the edge of the river.

The boy was wrong. There was not a boat coming in, but two ships. The first was a three-master with the narrow sails of a merchantman. He saw the name Cassandra embossed on her stern as she hove to. The second was coming round Banjul Point, and the rake of her two masts identified her as a man-of-war long before Harding made out the White Ensign. The merchantman was wearing the same ensign, which Harding could not understand until he realized that the smell assailing his nostrils was far more acrid than the usual stink of the swamp. There was only one sort of ship that smelled like that and only one reason why it would be coming into a British port with a Royal Navy flag at her mast. Some busybody had caught a slaver, which would mean that the smell was only the first sighting of a fleet of vexations bearing down on him.

A third vessel appeared from behind the merchantman, under every sail that her single mast could carry. She flew the Fleur-de-Lys of France, which told Harding that his papers would be waiting a little longer. "Bugger."

He trudged back to the residence to throw some water over himself and find a shirt. Wouldn't do to meet whoever was in that cutter without one, even if it was probably some frog pirate.

Armand de Valois's neat frock coat and powdered queue would not have looked out of place in the Tuileries, and Harding wondered how he could look so well groomed when he must have been at sea for weeks in that little cutter. Harding had met de Valois a few times and knew that he made his first fortune from his privateers, which he'd converted into slavers when Bonaparte's exile brought peace. He decided he had been right to expect a frog pirate.

Harding was pleased with his own appearance as he pushed himself to his feet against his desk. He hoped that his uncombed hair and bloodshot eyes would pierce the dapper Frenchman's veneer, but de Valois's smile lost none of its charm as he wrung Harding's hand. "Ah, Governor 'Arding, it is an honor to meet you again."

"Your servant," grunted Harding. He was not a governor because Bathurst was not a colony in its own right, but de Valois could call him one if he pleased. He made the title sound so apt that Harding even forgot to be irritated by the consonant de Valois's accent deducted from his name.

Harding waved a hand at a chair. De Valois settled into the sagging wickerwork as though it was an emperor's throne.

Diplomatic etiquette dictated that Harding, as the host, should open the conversation. Bugger diplomatic etiquette. He glowered at de Valois, who smiled politely back. Harding allowed his eyelids to droop, as though he were falling asleep. De Valois raised his chin with an expression of sudden interest. "Forgive me, Governor 'Arding, but I cannot help but observe your very fine teeth. Surely those dentures must be ivory?"

Last time Harding had seen de Valois, he had still had the rotten remains of the teeth nature gave him, which had not been very pleasant for either him or anyone facing him. Now he had a set that would be as fine as any in London society, if only they had not cost so much that he had been forced to accept a posting nobody else would take to pay them off.

"Not ivory," he said. "Genuine Waterloo teeth."

"Excuse me?"

"Waterloo. The battle. When we sent the crapauds packing." Harding could not resist trying to provoke the Frenchman, but de Valois just nodded with the perfect blend of interest and deference. The man was insufferable.

"I needed new teeth but I didn't want them from some bugger who'd been scraped out of the gutter when he'd died of the French disease. These came from a soldier killed at Waterloo. Proper English teeth, these."

De Valois nodded again. The man was impervious to insult. Whatever he wanted, he wanted it badly.

"I 'ear Waterloo teeth are the talk of London. I congratulate you on acquiring a set," said de Valois. Harding noted de Valois had not known what Waterloo teeth were when he thought describing them would appeal to Harding's self-importance. He grunted to avoid having to say anything polite.

"Governor 'Arding, may I come straight to the point?" said de Valois, now that he had prevaricated for five minutes. Harding grunted again.

"I fear there has been a grave misunderstanding, and I came here aboard my own yacht to rectify it. I am afraid that it may even threaten the peace that your nation and the United States of America have enjoyed these three years."

Harding raised his eyebrows. "The United States?"

A crash shook the bungalow and Harding nearly fell out of his chair. His skull had barely stopped ringing when it echoed with a second crash, and he recognized it as the man-of-war announcing her arrival with a salute. Couldn't the bloody Navy do anything quietly?

The two men regarded each other as the cannonade rolled over Bathurst, de Valois with his polite smile and Harding wincing as the explosions rattled his teeth.

"As I was saying," said de Valois after the last sledge-hammer blow to Harding's mind, "a grave incident has occurred. The captain of that man-of-war has, with intentions that were no doubt excellent, unlawfully seized a merchant ship of the United States."

"You mean that slaver?"

"It is true that the ship was carrying a cargo that your government would not approve of…"

"Slaves?"

"But as I said, there has been a terrible misunderstanding. Governor 'Arding, we are men of the world and I need not tell you how the best of reasons may seduce a young man into error. The captain of that man-of-war would no doubt have distinguished himself at Trafalgar, but several days ago, his zeal led him to seize that ship in the belief that she was a Frenchman, when in fact she wears the flag of the United States."

De Valois was talking fast and no wonder, thought Harding. The salute announced that the man-of-war had dropped her anchor and her captain was probably stepping into a boat at this very moment. "I presume we're talking about one of your own slavers?"

De Valois gave a look of such mortification that Harding would have had to stifle a laugh if his teeth had not hurt so much. "No, of course not. My ships are registered in France and so the Royal Navy would have every right to seize them if they found slaves aboard, which of course they would not."

"Because France signed the Treaty of Vienna after we got Boney where he couldn't do any more damage."

Harding could not resist the opportunity to rub salt into a wound that must still be fresh.

De Valois showed no sign of bleeding. "Indeed. I was pursuing my entirely legitimate trading interests when I became aware of your countryman's mistake. Naturally, I came here as fast as I could because it is the plain duty of men of good sense, such as ourselves, to avert the consequences of such a misunderstanding. It does, after all, amount to an act of war against the United States and I am sure we can agree that neither of us wants to see the Royal Navy lose any more frigates. "

Harding hid his satisfaction. He must have nettled the frog if he felt the need to mention the poor performance of the Royal Navy against the Americans. De Valois could not know how much Harding detested the Royal Navy. "Your point, Monsieur?"

"I have no doubt that your good sense will prevail when the captain presents his log book, which will presumably say that the ship was wearing a French flag when she was sighted. I assure you that he will be mistaken, which I will prove in time. It is easy to make a mistake when it is dawn and you are looking through a telescope..." de Valois spread his hands in a disgustingly Gallic expression of helplessness.

Tongue enough for two sets of teeth, thought Harding. He scratched his crotch. "What's your proof?"

"You 'ave my word that I will provide it in time. The problem is that we do not have time. The cargo of the ship that has been seized is, shall we say, perishable? It will lose much of its value while we send for the documentation. I entreat you to take my word and release that ship immediately."

"Your word?" Harding didn't try to keep the amusement out of his voice.

"The word of a Frenchman. Naturally, I appreciate that there are certain expenses involved. There are five hundred gold guineas aboard my yacht, and I will gladly place them at your disposal to avert the crisis."

Harding's eyes snapped open. He could pay off his teeth and return to London with five hundred guineas, and the hell with the service. It was not difficult to guess what had happened. De Valois had been using the cutter to make arrangements before he committed the larger merchantman to an anchorage that would leave it trapped by a navy patrol, and he could not be arrested because his yacht carried no slaves. The captain of the slaver had thrown all evidence of French registration over the side before she was taken and de Valois was willing to spend some of his capital to preserve his cargo and his ship.

Harding assumed a contemplative frown. Who really cared where the slaver was registered? Ten years ago, Harding's duty would have been to welcome a slaver as an honored guest and assist him with his legal trade, and damned if he'd see five hundred gold guineas for his trouble. Unfortunate for the slaves of course, but then nobody ever asked Harding if he'd wanted to go to Bathurst.

But he'd never breached his trust before. The odd grease for certain administrative wheels was one thing, but to pretend a French ship was American was something else. Then again, how much was a flag worth in the balance with five hundred gold guineas? He winced as his teeth started throbbing again. "I'll think about it."

He stood up to end the interview, and de Valois stood with him and extended his hand. Etiquette demanded that Harding should offer de Valois a room in the residence, but de Valois said that he would be aboard his cutter before Harding got the chance to pointedly withhold an invitation. He saw de Valois to the door and watched him stroll back to the wharf, as though he were ambling down the Champs Elysée instead of through the ankle-deep mud of Bathurst.

A flock of brown birds burred over his head and landed in a tree. Ha-ha-ha-ha, they babbled. A bomb of fury exploded in Harding's breast. They were laughing at him!

He dashed back to his desk and pulled a pistol out of a drawer. Tears of rage blurred his sight and his shaking hands scattered more powder over his desk than he got into the pan, but eventually he got it loaded and dashed outside. He pointed it at the tree, but the birds had gone.

The pistol sank back to his side, and he waited for his breathing to slow down and his jaw to stop quivering. A chill marched up his spine. Surely he couldn't be about to have another bout of fever so soon after the last one? "Bugger."

* * * *

George Harding was running. He didn't know where he was or where he was going, but the barking dogs behind him left him in no doubt of what he was running from. Branches whipped out of the night and slashed across his body. There was no help for it except keep running on his shredded feet, turning every aching breath of fetid air into a few more paces between him and the plantation.

Plantation?

The question stirred a dispassionate part of his mind. Fever had brought strange visions before, especially since he had discovered how quickly laudanum helped him to recover from them, but they had never been more than disconnected impressions. Now he knew that he was in Jamaica, running from a sugar plantation, far more clearly than he knew that he was shivering in a hammock in Bathurst. He even knew he had had hit a slave-driver, and would be flogged to death if he stopped running.

His legs plunged into warm mud, and he got a mouthful of foul water from a creek he had not seen. He could not see the other side, so he had no chance of swimming to it before the dogs led their handlers to the bank.

There was a light on the water. He blinked mud out of his eyes. It was a fishing lantern in a boat, no more than a stone's throw away. He threw himself forward and swam. He expected the boatman to row away from a fugitive, but the man just watched him approach. He placed his hand on the gunwale, and hands of the same dark shade hauled him over it, pushed him down in the bow and motioned him to silence. He struggled to stifle the breaths tearing at his chest. The sounds of the dogs were no longer muffled by undergrowth, so they had found the place where he fell into the water. He had only seen one boat, so there was only one place where he could be. He closed his eyes and commended his soul to Allah to do with it as He would.

Where had that idea come from? The dispassionate part of George Harding's mind reasserted itself. He was a Presbyterian, damn it! Even if he'd almost forgotten what churches look like from the inside, he didn't go around commending his soul to Allah. He still cowered in the boat when he heard a slave-catcher's voice calling to the boatman.

"I no see 'um, Massa," said the boatman.

Harding had never been to the West Indies, let alone run away from a plantation. All he really knew, as he lay there biting his fist to keep from gagging on the salt clinging to the back of his mouth, was that he wanted the slave-driver to believe the boatman more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

The boatman said "I no see 'um, Massa" again. This time, the only answer was splashing and curses. There was a gentle creaking and rocking. Whether or not George Harding had been to the West Indies, he had no qualms in silently giving thanks to Allah when he realized the boatman was rowing away while the slave catchers searched the bank. He even savored the pain of his scratches, because noticing them meant that he was no longer running for his life.

The rowing stopped. The change of motion reminded him of the thanks he owed the boatman. He opened his eyes just in time to see an oar slashing toward him. A flash of light, then darkness.

Darkness was an improvement on dogs. Hopefully, it meant that he was coming out of the fever. He could not endure many more dreams like this. He would have to increase the dose of laudanum.

A sensation of cold seized him as though in a claw, and he writhed in a pool of water on a dirt floor. His head felt as if there was an axe in it, and a scythe-fingered demon wrung out his guts until he vomited.

"Ah Christ!"

He looked up to see a man wearing the red coat of the men who carried long guns, and the three stripes on the sleeve belonged to someone who shouted a lot rather than someone who was usually shouted at. The empty bucket in the man's fist told him where the water had come from.

"You'll clean that up if I have to make you lick it up," said the man in a language that George Harding recognized as English. It sounded strange, as though it was a language that he had recently learned.

"Now get up off that floor, Lord Sambo! You ain't the colonel's daughter so you ain't gonna lie there all day."

He could not find a grain of strength in his body, but he still got to his feet when the red man started toward him. Somehow, he had learned what happened when he did not do what men who spoke English told him to.

"That's better. Now come 'ere." The red man waved at a window. More red men stood in lines, with straight backs and their hands straight down by their sides. They stared at a man tied to a wooden triangle while another man whipped him. George Harding had seen many floggings, but his astonishment almost overcame his nausea when he saw that what was left of the skin of the flogged man was white.

"See that, Lord Sambo?" barked the red man into his ear. "Now I don't give five minutes with a poxed sailor's whore what you done. The army paid good money for you, so you do what I tell you and no one will want to know. But you give me any trouble, an' you know how you'll end up, an' I promise you you'll give your black arse to get back wherever you run away from. Now fall in, Private Sambo!"

* * * *

Harding was unsure whether his teeth or his ankles hurt more when he lurched out of the hammock. A hundred drops of laudanum helped, and so did what was left of the brandy. He fingered another bottle, thinking that he should delay opening it in case he ran out before the mail packet arrived, but he knew it would be empty by dawn tomorrow.

"Please Massa?"

Harding didn't take his eyes off the bottle. "Yes boy?"

"Blue-blue man come, Massa."

"Blue-blue man? What the devil d'you mean...oh!" A man in the blue coat of a naval officer was standing behind the houseboy. The officer's fingers drummed on the hilt of his sword. He looked every inch the sort of fighting captain that England had been so besotted with since Nelson toadied his way into that tomb in St. Paul's. Harding disliked him on sight.

"Come in." Harding sank into the chair behind his desk without offering to shake hands.

The officer stepped into the room and removed his hat. "Matthew Cooper, Master and Commander of His Britannic Majesty's brig-sloop Electra, at your service sir."

Not only was he bloody navy, he was a bloody Yorkshireman. Harding raised an eyebrow. "George Harding at yours."

The houseboy scurried in to retrieve the latest shirt that Harding had thrown on the floor. If a succession of dandies insisted on inflicting themselves on him, he could at least make them feel overdressed.

Harding made no move to invite Cooper to sit down, hoping to force him into the gaffe of sitting uninvited. Cooper seemed happy for his broad shoulders to loom over Harding. Harding wanted to pretend to fall asleep, but he could not stop himself looking up at eyes that should have belonged to a leopard deciding whether a mouse was worth the effort of pouncing on.

"Been waiting long?" Harding could play the game no longer.

"About half an hour." Cooper's tone added that it had been half an hour too long.

"Touch of fever." Harding heard the conciliation in his own voice and disliked Cooper even more.

Cooper glanced at the brandy-stained papers and spilt powder on Harding's desk. "I see."

"Won't you sit down, Commander?" A commander carried the courtesy title of captain, and Harding smiled inwardly when Cooper's eyes narrowed with irritation.

"I prefer to stand, sir. May I come straight to the point?"

Harding waved a hand expansively.

"Five days ago, we found that abomination slipping out of the Akokra River." Cooper jerked his head at the wall that hid the Cassandra. "We chased her for three days and it's taken two to get here. The poor souls aboard are starving and some of them already have fever. I request permission to land them immediately, and send them proper food and a surgeon."

Harding hid a smile. Cooper had handed him the perfect excuse to refuse. Best not to say so straight away, especially when he could irritate the man. "You've unchained the poor souls of course?"

Cooper looked satisfyingly uncomfortable. "Well no, of course not..."

Harding raised his eyebrows. "Why on earth not? What the devil do you mean by keeping your poor souls in chains?"

Cooper's knuckles were white as he crumpled his hat. "I couldn't. There are scores of them and they don't know the difference between us and the slavers. They'd tear us apart..."

"How can I explain to them that you rescued them by keeping them in chains?" Now would be a good time to get up and stroll to the window, but Harding was afraid he would pass out if he tried. Not that it really mattered because the anguish in Cooper's eyes showed Harding that he had won the point. Five hundred guineas, he thought.

"I can't land them if they've got fever. Half the garrison is sick as it is, without a new contagion in the middle of Bathurst."

Cooper looked as though he'd been struck. "Sir, five hundred souls are in your hands. I demand that you write an order to land them immediately!"

Harding sighed and folded his hands across his stomach, trying to assume the image of the wisdom of age faced with impetuous youth. He hoped Cooper did not notice the empty bottle rolling on the floor. He stared at the epaulette on Cooper's shoulder, where the veneer of gold had worn off to expose the lead beneath and reveal that Cooper was not a wealthy man. "You fellows get prize money for taking blackbirders, don't you? Quite a lot for a beauty like that, I'd say."

"Prize money be damned!"

Harding cringed back.

"You may throw my share of the prize money into the sea for all I care," barked Cooper, "but I'll not see those poor wretches suffer more than they already have for want of a few strokes of your pen!"

Harding found his voice. "You an abolitionist, Commander?"

Cooper stepped back, pitifully easy to confuse. "Proud to be. What's that got to do with it?"

"You may see it as your duty to chase slavers, but I'd like to remind you that you're a King's officer." The force he put into those last words recoiled into his molars, and he closed his eyes while the pain receded. "While you wear that uniform, you'll remember your oath to the King, which unless I'm very much mistaken, does not include decimating any of his outposts by filling them full of fever."

Cooper turned a delightful shade of red. He looked ready to tear his hat in half. Harding pushed on relentlessly. "Whatever your politics, Commander, no man can serve two masters. Good day to you."

Harding fidgeted with some papers on his desk, trying to get rid of Cooper before he calmed down enough to form an argument. Cooper turned on his heel and walked out. Pity the next defaulter on his ship.

Harding leaned back. Five hundred gold guineas, and a cottage in...Devon? Dorset? Maybe not a cottage, he would be able to afford an inn, which would provide him with as much brandy as he could drink. He took a deep breath, and nearly retched at the smell from the slaver.

Chained to the floor, rolling in excrement, nothing to look forward to but the lash.

Five hundred gold guineas, he told himself firmly. Perhaps his teeth wouldn't ache like this in England. Perhaps that familiar chill wouldn't march up and down his spine. "Oh Christ, not again."

* * * *

Running again. Running faster than his ruined body ever could. Faster than this dream self had run before, because he was on an open field. Nothing to bar his way but a haze of powder smoke that stung his throat. Not looking back because he did not need to see Napoleon's cavalry behind him when the ground quaked and thundered with their hooves. No need to see the forest of lances when his back tingled as though they were already stabbing through his red coat. No desire to look back when the smear of scarlet ahead was made of men in the coats that had once meant imprisonment, but today meant the only hope he had.

The redcoats were in a line two deep, the front row on one knee. Their muskets pointed straight at him. He knew that the muskets were aimed at the cavalry behind him, just as the cavalry's lances were pointed at the infantry in front, but none of that would matter if the cavalry caught him or the muskets fired before he reached that red line of hope.

Close now. So close he could see the grime on the coats and the gritted teeth behind the muskets. Hear the fear in a sergeant's shout. "Wait! Waaaaiiiiit!"

Close enough to meet the eyes of a mounted officer behind the muskets of hope, see the decision in them when the officer saw the color of his face, see his sword drop. See hope vanish behind stabbing flames and more smoke.

George Harding told himself, yet again, that he had not left his hammock, but damn it he felt lead slam into him. He saw iron-shod hooves hammer into the grass around his fragile head. He heard the screams of men and horses and musket balls blend into a diabolic crescendo. He even found himself retreating into memories that weren't his, of the scorching heat of the island where he first put on a red coat; of the endless days of sweating with the Brown Bess muskets that tore the air above him. He remembered the day when the sergeant finally nodded his approval. "Not bad, Private Sambo. We'll make a major of you yet."

He had laughed with the rest of his platoon at the twin absurdities of a Major Sambo, and any officer handling a musket. He drifted away into those memories while mosquitoes whined around his ears, and the future of a foreign continent was decided by in death piling up around him.

Fingers glided across his body. The shooting had stopped, leaving only groans that sounded as though they came from the ground itself. The weight of the purse of coins around his neck was missing. Hands were under his coat now, tugging at the juju belt he wore around his waist. A woman's voice grunted with bemusement when she pulled it free but the hands came back, into his mouth this time. Something pricked his gums. His eyes snapped open to see a woman's smooth face bathed in moonlight. Her hair brushed his cheeks with a silken caress. He was still trying to smile for her when her knife flashed out of his mouth and into his throat.

* * * *

George Harding rolled away from her and fell out of the hammock. He sat up cautiously. His head was clear and he felt no sign of fever. He had not felt this healthy since he arrived in Bathurst. He stood up without any complaint from his gout, and almost felt as though he could do without a drink. Almost.

A man was sitting behind his desk. He blinked and shook his head, but there was still a black man wearing a red coat in his chair. Harding was furious. Whatever reason he might have for being there, he had absolutely no business in Harding's chair. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

The man replied with a tight-lipped frown.

"Boy!" The soldier was wearing an infantryman's coat, although there were only artillerymen and engineers in Bathurst. Not that being a visitor gave him any more right to act as though he owned the place.

"Massa?" The houseboy appeared at the door.

"What's this damned impudence?" He waved a hand at his chair.

"Massa?" The boy looked confused.

Harding made a great effort to speak slowly. "What. Is. This. Man. Doing. In. My. Bloody. Chair. Damn your eyes!"

"What man, Massa?"

Harding's face burned and he felt as though an anchor chain was crushing his chest. He tried to remember if he'd left that pistol loaded. "This bastard! Here! You make game of me, boy, and by God I'll see your black arse flogged off!"

The boy looked at the chair, then back at Harding. His perplexity faded to an understanding that belied the only name that Harding had ever used for him. "I get Massa Chaplain, Massa."

The boy disappeared, leaving Harding's mouth working to form words that would not come.

"He can't see me, you know," said the soldier behind the desk.

"What?"

"Your boy. He can't see me, so you might as well let him be."

Harding was as startled by the accent as the words. He'd never met an African who could speak more than a few words of pidgin, but this voice belonged on Wapping docks. "Just as well he's gone. You and me got things to talk about."

"What things? I don't know you."

"Not exactly, but we're close acquaintances. You got my word on that." The soldier rolled back his lips to reveal torn, toothless gums.

Harding's teeth unleashed a gale of pain that almost blinded him. "Oh my God!"

The soldier smiled and nodded. Harding sat down heavily. "It's not true. I'm imagining you. You're a fever dream. Just need a stiff drink."

Harding reached for his brandy. The soldier smiled again. "If you could see the state of your liver, you'd see fever's the least of your problems."

Harding's hand flew to his chest, where he thought his liver probably was. He could feel it swelling like a filling wineskin, shoving aside stomach, lungs, heart, anything in the way of its conquest. That was ridiculous, his chest had felt fine all day. It was the only thing that had. "A drink."

"Won't help. Nothing will."

Harding gave up trying to push himself upright. "Is that why you're here?"

The soldier stopped smiling. "Dunno why I'm here. I mean, I know you got my teeth, but I dunno much else."

"Oh God."

"Maybe. I know I weren't very good to Him. I'm sure He knows that slave drivers and sergeants don't let you stop what you're doing to pray, and He knows the army don't give you nothing to drink except rum, but perhaps that just means Muslims should avoid slavers and stay out of the army."

Harding felt a chasm open up inside him. He was used to thinking of death as an end to be delayed for as long as possible, but now the end had come and this man was saying that it wasn't even an end. Saliva ran down his chin, and his nose filled. "What will happen to me?"

The soldier stood and took Harding's hands. There was real compassion in his voice. "I don't know."

Vicars liked to preach about conscience. Perhaps that was what Harding needed now. He rifled through the broken bottles and lost paperwork of his soul, knowing he had hidden from his life's frustrations by bullying others and blinding himself with drunkenness. That gave him no claim to clemency, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Nothing? He looked up. The soldier helped Harding to stand. Harding took his seat behind his desk, and managed to keep his hand steady enough to write an order to land the Cassandra's slaves, and provide them with whatever food and physic they needed. He looked at the tear-stained paper in front of him and wondered whether it would count for anything in a few minutes time. Still, something in his chest felt a little lighter for writing it. He blew his nose and wrote another letter, commending Commander Cooper for his zeal and humanity for his representation on behalf of the souls he had liberated. That made him feel better too, though two pages of blotted ink were little enough to apologies for a life as miserable as his. He hoped the houseboy would spare him a kind thought when he and the chaplain found him.

The soldier took his hand. "Come on. There's something else we both need to do."

Harding stood unaided, and let the soldier lead him outside. They stood, side by side, with their backs to the setting sun. The soldier knelt and touched his head to the ground. Harding knelt beside him, and he knew he would not be getting up.

* * * *

Read more of DJ Cockburn's writing here:

Under the Hooked Cross, for sale at http://lillibridgepress.com/book/dj_cockburn/Under_the_Hooked_Cross
Steel in the Morning, free at http://lacunajournal.blogspot.com/2010/04/steel-in-morning.html

2010-08-03T11:10:00.000-07:00

Today Toad welcomes fantasy author Greg Hamerton to her corner. If you enjoy epic fantasy, Greg is an author you need to keep an eye out for. His lively imagination and command of the English language provide passports to a world where almost anything is possible.

Tell us about your setting of your novels.

The Tale of the Lifesong is set in Oldenworld, a parallel world where magic has been coaxed out of the essence a little more than we have managed to achieve so far. In that way, it could be set in our future, or our forgotten past. The series is a meditation on magic, music and life. In the first tale, The Riddler’s Gift, we enter a sheltered realm in which the lead character, Tabitha Serannon, completes her apprenticeship and begins to sing the song that will echo through all worlds and all time. In the second tale, Second Sight, we learn how Oldenworld reached a pinnacle of order, but in so doing created the seeds of chaos among the dispossessed. A mighty sorcerer is intent on destroying every trace of civilisation. Although Tabitha is being groomed by the wizards, she sees beyond their order as her second sight develops. She gives voice to the beauty that can change the violence, chaos and ugliness in the world.

When did you know you had it in you to be a writer?

Many, many years ago, I wrote a letter to Richard Bach, praising his work but also insisting that his ideas seemed to come from my head. He wrote back, full of wise understanding, telling me that only I could write the stories I needed to write to my people and my time.

What’s the most difficult aspect of your craft?

Not owning that villa overlooking the sea with all those minions and endless celebrations in champagne-Jacuzzis. If I worked at any other profession for this long I’d have earned all that, by now. They tell us we get royalties, so if it’s any consolation to aspiring writers, it’s a noble profession. No really, I’m not that shallow, I’m happy with my cosy life. What’s really hard, with writing, is holding on to the singular vision of your story world, as the demands of the real world try to intrude. Hold on, I’ve got to go make a cup of coffee…

;-)

Who is the one author you keep returning to, and why?

Greg Hamerton. I know, I know, I’m not that vain, my point is that I’ve been doing this for more than ten years and have spent way more time reading my own writing, editing it, trying to improve it, than any time spent reading other authors. I don’t generally read any fantasy while I’m working on a novel, because I don’t want interference or distraction. But there are authors whose work I love, and Richard Bach is probably my strongest influence… he was the first one to change my world, and one day I aspire to writing something with as much power as Jonathan Livingstone Seagull in so few words.

What are some of the trends you’re seeing in fantasy writing at the moment?

Trends? I have no idea. A literary agent criticised me for this recently, but if I was a literary agent or big publisher I’d need to be obsessed by trends. As an author who takes a very long time to write long fantasy novels, the trends seem rather irrelevant because if I wrote to hit the current trend I would always miss the band wagon. All I can hope is that the trend is for my kind of writing when it is released. If anything, I’d say there seem to be many fantasy titles on the shelf right now that are 500 pages or more, part of a series, feature young lead characters, lots of action and would appeal to a broad audience including young adult. So my books fit right in. Lucky, that.

Do you have any advice for aspiring authors?

Are you mad? Because if you aren’t, you’ll study the writing profession before committing to it, and you’ll come to the conclusion that it is probably not a good career move, at least not until you’ve made pots of money elsewhere. But if you are mad, then you’ll stop reading articles “about writing” round about now, dive into the art headlong, write manuscripts, collect rejection letters, and eventually reach the nirvana of seeing your own book in print. Then you’ll find out: that is the first stage of being an author, and the real work has just begun. You have a career to build. Good luck!

Flash fiction: Bethany by Carine Engelbrecht

2010-07-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

This week Toad presents a delightfully wicked piece of flash fiction by South African author Carine Engelbrecht. Enjoy!

* * * *

Bethany

Cat liked the look.

For the three months before they began shooting, Hughie banned her off the beaches, which was how she got just the right translucent skin tone. It was also how her romance with Brandon Tardis got a serious knock when he fell for Brazilian supermodel Sylvana, with her topless tan in the Caribbean, but that’s another story. It hardly mattered now, anyway.

She absolutely loved the look.

The character, Countess Bethany, was supposedly based on a real-life villainess who had terrorised the county they filmed in with her cruelty and her bloodlust. That had been some time towards the end of the twelfth century. To get her into the part, Hughie made her read all sorts of yellowing tomes in archaic language about what the countess had been like.

He spent ages location scouting before he found the castle. For its use, they paid a tidy fortune to an impoverished lord whose family had owned it since the 1600s. The lord said no one knew who had originally built it, but Hughie thought he did.

At first the place gave Cat the creeps. It was draughty and the poor wiring sometimes caused lights to go off for no reason. That drove the gaffers crazy. Sometimes an icy breeze seemed to slip very real fingers under the bodice of Cat’s deep-crimson outfit.

She found a favourite nook between floors, though, a tiny secret room full of dust and bits of bones. A slit window seemed to look out directly to the road everyone used to approach the castle. Cat wiped some of the dust away and used the place to study her lines. No one ever bothered her there. It was as if nobody but her knew it existed.

One lazy afternoon she sat in her usual spot, imagining she was the real Bethany, a woman whose husband feared her, whose neighbours plotted against her, a woman who longed only to feed her insatiable hunger for beauty, but could not quite manage to escape the confinement of her gender. Not in that age.

Cat opened her eyes and found something glittering on the dusty floor, a necklace with a gem that looked exactly like a drop of blood. Strange that she had not noticed it before.

She cleaned it up and put it on. It complemented her costume perfectly.

That evening they shot the key scene, in which Countess Bethany first seduced Lord Roland, her main adversary, played by Eldridge Moore. He was, despite one night of surprisingly good sex, a bit of a drip and way too much in love with his latest bride.

Cat really got into the scene, only hearing Hughie the third time when he yelled, “Cut, cut, cut!” Apparently, Eldridge had started screaming long before then. She had his blood on her chin, but not that much of it.

Hughie sent the actor off to the medics for some stitches and a sedative, but he did not seem at all displeased with Cat.

Two nights later, a local teen disappeared from a rave. He had been a problem child and his parents suspected he had run away. Cat read about it in the papers, trying to brush away a hangover and some disturbingly violent flashbacks from a dream she only half remembered. She had been to the same rave.

By the time his mangled and badly decomposed body was found, there were other missing kids, in other cities… Cat kept clippings. A morbid obsession, her therapist called it. According to him, the violent dreams were stress related. Many young actresses suffered similar problems when their careers suddenly took off.

Her pallor became a trend that female fans were never quite able to duplicate. She never smiled in photographs, but that, too, became fashionable.

Did it really matter that her mind seemed like an empty collection of echoes, that she sometimes felt like a ghost haunting what she used to call her life?

* * * *

Carine Engelbrecht writes fantasy, horror and science fiction. Long ago she briefly played guitar for an all-girl metal band called Misery. Nowadays she mostly plays guitar in her room, and if there is an audience, it’s nothing more spectacular than the occasional cat and/or disincarnate spirit. From time to time she even commits visual expression of some sort. She is a member of Cape Town’s Adamastor Writers’ Guild.

Excerpt: Kaydana and the Dragon Prince

2010-07-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

Kaydana and the Dragon Prince

by Nyki Blatchley

An excerpt from chapter 7

“Come for a flight with me,” suggested Zazzu.

Kaydana looked up in surprise from the dragon scroll she’d been studying—an account of the fall of Arlh, the lost city from which the Staff of Ishlun came—to see the Prince standing in the doorway, an amused expression on his alien features. She’d been so engrossed that she hadn’t heard him enter.

She glanced at the wide opening that all rooms had in this city, allowing the dragon-forms to enter from flight. The sky was blue with puffy white clouds scudding across it, and the air warm, except for the lively breeze. It would be wonderful to go flying out into a day like this, especially in the company of the great, golden dragon, but she had to be realistic.

“It would be lovely, but I could never keep up with you. You wouldn’t be able to enjoy yourself.”

Zazzu smiled more deeply. “I would not object to being held up for such a reason.”

Kaydana felt herself blushing, though there was frustration as well as pleasure. In the three days since her arrival, the Prince had been attentive and certainly showed interest, but that was as far as he’d gone, and she still felt that strange inability to push their relationship further.

“Nevertheless,” the Prince added, “that was not what I had in mind. Have you ever ridden on the back of a dragon?”

His tone suggested that he was asking if she’d ever drunk wine or eaten a peach, but Kaydana’s heart leapt and refused to come down. This was what had brought her along with Tela in the first place—the magic of a golden dragon in flight. What would it be like to soar with him, borne up by his powerful wings?

“No,” she managed, “but there’s a first time for everything.” She glanced about, as unsure as she was of seducing him. “What do I...”

“Let me change first,” Zazzu told her, “and then climb up onto my neck, so that you’re sitting on my shoulders. Don’t worry. I can’t speak your tongue in that form, but I’m still myself and I’ll do you no harm.”

He walked to the opening and turned to face her, holding himself still for an instant before the change began. Kaydana had only seen this process once before, on the night she’d arrived, and that was in reverse. She wasn’t sure whether the dragons normally preferred to keep to their human forms, but suspected that it was mainly out of courtesy to their guests.

The magnificent golden man grew indistinct, his shape swirling and altering. A moment later, a vast dragon stood before her, its scales gleaming gold and its head stretched proudly high above her. The eyes turned down to regard her, magical rainbow eyes, and Kaydana felt momentarily reassured. Their amused interest was the same expression she’d come to know in Zazzu’s eyes.

Still, she couldn’t help flinching as she approached the creature. This was a dragon, for the Goddess’s sake, and she had to climb up onto its back. Although she trusted Zazzu—trusted him more than was reasonable, perhaps—she still wondered if this was going to be the last thing she did.

Zazzu lay down, stretching out one foreleg, and Kaydana realised that he was inviting her to climb it. Steeling herself, she stepped onto the limb and stretched up, hauling herself up by its elbow. The dragon’s scales, which looked so smooth from a distance, actually had just enough roughness to help her, though she treated them with caution, afraid that she’d hurt Zazzu.

Reaching the huge, golden shoulders at last, Kaydana flung her leg awkwardly over the neck where it joined the dragon’s body, finally managing to settle into a balanced and reasonably comfortable seat. The head turned on its long neck to look at her, the dragon’s face no more than a foot from her own. Hoping she didn’t look as terrified as she felt, Kaydana nodded.

The body beneath her surged up, and further up, as the dragon rose first to its feet and then into flight, soaring out of the room’s opening into the warm, exciting day.

Kaydana’s fear was gone in ten heartbeats, replaced by the exhilaration she always felt when flying. This was different, though. She was used to being utterly in control of her flight, but now she felt helpless and safe at the same time, surrendered to the care of the creature she rode. Of Zazzu.

The dragon swooped and rose higher, soaring up towards the high peaks, and Kaydana had to restrain herself from whooping like a child, even as she grabbed a couple of Zazzu’s scales to stop herself from sliding out of her seat. Their flight climbed almost vertically, until the tallest mountain lay beneath and the dragon levelled out to soar through the clear air, every motion graceful.

They flew far from the dragons’ city, passing over mountains still cloaked in snow in high summer, swooping down into valleys so inaccessible that Kaydana doubted any human foot had ever trodden there. She’d have loved to explore, but Zazzu never landed, merely flying around and then soaring back to the upper air.

At last, though, he came to rest on a broad ledge, perhaps fifty paces across, and knelt, as if to indicate that Kaydana should dismount. When she was down, a little stiff from the unfamiliar seat, the air blurred and he returned to his human-like shape.

“Did you enjoy that?” Zazzu asked. His face bore an unusual expression—mixed with the quiet humour often found there was an eager, almost excited look.

“It was lovely.” In fact, Kaydana realised, it had been a little more than that. In spite of the soreness, her pussy was damp from the delicious rubbing of his scales and the thrill of sharing his flight. It seemed that Zazzu could arouse her even in his dragon form.

This was disturbing, Kaydana decided. To distract herself, she glanced around. “Where are we?”

“High up the side of a mountain.” Zazzu’s smile intensified, along with the excitement. “If you were anyone else, I’d say I’ve brought you somewhere you’d never escape. Somewhere I could do whatever I chose with you.”

* * * *

See Nyki’s Lyrical Press profile here: http://www.lyricalpress.com/store/index.php?main_page=authors&authors_id=11

* * * *

Toad would like to invite published authors to submit their excerpts, requests for interviews, novels for reviews, short stories or guest-blogging opportunities to her PA at nerinedorman@gmail.com. Please remember to insert “Toad’s Corner” in the subject field.

Toad's Corner

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Meet Noor Jahangir

Review: The Caretakers

Bloody Parchment horror anthology

Daniel Rambin, vampire sidekick

Link love: Newgate Jig by DJ Cockburn

Excerpt: Still Life by DC Petterson

Tea with TC Southwell

Book review: The Left Hand

Short story: Scarlet Night by Ashley M Christman

Tea with Pamela Turner

Introducing J Damask

A wild ride with Sheryl Nantus’ latest offering

Some mojo on the side...

Tea with Lee Mather

A Little Midnight Reading by Jess Harris

Rhune: Dawn of Twilight

Meet Liz Strange

Tea with Cassandra Jade

Short Fiction: The Accident by WJ Hill

Tea with Manda Benson

Tea with Kelly Harmon

Short Fiction: Deepening Twilight by AE Rought

Meet Hank Quense

Review: Blaze of Glory

Tea with Karen Michelle Nutt

Tea with Sonya Clark

Whispering Bones: an excerpt

Tea with John Everson

Carol Hone and Edge of Humanity

Tea with Sara-Jayne Townsend

When it Mattered

Pamela Hearon and The Timestone Key

Recommended Read: Steel in the Morning

Review: Dark God Descending

Short story: Cassandra's Cargo by DJ Cockburn

Flash fiction: Bethany by Carine Engelbrecht

Excerpt: Kaydana and the Dragon Prince