The Silence

It’s been a long week. To differing degrees we’ve all been ill (even the pup,) and we’re shattered. Hubby has gone to bed early, taking the pup with him and the toddler passed out, still clutching her favourite book, hours ago. I’ve just finished watching a silly horror movie and should be working on the review, but as I turned off the TV it hit me: The silence. 

It’s not totally silent, the heating is doing that low hum, the clock next door which hasn’t told the right time in months is ticking and I can hear people and cars outside but I close my eyes and it’s so quiet.

Silent.

And yet…..

A new set of voices has been nagging me recently, demanding I tell their tale. There’s been muttering, waking me in the night with a snippet of dialogue, a name or an action scene, a delicate whisper whilst making tea or a shout as I prepare our bags for the day.

And tonight, in the silence, their voices are a roar. I’m hoping tomorrow I’ll be able to make sense of the assorted post it notes I’ve written on, that half-formed ideas will percolate and be brewed overnight and things will be a little more cohesive. They’re whispering their names, shyly letting me know their preferences, twirling their costumes and sharing their voices. They’re coalescing, becoming more real (or as real as the Lamb’s assorted imaginary friends). I’m learning their wants, desires and mostly their challenges. This band of beaten women who want me to tell their story, now have an enemy to face and it will be a hell of a battle!

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100Days of Happiness: Day Eleven 

Day eleven of our 100 Days of Happiness say the Lamb and I head to one of our favourite places, Killerton House. We met her bestie and I got to catch up with her mum (and my dear friend) which always lifts the spirits. The girls had a lot of fun belting around the gardens, I shared a delicious Victoria Sponge with the Lamb, then we all went on a ‘mouse hunt’ around the house. As always, we left very impressed at the volunteers who help run these National Trust houses and the assorted activities they have to keep little people entertained.

Here’s a bonus shot of one of the flowers still in bloom. So pretty, even on a rather cold, damp day!


As always, once the Lamb was in bed, it was time for me to get to work. I’m prepping a new novel, with elements of fantasy, horror, supernatural and adventure. It’s my first ‘big’ writing project since having the Lamb so I’m hoping to get back into it, and make a start on it during National Novel Writing Month in November. There’s lots to prepare for it, with character bios, locations and multiple fantasy worlds to create. I’ve been struggling to get back into writing for a while so I’m hoping this preparation will help and I’ll be blogging more about my experience so pop back to find out more.

What made you happy today?

Inspiration for Weird Wild

Weird-Wild

My collection of short stories, Weird Wild, was published on 20 March 2014. The first story I wrote for it was called ‘The Lake’ and was written as part of an online writing challenge. I didn’t know then what it would grow into!

My book babies, out in the wild!

I’ve always loved the woods. There’s nothing more relaxing than walking through forests, unless you’re being chased by a werewolf! We’ve visited forests in the UK, including ‘Wistman’s Wood’ in Dartmoor, as well as rainforests in Latin America and Asia and all helped inspire ‘Weird Wild’, with creepy mists, crooked trees and hidden dens.

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Wistman’s Wood, Dartmoor

The Stone Circle in Weird Wild is definitely inspired by my love of archaeology. I love Stonehenge and have been fascinated by stone circles, both in terms of what they tell us about our ancestors, but also the more mystical elements. My logical, scientific brain (and a number of my tutors!) debunked the idea of ley lines but there’s still something magical about these stones. Who’s to say they aren’t portals to the fairy realm?

Stonehenge. I visited it while studying and the image of the stones rising from the earth has stayed with me. Magical

How pretty are bluebells? It was an annual tradition growing up to visit ‘Bluebell Woods’ and see them when they bloomed each spring. I was fascinated to learn some of the more nefarious uses of this beautiful, if deadly, bell. I’d also never claim to be a poet, but the poem for Weird Wild was written fairly quickly, the voices and the bells ringing clearly.

Buriton 2002
Bluebells near where I grew up.

 

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Dartmoor, UK

So many beautiful lakes inspired ‘The Lake’. Whilst Lago Roja in Bolivia isn’t surrounded by trees like the lake in Weird Wild, the stillness and sense of isolation crept into the story.

Lago Roja, Bolivia. It was so peaceful and ethereal here

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Out in the wild!

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As always, any sticky plot points were worked out during long walks. There’s something about being outside which definitely clears the fog and helps the writing process.

Check out those wild flowers!

 

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You can get your copy of Weird Wild from Amazon, or contact me below for a signed copy!

Things That Go Bump In The Night

‘Monster!’ Christopher pointed a small, pudgy finger towards the wardrobe, hugging his teddy bear tightly.

His mum, Sarah, lay him gently down in his bed. ‘No, sweetie, there’s no monsters in your wardrobe,’ she said, tucking his blankets around him.

Christopher sat up and pointed again. ‘Monster, mummy.’ Sarah looked into his saucer eyes and signed inwardly.

Forcing a smile to her face she rose and crossed to the wardrobe in the corner of the room. She made a dramatic show of opening the doors and rummaging through the few items of clothing hanging on their small hangers. She lifted out the boxes of toys and even lifted out his tiny shoes and peeked into each. ‘See? No monsters. Now, time for bed.’

‘Bed. Monsters. Bed, mummy.’ Christopher started waving under the bed, tears springing to his eyes.

‘That’s enough Christopher,’ his father, Mike, stood wearily at the door. Sarah threw him a sharp look. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘We go through this nonsense every night. There’s no monsters in the wardrobe or under the bed. Playing along just encourages him. Come on, you little monster. You’re the scariest thing in this room, so off to bed.’

‘Dr Jenkins said we shouldn’t dismiss his fears,’ hissed Sarah.

‘Well Dr Jenkins can spend three hours putting him to bed every night as I’m fed up with eating cold dinners.’

Sarah glared at her husband before quickly forcing a smile to her lips and stroking her son’s cheek. She reached under his cot and pulled out a stuffed toy. She brought it to her lips and whispered in its ear before handing it to her son. ‘Now Chris, I’d like you to meet Mega Mo. He’s a monster eater and I’ve just asked him to look after you all night, ok?’

Christopher looked at his mum, then at the toy. he chewed his lip as he studied Mega Mo. Mega Mo had a small, squat body, clad in denim dungarees. Small black leather boots stuck out the bottom, laces tied neatly in a bow. His arms were disproportionally long and muscular, the stitching etching out his fingers of his broad hands. However, it was his face that Christopher spent the longest studying – it was circular with two small, black eyes made from buttons, two cloth ears stuck out at 90degrees from his head and wool stuck out the top to form hair. It was his mouth which Christopher spent the longest looking at as it was overly wide, almost slicing his head in half. Velcro stuck his lips together, but it opened easily as Christopher pulled. Mega Mo’s mouth was empty, just a cloth bag.

‘As if he wasn’t already seeing monsters, you’re giving him one to sleep with,’ muttered Mike.

‘Dr Jenkins suggested it as a comforter. Mega Mo isn’t afraid of anything, Christopher and he look after you, ok? Now, lights out, time for sleep.’ Sarah rose and before Christopher could complain moved to the door, flicking off the light. His parents paused in the doorway, giving their eyes a moment to adjust to the assorted night lights Christopher insisted light his room. ‘Night, sweetie,’ said his mum.

‘Night son,’ his dad called, already heading to the kitchen.

Within a few minutes Christopher head the ping of the microwave as his parents reheated their dinners and the television as they flicked through the channels.

Christopher hugged Mega Mo to his chest as he sat in his cot. He knew they were out there, waiting. Every night since they had moved into the new house was the same: the monsters under his bed would wake him up. Christopher didn’t know why they did these things, other than to torment him. He’d hear them giggling, their long fingers curling around his blankets before dragging them off of him. He’d feel their breath on his face as they flicked his ears and their sandpaper skin as they yanked his feet. Christopher squeezed his eyes closed tightly and pretended to go to sleep. Sometimes they didn’t bother him if he was asleep. Sometimes.

The familiar scratching started at his wardrobe door, one long fingernail dragged across the wood, slowly at first, then in faster, shorter bursts until the door creaked open. A low buzz filled the room, causing the bars on Christopher’s cot to rattle. He closed his eyes more tightly, covering them with his small hands, fingers splayed over his face.

His cot was moving now, bouncing on the carpet as the creatures bounded out from underneath. Christoper started shaking. It sounded like more of the creatures were coming than had ever before. The giggling creatures moved around the room, their long claws plucking at the carpet as Christopher continued to shake, tears free-flowing down his cheeks.

The sound of velcro ripping made him pause. He desperately didn’t want to take his hands away from his eyes, but curiosity finally pulled them down to his sides. He started to reach for Mega Mo, only to discover the toy was no longer by his side. Christoper quickly scanned his bed, his blanket rumbled beside him, his bottle the other side, but the stuffed toy was nowhere to be seen.

A squeak from under the bed drew his attention. He hesitantly reached for the bars of his cot, but pulled back when he heard another squeak, followed by a thump. His cot rattled, then stilled.

Swallowing hard, Christopher peered through the bars. He saw Mega Mo on the floor, his broad arms swinging like a windmill, his club hands knocking the creatures down. He paused, scooping up several of the creatures and, grinning widely before opening his mouth and dropping the screaming creatures into the chasm. A blue felt tongue whipped around, licking his lips before he started chasing more of the creatures around the room, gulping them down as he caught them. Christopher watched as Mega Mo ate all of the creatures until there was one left, cowering in the corner. He chittered to Mega Mo who smiled before launching himself at the creature. In one fluid move he swallowed it whole. He stood upright and surveyed the room. Christopher followed his gaze and for the first time, he listened to the silence of his room.

‘Wow, I can’t believe he’s asleep!’ whispered Sarah, retaking the blankets that had slipped from around Christopher’s shoulders.

‘I know, he’d normally have screamed by now,’ muttered Mike. ‘Told you it was just a phase.’

‘Or Mega Mo helped. Where is that toy anyway?’ Sarah’s foot nudged against something. She looked down and saw Mega Mo. ‘What are you doing out of Christopher’s cot? I told you to protect him.’ She bent to pick up the toy. ‘Blimey, you’re heavier than I remember.’

‘Forget about the toy,’ hissed Mike, ‘Just enjoy the tranquility.’

Sarah tucked Mega Mo in next to Christoper who instinctively hugged him. He smiled in his sleep, dreaming of monsters, and those who ate them.

Thank you for calling

Still buzzing from ‘Train to Busan‘ last night, I was reminded of this short story I wrote a while ago. From memory it was written during a protracted battle with our telecom provider (or as was the case, non-provider!) and I’m sure it’s an issue many people will know well.

***

Thank you for calling

‘Thank you for calling. Have a nice day,’ Peter disconnected the call, took a deep breath and hit the flashing read button.

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Peter. How can I help you today?’

The female voice on the other end of the phone tersely explained the issues she was having with her mobile telephone.

Not bothering to refer to the script the company ordered all employees to follow, he had long ago memorised it, Peter suggested that the woman turn off the phone, take out the battery and sim, then replace them. He waited patiently as she followed his instructions. Hearing a beep at the other end of the line told Peter that his recommendation had worked.

‘Thank you,’ cried the woman.

‘You’re welcome, madam. Is there anything else I can help you with today?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Ok, then. Well, thank you for calling. Have a nice day.’

He didn’t mind the work. It was better than his old life and at least he wasn’t hungry any more. They had called him Peter when he first started working there, telling him to forget his old name, that having a Western name was much better. In time, they had been right, he had forgotten his old name. He had forgotten a lot about his past.

Another call. Peter automatically ran through the script, his voice dry and devoid of emotion. However, the man on the other end of the line would not be pacified. Evidently his internet connection had been interrupted and he demanded an explanation. Peter flicked through his script until he reached the section about the internet.

‘There has been a problem at the exchange, sir. Please be assured we are doing all we can to rectify the situation and normal service should resume shortly,’ said Peter, reading the first excuse on the list.

‘The exchange?’ spluttered the man, ‘Do you think I’m an idiot? There’s no problem at the exchange. Where are your offices? Are you in India? I bet you’re in India,’ sneered the voice.

Peter quickly looked at the board at the front of the cubicles, ‘I can assure you, sir, I am in London. It’s cloudy out and I can see the 10.40 tourist boat cruising along the Thames.’

The man on the other end of the line grunted to show he was impressed, but he was not convinced.

‘As I said, we are aware of the problem and our engineers will have it resolved shortly. Is there anything else I can help you with today sir?’ enquired Peter politely, not rising the the anger he heard in the man’s voice.

‘Yes, you can just go and …’ started the man.

Peter cut him off before the man could continue his rant, ‘Thank you for calling TalkPhone. Have a nice day.’

Peter disconnected the call but imagined he could still hear the man swearing. Customers would frequently rant and swear at him. He didn’t really understand why they got so angry and couldn’t empathise with their frustration.

The truth was, Peter, and all those who were around him were in India. The whole village had been suspicious of the white men in expensive suits who had arrived unexpectedly a year ago, offering a solution to their problems.

The red light was flashing. It never stopped flashing, no matter how many calls Peter took.

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Peter. How can I help you today?’

‘Yes, I hope you can help me. I think there’s a problem with my telephone connection.’

Peter looked again at the board in the front, covered with photographs of London, schedules for events, a large clock and the local weather reports. He watched the hands on the clock as they completed their loop and started again, continuous, never-ending. He had never been to London, had never even left the village and now, with his job at TalkPhone, the possibility seemed even more remote.

Around the call centre, there was approximately one hundred of his assorted neighbours and members of his family. All had been recruited when TalkPhone had come to town. They each had a small cubicle just over a metre square, with a desk, chair, headset, phone and the ever-flashing red light. No one had bothered to decorate their cubicles; they only ever looked up to check the board at the front of the room, so why bother? It was just them and the red button.

Pushing the insistent red button once more, Peter said ‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Peter. How can I help you today?’

* * *

‘Do we need a bigger workforce?’ asked the man in the expensive charcoal grey suit which matched the colour of his eyes. His features sharp enough to cut glass as he stared out of the office window, overlooking the call centre.

‘I’ve got the boys out scouting for suitable candidates now. TalkPhone has increased it’s sales by 50% in the last quarter and the boys in accounting project it will continue,’ the second man, his face blurred in the blue smoke of his cigar as he creaked back on his chair. His suit was made of the finest materials and rippled over muscles honed not in a gym, but on the streets. While many entrepreneurs were forces to be reckoned with in the boardroom, he had made his fortune by forced takeovers using fists and muscle. ‘Well, when you have a workforce this cheap, you can afford to offer cheap phone calls.’ He barked a laugh while his companion looked out over the hunched figures, huddled in their small cubicles, the red lights on their phones twinkling like stars.

‘Do you think they know?’ the grey man asked.

‘Know what? They don’t know anything, except what we tell them. They don’t feel, they don’t think, they don’t eat and they don’t shit. They never need to take a break and they don’t stop working until we tell them to. Hell, they’re the perfect workforce.’

Despite his earlier nonchalant air, the charcoal grey suited man looked troubled. ‘But what about the smell?’

‘What smell?’ another puff of cigar smoke wafted towards the ceiling.

‘Of decay. They’re decomposing, despite the freezing temperatures in here.’ The man hugged himself involuntarily. The walls of the call centre were thick to keep out the blazing sun and industrial coolers whirred constantly. A light mist descended from the ceiling, coating the workers in a sheen of damp but none moved to brush it away or even seemed to notice it.

Outside the once vibrant village had been turned into a dried mud pool: crops had been abandoned, houses deserted, and cars untended, left to rust on unkept road. Dogs and cattle wandered unchecked with eyes glazed.

‘So? The smell don’t bother them,’ came the reply from behind the cigar.

‘And what happens when their bodies finally give out?’

The laugh barked again. ‘As long as they have a finger to push the buttons and their voices boxes don’t fall out, they work. Besides, there’s plenty more where they came from. Like I said, the boys are out recruiting as we speak. There’s a village downriver. We’ve already started pouring the chemicals into the water. They won’t know a thing. Soon as they start dying off, the boys’ll be there to grab them and bring them back here. Don’t worry.’

Unconvinced, the grey suit turned back to the window.

* * *

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Peter. How can I help you today?’

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Victoria. How can I help you today?’

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Daniel. How can I help you today?’

‘Hello, your through to TalkPhone. My name is Laura. How can I help you today?’

The voices drifted up, mingling with the freezing mist as the zombies kept answering the call of the red button.

The Last Dragon Keeper

Dragon-Avatar

When I was first venturing into writing, I started submitting to different competitions. ‘The Last Dragon Keeper’ was submitted to the Fantasy Faction Writing Competition way back in 2012. I was amazed that people voted for it and I ended up winning that month! I keep planning to return to this world, with Eui and her brother Rowan and their voices have become a little more demanding of late, so you never know. Here it is ‘The Last Dragon Keeper’…..

The Last Dragon Keeper

Eui watched as the waves surged towards the shore. Ice had formed on the water, the motion turning it to mush as it covered the smooth grey rocks that acted as boundary between land and sea. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying but failing to keep out the wind which threatened to tear her clothes and pick at her bones. She knew that her mother would scold her for forgetting her jacket but in her desperation to get out of the house, she had left it, stowed snugly in her wardrobe. Eui stamped her feet to try and warm them but the wind kept forcing it’s way through her thick boots, biting her toes.

The ground began to shake. It started with a slow trickle of the smaller rocks which quickly blended with the mush of the ocean water. The larger rocks began to vibrate then roll down the hill and into the water. Eui stood her ground as rocks large and small snapped at her heels, flinching as the larger ones bruised her. Eui breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar ash scent which covered the island more deeply than the perma-snow.

The earth juddered to a stop and Eui carefully stepped out of the pile of stones which covered her feet. The icy slush boiled along the shore then all was still once more. Eui turned as she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel and smiled at her father.

‘Your mother is worried about you,’ he said, not looking her in the eye but focussing on the ocean.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’ Eui risked a look at her father but could not read his expression. The silence settled over them, only slightly comfortable.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Eui said, ‘The dragons are dying father.’

‘As are we, Eui, as are we. We can only hope that they die before we do. A dragon alone in this world, without a Keeper, would soon fall prey to the blades of the Sagar.’

If they’re lucky, thought Eui, but she did not pursue the matter. Every Keeper knew the challenges faced by the dragons. The Sagars were hunters who sold dragon meat and their scales and teeth which held magical properties. For over a generation they had hunted and killed dragons, depleting their numbers in an unending quest for the perfect hunt: A mythical beast, defined by its purity and beauty. With each retelling of the myth, the dragon grew in grace and size until Eui, who had been told stories of the Sagar which had kept her awake at night, did not recognise the creature as being a dragon but an animal of pure virtue. Knowing no dragon had ever been born matching the myth kept the Sagars hunting and Eui from peaceful dreams.

However, the biggest threat was the dragons themselves. Females would lay between 15-20 eggs and would continually defend her nest from attacks by males. Of the eggs which survived, not all would hatch, with some being trampled. Finally the female, tired and undernourished, would die. If she was lucky, she might see the one or two of her offspring who would emerge from their eggs, snorting flames and growling to be fed.

In the absence of a mother, when the infant dragons smashed from their eggs, they would bond with a Keeper. The Keepers were almost as old as the dragons themselves but they to had slowly grown fewer and fewer until Eui and her brother Rowan were the only none bonded keepers. The last surviving female was guarding her egg, waiting to die.

‘It’s a very special time for your brother. He will be bonded, probably today,’ said her father, his eyes remaining on the waves.

‘And what about me?’ asked Eui. ‘A keeper with nothing to keep.’

‘Is that why you wish to leave?’ Eui flashed a quick look at her father. He would claim that it was the wind which brought tears to his eyes, but the clench in Eui’s stomach reminded her of the argument with her mother.

‘There is a world beyond the isle, father. I wish to explore and there is nothing here for me. There will be no more dragons once this has hatched and bonded with Rowan. A keeper with nothing to keep,’ Eui’s eyes flooded with tears which threatened to fall. Her father swung an arm around her and gently pulled her close for a brisk hug.

‘Come, Eui. They are preparing for the ceremony. I have to get to the Great Hall. Greeson and the elders are waiting for me.’ Together they walked slowly up the beach, slipping occasionally on the loose gravel. Kissing her on the head before gently pushing her towards the settlement, Eui’s father walked towards the mountain. Suddenly he called Eui and she ran to him as the wind stole his words.

‘Eui, Keepers are like the seasons. We are currently in the darkest winter we have known, filled with darkness and despair but after the winter, the spring warmth always comes. Remember, your name means spring in the old tongue. Wait, and you will see the beauty when we emerge from the darkness. I know you feel there is nothing for you here, but your brother will need your support and love. Being a Keeper is not easy and he still has a lot to learn.’

Eui gave her father a small smile, then turned and jogged into the settlement, flinging open the door. Her mother looked up from where she was sat by the table, her sewing needle raised. She regarded Eui with a stony expression.

Eui paused, looking contrite under the glare of her mother. ‘Father said you might need some help preparing for the ceremony,’ she said finally.

Her mother carefully laid down her needle. She studied the garments laid out across the table then quietly said, ‘Go and wake your brother. He needs to get dressed. The ceremony starts soon. The egg is hatching.’

Eui dipped her head and avoided eye contact with her mother as she wound around the large table and up the stairs. Launching into her brother’s room, she jumped onto his bed, bouncing up and down.

‘Wakey, wakey,’ she called as Rowan swatted at her.

‘Get off,’ he shouted as Eui continued jumping.

‘Mother says you have to get up. The ceremony is going to start soon so you need to get into your dress,’ teased Eui.

‘It’s a robe,’ roared Rowan, sitting up and pushing Eui off of the bed. She landed with cat-like grace, giving him a smug smile.

‘Whatever. The eggs hatching. You’re about to become a Keeper.’

‘Yeah,’ said Rowan without enthusiasm, pulling a t-shirt from the floor and sniffing it. Deciding it didn’t smell, he dragged it over his head, then ran his fingers through his hair.

Eui watched her brother. Three years older than her thirteen, his training made him appear older but seeing him first thing in the morning always reminded Eui of how young her brother really was.

Playfully kicking him, she ran from the room, calling ‘Your dress is on the table. Hurry up or I might spill my breakfast on it.’

Eui charged into the kitchen, Rowan a few paces behind. They both stopped when they saw their mother’s stern face.

‘Hurry up,’ their mother said, handing Rowan his robe. Smoothing her hair, she stood a little straighter and scowled at her children. ‘I will see you at the Great Hall,’ she said, leaving them.

Eui grinned at her brother. Rowan ignored her and carefully picked up the robes his mother had spent weeks embroidering. Slipping the delicate fabric over his head, he felt it cascade down his body. Checking the sleeves were straight, he tugged at the hem. Eui bit her cheeks to stop from laughing while Rowan slipped into his boots.

‘It’s a robe,’ he growled. Eui couldn’t contain herself and started laughing. Looking down at himself, Rowan sighed, then he started giggling. ‘Ok, it’s a dress. Can we go? I have a dragon to meet.’

Together they walked from the settlement towards the Great Hall, Rowan complaining about the cold and the snow getting into his boots. Entering the cave that would take them to the Great Hall they could hear the Elders singing, and the pained final breaths of the female dragon. The Great Hall was a large cave which had formed in the mountain, decorated by generations of Keepers. There were designs showing the bonding ceremony, the history of the keepers and dragons, with some designs used to train young keepers.

Eui and Rowan joined their parents, stood on a large platform just above the pit where the dragon rested with her last remaining egg. The female dragon was large, her scales a burnt orange turning to red on her belly and yellow on her wings. Her breath was shallow and laboured and the keepers knew that it would not be long before she would join her brethren in the flame halls of the underworld.

Eui stole a peek at the egg. It was about the size of a boulder, with mottled brown spots and she heard the frustrated squeaks as it’s occupier nosed its way out. The Elders stood on the opposite platform, their chants rising and falling with the breaths of the female. The large dragon’s head drooped, rose, then fell again.

Greeson silenced the Elders with a raised hand. ‘She has passed to the underworld,’ he said.

No one made a sound as they watched the dragon ease its nose, then it’s body and finally its long tail from the egg. It opened its mouth and coughed, sending a ball of flame harmlessly against the wall. Shaking itself its wings unfurled and the Keepers stood amazed. The baby dragon’s body was a paler colour than it’s mothers but its wings were pure white, veins highlighted in golden scales which caught the light. Shaking its head, it emitted a small bark before experimentally flapping its wings. Its dark green eyes took in the unmoving body of its mother before it spotted Rowan stood on the platform. Another flap of its wings and it was eye level with the platform, barking happily.

The Elders began chanting in the ancient tongue. Eui did not understand all the words but knew it was the song to encourage the dragon to choose its Keeper. Rowan grinned as the dragon looked at him and bowed deeply as he had been taught. The dragon started to dip its head when it caught sight of Eui behind Rowan. Cocking its head to one side it forgot to move its wings, flapping quickly as it began to fall. Rowan remained bowed, but his mother shifted nervously. Rowan dared to peek and frowned when he saw that the dragon was not returning his bow. Finally he stood and looked at his father, who shrugged his confusion.

Standing, Rowan blocked the dragons view of Eui. The dragon craned his neck to look around the boy. Eui looked back wide-eyed back at the creature floating effortlessly before stepping past Rowan and raising her hand towards the dragon.

The dragon swooped close, it’s sudden movement causing Eui to step back in surprise until the dragons long black tongue flicked out, licking her hand. Eui giggled, running her hand along the dragon’s muzzle as it growled contentedly.

‘The dragon has chosen it’s Keeper,’ called Greeson, his voice echoing.

Eui stopped playing with the dragon as the words struck her like a physical blow. She looked at Rowan, his face contorted with anger, her mother with her hand covering her mouth in shock and finally her father who was smiling at her. Stepping forward he lifted Eui onto the dragon’s back. Eui hugged the dragon’s neck as it rose and circled the Great Hall.

‘Spring has come with the last Dragon Keeper,’ Eui’s father said.

 

If you’ve enjoyed this story, why not check out my other works, including my novels ‘Akane: The Last of the Orions‘, ‘Weird Wild‘ and my children’s book ‘Ghoulsome Graveyard‘.

National Share-A-Story Month

We love stories here. Be it the worlds of Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler for the Lamb,  Scott Snyder for hubby or Gaiman for me, there’s always a yarn being spun (I’m tempted to insert a pun about my knitting addiction here, but I digress).

SSM

But whilst I love to read stories, I also love to craft them. I’ve talked before about the voices in my head, telling me their tales (and more than once, their tails!). Way back in 2012 I submitted a short story ‘The Last Dragon Keeper‘ to the monthly Fantasy Faction Writing Challenge. In an open vote, my short story won! As part of National Share-A-Story Month, I thought I’d do a Throwback Thursday to the world of Eui, Rowan and dragons. Click the link to see the original article and carry on reading for my story of The Last Dragon Keeper.

dragonnun.jpg
Original artwork by Katie Marshall

***

The Last Dragon Keeper

Eui watched as the waves surged towards the shore. Ice had formed on the water, the motion turning it to mush as it covered the smooth grey rocks that acted as boundary between land and sea. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying but failing to keep out the wind, which threatened to tear her clothes and pick at her bones. She knew that her mother would scold her for forgetting her jacket but in her desperation to get out of the house, she had left it, stowed snugly in her wardrobe. Eui stamped her feet to try to warm them but the wind kept forcing its way through her thick boots, biting her toes.

The ground began to shake. It started with a slow trickle of the smaller rocks, which quickly blended with the mush of the ocean water. The larger rocks began to vibrate then roll down the hill and into the water. Eui stood her ground as rocks large and small snapped at her heels, flinching as the larger ones bruised her. Eui breathed deeply, inhaling the familiar ash scent that covered the island more deeply than the perma-snow.

The earth juddered to a stop and Eui carefully stepped out of the pile of stones that covered her feet. The icy slush boiled along the shore then all was still once more. Eui turned as she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel and smiled at her father.

“Your mother is worried about you,” he said, not looking her in the eye but focusing on the ocean.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” Eui risked a look at her father but could not read his expression. The silence settled over them, only slightly comfortable.

Finally, taking a deep breath, Eui said, “The dragons are dying father.”

“As are we, Eui, as are we. We can only hope that they die before we do. A dragon alone in this world, without a Keeper, would soon fall prey to the blades of the Sagar.”

If they’re lucky, thought Eui, but she did not pursue the matter.

Every Keeper knew the challenges faced by the dragons. The Sagars were hunters who sold dragon meat and their scales and teeth, which held magical properties. For over a generation they had hunted and killed dragons, depleting their numbers in an unending quest for the perfect hunt: A mythical beast, defined by its purity and beauty. With each retelling of the myth, the dragon grew in grace and size until Eui, who had been told stories of the Sagar which had kept her awake at night, did not recognise the creature as being a dragon but an animal of pure virtue. Knowing no dragon had ever been born matching the myth kept the Sagars hunting and Eui from peaceful dreams.

However, the biggest threat was the dragons themselves. Females would lay between 15-20 eggs and would continually defend her nest from attacks by males. Of the eggs that survived, not all would hatch, with some being trampled. Finally the female, tired and undernourished, would die. If she was lucky, she might see the one or two of her offspring who would emerge from their eggs, snorting flames and growling to be fed.

In the absence of a mother, when the infant dragons smashed from their eggs, they would bond with a Keeper. The Keepers were almost as old as the dragons themselves but they too had slowly grown fewer and fewer until Eui and her brother Rowan were the only non-bonded keepers. The last surviving female was guarding her egg, waiting to die.

“It’s a very special time for your brother. He will be bonded, probably today,” said her father, his eyes remaining on the waves.

“And what about me?” asked Eui.

“Is that why you wish to leave? You lack purpose?”

Eui flashed a quick look at her father. He would claim that it was the wind that brought tears to his eyes, but the clench in Eui’s stomach reminded her of the argument with her mother.

“There is a world beyond the isle, father. I wish to explore and there is nothing here for me. There will be no more dragons once this has hatched and bonded with Rowan. A Keeper with nothing to keep.” Eui’s eyes flooded with tears that threatened to fall. Her father swung an arm around her and gently pulled her close for a brisk hug.

“Come, Eui. They are preparing for the ceremony. I have to get to the Great Hall. Greeson and the elders are waiting for me.”

Together they walked slowly up the beach, slipping occasionally on the loose gravel. Kissing her on the head before gently pushing her towards the settlement, Eui’s father walked towards the mountain. Suddenly he called Eui and she ran to him as the wind stole his words.

“Eui, Keepers are like the seasons. We are currently in the darkest winter we have known, filled with darkness and despair, but after the winter, the spring warmth always comes. Remember, your name means spring in the old tongue. Wait and you will see the beauty when we emerge from the darkness. I know you feel there is nothing for you here, but your brother will need your support and love. Being a Keeper is not easy and he still has a lot to learn.”

Eui gave her father a small smile, then turned and jogged into the settlement, flinging open their door. Her mother looked up from where she was sat by the table, her sewing needle raised. She regarded Eui with a stony expression.

Eui paused, looking contrite under the glare of her mother. “Father said you might need some help preparing for the ceremony,” she said finally.

Her mother laid down her needle. She studied the garments laid out across the table then quietly said, “Go and wake your brother. He needs to get dressed. The ceremony starts soon. The egg is hatching.”

Eui dipped her head and avoided eye contact with her mother as she wound around the large table and up the stairs. Launching into her brother’s room, she jumped onto his bed, bouncing up and down.

“Wakey, wakey,” she called as Rowan swatted at her.

“Get off,” he shouted as Eui continued jumping.

“Mother says you have to get up. The ceremony is going to start soon so you need to get into your dress,” teased Eui.

“It’s a robe,” roared Rowan, sitting up and pushing Eui off the bed.

She landed with cat-like grace, giving him a smug smile. “Whatever. The egg’s hatching. You’re about to become a Keeper.”

“Yeah,” said Rowan without enthusiasm, pulling a shirt from the floor and sniffing it. Deciding it didn’t smell, he dragged it over his head, then ran his fingers through his hair.

Eui watched her brother. Three years older than her thirteen, his training made him appear older but seeing him first thing in the morning always reminded Eui of how young her brother really was.

Playfully kicking him, she ran from the room, calling, “Your dress is on the table. Hurry up or I might spill my breakfast on it.”

Eui charged into the kitchen, Rowan a few paces behind. They both stopped when they saw their mother’s stern face.

“Hurry up,” their mother said, handing Rowan his robe. Smoothing her hair, she stood a little straighter and scowled at her children. “I will see you at the Great Hall,” she said, leaving them.

Eui grinned at her brother. Rowan ignored her and carefully picked up the robes his mother had spent weeks embroidering. Slipping the delicate fabric over his head, it cascade down his body. Checking the sleeves were straight, he tugged at the hem. Eui bit her cheeks to stop from laughing while Rowan slipped into his boots.

“It’s a robe,” he growled.

Eui couldn’t contain herself and started laughing.

Looking down at himself, Rowan sighed, then he too started giggling. “Ok, it’s a dress. Can we go? I have a dragon to meet.”

Together they walked from the settlement towards the Great Hall, Rowan complaining about the cold and the snow getting into his boots. Entering the cave that would take them to the Great Hall, they could hear the Elders singing, and the pained final breaths of the female dragon. The Great Hall was a large cave, which had formed in the mountain, decorated by generations of Keepers. There were designs showing the bonding ceremony, the history of the keepers and dragons, with some designs used to train young keepers.

Eui and Rowan joined their parents, on a large platform just above the pit where the dragon rested with her last remaining egg. The female dragon was large, her scales a burnt orange turning to red on her belly and yellow on her wings. Her breath was shallow and laboured; the keepers knew that it would not be long before she would join her brethren in the flame halls of the underworld.

Eui stole a peek at the egg. It was about the size of a boulder, with mottled brown spots and she heard the frustrated squeaks as its occupier nosed its way out. The Elders stood on the opposite platform, their chants rising and falling with the breaths of the female. The large dragon’s head drooped, rose, then fell again.

Greeson silenced the Elders with a raised hand. “She has passed to the underworld,” he said.

No one made a sound as they watched the dragon ease its nose, then its body and finally its long tail from the egg. It opened its mouth and coughed, sending a ball of flame harmlessly against the wall. Shaking itself, its wings unfurled and the Keepers stood amazed. The baby dragon’s body was a paler colour than its mother’s, but its wings were pure white, veins highlighted in golden scales that caught the light. Shaking its head, it emitted a small bark before experimentally flapping its wings. Its dark green eyes took in the unmoving body of its mother before it spotted Rowan standing on the platform. Another flap of its wings and it was eye level with the platform, barking happily.

The Elders began chanting in the ancient tongue. Eui did not understand all the words but knew it was the song to encourage the dragon to choose its Keeper. Rowan grinned as the dragon looked at him and bowed deeply as he had been taught. The dragon started to dip its head when it caught sight of Eui behind Rowan. Cocking its head to one side it forgot to move its wings, flapping quickly as it began to fall. Rowan remained bowed, but his mother shifted nervously. Rowan dared to peek and frowned when he saw that the dragon was not returning his bow. Finally, he stood and looked at his father, who shrugged his confusion.

Standing, Rowan blocked the dragon’s view of Eui. The dragon craned his neck to look around the boy. Eui looked back wide-eyed back at the creature floating effortlessly before stepping past Rowan and raising her hand towards the dragon.

The dragon swooped close, it’s sudden movement causing Eui to step back in surprise until the dragons long black tongue flicked out, licking her hand. Eui giggled, running her hand along the dragon’s muzzle as it growled contentedly.

“The dragon has chosen its Keeper,” called Greeson, his voice echoing.

Eui stopped playing with the dragon as the words struck her like a physical blow. She looked at Rowan, his face contorted with anger, her mother with her hand covering her mouth in shock and finally her father who was smiling at her. Stepping forward he lifted Eui onto the dragon’s back. Eui hugged the dragon’s neck as it rose and circled the Great Hall.

“Spring has come with the last Dragon Keeper,” Eui’s father said.

***

Throwback Thursday: What Writing Means to Me

Way back in 2012 I’d freshly arrived in Devon and had helped to set up a writers group. One of our fellow writers had set up an interesting project ‘Vie Hebdomadaires’ where each week guest bloggers would take over and write about anything which interested them. It’s a fun project and there’s been a wide variety of topics covered. If you’ve got spare time, I’d definitely recommend a flick through.

Anyway, I wrote this piece about ‘What Writing Means To Me‘. It was a precis of where I was at that time with my writing and partly why I feel the need to write. Looking back, I’m amazed at how much I’d accomplished and also, how much more I’ve completed. In many respects it’s easy to overlook our accomplishments, but in the five years since I wrote the article, I’ve published ‘Akane: The Last of the Orions‘, I’ve also published two other books in different genres, the adult collection of short stories ‘Weird Wild‘ and the pre-teen novel ‘Ghoulsome Graveyard‘. There’s been assorted short stories published, The Girls Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse has been revived and whilst I lost all my original work on my previous website, here I am blogging again. This amongst assorted crafting projects, short stories, working and being a full time mum and that’s not too shabby!

 

Click the link above to see the original article or carry on reading below.

There is an inordinate amount written about writing: the who, where and why. Quotes on how you should write, what you should write about. To be honest, as someone who has written for years but who is only now trying to become a ‘professional’ writer, it’s all very intimidating, which is why I loved a mini-Twitter campaign led by Jason Arnopp (scriptwriters for shows such as Doctor Who as well as a number of movies) which said that if you write, you’re a writer. Not ‘aspiring’, not ‘desperate’, not ‘wannabe’. You put words onto paper in an order which makes for (hopefully) interesting reading. This led to a lot of people, in the style of a Hollywood movie, announce, ‘My name is … I am a writer.’

So, since then, I’ve taken on board Jason’s words. I no longer describe myself as ‘aspiring’ or ‘attempting to be’. I write, therefore I am a writer.

2012 is the year which I’m focusing on my writing, trying to go from ‘aspiring’ to ‘published’. I set myself a number of aims (I say aims because it sounds less daunting than New Year Resolutions) for the year which I suppose have made me a little introspective about my writing career to date.

I’ve always written. I remember as a child writing a wandering story which I proudly told my cousin ran to ten pages. During my teenage years there was the cliched angst-ridden poetry and short stories and I was lucky enough that my English teacher channeled me towards writing for the local paper who were creating a section written by youngsters. My first article, about my experiences of learning to drive, won a prize. I was later asked to review Les Miserables when it was touring and arrived in my local town.

At university I focused my energies in other directions and it wasn’t until my husband and I went traveling that the voices which had talked me into writing those ten pages as a child came back to me. I started a story based on a little hummingbird who got lost on his way to visit his armadillo friend and ended up traveling around South America in much the same way we were (although without the 36 hour bus journeys!). There’s some ok ideas in the story, but I knew I needed help so I enlisted on the London School of Journalism’s distance learning course for people who want to write children’s books. An interesting course which helped me understand my characters a bit more, under the encouragement of my tutor, I embarked on my first novel ‘Akane’. It’s a bit of a science fiction, adventure story for young adults and I loved having that adventure with those characters. I’ll be honest, they surprised me a number of times with their actions: the good becoming bad and vice versa, on character who was supposed to only have a walk on part became integral to the story and the pain my characters experienced, I experienced.

It was around that time that I discovered National Novel Writing Month. I’ve written at length about NaNoWriMo and am a proud ‘Wrimo’ myself so I won’t go into details here but the idea is that in 30 days you write a 50,000 word novel. It sounds a lot, but when broken down it’s only 1667 words per day. 2012 will be my fourth year taking part in the madness of NaNoWriMo which has helped me create a number of different novels and I look forward to every November when it starts again.

Thanks to NaNoWriMo and the work I was creating for them, I realised that I’m a genre writer: the voices in my head are all from the worlds of the paranormal, the mythical or other galaxies. So, I decided to attend my first convention for genre writers, Fantasy Con, down in Brighton last year. It was all quite exciting and nerve-wracking. There were authors there who I’d read for years, while some I had never heard of but whose work I have since picked up and enjoyed.

While there I met a lady named Adele. We chatted and got on well, but I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect to see or hear from her until the next convention so it was a surprise when she contacted me to say she was setting up a new blog and would I like to take part. I was interested, blogging is still fairly new to me so it would be good to work with someone with a lot more experience. However, it was the theme of the blog which really drew me in: The Girls’ Guide to Surviving the Apocalypse. To celebrate all things feminine when the end comes as well as offer tongue in cheek advice about how to survive when the zombie hoards come crashing through your door. I loved the idea and immediately submitted my first article ‘Running In Heels (From Zombies)’. Since it’s launch last October, the Apocalypse Girls are we are known have developed quite a following and our ‘feral leader’ as Adele has affectionately been named is constantly coming up with new plans to challenge us.

I was also lucky enough to meet another inspirational woman, Oriana with whom I have set up a writing group in Exeter, called ‘Resident Writers’. We’d both attended different writing groups but they didn’t quite fill the need we had: stimulating us and encouraging us to write. In the months between NaNoWriMo, I’d often go for weeks without writing anything and like any muscle, don’t using your writing skills and they get rusty. We launched in March this year and already have a fabulous group of writers from different genres who come and write with us. I’ve even started writing poetry which I’ve not done since I was at school!

So, now I am a ‘writer’ what next? I have a number of voices muttering in my head, demanding my attention, but even those who have had their stories told are asking more of me: that I let others read their tales and share their journey. Therefore I’m about to start a new adventure in my writing career, the search for an agent and a publisher. I know it’s going to be a hard and difficult road, but at least I have a lot of people to keep me company, even if my head is getting a little crowded.

 

Meet the Maker: Milestone

If I’m honest, I never really expected much when I started writing. I mean, hubby had always read and enjoyed my work but having other people read and enjoy? It still seems odd and unreal. However, it was a milestone to get ‘Akane: Last of the Orions‘ in print and into the top 10 of the Amazon YA/SciFi list (it reached number 2), then when I managed that, it became a new milestone to get ‘Weird Wild‘, then Ghoulsome Graveyard out. When I reached one milestone, the voices had already set three more! Book brag shelf.JPG

 

Book-irthday for Weird Wild!

Yay, it’s my book-irthday for Weird Wild! To celebrate my publication anniversary for Weird Wild, I’m doing a quick throwback to when I was interviewed by Margret Helgadottir on her blog about the inspiration for Weird Wild, how I get writing and other musings. You can read the interview here. If you’d like to contact me about my writing, reviews or anything else, please comment below 😊