Jenny Kane: Coffee, cupcakes, chocolate and contemporary fiction / Jennifer Ash: Medieval crime with hints of Ellis Peters and Robin Hood

Category: Fantasy Page 1 of 2

OUT NOW: Not That Kind of Witch by Lucy Felthouse

OUT NOW—Not That Kind of Witch, A Brand-new M/F Steamy Contemporary Romance by Lucy Felthouse (@cw1985) #contemporaryromance #romance #steamyromance

The latest release from Lucy Felthouse, Not That Kind of Witch is a M/F steamy contemporary romance filled with fun and steam, which also tackles some serious topics. So if you’re looking for a hefty dollop of realism in your romance, then check this one out!

Blurb:

Can Willow let go of her fears and begin living her life again, or will her issues get the better of her?

Willow Green is having a hard time of it. Losing her job at the beginning of the pandemic and her elderly grandmother’s ‘clinically vulnerable’ status have resulted in her becoming housebound. While her entrepreneurial, hard-working spirit and the knowledge passed down through generations of green witches in her family mean she has solved her employment problem, her fear of going out, of allowing the dreaded virus into the house she shares with her grandmother, is far from resolved. In fact, it seems worse than ever.

That is, until Joe Lane comes along. The handsome care worker turned delivery driver does Willow a favour, gaining her attention and reluctant admiration. He’s got plenty of baggage of his own, but he also has the skills and temperament to help her with her problem—and he really seems to care.

The question is, will she let him get close enough to try?

Available in eBook and paperback formats: https://books2read.com/ntkow

Excerpt:

Willow Green had just stepped into the kitchen from the back garden when there came an almighty hammering on the front door. Panic and irritation flared in equal measure and she dumped her loaded wicker basket on the huge farmhouse-style table before hurrying through the house towards the source of the noise.

Another hammering. The irritation started to outweigh the panic. Whoever was there was in danger of waking the dead, never mind disturbing mostly-deaf Grandma Annie, whom Willow had left happily knitting in the conservatory with a cup of tea on the table at her side before she’d headed out to the garden.

Willow cast her gaze to the ceiling and grunted with frustration. The whole point of installing the smart doorbell and having it set to only sound an alert on her phone had been to prevent Grandma being tempted to get out of her chair and make her way to the door, putting her at risk of a trip or fall along the way, or placing her in a vulnerable position with a complete stranger. The added bonus being, Willow could be at the furthest reaches of the garden, and her phone would cleverly let her know someone was at the front door.

Had this person not seen the sign? Smack dab in the middle of the door: Please use doorbell. With an arrow pointing to it. Couldn’t they read?

Then she remembered. The last time this happened, which had been a while ago, prior to getting the doorbell camera in the first place, it had been kids at the door. Kids who, once she’d opened up, backed off down the path and began flinging jibes and questions at her from what they considered a safe distance.

Hey, witch.

Been out flying on your broomstick?

What’s bubbling in your cauldron?

You gonna turn us into toads?

Did your ancestors get burned at the stake?

Where’s your black cat?

Her heart sank. She sighed and prepared herself for more of the same. It was unlikely, after all, they’d have come up with something new or more original—despite the astonishing wealth of information the human race had at its fingertips these days. Perhaps they hadn’t bothered to look, to educate themselves, or simply thought it was fun to torment a forty-year-old woman who’d never harm anything or anyone—not even if it was possible to turn people into toads. Though, admittedly, if she were a lesser woman, she’d be sorely tempted to throw out a few fake incantations to scare them, make them think she’d cursed them.

Maybe she should. Yes, it was stooping to their level, but if it stopped them coming back…

No. I’m not going there. She briefly considered not answering the door at all. She could access the doorbell speaker and tell them to clear off from the safety and comfort of her hallway, but she didn’t want them to think she was weak, or frightened. That’d just enhance the thrill for them, encourage them to harass her more often. Not happening. Not on my watch. I don’t have time for that kind of idiocy.

She shook her head, unlocked the door and yanked it open, her annoyance already spilling forth. Generally speaking, she was an incredibly placid person, and slow to anger. But she didn’t want these kids to think this house was an easy target. She’d kept the previous incident from Grandma, not wanting to worry her, and had hoped the addition of the doorbell camera might deter them from returning. “Have you horrible toerags seriously got nothing better to do? You should be ashamed of yourselves, pestering people like this! I’ve a mind to contact your parents—”

She stopped dead as the door swung wide enough to provide a view of who was on the other side of it. Not kids—horrible or otherwise—but a man. With a large cardboard box at his feet, bearing a familiar logo. Uh-oh.

A glance past him to the gravel lane leading to her house confirmed her fears. A white Transit van sat there.

She cringed and forced her gaze back to the man. A navy-blue T-shirt bearing the delivery company’s logo was stretched over his muscular biceps and chunky abdomen—a dad bod, she supposed it’d be classed as, though she didn’t really agree with the terminology—as well as a pair of tan shorts and some beat-up looking trainers. He was tall, well over six feet, and she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry. The last time someone hammered on my door like that, it was a bunch of kids shouting abuse. I thought you were them. If you’d just rung the doorbell, like the sign…”

The frown that appeared on the man’s face as she spoke made her shift her attention to her right, a sinking feeling taking over. Where there should have been a sign attached to the centre of the door, were now only six evenly-spaced blobs of Blu-Tak.

Heat flared into her cheeks, and she let out a groan and closed her eyes momentarily. “Well, there was a sign. It’s obviously fallen off. I had no idea. Or I wouldn’t have… never mind. I’m really sorry. And now I’m waffling.” She gave a pained smile, her face threatening to burst into flames. “Anyway. You have a parcel for me?” Her voice went so high at the end she was surprised she hadn’t summoned the neighbourhood dogs.

To his credit, the man simply shrugged. “No worries. I’ve been called worse. You’re…” he consulted the screen of the smartphone in his hand, “Willow Green?”

Given the circumstances, she let the slight waver of amusement in his voice at her name slide. “Yes,” she replied resignedly. “That’s me.”

“Great. It’s a tracked parcel, so I need to take a photo to prove I’ve delivered it…”

“Okay. Go ahead.”

He tapped his phone screen a few times, then lifted the device and stepped back, presumably ensuring he got the right angle so his image would contain both the parcel and her feet inside the open doorway. Pressed the button. “Got it. Thanks. Do you want me to bring it in for you? It’s pretty heavy.” He pocketed the phone.

“No,” she said quickly, recoiling as he approached and made to pick up the box. “I mean, no thank you. I’m fine. I need to find the sign before I go indoors, anyway. Don’t want to shout at any more undeserving delivery drivers, do I?” The chuckle she let out sounded forced, even to her own ears.

“Guess not.” He backed off and clasped his chin, then stroked his thick beard, more grey than black—the colour of his thick, plentiful hair, which had only a dusting of grey at the temples. He glanced at the doorbell and wrinkled his nose. “Should’ve spotted that, really. Especially when no one answered after I knocked a few times. The Blu-Tak should have provided a clue that maybe there was a sign there, and I could have put two and two together. I’m sorry. Such an idiot. Won’t make that mistake again though, will I?” Despite the weakness of his smile, it transformed his face enough that Willow’s stomach flipped. Goodness, he’s handsome.

Available in eBook and paperback formats: https://books2read.com/ntkow

Add to BookBub: https://www.bookbub.com/books/not-that-kind-of-witch-a-contemporary-steamy-romance-novel-by-lucy-felthouse

Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/203844879-not-that-kind-of-witch

Author Bio:

Lucy Felthouse is the award-winning author of erotic romance novels Stately Pleasures (named in the top 5 of Cliterati.co.uk’s 100 Modern Erotic Classics That You’ve Never Heard Of), Eyes Wide Open (winner of the Love Romances Café’s Best Ménage Book 2015 award), The Persecution of the Wolves, Hiding in Plain Sight, Curve Appeal, and The Heiress’s Harem and The Dreadnoughts series. Including novels, short stories and novellas, she has over 175 publications to her name. Find out more about her and her writing at http://lucyfelthouse.co.uk/linktree

Release blitz organised by Writer Marketing Services.

The Genesis of World War When by Elliot Thorpe

This week I’m delighted to be welcoming Elliot Thorpe to my place to tell us about his latest story, World War When.

Over to you Elliot…

I was involved in a book project back in the distant past of 2016, an anthology of stories and verse to commemorate the (then-upcoming) centenary of the end of the First World War. While the project went in other directions, the work I had put into my contributions I didn’t want wasted. Any writer will tell you that an author never throws away an idea! I’d toyed with any number of scenarios and plotlines and saw mileage in expanding beyond the short story remit to a full-length novel.

I’d always found both World Wars to be fascinating, extremely dark chapters in recent history that have hopefully taught us lessons. I’d never written anything directly linking to modern warfare before, although I did delve into the skirmishes between the Ottoman Turks and the Wallachians in a horror novel in 2013. That previous novel, currently out of print, took a hugely fantastical liberty with the source material – something that seemed permissible bearing in mind that the protagonists and antagonists lived in a world wholly unlike our own some 500 years ago.

The idea then of taking a slice of history that is well-known, deeply researched, intimately documented and only a handful of years falling out of living memory I have to confess gave me moments of internal conflict. I didn’t want to make light of the events between 1914 and 1918. I didn’t want to flippantly create characters that existed as unflappable heroes. Nor did I want to step on the experiences those who served had been through. But that’s the art of storytelling, to weave a fiction that is believable, to conjure up heroes who aren’t two-dimensional, to place a tale in front of a backdrop that both thrills and chills.

I did my research. I would have been daft not to – because historians at all levels would find something that I got wrong in my prose. I created a past that was recognisable, a close as I could make it to reality following said research, with healthy influences thrown in for good measure: anything from Buchan to Elton to Faulks to Meredeth to Moffatt to Mukherjee to Sapper. I wanted a world of action, intrigue, drama and romance, of excitement, danger, love and loss. Then I went off-piste: the story mutated into how the Allies had lost the Great War and what happened after.

This alternative history, as I saw it, hadn’t been truly explored before in fiction. We have countless ‘what if Hitler had won’ tales, but no one had seemed to have asked what if the Kaiser had won in 1918?

And so World War When was born: a new, exciting reinvention of the end of 1914-1918 conflict.

But then I realised I had re-ignited my own conflicts: by telling a story of how the Central Powers had stormed across Europe to raise the Kaiser’s flag atop Buckingham Palace, I was erasing all the pain and suffering that our great grandparents had gone through. Perhaps I was looking too deeply into this. My solution? I made my characters, my protagonists, question the world they were living in. Could it be better? Could it be changed? Was the Great War fought for nought? Was all the pain and suffering they had gone through prior to 1918 a waste? When one of the characters answered ‘yes’, I knew I had my novel’s hook.

World War When poses the question: What if the Allies has lost the Great War?

Find out the answer when the novel, published by AG Books, is released 22 January 2022 in paperback, hardback and on Kindle. You can buy it from Amazon and all good bookstores.

Keep reading for an exclusive extract…

The war began with two shots and it would end with one.

At least that was what Daniel Restarick hoped, waiting in the bombed-out shell of what had been a shop, judging by the strewn cans of food.

The US Army had withdrawn some hours ago, successful in pushing the German offensive back towards Metz. The air was thick with death and rain. Spirals of smoke drifted on the air of the autumn afternoon; devastated buildings forlornly lined either side of the main street. At one end, a Renault FT tank was upended in a crater, having been shelled by enemy artillery. Even at this distance, Restarick could smell the petrol settling in a pool at the bottom of the jagged hole.

He was across the street from the church—one of the few fully standing structures, as if some providence had kept it free from the conceit of humanity. He was tired but focused, the rum from his weekly ration having been spilt during the night. Patience, too, was a prerequisite of a man like him.

At twenty-nine, Restarick was considered a veteran, having seen conflict almost from the moment war broke out. Formerly of the Essex Regiment, he had been hand-picked, during the summer of 1916, by Naval Intelligence—to work in the field for the Factory or, more formally, Room 40, the predominant section in the British Admiralty that handled cryptoanalysis. Covert operations had led him here, with the knowledge that vital information and thus advantage was going to be passed to the Central Powers,. His mission was simple: prevent this by any means necessary.

If the war ended on this one shot, the euphoria and relief across the world would be his doing. It was a heady thought.

It began to rain again, thunderstorms having relented only yesterday evening, almost concurrently with the exchange of fire. Restarick hated the feeling of the cold water against his back, hated the sight of his rifle becoming obscured, hated the stinging in his eyes. Further, he wore no gloves, so the damp had a habit of making his grip more precarious on the lengthy barrel.

He wanted a cigarette but the smoke would give away his position. It would have to wait.

Wiping the sight, he scanned the rubble-strewn street before him, waiting for his quarry and thinking of his return to England, to Surrey and to what he had already lost.

He and Lita had only been married for five months when she died and they had spent very little time together as a couple, stolen moments while he was on leave. There had been no honeymoon. They’d written, of course, as much as the Army Postal Service allowed, but it was a poor replacement.  Still, she had not given any indication of unhappiness or discontent. Although, perhaps that was the role of those left behind. Just as those on the battlefield had to callously dismiss them from their minds.  Lita had worked at the Silvertown munitions factory. The previous year, she had survived an accident that had killed over seventy and injured in excess of four hundred more. Survived to perish later, in a fire in their home in Surrey; she’d been trapped as the ceiling above her collapsed, bringing the bedroom down around her. The ARP wardens and the fire brigade had been unable to save her.

Her funeral had been a small affair. She’d left Spain as a young teenager and found her own way in life. Most of the mourners had been from Restarick’s side of the family, and a handful of officers with whom he’d served. The memory of the day itself was now obscured by the rage that had consumed him. He and Lita, however, had shared a passion for freedom, that fragile bloom, and this pushed him on, to fight against those who would crush it underfoot.

Her portrait, folded away in his pocket, served as his constant reminder.

The land surrounding the town was forest with the occasional patterns of farmland, not easily traversable by vehicle. The target, he had to assume, would arrive in the town on foot and, with both the Rue des Chanoines and Eglise Saint-Etienne mentioned in intercepted messages, the church was the most logical choice for the information exchange to take place.

In the distance, he heard the world rumble. Not thunder, that was too natural a sound. This was the result of mortar shells, ripping into bodies, into metal and into the earth some miles away. The shelling continued for a good hour or so, during which Restarick pushed his mind away from the devastation.

And there was his target, clear as day through his rifle sights. A trench coat, its large collar turned up, obscured any sign of expression or guise, a large grey woollen hat pulled low over the spy’s face. Over one shoulder, they held a khaki hold-all and it was this, Restarick knew, that held the papers he needed to intercept. On reaching the church door, the figure appeared to look around briefly, before ducking into the building.

Restarick cursed and shuffled forward on his belly, careful not to be seen. He couldn’t risk going into the church itself in case the spy wasn’t alone, though he suspected the spy would be making the exchange while out of sight. He would need to be damned fast to shoot down whoever came out of there.

He aimed for the bell tower, firing and quickly reloading. The bell tolled deeply and Restarick refocused his sights on the church door.

Then it was no longer the church door in the crosshairs. Now it was the traitor’s head.

This was it, the moment that would bring the war to an end.

Restarick quickly checked his watch and smiled to himself. 1700hrs. The Great War, 28 July 1914 to 13 September 1918.

He would be the bringer of peace.

He pulled the rifle into his shoulder, the weapon tight in his arms, and squeezed the trigger.

To be continued…

You can find all the buy links for World War When here – https://worldwarwhen.co.uk/shop/

BIO

Elliot Thorpe is a freelance writer, having previously worked for Starlog and written for the sites ‘Den of Geek’, ‘Shadowlocked’, ‘Doctor Who TV’, ‘Red Shirts Always Die’ and ‘TrekThis’, as well as for Encore, the magazine for the theatre professional.

He scripted the full cast audio drama Doctor Who – Cryptobiosis for Big Finish in 2005 and in 2013, his first novel Cold Runs the Blood was published.

He also has contributions in Seasons of War: Tales from a Time War (2015), Grave Matters (2015), Doctor Who – A Time Lord for Change (2016), The Librarian (2017), The Wretched Man (2020) and Sherlock Holmes and the Woman Who Wasn’t (2021).

For many years he enjoyed a working relationship with the West End production of The Definitive Rat Pack and in 2017 co-wrote Just Dino – A Recollection of Dean Martin with Bernard H Thorpe, which was expanded and re-released the following year as Dean Martin – Recollections. To date, three further volumes have followed: Dean Martin’s Movie Moments, Dean Martin – A Discography and For The Good Times: The Dean Martin Compendium. https://www.facebook.com/The-Dean-Martin-Association-110034111572241

He is a long-term regular columnist for the US-based magazine Search (searchmagazine.net), writes for thedoctorwhocompanion.com and co-hosts Sid & Terry’s Doctor Who Podcast on YouTube.

Please visit worldwarwhen.co.uk

https://www.facebook.com/World-War-When-A-Novel-112564057994522

Author photo courtesy A E Abbottson

World War When © 2022 Elliot Thorpe

Thanks for visiting today, Elliot,

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

 

The Sælvatici: The Influence of Robin Hood with Steven C. Davis

Today, I am delighted to welcome fellow writer and Robin Hood enthusiast, Steven Davis, to talk about his outlaw inspired work, The Sælvatici.

Over to you Steven…

Thanks to Jenny for giving me this opportunity to talk about ‘The Sælvatici’, and Jon Hartless for connecting us.

I’ve always been a Robin Hood fan, even before the seminal series ‘Robin of Sherwood’ (RoS) was broadcast in the 80s. I’ve watched all the Robin Hood films I could find, including a rare and slightly bizarre Russian take on the character (which may be ‘The Arrows of Robin Hood’).

Although I like tales of King Arthur, even from an early age I was more interested in RH as they were a hero of the people, as opposed to the tales of knights and lords that held nowhere near the same interest for me.

I only got to see the third series of RoS as we’d not had a television prior to that – and I was hooked. When I was old enough, I picked up first the videos and then the DVDs. I’ve still only watched the final episode with Michael Praed three times – it’s incredibly well written and still heart-breaking. But what an ending it is – the hero giving his life so that their comrades escape to continue the fight. And then the hook – but I hope you’re already aware of that.

Fast forward to the years 2000 – 2001. I wrote a retelling of the myth cycle, called ‘The Hooded’, heavily influenced by RoS. It was darker and bloodier than RoS, with the heroes more often than not failing or getting tricked. It was intended as a stand-alone, a one-off, but at the end I sent the characters off in different directions so I could bring them back (albeit with the obligatory death of one of the “gang” members). But I wasn’t happy with it – I felt it too episodic and I couldn’t get my head into the central character.

And so nothing happened for a while, and I carried on writing other things.

Fast forwards to 2016. I’d recently joined the Folk Horror Revival group in fb and there were some very interesting ideas in there (and still are – seriously, if you’re not a member, consider joining it if you’re interested in myths and legends, bizarre occurrences, The Wicker Man, that sort of thing). Also of inspiration at the time (and still, now) were bands like The Hare and the Moon and The Stone Tapes, both of whom have echoes of 70s psychedelic and slightly terrifying TV shows in their music.

So I started writing the cycle again, but this time I started digging in to the meat of the characters as well. The character of Little John had always seemed like a poor joke, one that they’d get annoyed with very quickly – “he’s called Little because he’s tall”. So I thought, why not, instead, John of Hathersage. Except, Hathersage wasn’t called Hathersage in that era – a closer approximation is Hereseige. So “Little John” became “Hereseige John”, or, more often, simply Hereseige. I applied the same kind of re-imagining with some research to all of the characters and they were all set – and, indeed, the first of fifteen chapters of that retelling, which includes quite a bit of scene/mood/flavour setting, was written and amounted to 24k words. But, as before, I couldn’t get my head around the Robin character, nor could I find a way to re-interpret him that I was happy with.

A slight diversion now. One of my childhood favourite books was the retelling of the Robin Hood myth cycle that was illustrated by Victor Ambrus (I’m sure he later went on to Time Team as their resident artist). It contains various stories and characters that weren’t picked up on in RoS or subsequent interpretations (more later). [Robin Hood: His Life and Legend by Bernard Miles.]

Historical side note – Nottingham wasn’t previously called Nottingham, I believe. It began with an S, which was simply knocked off to become Nottingham. I’ve left it as Nottingham.

As part of the folk-horror era retelling of Robin Hood, I’d written a self-contained piece called ‘Rise of the Sælvatici’ which was the grand final showdown between the Robin character and the Sheriff of Nottingham and the forces of authority that he’d assembled. Whilst the story stalled again, I gave a couple of live performances of it at the Montol festival down in Cornwall (with thanks to Gurdybird for arranging/getting me performance space for that).

Whilst the novel had stalled, I’d started a secret fb group and was doing musical podcast-things for that whilst dreaming of turning into a multi-media thing. Also, around that time, I got Feline & Strange to record some clips and some stills (which I’m still using – Feline does great manic laughter).

Fast forwards once again to the start of the plague years and I started collecting some of the scraps to put together something as a collection of “found tales” – there was far too much ‘good stuff’ written and abandoned to not do something with it. From an old book of poetry that I’d loved, I remembered reading some Anglo-Saxon verse and how it was alliterative as opposed to rhyming, and found that a useful tool to add in for the first part.

‘Lore of the Sælvatici’ was beginning to take shape, intended to set the scene, set in Sherwood or Sherewode as characters called it, depending on their background/race. I wanted it to echo our times as much as possible, shifting in focus slightly to become a battle ground between Norse and Norman, Anglo-Saxon and Celtic and each group vying for power or independence. I brought in religious conflict, with the followers of “The Christ of the East” waging war on the Pagans; and the followers of Cernunnos fighting off the encroaching supporters of Ullr and Wōden.

Except. One thing I’d never quite understood from RoS was why they used Herne as a figure when he was based in Windsor Great Park. So I decided to use Cernunnos instead – but I didn’t. Deliberately. I felt the character/ figure too well known, and so the beloved Forest Lord is slain. However. Eventually, the genius loci arises, but the slaying of a stag is what brings them into being, and thus is the mad god/Stag daughter Caerne brought into existence – a woman, part god, part stag, whose father has been slaughtered though she was born of stag; a child without parents but with powers and capabilities, driven mad by her self-assumed responsibilities and with no one to turn to for explanations or help.

Rather than use the existing tales as an arc, I decided to have the emphasis of the three main novels (being written at the moment) as the attempt of a religious zealot to build, not just a cathedral, but a city, dedicated to ‘The Christ of the East’ in the heart of Sherwood, thereby stamping out Paganism and killing any Anglo-Saxons and Celts who didn’t simply fall down and worship their god.

Of course, it doesn’t quite work that way.

And then one day, a few months ago, I was randomly trawling fb (it’s called research) and I saw a post from a musician friend offering her services as a voice-over artist (Joanna Swan, The Familiars). I remembered the ‘Rise of the Sælvatici’ short piece and that translated into a one-woman radio play incredibly well. And voila, suddenly it was no longer just a text-based world, but there also existed now an audio drama as part of the world. In a satisfying connection, Joanna is also a RoS fan.

‘Lore of the Sælvatici’ was published and has earned some excellent reviews and then another idea came to me, not for a novel, but for a short story; in truth, there will be a number of short stories, each concentrating on only a character or two, so they can be explored in different ways to the novels. That idea was ‘Barrow witch’ – a representative of Wōden, one of his ravens made human, encounters a man who is a trained killer; all would be over for her, but the encounter takes place in front of a barrow where a wise-woman was buried alive. A storm ensues, and things get – interesting. It’s available on Audible as well and is an incredible journey – Joanna has already received a five-star review for it on Audible, and rightly so.

Artwork for both ‘Lore of the Sælvatici’ and ‘Barrow witch’ is by the fantastic John Chadwick.

In terms of inspiration, I should also mention ‘The Black Meadow’ (created by Chris Lambert) and ‘Hopeless, Maine’, (created by Tom and Nimue Brown and others). And the ‘Avebury’ album by The Stone Tapes. All three are worth exploring further.

What exists/ the arc of the Sælvatici:

‘Lore of the Sælvatici’ is the place to start, then ‘Barrow witch’ and finally ‘Rise of the Sælvatici’. When the three ‘Hurnungaz’ novels are written, they’ll take place after ‘Lore’, with ‘Rise’ closing the tale.

What’s next:

‘Hurnungaz’, the first of three novels specifically dealing with the Robin Hood character and their crew is currently being written.

‘The Rolling of the Stones’ a self-contained short story, featuring two minor characters and influenced by Peter Lagan’s interpretations of the song of the same name, is currently being written.

‘Lore of the Sælvatici’ is currently being turned into a one-woman radio play, again voiced by Joanna Swan. Intro/theme music has already been created by William Westwater (Dark Sinfonia) and background luting will be provided by Peter Lagan (Songs of Blood and Bone).

At some point, given how many musical artists have already contributed, inspired or offered their songs as inspirations for short stories (Songs of Blood and Bone, Gurdybird and Bleeding Raven have all inspired ideas for short stories) there will be an album (Joanna has also recorded a very impressive chant, loosely based around one of the “found tales” from ‘Lore of the Sælvatici’). This will be for charity.

‘Legends of the Sælvatici’, an anthology of tales either set in ‘Hurnungaz’ or alternative times, or in the current day, is intended to be announced in 2023 with the aim of publishing in 2024, although two pieces by outside contributors have already been accepted for it.

Where to find them:

You can search Amazon for the books and Kindles under my name (Steven C. Davis) and Audible for the two radio plays that are available so far. Signed editions of ‘Lore’ are also available via my Etsy shop – search Etsy for ‘Tenebrous Texts’.

There is also a secret but not-really secret group on fb – just search for ‘The Sælvatici’ and request admission – there’s advance notice on when things are going on, links to audio-podcasts with music that inspires me to write, art, images, and more stuff going on. At some point, there will also be a better website than currently exists to collect everything together properly.

Bio

Steven C. Davis is the author of ‘The Bookshop between the Worlds’ pair of alternate-Earth novels, ‘The Lore of the Sælvatici’, part of a folk-horror retelling of the Robin Hood mythos, ‘Less than Human’, the first of a non-paranormal paranormal romance series, and co-author, with S. J. Stewart, of ‘The Heart’s Cog’ series of NSFW action-adventure novels.

They are the creative director of ‘Tenebrous Texts’ through whom they have also published works from Stu Tovell and Jon Hartless, and have recently signed on Cat Randle.

They are the organiser of the ‘Raising Steam’ festivals and the ‘Raising Steam’ downloads – all in aid of their chosen charity, New Futures Nepal, of whom they are a trustee. The ‘Raising Steam’ downloads are a global phenomenon, gathering Steampunk and alternative independent and unsigned musical artists from the UK and around the globe.

They are the host of the Gothic Alternative Steampunk and Progressive (GASP) radio show which goes out every Thursday at 8pm (UK time). GASP plays music without borders and is deliberately eclectic, playing the best in unsigned and independent regardless of genre.

Links, etc.

Website: https://tenebrousarchives.weebly.com/

Sælvatici radio plays on Audible:

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?keywords=steven+c+davis&ref=a_hp_t1_header_search

Etsy shop: https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/TenebrousTexts/

Amazon: https://smile.amazon.co.uk/s?k=the+S%C3%A6lvatici&i=stripbooks&crid=2JYOMKW9OG53P&sprefix=the+s%C3%A6lvatici%2Cstripbooks%2C96&ref=nb_sb_noss

Many thanks to Steven today for sharing a little about his writing world.

Happy reading, Jenny x

 

Writing for charidee with Jon Hartless: Blakes 7

Writing for charidee.

The above may take you back a bit. To the 1990s, to be exact, when Paul Whitehouse and Harry Enfield dominated the airwaves with their comedy sketch shows featuring dinosaur-tastic DJs Smashie and Nicey, a couple of characters inspired by several BBC DJs of that time who had been spinning disks, and the same tired old patter, since the year dot.

Nostalgia is, of course, big business. There has always been a yearning for the past, which is regularly seen as a better, simpler time. Quite often, in my view, this is absolute hogwash, as many view the openly racist, sexist, homophobic, disease-dominated, comfort-lite times through rose-tinted glasses. Or, in many cases, through goggles which have been painted completely red.

Not all nostalgia is bad, however, as long as you try and keep an open mind about the era you’re reminiscing over. And nostalgia can indeed be a positive thing, on occasion, as this blog will hopefully show as I finally get to the point and talk about the television of yesteryear.

TV has long been an area of warmth, comfort, and fun for hordes of fans who fondly remember a childhood spent watching such shows as Doctor Who, The Prisoner, The Avengers and so on. Indeed, our own Jenny Kane has a side-line going in producing stories within the framework of the beloved 1980s telefantasy Robin of Sherwood.

These old shows still hold a substantial fanbase of original and new viewers, with those who watched as kids often sharing their fan passions with their own children, meaning that TV is now something straddling, and joining together, the generations.

Of course, on the downside, the toxicity of some fans is truly horrendous, with gatekeeping being a common issue across many fandoms. See the rampant misogyny over the casting of Jodie Whittaker in Doctor Who as one prime example.

But at its best, you can find the fans combining to create new content, be it books, audio dramas, documentaries, and even new filmed episodes, all inspired by their beloved shows. And as they can’t (usually) do any of this for profit as they don’t hold the required licenses, they instead often do it to raise money for charity. (Thus finally tying in with the title of this blog. Bet you thought I’d forgotten that, didn’t you?)

One recent example I was lucky enough to be involved in was a new collection of fan-created content set around the final series of Blake’s 7. For those who don’t know, Blakes 7 (minus the apostrophe) was a low-budget BBC science fiction show that ran for four seasons from 1977-1981, and followed a small band of freedom fighters in their battle against the evil Federation.

The budget for this epic space opera was non-existent. Sets wobbled, spaceships flipped between models and cardboard cut-outs, robots were extras sprayed silver, and aliens were… what you’d expect on a 1970s BBC budget. Only slightly worse.

What saved the show was a dedicated cast and crew overcoming the budgetary issues to take on a heady brew of great concepts, great characters, and (occasional) great writing. The freedom fighters, for example, weren’t the young innocent heroes of typical pop culture fare, but were instead a mixed bag of idealists, criminals, and extremists – some of whom didn’t even want to be in the revolution. The totalitarian Federation, meanwhile, was headed up by the glam diva, Servalan, who wore long frocks and high heels no matter what the situation or environment, and who quite often ended the episode by killing her underlings. And the final episode still stands, for me, as one of the best of any TV show, regardless of genre.

Merchandise was a given, including toys, jigsaws, novel tie-ins, and – crucially – annuals. Three of these were produced, as a tie-in with seasons 1-3, while a fourth was planned but for some reason never saw the light of the day. And this is where modern-day fandom comes in.

Fast forward to now(ish) and dedicated fan Grahame Robertson decided to create an annual for the final season of Blakes 7, a substitute for the official book that never appeared. To do that he needed stories, artwork, and articles. He put a call out on social media and had an immediate, positive response. Indeed, the response was so positive, he had too many stories for the project, despite expanding it exponentially until it resembled something not unlike an encyclopedia in terms of girth.

Grahame’s response to this was very sensible. He decided to do an extra anthology for all the stories that wouldn’t fit into the annual. The result? The Blakes 7 Annual 1982, and the Scorpio Tales anthology. Two beautiful books stuffed full of fan enthusiasm, skill, and dedication. And this also means twice the money for charity; at the time of writing, the annual alone has raised over £2000 for both Axminster and Lyme Cancer Support, and Save the Children UK.

Unfortunately, not every fan project moves forward. I also contributed to a non-profit Doctor Who anthology entitled We Are The Master, but the editor seems to have run foul of BBC lawyers, (despite all funds raised going to mental health charities), and hence the whole project has been derailed. I hope this is only a temporary setback, but there seems to be no trace of it anywhere online, so this may, alas, be permanent.

But at least we have something out there made by a few of the fans, for the enjoyment of everyone, and the benefit of those who need it. Which is a nice way to go into 2022.

The Blakes 7 annual can be found at: https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/carol-ramsay-and-grahame-robertson/b7-annual-1982/hardcover/product-4e6jrz.html?page=1&pageSize=4

The Blakes 7 anthology, Scorpio Tales, can be found at: https://www.lulu.com/en/gb/shop/carol-ramsay-and-grahame-robertson/scorpio-tales/paperback/product-5nqm7r.html?page=1&pageSize=4

BIO

Jon Hartless was born back in the 1970s, and feels very old. He contributed the short story “Space Rats in the Maze” to the Scorpio Tales anthology. He is also the author of the Poppy Orpington Chronicles, a Steampunk motor racing series which can be found at: https://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B08MV8KMYN?ref_=dbs_p_pwh_rwt_anx_a_lnk&storeType=ebooks

Many thanks Jon. Got to love Blakes 7!

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny. x

Opening Lines with P.J. Reed: Bluebell

We are venturing into the world of children’s fiction in Opening Lines today. So, grab a cuppa, sit back, and channel your inner eight year old with P.J.Reed.

The Fairies of Therwen Wood is about Bluebell; the loveable, flawed but dynamic fairy, who fights evil, and grants wishes. Most of the time, she helps children with their problems like changing schools, problems with friends, being different etc without even using her magic. The Fairies of Therwen Wood is a modern fantasy adventure with a slice of steampunk.

I wrote the book as a first step into the world of fantasy for children on their fantasy journey towards J. K. Rowling and J. R. R. Tolkien. I attend many fantasy comic conventions as an adult fantasy author. They are huge family occasions, and I had many parents come and ask me if my books were suitable for children. Unfortunately, the language in my adult high fantasy books is too complicated for most children. Therefore, I decided to write a children’s fantasy series, give them a book full of excitement that makes them want to read more and to take them into a magical land away from the stresses of their everyday life.

The Fairies of Therwen Wood stars Bluebell, who was my daughter’s tooth fairy. As well as giving a pound per tooth, Bluebell also used to write my daughter a letter about her exciting adventures and her battles against the evil imps, who wanted to steal their magic dust. My daughter loved these tales and still remembers them today, so I decided to use Bluebell as my inspiration when writing my children’s books.

FIRST 500 WORDS –

Bluebell woke up and smiled. She was now one of the wish fairies of Therwen Wood.

Her job was to grant wishes to boys and girls. She hoped to be asked to grant some really good wishes, like visiting a chocolate factory, or meeting pirates in the Caribbean.

Bluebell frowned and crossed her fingers, as she wished her new job would go well. She did not want to get in trouble again.

Once in training, she had been sent to grant a wish for a little boy called Peter.

He had been a very good boy helping his mother look after his new baby sister, and it was his fifth birthday, so the Office of Wishes had decided to grant Peter a wish. Peter had wished for a dragon. So, Bluebell had made a green Irish dragon appear in his bedroom.

Unfortunately, the wish had not gone well. Peter had really wanted a pet lizard and not an actual, living dragon.

The dragon had roared once and then his green cheeks and tummy had turned fiery red.

The boy had screamed and dived underneath his bed.

Bluebell had screamed and hidden behind the plastic dinosaur on his window ledge, as a stream of fire came out of the surprised dragon’s mouth. A large black hole appeared in Peter’s brand new dinosaur curtains. He had cried and Bluebell had felt very bad.

Madame Primrose, Bluebell’s wish teacher had appeared in Peter’s bedroom, wearing a fluffy pink dress and a pair of fluffy pink slippers. Madame Primrose had sent the dragon back to its cave. Then, she had cast a memory spell on the little boy, so that he would forget all about the dragon.

Madame Primrose had shouted at Bluebell for being a silly fairy and granting bad wishes. Then she had vanished in a puff of pink smoke.

Bluebell shivered. Madame Primrose was a rather angry fairy teacher. The tip of her nose went bright red when she shouted, and it had gone even redder, when Bluebell had told her about it.

‘I must remember not to grant any bad wishes today,’ said Bluebell, as she lay in her conker shell bed. It was so warm and soft that she did not want to get up.

The sun shone through the windows of her little red and white spotted toadstool house. The flowers in the pots that lined her bedroom window opened their yellow petals, yawned, and danced in the sunlight. It was a lovely, hot, summery day.

Bluebell groaned and dragged herself out of bed. She could not be late. It was her first day as an official Therwen Wood wish fairy.

Bluebell went to her bathroom and touched the little white cloud which hung above the door. The cloud grew bigger and sparkled. Then the cloud started to rain. It was a lovely, warm, magical rain. Bluebell jumped under the cloud and the water ran over her.

On a shelf, under the bathroom window, was a row of…

BUY LINK – https://smile.amazon.co.uk/Bluebell-Fairies-Therwen-P-J-Reed

BIO

P.J. Reed

Writer of Warlocks. Destroyer of Worlds.

She is an award-winning, multi-genre author with books ranging from high fantasy, horror, to haiku. She writes the Richard Radcliffe Paranormal Investigations series and the Bad Decisions series. Reed is also the editor and chief paranormal investigator for the Exmoor Noir newsletter.

Finally, she has written a series of seasonal haiku collections – Haiku Yellow, Haiku Gold, Haiku Summer, and Haiku Ice as well as Flicker one sizzling senryu collection.

Reed lives in Devon, England with her two daughters, one rescue dog, and one feral cat called Sammy.

For more information about Reed visit one of her websites below but choose wisely!

The Dark Worlds  – https://pjreedwriting.wixsite.com/darkworlds

Poetry – https://pjreedwriting.wixsite.com/poetry

Fantasy – https://pjreedwriting.wixsite.com/fantasy

Twitter – https://twitter.com/PJReed_author

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/P.J.ReedWriting

***

Many thanks for sharing the beginning of Bluebell’s adventure with us today, Pam.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Tom Williams: Something Wicked

I’m delighted to welcome Tom Williams back to my blog today, with a look back over his recent novels, and a look forward to his latest release, Something Wicked.

Over to you Tom…

I’m very grateful to Jenny Kane for the chance to chat to you all on her blog, especially with a new book, Something Wicked on its way.

Until recently all the books I’ve written have been historical novels. I started with The White Rajah, which is set in the mid-19th century, at the height of Britain’s Age of Empire. I hadn’t actually intended to write a historical novel. I wanted to write the Great British Novel (forgive me: it was my first book) dealing with Good and Evil and how power corrupts. But then I was on a visit to Borneo (long story) and I learned about James Brooke who ran part of the island as his own private kingdom. It’s an amazing tale, full of Good and Evil and (at least arguably) the corruption of power, and so everything seemed to come together and I wrote that.

And then I was pigeon-holed as a historical novelist and I wrote more stories about the Age of Empire and they became steadily darker. (Long story short, the Empire did genuinely do a lot of good but its inherent contradictions meant it was pretty well doomed to end badly.) So I escaped into the Napoleonic Wars where the issues of Good and Evil were more straightforward. (Actually they weren’t at all, because depicting the French as Evil while the decadence of the monarchies fighting them has to be depicted as Good begs a whole heap of questions.) Still, the stories were exciting and involved an awful lot of killing Frenchmen, and my dashing hero was brave and women fell at his feet and all the proper tropes were observed. Sadly, as I waded through the gore of battles like the Nile and Talavera and, inevitably, Waterloo, even those stories became a tiny bit more ambiguous too. Also, historical fiction takes ages to write. The other day I wanted to write the beginning of a new story (for there will, in time, be more) and thought I could say, ‘He threw open the shutters and looked out. It was a brilliantly sunny day. Time to put on his uniform and get started.’ Something along those lines, anyway. And then I wondered, ‘What would he have seen when he looked out? Would there have been a view and, if so, of what? And what uniform was he wearing exactly.’ And there followed hours of checking Google street view of a small town in Spain and trying to imagine what it would have looked like 200 years ago, followed by more time spent trying to check out his uniform. Uniforms are one of those things that people who write about military history are expected to know, but their heroes tend to stick to the same regiment, whereas Burke is constantly moving about so he might be wearing any one of a number of British or foreign uniforms. There are some wonderful reference books for this but to collect the entire set to cover against all eventualities is beyond me and Google isn’t nearly as helpful as you would think.

You can see why the idea of writing something set in the here and now might appeal, can’t you? So one night I was sitting getting quietly drunk with a bunch of magicians (as you do) and I thought what fun it would be if these magicians somehow ended up using their skills to defeat another bunch of magicians who were using Black Magic in their stage act. (Yes, Good and Evil sneak into all my books. But isn’t that what most fiction is about in the end?)

Anyway, the story wouldn’t go away and (after changing all the people because I’m reliably informed that libel lawyers are expensive) I ended up writing a novella called Dark Magic. I loved it and lots of readers loved it. It was very light hearted, albeit in a rather gruesome way, and if it didn’t sell that well (nobody associates me with contemporary fiction so it was like starting over) it was much easier to write than the historical stuff, so I decided to do it again.

The latest, to be published in the next month or so, also grew out of an overseas trip. Several trips, actually, because I am an enthusiastic tango dancer so, in the days when these things were still possible, I made several visits to Argentina. I love Buenos Aires to the point of obsession. Besides the tango, there is so much cool stuff going on. And there are spectacular things to see, one of which is the cemeteries. These (the famous ones at any rate) are not rows of gravestones but proper necropolises with neat streets full of houses where the dead can make their homes.

Brompton Cemetery

Given that the tango world only wakes up when the sun goes down, the idea that these buildings were inhabited by vampires who came out to dance at night seemed quite obvious. And so, transferred to the almost equally eccentric Brompton Cemetery in London, Something Wicked was born. Fortunately there is (or was, pre-covid) a thriving tango scene in London, where the vampires can indulge themselves. Throw in a murder and a vampire policeman and there is everything you need for a police procedural/vampire mashup that certainly entertained me and I hope will entertain you too.

Don’t worry. I’m back to history later in spring with a story set in Ireland in the run-up to the Irish Revolt of 1798. Poor James Burke is going to have his work cut out steering between Good and Evil in that one!

 

BUY LINKS FOR ALL TOM’S BOOKS-

James Burke, Spy

Burke in the Land of Silver

Burke and the Bedouin

Burke at Waterloo

Burke in the Peninsula

Burke in Ireland: coming in Spring

Contemporary Urban Fantasy

Dark Magic

Something Wicked: to be published in February

BIO

Tom Williams used to write books for business. Now he writes novels set in the 19th century and books about vampires that are generally described as fiction but which are often more realistic than the business books. The stories have given him the excuse to travel to Argentina, Egypt and Borneo and call it research.

The James Burke series are adventure stories about a spy in the age of Napoleon, while the John Williamson Papers are a rather more serious series looking at issues of colonialism in the age of Empire (though they do have quite a lot of adventure too).

Tom lives in London. His main interest is avoiding doing any honest work and this leaves him with time to ski, skate and dance tango, all of which he does quite well. In between he reads old books and spends far too much time looking at ancient weaponry.

LINKS

Tom’s blogs appear regularly on his website, https://tomwilliamsauthor.co.uk where you can also find details of all his books. You can follow him on Twitter as @TomCW99 or Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AuthorTomWilliams).

***

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Opening Lines: Tales from Deepest Darkest Devon

This week’s Opening Lines blog features a brand new anthology of stories  – put together by the Exeter Author’s Association – of which I am a tiny part.

The anthology, Tales from Deepest, Darkest Devon, features 19 different stories from 13 authors, all living in and around the county; from Brixham, to Tiverton, Ottery St Mary to Bampton, and many places in between. The stories cover a wide range of genres, and offers a story for every literary taste.

Part of the sales from this book will go to the Devon Air Ambulance Trust

Blurb

Devon; a land of beauty, of moors, villages and coasts. A place of stories, told by the people who live there.

Take a look beneath the surface of Devon with the Exeter Authors, nineteen tales from thirteen of the county’s finest writers.

Contains some adult (18+) material.

Bobbing. Discover why revenge is a dish best served with cider,

Make a wish. Devon is the place to spend the rest of your life.

The Dartmoor Dragon. Discover the magic on the moor.

Cutty Dyer. Quiet villages can hold deadly secrets

Winter Snow.  The old ways are the best

The Padding Horror. On the moors, an ancient evil is stalking its latest prey.

Under the Hunters Moon. You’re never truly alone on the moor

The Fairmile Green Man. Has Swampy and his protest been forgotten? A green man carving brings a much older story back to life.

Guardians. A peaceful little village hides a dark secret.

And many more.

Contributors: Jenifer Braund, Richard Dee, Maura Beckett, Chip Tolson, Brian Willis, Janet Few, John Hall, K. Y. Eden, Richard Lappas, Tracey Norman, Mark Norman, P.J. Reed and Jenny Kane.

Part of the sale price goes to the Devon Air Ambulance Trust.

Here are the opening lines from my own story, Bobbing.

Feeling like a malevolent Eve slithering through the Garden of Eden, Libby did a slow twirl in the centre of the old cider barn.

The gauze dress was thin. It caressed her skin with a teasing arousal.

She was fertility herself.

If Robert hadn’t wanted her before, he’d definitely want her now. But then, if she was honest, that had never been a problem. Robert always wanted her. He always wanted everyone. And her boss usually got what he wanted.

The scrumpy’s pungent presence accosted Libby’s nostrils as she ascended the ladder propped against the eight foot high cider barrel. Empting two boxes worth of apples into the liquid, she watched as the fruit bobbed across the foamy alcoholic surface.

Smiling into the vat depths, Libby counted the apples, making sure there were enough for all the guests to have a go at capturing one with their teeth. Then, balancing carefully, she reached up to the ceiling. A stick was hanging horizontally from ropes above the barrel. Tying a beeswax candle to one end and an apple on string to the other, Libby gave the stick a gentle push. She watched with satisfaction as it swung back and forth over the barrel of bobbing cider.

Returning to the ground, Libby checked the collection of silk ties next to the steps. Each one waited patiently to fasten hands behind their backs of potential bobbers; thus eliminating their temptation to cheat.

Libby experienced an unexpected flash of power as she heard Robert’s distinctive footsteps approaching. It was difficult not to grin too widely when she remembered how pleased he’d been when she’d suggested he had the honour of being the first to attempt the ancient apple catching ritual.

Fingering her pentagram shaped pendent, Libby’s mind filled with images of ancient Pagan fertility rites she’d seen in history books.

‘You wanted a traditional Pagan celebration boss, and this is it. There’s alcohol soaked bread to be offered to the trees in the orchard, cider ready to be poured onto the roots to toast the crops health, apple bobbing, and of course, the apple stick.’

Allowing Robert to slip his arms around her waist, Libby wasn’t surprised when he shuffled close enough for her to feel his crotch against her butt.  Rather than examine the beauty of the Celtic scene she’d created, Libby knew Robert would be checking to make sure no one else was in the barn.

He glided his hands from her waist to her tits. She let him. As the moment to execute her plan grew ever closer, Libby’s body had been on the cusp of an increasing impatient sexual high.

As Robert pushed her back against the barrel, he peered up at the hanging stick. ‘It looks impossible! And dangerous.’

Easing away from his grasp, Libby climbed the ladder and lit the end of the swinging candle. Her eyes flared with the fizz of the wick as it caught…

***

You can buy Tales from Deepest Darkest Devon in paperback or as an eBook from Amazon via…

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Opening Lines: Dark Magic by Tom Williams

This week’s Opening Lines is just perfect for Halloween.
Please welcome Tom Williams, with the first 500 words of his latest novella, Dark Magic.
Over to you Tom…
Here’s a Halloween treat – the first 500 words of my novella, Dark Magic. It’s a big change from the historical fiction I usually write. I’m not sure quite how to describe it. It’s part thriller, part supernatural horror story (don’t worry, it’s not scary), and part (I hope) comedy. It grew out of an evening spent with a bunch of magicians and a few drinks and it just sort of grew by itself. It’s being published today, as Halloween seems a particularly appropriate launch date. I hope you love it.
Blurb
Two magic shows: the Maestros of Magic touring the country, playing provincial theatres; the Carnival of Conjurors successful in the West End. When the Maestros learn that the Conjurors are using real magic – Black Magic – to do their tricks they decide that they must use their own, distinctly unmagical, stage skills to stop them. Soon people are dying on stage – but can the Maestros really beat a team that has the devil on their side?
FIRST 500 WORDS
“Baby’s blood?”

“That’s what it says. Mix in baby’s blood and use that to mark the pentagram.”

There were six of them, and Claudia looked from face to face waiting for someone to say that this was a ridiculous idea. She could, she supposed, have said it herself, but it was not as if anybody would have listened. Nobody ever listens to the magician’s beautiful assistant.

In fairness, they didn’t exactly rush to agree with the plan either. When Jerry spoke, he had the decency to sound embarrassed.

“Does it have to be a human baby?”

Jerry’s role in their conjuring show was to do the tricks that appealed mainly to children. It brought in family audiences, but the other magicians secretly – or, to be honest, not that secretly – despised him. Still, Claudia thought that one or two might have taken his side here, but Daniel didn’t allow time for any of them to join Jerry in questioning his plan.

“It’s true that it doesn’t specify human.” Daniel smiled. It was an unconvincing smile and Claudia thought he did it mainly to show off his teeth. They were quite startlingly white, though marred, in her opinion, by rather over-developed canines. “But human seems fairly clear from the context.”

“Well, could we try it with something else first?”

Daniel’s smile vanished. It was as if someone had flipped a switch. Where there had been a big white smile, all you noticed now was a very square jaw and full, but rather sulky, lips. And, if you raised your eyes to his, something about his irises that made you look away again very quickly.

“It’s hardly as if the other ingredients were easily come by. We don’t want to mess it up and have to do it again.”

They were quiet at that. Claudia had the impression that they were all thinking of different things. She reckoned they would say the worst was the virgin’s tears. Despite all the tired old jokes, finding a virgin had been the easy bit. It was keeping her crying for long enough to collect a vial of tears that had been wearing on their nerves.

After a pause, long enough for all of them to remember details they would rather have forgotten, Daniel spoke again.

“Baby’s blood, then.”

There was an uncomfortable nodding of heads.

“How much blood are we talking about?” That was Tor – almost certainly not his real name but there was something about the way he looked at you if you questioned him which discouraged you from asking twice. He was an illusionist, constantly fretting about the mechanical details of his act. “And what about clotting? Are we going to add an anti-clotting agent?” Claudia remembered an illusion that involved an arm being cut off. Tor had been dissatisfied with the stage blood most magicians used and had experimented with various concoctions of his own. Claudia had never enquired as to what they were, but one had clotted and spoiled the act and…

***

Links
Bio
TOM WILLIAMS has published six books of historical fiction but this is his first contemporary story and his first novella (33,000 words). He has spent far too much time hanging round with magicians.

***
Many thanks Tom.
Happy reading everyone,
Jenny x

Opening Lines with P J Reed: Welcome to Witherleigh

Opening Lines time has arrived once more!

This week I’m delighted to welcome my friend and fellow author, P J Reed with the first 500 words from her brand new release,

Welcome to Witherleigh.

Over to you Pam…

I would like to thank Jenny Kane for inviting me onto her wonderful blog to write about my new novel ‘Welcome To Witherleigh.’

I am P.J. Reed, a multi-genre writer, from Devon. My background is in history and archaeology research which I like to use to add authentic flavours to my writing.  I have written several short horror stories, six poetry  collections, and one high fantasy novel. Most of my work is set in Devon, Exmoor, and Dartmoor and explores the darker side of country living. Welcome To Witherleigh is based on the little village of Witheridge, set on the outskirts of Exmoor. If you visit Witheridge after reading this book, you might even recognise some of the buildings described within its pages.

This book concerns a young man, Richard Radcliffe who has left the stresses of London under in order to start a new life for himself in Devon. He finds work as a church appointed playleader and looks forward to the local villagers and living life at a gentler pace. Unfortunately, as soon as he arrives in Witherleigh,he realises that something is very wrong with the village as he is pulled into an alley and warned that he will be next. He then sets out to solve the riddle of the village and to find out why the ghosts of Witherleigh still walk the streets.

This book is a paranormal, murder mystery with a dark vein of humour running through it.

The story appeared to me when one day Richard Radcliffe walked into my walk, sat down next to me, and told me about his adventures in Witherleigh.

First 500 words of Welcome To Witherleigh –

CHAPTER ONE

The car jolted unhappily through the mud-splattered lane. At least he hoped it was mud. Black and white cows peered knowingly at him through breaks in the overgrown hedge. That’s the last time I clean you until we get safely back to London, Richard thought grimly as he slowed to avoid a pair of suicidal pheasants. One stood in the road, frozen in fear, the other ran and disappeared into the hedgerows. He stopped the car and let the pheasant cross safely to rejoin its companion. He saluted the bird and watched as it ran into the lines of gnarled trees which flanked each side of the narrow road. The trees stooped over each side of the road. Their branches joined together above the middle of the lane, like skeletal brown arms twisting into each other, blocking out the late autumn sun. Richard stared at the crowding trees. There were melted faces in the lines of the bark. He shivered as a feeling of panic surged through his body.

Richard gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles whitened as electrical pulses ran up and down his spine. He swallowed and pinged the rubber band around his wrist. The sharp pain broke through his thoughts. The trees straightened, and their faces became lost in the creases of the bark. He twanged the band again. Important things had to be performed twice. Then he restarted the car and drove carefully past the sullen trees.

He had to be at the Witherleigh Day Centre by two o’clock. The ladies of the Anglican ministry were putting on a special cream tea and he could not be late.

The cluttered trees gave way to the rugged open fields of the North Devon wildlands. Undulating fields of dark green, broken by rows of hedges and the occasional windswept tree; dejected and alone amid a sea of grass.  This was a harsh land. Richard felt as if every mile nearer Witherleigh dragged him further backwards in time. He pinged the rubber band around the wrist twice. The change to a simpler life will be good.

‘It’s just what I needed,’ he whispered to himself.

He drove past a long wooden farm fence. A buzzard perched on a fence post sat so still it looked like a wooden carving. The bird flew away disturbed. Richard half-smiled.  He had never seen a bird of prey in flight and was captivated by the effortless majesty of its wings slow movement as it soared into the steel grey sky.

A four-wheel drive beeped loudly. Richard swerved back to his side of the lane, the old cars wheels squelching to a halt in the mud which ran in gulley’s along the side of the road. He let out a deep breath and waved an apology at the red-faced driver who shouted something inaudible as the Range Rover roared past him.

The little white pills were not good for his concentration levels. He shook his head. Perhaps down here he could be rid of them…

***

Welcome To Witherleigh is available to download from kindle on…

amazon.co.uk – https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07SVQJ6ZR/ref=rdr_ext_sb_ti_hist_1

amazon.com – https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SVQJ6ZR/ref=rdr_kindle_ext_tmb

***

Bio

P.J. Reed, writer of warlocks. Destroyer of worlds.

She is an outrageously eclectic writer. Reed lives in Devon with her two daughters, a rescue dog, and one feral cat called Sammy.

poetry by P.J. Reed

Flicker

Haiku Yellow

Haiku Sun

Haiku Gold

Haiku Ice

Haiku Nation

Website – https://pjreedwriting.wixsite.com/horror

Twitter – https://twitter.com/PJReed_author

Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/p.j.reedauthor

***

Many thanks for sharing your opening lines with us today, Pam.

Happy reading everyone,

Jenny x

Opening Lines with Susie Williamson: Return of the Mantra

I’m delighted to welcome friend and fellow Devon based author, Susie Williamson, to my place today to share the ‘Opening Lines’ from her debut novel, Return of the Mantra.

Thank you for inviting me on your blog today, Jenny. It’s a pleasure to share the first 500 words of my fantasy novel, Return of the Mantra.

Return of the Mantra is the first in a series. Inspiration came from several years living in Africa, the Sudan and South Africa. From the extraordinary sights and sounds of Khartoum, to the rural townships of South Africa, I amassed a complex mixture of experiences. The colours of the social and geographical landscape stayed with me, and Return of the Mantra became a refuge to recreate these colours in a fictional context.

Living among local African communities, with drumming, prayer and ritualistic chanting the norm, magical realism didn’t feel too big of a stretch. Together with extraordinary African wildlife, the concept of the book, complete with its magic system, was born. From the outset I strived for a fantasy story that didn’t feel too much of a leap from the world as we know it, and, since its release last year, I’ve come to think of the story as a kind of elaborate rain dance.

The deserts of the Sudan and the lush green bushlands of South Africa inspired the world in the novel. I once visited the Sudanese pyramids, and on my way there passed a town in the middle of the desert called Shendi. Shendi is now the name of the land in my novel. It’s a land of contrasts, where people have been forced to abandon their tribal heritage and live in a coastal town ruled by a dictatorship.

It’s a first person narrative, told by a young woman called Suni. She exposes social injustices of a persecuted people in her search for truth and her own identity.

First 500 words…

It was early, the skies filled with the golden colours of dawn, but already the river was bustling with life. Today was a special day.

I led the mule along the rise of the riverbank, wading through long reeds. It was hot, it was always hot on my homeland of Shendi: the drought had lasted all my fifteen years, and decades before. Despite the heat I pulled the hood down low over my face, as I passed women washing clothes, men fishing, and children swimming. Listening to their chat and laughter amidst a backdrop of squawking gulls, seeing the odd scowl cast in my direction, I felt like an unwelcomed stranger in my hometown. The hood was reassuring since it hid my face.

I felt something hit me on the back of the head, and then again. I rubbed my head, hearing giggles from behind, and turned to look. Two boys looked out from the reeds, one holding a handful of stones. Nearby, a man was watching from the river, water up to his waist, a young child sitting astride his shoulders. For a moment I thought the man might say something to the boys, but I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. He glanced at me only briefly before turning away, lifting the child off his shoulders and swirling her in the cool water. My gaze lingered on the child as she reached out with chubby arms, pulling at her father’s lips and nose, making gurgling sounds as she smiled at him. He smiled back and pulled her towards him, kissing her on the cheek before cradling her into his chest.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw another stone hurled in my direction. I stepped aside and pulled at the reins, hurrying the mule along. The closer I came to the estuary, the quieter the river. The townspeople were superstitious and feared the ocean. My mother, Mata, privately ridiculed rumours of sea monsters and evil spirits that pulled people deep into the ocean depths, to die a watery death. The shores of the estuary was one place I could guarantee to find solitude.

Further on beyond the crowds, a girl sat alone idly skimming stones. She glanced at me as I went to walk past, and to my surprise she smiled. I paused, looking back at her, and almost returned her smile. I felt suddenly awkward and turned away.

‘Won’t you sit with me?’ she asked.

I looked back, confused. I had no friends my own age; Mata forbade it and besides, I had never had any offers. I thought it might be a trick, expected her to say something cruel, but her smile faded leaving a hurt look on her face.

I knew few people by name but I knew faces, and I was sure this was not a face I’d seen before. Dressed in a dowdy smock, she appeared poor like the beggars, but beggars never left the dark lanes and shadows of town. She…

Blurb

Suni has grown up knowing she is different. She and her mother Mata make their living weaving baskets, and selling herbs they harvest secretly at night. Her father abandoned them to work in the tyrannical king’s crystal mines. 

Mata follows the old ways of the Mantra, which the king has outlawed. He demands people worship him and the power of the crystals. Mata and Suni keep their beliefs to themselves.

Tragedy strikes, and with no warning, Suni is cut adrift. She sets off to find her father. Will she also find the destiny Mata wanted for her?

Susie grew up in the village of Scholes, Holmfirth, in West Yorkshire. She studied at the University of Sheffield and graduated with a BSc Honours in Chemistry, and a PGCE in Secondary School Science. In 1999 she travelled to the city of Omdurman in the Sudan, where she taught English as a Foreign Language. From there she moved to South Africa, where she taught Adult Basic Education and Training, primarily in a township in Kwazulu Natal.

On her return to the UK, she moved to Exeter in Devon, where her childhood passion for creative writing was reignited. Among a collection of varied jobs, including support work at a women’s refuge, she increasingly prioritised her time to write. Inspired by the landscapes of Africa, her passion for women’s equality and representation of diversity, and her love of fantasy books, she began weaving the twists and turns of her first novel.

She lives with her partner, Kate, close to the river Exe and a bike ride away from the sea. She enjoys being involved in community projects, and painting canvases to steadily fill the white-washed walls of her house. Her writing partner is her cat, Mia, who is currently assisting with two fantasy novels, sequels to ‘Return of the Mantra’.

Return of the Mantra is Susie’s debut fantasy novel and is published by Stairwell Books. It is available here. http://www.stairwellbooks.co.uk/product/return-of-the-mantra/

You can get in touch with Susie on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/SusieWilliamsonAuthor/?modal=admin_todo_tour

Twitter https://twitter.com/SJW_writer

GoodReads https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/18616806.Susie_Williamson

and also via her website: www.susiewilliamson.blog 

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Many thanks for your fabulous first 500 words, Susie.

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This was the last ‘Opening Lines’ blog for a little while as I’m having a short break from them after 18 months of weekly blogs.

Keep an eye on Facebook for my call for new blog guests in the near future.

Happy reading,

Jenny x

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