Tag Archives: #fiction

Stronger Within —-the dream’s come true!

Well, the day is finally here! The wait is over!

(My hands are trembling a little with nervous excitement as I write this.)

Book Baby has been born!

StrongerWithin_Cover3_SmallFile

Stronger Within, my debut novel (eek!) is live in the Kindle Store on Amazon for the all the world to see. (Takes deep breath…..)

Actually seeing it on there, with my name and a price tag beside it, has stirred a plethora of emotions within me – a bit like childbirth does, to continue with that analogy.

The last few days have been an emotional rollercoaster. Despite my best laid plans – I had the whole week off work to complete the final edit and preparations – Mother Nature threw a spanner in the works. For the first time in almost twenty years, I was ill and spent two days in bed and another under a blanket on the couch – flu! It cost me three precious days of calm, organised preparation time. Easter Monday was a write off too as I spent most of it in floods of tears, mourning the loss of my beloved white cat, Gandalf. One of the toughest days of my life but at least he’s not suffering anymore.

By Tuesday I felt semi-human again and, four days later than planned, the final edit began.

This final spelling, grammar and punctuation check truly was a long, laborious process (yes- pain relief and Lemsips were required – no natural birth for Book Baby I’m afraid!) Finally with one almighty push, I had my completed word document.

It was stark naked but Stronger Within was ready to be uploaded onto my Kindle Direct Publishing account.

This proved a little tricky and fiddly. It was a bit like trying to wrestle a baby into an all-in-one sleep suit. Bits kept wriggling free! Some of the legal disclaimer page didn’t sit quite right. Some of the title fonts were too big. My author’s note and biography pages (the two hardest bits to write, by the way) also tried to escape. However, like all new mothers, I persevered and soon had it all snuggly dressed.

I sat in the kitchen, on my own, music blaring as usual, staring at the screen before reaching out to hit submit.

There were no fanfares. No fireworks. No party streamers. No champagne corks flying.

Just me, a half-drunk glass of Lucozade and Myles Kennedy singing in the background.

I’d done it! I’d really done it!

Book Baby had become Stronger Within.

The four handwritten A4 notebooks had been transformed into a Kindle e-book.

Even now, several days later, it’s still not quite sunk in.

As a child, I was always scribbling stories in notebooks, seldom finishing any of them.

As a teenager, writing was my escape from the bullying I was subjected to in school. Most lunch hours were spent huddled in a quiet corner, safely lost in my own creative bubble.

Marriage and children came along and for years I never wrote at all. I still kept my diary but that was about it until five or six years ago. I found myself with an hour and a half to myself once a week while Girl Child was at dance class. While she pirouetted and tapped upstairs, I sat in the local theatre’s café writing poetry. It was a start.

Almost two years ago I couldn’t keep the characters in my imagination quiet any longer and, in true Coral fashion, bought a new A4 notebook and a new pen and began to write. The end result is Stronger Within.

Some of you are possibly wondering – “Why launch a book on a Wednesday?”

The 15th April was chosen as Book Baby’s birthday a few months ago. It’s a date that means a lot to me personally. It was my Wee Gran’s birthday (she would have been 113 today if she was still with us). She discovered the joy of reading late in life. Like most of us, she began with Enid Blyton. The only difference was that she was in her late seventies at the time! My mum suggested that she join the local library and my Wee Gran soon developed a love of a good doctor/nurse romance. I wonder what she would have made of Stronger Within?

There’s a second reason for choosing the 15th April. Twenty one years ago today the Big Green Gummi Bear asked me to marry him. Yes, I’m a romantic fool at heart!

So what’s next?

Well, there’s no rest for the wicked! I’m planning to spend the next few weeks writing, promoting Stronger Within and trying to re-charge my batteries then I’ll start typing up Book Baby 2. It’s already written (well the first draft is) and fills another four A4 notebooks.

None of this would have been possible without the support and encouragement of my “infamous five” alpha readers. (Have you each worked out who the other four are yet?) Without their love and friendship, Stronger Within would still just be a story in four notebooks in a box under my kitchen table. Thank you just doesn’t seem enough here.

A huge thank you to my beta readers who arrived like the cavalry a few weeks ago to read over the final drafts.

To my artist friend who gifted me the Celtic dragon design – thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s perfect.

And a final thank you to my “writing fairy godmother” for waving her Photoshop magic wand for me!

So all that’s left to say is make yourself a coffee or pour a glass of wine, sit back, relax and enjoy Stronger Within.

Love and hugs to you all

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Stronger-Within-Silver-Lake-Book-ebook/dp/B00VXDSC1M/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1428994193&sr=8-1&keywords=stronger+within

A Little Sneak Peak ……

Time to bite the bullet and share a little something with you.  Instead of my usual weekly ramblings I’ve decided to let you have a little  sneak peak inside Book Baby.

Enjoy

Stronger Within- excerpt

With a long sigh of complete contentment, she felt the tension melt from her shoulders. Her first tentative steps onto the beach since last summer. It felt good to be home. It was late afternoon and she could feel the last of the spring sun’s warmth on her skin. She was also acutely aware of Mary’s eyes on her, as she watched from the sun deck. No going back now. After all, she had made it this far and it felt good to be outdoors. She adjusted the grip on her crutches, making sure the broad base plates didn’t sink into the soft sand and slowly headed across the beach towards the ocean. Once on the hard packed surface she felt more stable and her confidence began to grow. The waves rolled in gently beside her, but she was careful to stay beyond their reach. Tasting the salt on her lips, she smiled and headed along the shoreline towards the boardwalk.

The beach was quiet, with only a few families packing up after an afternoon at the shore. It had been unseasonably warm all week and everyone was making the most of the bonus sunshine. Small seabirds were playing in the shallows, rushing backwards and forwards twittering merrily. After about a hundred yards, she stopped to watch the waves, listening to their rhythmic flow. Hopefully by summer, when the water would be warmer, she would be able to enjoy swimming in the ocean again. Hopefully…

Oh it was good to be home; good to be back by the ocean.

Step by carefully placed step, she kept wandering along the sand towards town. She drank in all of her surroundings, the birds, the shells, and an occasional abandoned sandcastle. Lost in her own thoughts, she immersed herself in her private beach world.

It was the throbbing pain from her leg that brought her back to the real world. She had been stupid. She had walked too far. With panic and fear rising in her chest, she headed up the beach towards the boardwalk that ran parallel to the shore. If she could get onto firm ground and rest for a while, maybe she could recover enough strength to get back to the house. Mary had warned her to be careful, had warned her not to try to go too far on her first day out. The boardwalk seemed to be a mile away, even though it was, in reality, only a few short yards away. As the sand got softer her crutches dug further in, despite their broad base plates. The left one sank into a particularly soft patch. Suddenly her leg gave way and she crashed onto the beach.

For a few moments she lay there, tears welling up in her eyes, terrified that she was hurt. Gingerly, she manoeuvred herself into a sitting position.

“Shit!” she yelled out to the world. “Shit!”

Her crutches lay just within arm’s reach and she dragged them over towards her. Getting back to her feet was going to be a challenge. One that looked impossible in the current situation. There was no one in sight and Lori felt a sharp stab of fear in her chest. As she sat figuring out how she was going to get up without falling again, she was unaware that she was being watched from the shadows of boardwalk.

Jake watched her from the distant vantage point of the boardwalk. He had headed for the beach after the end of his shift at the pizza parlour. It had been a rough day and he had decided to walk off his black mood before heading to meet the guys. The last thing they needed was him turning up in a foul mood, stinking of tomato sauce and cheese. He had walked to the south end of the promenade and had just turned back when he saw the girl walking down on the sand. It was the sun catching the golden highlights in her hair that had attracted his attention. He never noticed her crutches at first. Watching from a distance, he had kept pace with her, then stopped to watch as she turned towards the boardwalk. When he saw her stumble he regretted not following his instincts and going down to walk on the sand with her.

“Shit,” he muttered. “Shit.”

There were no breaks in the fence nearby, so he jumped over the wooden palings into the dune grass and ran towards her, sand immediately filling his shoes. By the time he was close enough to call out to her, she was sitting up and looked to be unhurt. He almost turned away but decided against it and continued to walk down the beach.

“Hi,” he called out. “Are you ok?”

She was sitting rubbing her thigh and there were tears on her cheeks. Her pale complexion suggested she hadn’t been out doors much recently.

“Hi,” she replied with a weak smile. “I could do with some help.”

“Figured,” he said sitting down on the sand beside her. “Are you hurt?”

“No, not really. It was my own stupid fault. I came too far and wasn’t paying attention. I lost my footing.”

“Can’t be easy walking the beach with crutches,” he observed. “How far have you walked?”

“Less than a quarter of a mile. I was fine when I was down on the wet sand but I began to get tired. I was trying to get up to the boardwalk. I figured if I got onto solid ground it would be easier to walk back.”

“Let me guess,” observed Jake. “You’ve not been out much with those sticks?”

“No,” she confessed. “I haven’t.”

A single tear ran down her pale cheek. She reached up to roughly brush it away, embarrassed by her show of emotion, but only succeeded in leaving a smear of sand in its place. That was the final straw. Burying her face in her hands, she sat and sobbed. Months of pent up frustration flowed down her cheeks in a river of tears. Hesitantly, Jake put a comforting arm around her shoulders and held her as she wept.

“Hey,” he whispered softly. “It’ll be ok. I’ll get you home safely.”

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed. “I don’t usually sob all over complete strangers”

“Well, I don’t usually go around picking up fallen angels on the beach either.”

She smiled at his weak attempt at humour.

“I’m Jake by the way.”

“Lori,” she replied.

“Well, Lori, let’s get you up on your feet and up onto the boardwalk.”

“Thank you.”

Gauging that she didn’t weigh much, Jake handed her the crutches, told her to hold onto them then lifted her up into his arms. She was even lighter than he had guessed, so carrying her up the beach to the nearest pathway was no challenge. Once back up on the boardwalk, he sat her down on the first bench they came to.

“You sure you’re ok?” he asked, as he sat beside her.

“Yes, thank you. I honestly don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”

“You’d have figured it out eventually.”

“I guess. Either that or Mary would’ve come looking for me,” admitted Lori, brushing sand off her jeans.

“Mary?”

“Yeah, she’s my housekeeper. It was her idea that I take a walk. I’ve been sitting on the deck all afternoon gazing out at the ocean. She told me I needed to venture off the deck sometime and that today was as good a day as any. She’ll feel so bad when she hears I fell,” she explained.

“Who’s going to tell her?” Jake said with a wink. “I’ll walk you back. You don’t need to tell her that you fell.”

“Thanks.”

Stiffly and with more than a hint of nerves, Lori got to her feet and repositioned her crutches. Her leg was screaming at her and she knew it would be hard to keep news of her fall from the ever watchful Mary. As they began to walk along the sandy boards Jake observed how carefully Lori walked – watched the determination in each step and sensed the pain that was etched into her pale face. She had the bluest eyes he had ever seen, but there was a deep sadness cast through them.

“Pardon my asking but what happened to you? I’m thinking the crutches are a very recent addition to your wardrobe.”

“And you’d be right,” she confessed, pausing to look up at him. “I had an accident just before Christmas. I broke my leg quite badly. I came down here about six weeks ago. This is the first time I’ve been out on my own since the accident.”

“And you thought a walk on the sand was the smartest place to start?”

Lori laughed. Jake thought it the most beautiful musical laugh and joined in.

“I guess not, “she giggled. “So what brought you out this far?”

“A shit shift at work. A foul mood.”

“And scraping a dumb blonde off the sand wasn’t in the plan?”

“No, but I‘m glad I was there to rescue you,” he admitted. That wonderful laugh and those sad blue eyes were having a strange effect on his heart. A weird but wonderful effect. It had been a long time since he had felt that way. “Where exactly am I taking you when we run out of boardwalk?”

“Fourth house past the end. If that’s ok?”

“Not a problem, li’l lady.”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, the end of the boardwalk drawing closer and neither of them really wanting to reach it. Surreptitiously, Jake watched her steely concentration, drank in her fragile beauty and breathed in her light, floral perfume. It had been a very long time since someone had had such an impact on him. A long time since he had bothered to look, if he was honest with himself. Between each painful step, Lori subtly surveyed her rescuer. He would make a fantastic model for a life drawing. His long sun bleached blonde hair fell carelessly down over his shoulders, almost reaching the middle of his back. She guessed from the tiny lines around his twinkling hazel eyes that he was a little older than her and his height dwarfed her small frame. There was something genuine about him. A rough diamond found in the sand? A friend? Lord, she could use one!

Deciding to take a risk, Lori said, “When we reach the house, will you come in for a coffee or a beer? It’s the least I can offer.”

“I’m not sure,” began Jake glancing at his watch. “Oh what the hell! The guys can wait. Beer sounds good.”

And the story continues in Stronger Within – due out mid-April on Kindle.

Still As A Statue

A few months ago I was walking up Sauchiehall St in Glasgow with Girl Child and took note of the number of buildings that have ornate figures carved on them, especially up around the O2 ABC area. It set me thinking….seldom a good thing.

The following short piece of fiction was inspired by those mad thoughts. Enjoy!

Still As A Statue

The soft light from the computer screen was the only illumination in the room. Staring intently at the screen, the young art student couldn’t comprehend what she was seeing. It was late and she knew she was tired however what she had just noticed made no logical sense at all.

For the past two weeks she had been focussed on her final photography project for her portfolio. She had a love/hate relationship with the camera but, after a lengthy lecture from her tutor, had conceded that she had no choice but to submit some photographic images as part of her overall degree portfolio. In an attempt to make things easier for herself, she had elected to centre the theme of her coursework on the stone statues that she walked past every day on her way to college.

Her daily route took her across a small square in the city centre, slightly off the beaten track, but filled with stone statues. It had caught her attention in her first year and she had done some research at that time into its history. All the sandstone buildings around the perimeter of the square had been designed by a Victorian architect who was renowned for adding Gothic touches to his work. He had met up with an aspiring French sculptor and together they had collaborated on the architecture of the square. Every building had at least one carved stone image on display, some having several. There were gargoyles leering down from every angle. In the centre of the quadrangle there was a small public garden containing more samples of the sculptor’s work.Her research had come to an abrupt halt. Both the architect and the sculptor had mysteriously disappeared shortly before the last house was completed, leaving one home with an empty plinth within the archway above the front entrance. As the sculptor hadn’t left any instructions or partially finished pieces, no one knew which statue had been destined to fill the space.

The following day she had scoured the area and finally found the house with the missing statue. It may have been her imagination but the air temperature had seemed to drop  a few degrees as she stood gazing up at the empty arch.

Now almost three years later she used these statues as  the models for her photography project. They had proved to be the perfect subjects. Always still. Facial expressions fixed. No risk of them twitching and ruining the shot. She had photographed them over several days, taking hundreds of shots from every conceivable angle. In different light they looked subtly altered so she repeated her photographic session by the light of the dawn and by the light of the moon. The variable Scottish weather had aided her project too, allowing her the opportunity to capture images of the stone figures bathed in bright sunshine and lashed by driving rain.

As she had edited the photographs she had felt pleased with the results. Her camera had captured the texture of the stone, the emotions carved into the faces and she had even picked out a few smaller carvings that she previously missed.

Now though, as she sat preparing the final images for printing off in college in the morning, she couldn’t make sense of the scenes before her.

Crazy as it sounded, the statues weren’t always in the same location.

Scrutinising   the hundreds of photographs she concentrated on four statues who appeared to move about the most. Within the four folders she had saved out she had photographic proof that she had shot them in at least half a dozen different locations around the square. One, a tall slender striking male had even managed to appear in the park on a short column instead of his usual position beside the door of number seven. The statue of a young woman with long tumbling curls also moved from house to house. In one image she was crouching down above a doorway, almost as if she were trying to squeeze into a space too small for her, instead of standing on a wide base in a corner of the gardens.

A cold chill ran down her spine as she copied the pictures onto a flash drive. She would take them into college and show her tutor what she had uncovered.

With the images saved and the flash drive removed, she shut down the laptop and headed for bed.

Outside on the window sill, a tall slender male was crouched down watching her. He had been there all evening, as he had every other evening for a week. In the moonlight his alabaster white skin glistened.

He had repeatedly warned the others to take more care. Cautioned them against their reckless behaviour. Now, from what he had just witnessed, he knew they were all at risk. The art student had discovered their secret…or at least she thought she had. Little did she truly know.

A Labour of Love

Hopes and plans and dreams (some of them nightmares) for Book Baby are dominating my creative mind just now so apologies if blog posts are short and sweet over the next few weeks.

Although affectionately known as Book Baby (among a few other choice names on occasion) this whole process has in some respects been a bit like deciding to have a child and then going through a lengthy pregnancy.

Should I? Shouldn’t I? When’s a good time? Can I actually do this?

There’s a lot of “foreplay” as you work out what fits where and then the creative juices find their natural rhythm and flow freely.

Since creating my KDP account a few weeks back and being in the throes of getting Book Baby ready to face the world, I’m rapidly realising that writing the original draft of the story was the fun bit and the easy part ….. a bit like making a baby 😉

For the last few months, with the support of my wonderful alpha and beta readers, I’ve been nurturing Book Baby, preparing it for its arrival into the world of Kindle rock romance fiction.

We are now almost exactly a month from my anticipated publication date and, to compare it again to a baby bump, I have a large unwieldy word document that is dominating my world, draining my dwindling energy reserves and keeping me awake at night.

Book Baby’s due date is fast approaching and I don’t mind confessing to being more than a little scared here. I’m excited too and feeling just a little bit proud of myself for getting so far.

Irrational fears of “what if’s” are torturing me in the wee small hours as I lie awake.

“What if KDP reject it for some obscure reason?”

“What if people think Book Baby is ugly?”

“What if I can’t cope with this once it’s unleashed on the world?”

“What if I’m not cut out to be a Book Baby mummy?”

Like all new “mothers” I’ve deliberated long and hard over what “outfit” my baby will wear when it first ventures out in the world. I still have a few options but I think I’ve finally settled on a cover design. Thanks to another wonderfully supportive artistic friend my Book Baby won’t enter the Kindle world naked!

So now it’s time to allow the last few pages of the final draft to develop, for the little vital add-ons (author’s note, legal disclaimers and the like) to be finalised and then, with one final labour of love, to deliver it safely onto the Kindle platform.

Book Baby was conceived while sitting in the early evening sun on my front doorstep at the beginning of May 2013. Now after a labour of love lasting almost two years, the end is in sight.

Book baby collage

The Imp – part eleven

Flames danced over the logs as they burned in the grate in the king’s private study. The king himself sat in a high-backed well-worn leather chair gazing into the fireplace, trying to make sense of the events of the past few months. His train of thought was interrupted by the arrival of his son and the wizard.

“Good evening, sire,” greeted Urquhart, as he took a seat on a low stool to the king’s left. “You summoned us saying it was important?”

“Yes,” replied the king, watching his son lower himself into the chair opposite him. Seeing his son still in agony thanks to the curse’s poison tore at his heart. “It might be something or nothing but I’ve been reading my wife’s diaries. Folk tales and legends fascinated her. I recall that she favoured a tale of three witches from the mountains to the north east of here. Do you remember it, Jem?”

Hearing his mother’s soft lilting voice in his head, the prince nodded and replied, “Yes. She loved that story. I have fond memories of her tucking me into bed and reading it to me from a big blue book.”

“And do you remember the details?” asked the king, his tone surprisingly sharp.

“Some of them. It was a long time ago, father. I remember the book itself more vividly.”

“I believe the book is still here somewhere,” commented the king. “If my memory serves me well, each of the witches was tasked with finding a particular jewel. Once brought together these jewels would give them the combined power to control every living being in the land.”

With a sudden flashback memory vivid in front of him, Jem exclaimed, “And each of the witches had the power to transform themselves into a bird!”

“And one of them favoured the form of a hoodie crow,” finished off the boy wizard calmly. “We need to find that book.”

“All of my wife’s things are still in her bed chamber. Nothing has been touched in there since her death,” said the king, his voice filled with emotion. “I ordered the room to be sealed after her funeral.”

“And where’s the key?” demanded Urquhart bluntly.

“Here,” said the king, handing him a large ornate key on an emerald green ribbon. “You know where it is, don’t you?”

“Yes, your majesty,” replied the wizard, pocketing the key.

“Father,” began Jem softly. “Will you help us search for the book?”

“No.”

The king turned his chair to face the blazing fire, signalling to his son and the wizard that their audience was at an end.

Leaving his father lost in his memories, Jem followed the court wizard out of the room and down the dark corridor that led to the narrow passageway to his mother’s room. He had been only ten years old when a fever took his mother from him and he had avoided that part of the castle since. It was with mixed emotions that he entered the room.

The air, although stale and musty, still carried a hint of the late queen’s perfume. A film of dust covered everything. Much to their surprise though, there were footprints leading from the window to the dressing table and then over to her writing desk. When Urquhart investigated further, he found bird footprints in the dust on the window sill.

“The witch has been in here,” he muttered sourly. “I wonder what she was looking for and if she took anything?”

“We’ll never know, Artie,” sighed Jem wearily, as he gazed round the room.

It was more luxuriously furnished than he remembered. Memories of sitting on his mother’s knee by the fireplace, of bouncing on her large four-poster bed, of having his hair brushed as he stood by the dressing table all tumbled through his head and he felt tears prick at his eyes. The far wall was lined with bookshelves, each shelf piled high with leather-bound volumes of all sizes and colours. In front of the shelves, the layer of dust was untouched. The witch had been nowhere near the books.

“So what does this book look like?” asked Urquhart, gazing up at the towering library. “We could be here a while trying to find it.”

“No we won’t,” whispered Jem, as he walked across the room towards the books. Instinctively, he reached for a large, slightly battered looking volume on the second shelf from the bottom. “It’s this one.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said the wizard with a smile.

Once the baby was finished feeding, Amber lifted him onto her shoulder, gently rubbing his small back to wind him. After a few moments he obliged with a loud “burp” then snuggled into her neck. For the first time Blain noticed the baby’s tiny elven ears and smiled.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’ll help you if I can but I won’t put either of you in danger.”

“Thank you,” whispered Amber with a relieved smile. “And I promise not to put you at risk either.”

“Do you have a plan, princess?”

“I’m working on it,” she sighed, as she hugged her tiny son. “It would help if I knew what was being transported to the fayre to trade. I will also need to find someone the same height and build as I am.”

“Why?” questioned her friend.

“The less you know for now the better. If you don’t know the details then you can’t be punished if I am caught,” answered the fairy/elf. “Can you get me the trade schedule? The High Council still approves it, don’t they?”

“Yes,” said Blain. “It is on the agenda for our next meeting. Finding someone to match your height and build will be more of a challenge. You are somewhat taller than most of the women in the village.”

“Ah, my elven blood again,” acknowledged Amber. “It doesn’t have to be a female. Just someone my size.”

“In that case, I know the very person,” declared Blain, with a wink.

In the distance they heard the long bow on a horn that signalled dinner time at the High Council chambers. Quickly Blain lifted his cloak and the now empty basket.

“I need to go, princess. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Is there anything else you need me to bring you?”

Amber thought for a moment then, just as her friend reached the door, she said, “Yes. A silver thimble. A needle. Some soot and a rowan twig. A green twig. Not a dried up one.”

“I won’t ask. Consider it done.”

The door closed softly behind him leaving her sitting alone cradling her sleeping son.

Deep in the mountain fortress, two raven haired witches stood staring at the half dead crow that lay at the bottom of a wicker cage. The guard who had picked the bird up from the floor had given it some water laced with wine and it had briefly rallied before collapsing a second time.

“I tell you, it’s our sister!” screamed the smaller of the two witches.

“How can you possibly tell?” squawked the other witch instantly. “There’s no ruby. Karina wouldn’t return without it. That was the arrangement, sister dearest, or had you forgotten?”

“This creature is Karina,” insisted Isabella, the youngest of the three witches. “I can smell magic on her. She’s been cursed.”

“By whom, may I ask?” demanded Greta, the eldest of the three sisters.

“I smell her own magic but it’s been tampered with. I don’t know who else is involved but they’ve had power to match hers. I tell you, this is Karina!”

“Well, if it’s Karina,” hissed Greta with a sneer. “Transform her back!”

“Very well. I will,” snapped Isabella.

Try as she might, the witch failed to transform the exhausted crow back into her human form. Eventually, after an hour or more of wasted spells, she changed tactics. With an intricately woven hand spell, Isabella restored the power of speech to the bird.

“About bloody time, sisters!” screeched the crow, as she struggled to stand.

“I knew it!” declared Isabella triumphantly. “I knew it was Karina.”

“Hmph,” snorted Greta, peering into the cage. “Whatever happened to you, Karina dearest?”

“A meddlesome half-breed fairy and a wizard called Urquhart.”

“Do tell us more,” implored Greta, her curiosity triggered by the bird’s response.

“Let me out of this cage and I’ll tell you.”

“Ah, perhaps not,” commented Greta with a malicious smile. “Explanations before freedom, sister.”

It took the cursed witch a further hour to tell her tale while her sisters crowded round the cage. As she told of the events that transpired in the king’s bedchamber, Greta cursed her stupidity. When her story was told, Karina stood in the centre of the cage staring at her sisters with her black beady eyes.

“Very well,” muttered Greta. With a snap of her fingers, the cage door flew open.

Slowly Isabella reached into the cage and Karina hopped onto the trembling outstretched hand. Not quite the welcome home she had envisaged.

The Imp – part ten

An icy east wind bit into the crow’s feathers as she flew deeper into the mountain range. All around her grey, lifeless rock faces loomed. The only sound was the wind whistling through the gorge. Far below she could see the silvery, winding ribbon of the river that ran through the stark peaks. Using it as her guide, she continued on and up. Food had been scarce since she had crossed the plains and entered the mountainous terrain but the landmarks below were becoming more familiar. A few more hours and she should reach the sanctuary of her family home.

It had taken her four weeks of constant travel, after spending the first two weeks resting and feeding near the bothy, to reach the mountains that she had called home for the last two centuries. Every feather tip ached with exhaustion. The remnants of the curse’s poison still coursed through her narrow veins, sapping her diminishing energy reserves. She held onto the vain hope that her sisters would be able to reverse the wizard’s magic and restore her to human form. It was growing tiresome being trapped as a bird and she longed to enjoy a hot bath, a fine meal and a smooth glass of wine.

In the distance she spotted two flickering lights high up on the cliff face. The sign she had been searching for – the torches that lit the entrance to her family home. Drawing on her final drops of strength, she flew towards the beacons. As she glided soundlessly into the mouth of the cave, she crash landed unceremoniously on the dusty floor. Her chest feathers heaving, she lay panting for breath. She opened her beak to let out a “caw” but no sound came. As exhaustion swept through her, the witch felt herself being scooped up into a leather gloved palm.

 

Under the shade of the lower branches of a huge pine tree, Jem sat leaning against the trunk, his baby daughter nestled in his lap. Gently he ran his good hand over her soft auburn hair and marvelled yet again at her beauty and innocence while she slept. Silently his heart wept for Amber. She should be here sharing these first few precious weeks of the baby’s life. Despite the pain it caused him, the imp reached up with his burnt hand to touch the fairy/elf’s amulets that he now wore round his neck. It may have been his imagination, or just wishful thinking, but Amber felt closer to him when he wore her talisman.

It had been two weeks since Urquhart had deemed him strong enough to make the journey home to the castle. Since his return, Jem had struggled to settle. He felt caged and suffocated within the thick stone walls of the castle and longed to return to freedom of the small mountain bothy. At every opportunity he would escape outdoors with the baby and roam the extensive woodland behind the castle.

His injured arm was healing slowly and, with the assistance of the wizard’s magic, the feeling was beginning to return to his damaged hand. The curse’s poison still burned deep within him but Urquhart had devised an enchantment that contained it within the injured arm. Despite his best endeavours, the wizard had been unable to restore the sight in his eye. In his heart of hearts, Jem knew that only Amber held the magic to do that.

A soft cry from the baby brought his attention back to the present. In his lap, the baby had wakened from her nap and was whimpering softly.

“Time for your dinner, little princess,” he whispered softly. “I guess we had better take you back to Martha and Mistress Morag. Time for some milk.”

With the baby securely nestled in his arms, the prince walked slowly back towards the towering castle walls.

 

Up in the small tower room that was his private study, Urquhart stood by the window with the black crow tail feather in his hand. Several others that had been found in the Lady Karina’s bedchamber lay on the table behind him. These feathers, plus the small chest containing the witch’s personal belongings, were his only hope of breaking the remains of the curse. Beside the pile of feathers lay Jermain’s silver brooch. It too would be required to break the spell, if there was any magic left in it.

“Where has she gone?” muttered the wizard, turning away from the window.

He laid the feather on top of the wooden chest and made his way back down the spiral staircase to his main chamber.

A second dilemma was also troubling him. Where was the portal that had been used to bring the baby to the prince? His instincts told him it had to be close by or near to somewhere Amber could visualise. But where?

While the prince had been recuperating at the last house in the village, the wizard had spent his time trying to retrace the path that brought the baby to them. Whoever had delivered the basket had been clever and cautious in the extreme. His tracking efforts had taken him round the perimeter of the village and into the dense woodland at the foot of the mountain. It had taken all of his tracking skills to follow the trail through the deep bed of pine needles that covered the forest floor but, when he reached the stream, the trail stopped. The mystery person would appear to have walked either up or down the stream for some distance to destroy their trail. Finding it on the far side had so far proved impossible.

His last remaining hope was that the fairies would return to the village during the fayre to mark the end of summer and open a new portal. Traditionally they came to trade and to provide entertainment for the locals. The fayre, however, was still two weeks away.

Muttering sourly, Urquhart sat at his desk staring at the map of the local area that was spread out across the top of his piles of books and scrolls. His search area was marked out on it. Previous portal locations were highlighted. Spinning his wand through his fingers, the wizard sighed.

“Where would I hide the gateway?”

Sunlight rippled through the leaves outside the window of her tree top prison. From her bed, Amber could just make out the lilac mists that marked the boundary between her world and Jem’s. With tears in her eyes, she rolled over to face the wooden wall and rested her hand on her now empty belly.

Less than a week after the birth she had been brought there by the order of the High Council; by the order of her grandmother, the queen. Light fairy chain had been shackled to her ankles, long enough to allow her to move about the small room but short enough to keep the door out of reach. Only once in the following days had her grandmother visited her and then the visit had been filled with hate and disgust.

The High Council had sentenced the fairy/elf to be confined to the tree top cell indefinitely. Her defiance of ancient laws was unprecedented so they determined that solitary confinement for her was the best course of action to take until they could reach a formal agreement on an alternative form of punishment. Only one member of the council had spoken up for her. Her childhood friend, Blain, had risked his position by proposing that they petition the elves for their opinion on the matter, arguing that Amber’s defiance was as much an elf issue as a fairy one. It was a risky strategy but Blain hoped it would buy him some time to try to persuade some of the other council members to review their stance. To his relief, the High Council had agreed and had arranged to send two representatives to consult the elves. It was anticipated that they would be gone for two months. In the meantime, Amber had to bide her time high up in the tree tops.

As she lay on her side, she counted the marks she had scraped into the soft wooden wall beside her narrow bed. She counted thirty five small scores. Adding on the seven days she had spent in her grandmother’s home following the birth, Amber calculated that word from the elves was due to be received in a little over two weeks.

The soft squeal of the door opening startled her. She turned over in time to see Blain tip toe into the room carrying a small basket.

“Good afternoon, your highness,” he said rather formally, setting the basket down on the table.

“That title’s long gone,” answered Amber as she sat up.

“You’re still the queen’s grand-daughter,” argued her friend. “And will always be a princess in my eyes.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” giggled Amber, her laughter filling the small room with music.

“I live in hope,” sighed her visitor, shedding his cloak. “But I fear your heart belongs to another. Well, three others to be precise.”

“Perhaps,” sighed Amber, feeling tears prick at her eyes. “Won’t you be in trouble for visiting me?”

“No,” replied Blain, producing a small parchment scroll from his pocket. “I can argue that I’m here on official High Council business.”

“You are?”

“No,” stated her friend, showing her the blank parchment. “But no one will question me if I claim I had to read this to you. Confidential High Council correspondence relating to your trial and for our eyes and ears only.”

“Devious. I like it.”

Reaching into the basket, Blain brought out some fresh bread, fruit and a small bottle of wine. He put his hand back in and retrieved a small round cheese.

“I thought we could break bread together for a while,” he explained with a warm smile. “Break the monotony for you.”

“Thank you. I’d be happy to,” she replied as she came to sit at the table.

Over their simple meal, her friend filled her in on all the comings and goings of daily life in the fairy community. When she asked, Blain confirmed there was no word yet from the elves. Between bites, he spoke about various High Council matters that he wanted her opinion on then he happened to mention that the queen had tried to forbid them from visiting the fayre being held in the mortal realm that marked the end of summer.

“She didn’t succeed, did she?” gasped Amber, her eyes wide with concern.

“No. She was promptly over ruled on economic grounds. We need the trade. Why?”

“No particular reason,” murmured Amber, keeping her gaze lowered.

“Amber?” he said softly, reaching out to touch her hand. “What are you scheming?”

“The portal remains open while the fayre runs. It is usually open for five days and loosely guarded. If I’m to escape from here, those five days are my window of opportunity.”

“And just how do you plan to escape the High Council’s bonds?” demanded Blain sharply, pointing to the silver thread-like chains around her slender ankles.

“Elf magic,” stated Amber plainly. “The less you know the better.”

Before Blain could reply, their conversation was interrupted by a sharp wailing cry. Instantly Amber leapt to her feet and darted to the far side of the room. Whispering softly, she scooped the crying baby into her arms. The wails subsided to whimpers as she carried the baby back to the table. Discretely she opened her tunic to allow the hungry mite to suckle.

“And you’ve that elf blood to thank for the fact that you were allowed to keep this little one,” commented Blain, watching the fair haired child suck contentedly at her breast. “Only act of compassion I have ever seen from the queen.”

“That I have,” agreed Amber, gazing down at her tiny son. “But I have to return to Jem and to my daughter. What if she’s like this little man and needs half-breed milk to survive? She could be starving to death in agony!”

With a heavy sigh, Blain nodded, “You’re right, as always.”

“Then help me find a way back,” pleaded Amber quietly.

What A Difference A Year Can Make

It’s December again – how did that happen? Wasn’t Christmas just the other week? Scary how fast this year has gone.

Despite the wave of panic that is rising at the thought of Christmas being just over three weeks away, I took a moment or two to reflect this week.

In 2012, I sat myself down, did a lot of soul searching and gave myself a stern talking to. It was time to find something to do just for me; something to restore my self-belief. (It had taken a bit of a pounding.) It was time to find a creative outlet. After a lot of thought, I chose to complete a photographic challenge. During 2013, I took one photo for every day of the year, trying to ensure that it reflected something pertinent about the day. The photos were posted in an album on my Facebook wall and I was blown away by the number of friends who commented on and liked the results. Completing it gave me a tremendous sense of achievement and went some ways to restoring my self-confidence.

For 2014’s challenge, I deliberated long and hard. In the back of my mind there was a longer term goal beginning to form. I decided to use 2014 to overcome a major hurdle that lay in the way of that goal.

I had to overcome the fear of letting people read what I write.

As an aspiring writer, it is a crippling fear to have.

Starting this blog, as a means to overcome my fears, seemed like the logical creative challenge for the year ahead. The exact challenge I set myself was to complete and publish one blog post per week. (This will be blog post number fifty nine so I’ve exceeded my target.)

Little did I know how things would turn out.

During January and into February, I felt physically sick with nerves every time I hit “publish” on the screen. Gradually, however, it got easier. I began to add some poems onto my blog page, some as part of that week’s post.

While sitting in the car, in the dark, outside the high school, waiting for Boy Child to finish band practice, I wrote a short story called “The Imp” and posted it to my blog. Originally it was meant to be one short story but the interest it sparked among friends amazed me and The Imp’s tale was spun out to nine parts (and isn’t finished yet – I promise he will be back next year.)

In April, I answered a friend’s plea for assistance and wrote my first music review. I’ve just counted and, to date, I’ve written thirty one reviews for http://www.phoenixmusiconline.org  including reviews of five live shows, with more in the pipeline.

Music has played an enormous part in my life this year –much to the despair of The Big Green Gummi Bear, who doesn’t share my musical tastes. I’ve been fortunate enough to go to several gigs, with another two still to go before Christmas, that have inspired blog posts and reviews. Through the music review bit, I’ve also been lucky enough to befriend two up-and-coming bands – one from the USA and one from Australia. I’m looking forward to following both bands’ careers as they continue towards mega-stardom and headline appearances and to reviewing their future releases and shows.

Mid-year, music, or my love of one particular artist, led to another opportunity to exercise my creative side when I was asked to help admin a Facebook fan page for a couple of weeks while the two regular admins took a holiday. For one reason or another, six months down the line, I’m still happily helping out and loving every minute of it. This has also led me to make several new “FB friends” from around the world, some of whom I hope to meet later this week.

So, here we are, almost at the end of 2014, and looking forward to 2015’s challenge.

I hinted earlier that there was a longer term goal in mind when I began this blog and 2015’s challenge will be to turn that dream into reality.

In May 2013, I began the first draft of what will become my first novel. (There, I’ve finally said it!) I’m a bit old-fashioned and prefer to write long-hand for my first drafts then type the piece up as a first re-draft. So, while I’ve been doing all the other things I’ve just told you about (plus the normal day-to-day things like going to work and running the household) I’ve typed up the first draft and am part way through the re-drafting and editing process, with the help of several wonderful, dedicated friends. Without these guys, I would’ve long since lost the will to live over the enormity of the whole project. (From the bottom of my heart, I thank each of you for all the support, encouragement and feedback you’ve given me so far.)

The challenge for 2015, with the help of these beautiful people, and a couple of others, who are still to be drafted in and don’t know it yet, is to get my book published.

I think, I might have finally conquered my fear of letting people read what I write so 2014’s challenge can be deemed a success on that score. The blog and reviews and all the other mischief, including the occasional photography foray, will keep going  into next year and beyond, I hope.

Now Christmas beckons…guess I’d better turn my attention to that for a short while. Time to write a list!

Silently Watching After Dark

I’ll start with an apology – the last week around here has been ridiculously busy and I haven’t had time to write my usual blog. I will endeavour to post something mid week .

What I have written though is a short story. A bit of dark fun and a follow up to my earlier dark angel tale, Silently Watching.

So fetch yourself a coffee and enjoy!

Silently Watching After Dark

As the last colours of a stunning October sunset faded and the full moon began to rise, she sat on the moss covered dry stane wall hidden from the world by the overhanging branches. Silently she watched the cars whizz by, their exhaust fumes masking the tantalising smells of the rich variety of warm metallic blood of the drivers. Deep within her she could feel her hunger stirring. It had been too long since she had last fed on human blood. Sheep and deer were all very sweet but they never satiated her thirst. Crossing her long slender legs, she sighed and continued to watch and wait.

Two miles to the south west of where she sat, one of her potential victims was preparing to go for a run before enjoying a late dinner. Unbeknown to him, the dark angel had been silently watching him for months, stalking her prey but biding her time until the conditions and her desires were aligned. It had been a long dull day in the office and, having had no opportunity to grab some fresh air at lunchtime, he was impatient to get outside.

Lifting his iPod and beanie from the arm of the couch, he called out, “Will be back in about an hour,” then he was gone out into the chill dark evening air.

Two miles east of where the angel waited, another potential victim was throwing on his training gear, muttering sourly under his breath. It had been a lousy day from start to finish. The trains to Glasgow had been messed up in the morning, causing him to be late for work. They had still been running late when he arrived back at the station shortly after five o’clock, killing all hopes of getting the early “fast” train. When he had finally arrived back at his car and driven to the gym, the gym car park had been full. He hated to run outdoors in the dark but he had a schedule to adhere to. Now, as he yanked the laces of his trainers tight, he was silently cursing the cold autumn weather.

“I might be back,” he growled as he left the house, slamming the front door behind him.

From her perch on the wall, the angel picked up on the scents of both runners as they approached her. The younger one, approaching from her right, was moving swiftly, light on his feet and teasing her senses with the richness of the blood pulsing in his arteries; the older man ran with a far heavier tread but he too was approaching at a steady pace. She could almost taste his blood on her lips. It may be older but there was something ambrosial about it. With one graceful movement she was standing on top of the wall, sniffing the air around her. After a few moments deliberation, she decided to investigate both potential victims before choosing her moment to dine.

One of them was going to satiate her hunger before the moon had fully risen in the cloudless night sky.

With two strong beats of her powerful black wings, she soared over the trees and followed the treeline in search of the older man. She spotted him easily, his bald head glinting in the moonlight. Circling round behind him, high above and hidden by shadows from the cliff face opposite, she drank in the smells of his body – his exotic metallic blood musk mixed with sweat. Running her tongue over her fangs, she hung in the air for a few seconds watching and fantasising.

Soundlessly she glided high above him, following the winding trail of the pavement as it passed the popular beach picnic spot until she spied her other potential victim. He was completely focussed on his run, oblivious to the world around him. Risking being seen, the angel dropped down to earth among the cluster of pine trees opposite the garden centre. As he ran past, she drank in his rich sweet scent and sighed. Her senses finely tuned, she could hear the music that was blasting into his ears. She listened to the song for a moment or two before stepping back further into the trees.

Out on the pavement the two men were in sight of each other. A fact unknown to their silent witness was that they knew each other. As they ran past each other, they called out a friendly greeting and promised to watch out for each other on the return leg of their run.

When the older athlete drew level with the stand of trees, the angel made her decision. Hunger burning deep within her, she let out a low hiss before taking flight to pursue her meal. Just a little more patience and she would reap her reward. She knew the perfect spot to attack. There was an incline just beyond the old gamekeeper’s lodge, unlit by street lights. For a few yards she would be totally concealed by darkness.

Taking up her chosen position, she watched the pavement in silence, listening for the laboured breathing and sniffing the air for hints of the distinctive scent.

Thud. Thud. Thud. The steady rhythm of her chosen runner echoed through the night.

Fangs bared, wings spread out majestically, the angel stepped out from the shadows. Her bite was deep and deadly as she ripped out the man’s throat, rendering it impossible for him to scream for help. Wrapping her wings round him, she crushed his thrashing limbs as she drank slowly of his rich warm blood. Its strong ferrous taste teased her own taste buds. This was not a kill to be hurried; this was a banquet to be savoured. As she feasted, his struggle ceased then he hung limp in her deadly embrace. Greedily she drained the last drops of blood from his veins before it grew cold, his life force now spent. As the fresh blood pulsed through her, the fallen angel became aware of the other runner’s footfall approaching.

Time had run away from her in her greed. With her fangs still dripping, she scooped up the lifeless, drained corpse and soared into the night sky. Gently beating her wings, she floated high over the pavement as the other man ran along the road beneath her.

Again, as before, she could hear the music he was listening to. It was a song she had heard him listen to before, “Watch Over You.”

“Oh, I’ll watch over you,” she thought as she dropped down onto the road a few yards behind him.

With a final glance down at the drained body in her arms, she displayed a rare tenderness. The dark angel kissed his cheek before dropping his corpse into the pile of dry leaves that was banked against the dry stane wall. As she beat her wings and soared up into the night sky, the draft blew a covering of leaves over the man, leaving only his hand uncovered.

Like a Moth to the Flame – short story

Sometimes it is simple things that spark the imagination. A friend’s dislike of moths and  tales of an unwelcome night time visitor are to blame – sorry, thank- for this tale.

Like a Moth to the Flame

Startled by the sudden loud music, she sat up, momentarily confused as to where she was. It was the theme tune to her favourite TV drama series that had wakened her. Another episode that she had slept through the last twenty minutes of. Oh well, there was always catch up TV – again! Stretching, she glanced at the clock. It was almost eleven and past her usual mid-week bedtime. Hitting the power button on the remote, she stumbled off to bed. For the past week she had not slept well and it was taking its toll on her. Dreams of being watched had broken her sleep every night and several times she had switched on the bedside lamp to check that she was still alone in the room. Nothing but shadows filled the room every time but still she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. At first, it had felt like someone was watching her through the window but that was impossible. She lived on the third floor and there was no balcony.

Her bedroom felt deliciously cool as a breeze wafted in through the open window, rattlling the blinds. Deciding to leave the window open, she climbed into bed and snuggled down into her soft white feather pillow, pulling the summer duvet up around her shoulders. Out of the corner of one sleepy eye she spotted something on the curtain. It was a large dark mottled moth. Quickly she switched off the bedside lamp before it decided to flutter around the room. If it stayed where it was, she could ignore it; if it started flying around, she would have to kill it. Despite her dislike of the creatures, she didn’t like killing anything. Gradually she was overcoming her fear of Lepidoptera which was just as well. The unwelcome visitor on the curtain was the third one she had seen in a week.

Without giving it another thought she drifted off to sleep.

 

Patiently the moth sat and watched her, just as it had done every night for the last seven days. Her familiar scent had attracted it in through the open window that first night. Hints of peppermint and honeysuckle mingled with wild rose. Tantalising. Gradually the sleeping beauty’s breathing even out and softened as she slipped into a deeper sleep. With a flick of its wings the moth was free of the curtain. With a second flick it materialised beside the bed in its preferred form. In an instant his senses heightened as his ears were filled with the rush of her blood pumping through her body; his nostrils flared at the metallic tang to her natural scent.

Could he? Should he?

Still admiring his blonde sleeping princess, he bit his lower lip hard, drawing a large bead of deep red blood. With his long pale index finger, he lifted the drop of blood and gently smeared it on her partially open lips. The tranquilising effect would buy him some precious thinking time, just as it had done twice before. Time to decide his next move once and for all.

By vampire standards he was young, barely a hundred years old. He had combed the world over the years searching for her and, finally, unexpectedly, he had found her. With a soft click he opened the case of his gold pocket watch and gazed upon the picture inside; a photograph he had treasured for a century. His only photograph of his young bride, needlessly killed by the vampire who had made him. In front of him now though lay an identical beauty. A live incarnation of his beloved Susannah.

All day he had followed her as she went about her daily routine. He had waited behind the gatepost of the building next to hers then walked silently behind her as she had gone into the café to pick up a coffee on her way to catch the bus to her place of work. It had been easy to hide on the bus among the other commuters and to mingle with the workers in her office. No one had challenged him as he had followed her into the office building. Erring on the side of caution he had only waited inside until she was seated at her desk before he slipped out unnoticed.

A rustling movement from the bed beside him brought him back to the here and now. Mumbling in her sleep, she had rolled over onto her other side, her long hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. An artery in her neck pulsed enticingly. The young vampire ran his hand almost nervously through his dark short spikey hair. It was now or never.

Silently he bent over the girl, bared his fangs and sank them swiftly into the ripe artery, drinking deeply.

A single drop of blood dripped onto the white pillow

Pale Oak Beauty Moth (Hypomecis punctinalis) male

credit to the owner of the photo – photo is tagged

Four months along the twisting and turning blog path

I can barely believe that it’s been four months since I bit the bullet and started this blog page. Where does time go? Or as the old adage goes- time flies when you are having fun.

And, despite the fears of posting my writing on here, I am having a fun adventure on this creative journey.

At the very outset of this scary magical trip, I said one of my biggest fears was letting people read what I write. I’d be lying if I said I’d totally overcome it but, with each post, it’s getting easier. Each “like” or kind comment banishes another little bit of that crippling fear. So thank you.

I set the goal of submitting one post per week and so far I’m on track. Finding the time to write my blog piece for the week can sometimes prove a challenge. There just aren’t enough hours in the day or the week on occasion. I’ve tried not to be too regimented to prevent it from becoming “routine” – “it’s Tuesday and it’s eight o’clock so it must be blog time”- I can’t write like that. For me it needs to be spontaneous and not overly thought. Do you agree, fellow bloggers?

I’ve also resisted the temptation to rant – although I reserve the right to do so should an appropriate rant come along.

Another fear that, so far, hasn’t come to fruition was that I wouldn’t be able to think of a post for the week. Long may that luck hold out!

The biggest surprise over the last few months writing-wise has been the popularity of my short story “The Imp”. Initially the first part was written as a standalone short tale that grew out of my mental meanderings while out for a walk one lunchtime and was brought to life a few short hours later, while sitting in the car, in the dark, outside the school while I waited for Boy Child to come out from wind orchestra rehearsals. (The Imp is a drawing in another project I am working on and I began to muse about what his story may be and it spiralled from there.)Nine parts later and his tale has been told – for now. Crazy as this may sound, I miss him. Imp fans – he will be back at a later date – time allowing!

As usual time is running away with me so I’ll end here for now. I’d like to thank everyone who is accompanying me, encouraging me and supporting me along this winding creative path. Without you, I’d probably still just be sitting in my conservatory, filling notebooks with stories and poems that no one but me will ever read and wondering “what if…..”.

Thank you and I hope you stick with me for the rest of the journey. Feel free to bring along some friends too. I’m enjoying the company.