For the Love of Books #30

Approaching the end of February and taking a break from the UK rain, with a feast of worldbuilding in two epic fantasy recommendations… Enjoy.

The Wolf and the Water; by Josie Jaffrey

Big things come in small packages: an apt phrase for this modest-sized book that contains a world of extraordinary depth.

If you like detailed worlds, family sagas, crime, intrigue, and a protagonist to champion, then this is for you. I was rooting for the protagonist from the start, a young woman called Kala, considered doubly sullied by the powers that be: once for her father’s foreign birth, once by her disease that left her crippled. She is heir to the tribe of Glauks, in the city of Kepos, a walled city that borders the sea. Unknown to Kala there is a second, secret sea, and a forbidden pool where she goes to swim and feel free from the pains in her body.

When her father unexpectedly dies, everything changes. Kala’s mother must remarry, and proceedings are put in motion for marriage to a man, Nikos; a dangerous man not to be trusted. Left trying to find a place for herself in a newly ordered world, Kala looks for allies she can trust: Melissa, a girl brought to her as a companion, someone she grew up with and is close to; and Leon, Nikos’ son. Characterisation includes a complex love triangle further demonstrating Kala’s uniqueness and individuality.

Kala suspects poison was the weapon used to kill her father, and she vows to do whatever she must to determine the truth. It is a plight which takes her deep into the heart of this dangerous world built on complex tribal politics, headed by the Archon and a priesthood of hierophants. Forced to question her own foundations, there is self-discovery and family revelations, and a journey through this world and beyond, to ‘the edge of shadows’, the wall, warded by Acolytes to keep the dead where they belong.

“I think if I could just push my fingertips through the centre of my chest, I could pull my rib cage open like wings and let it all fly out of me.”

The narrative is as sharp as cut glass, appropriate for a story that demands attention. Based on a world inspired by Plato’s account of the island of Atlantis, prepare for a complex society, with dynamics and entanglements of a broad cast. This is the story of Kala, and her fight for the truth: who killed her father and why?

The Unspoken Name; by A.K. Larkwood

The Shrine of the Unspoken One is cut into the mountainside, looking out over the House of Silence nestled into the valley. There, fourteen-year-old Csorwe is raised to be the chosen bride, an innocent vessel through which the voice of the God can speak.

I loved the opening to this epic fantasy, which reminded me of Le Guin’s Tombs of Atuan, with its edgy, sinister world holding a girl hostage to a tragic fate. In The Unspoken Name, the story explores the spiritual and cultural depth controlling Csorwe’s life in the House of Silence, as she awaits a tragic fate: the day she will sacrifice herself at the Unspoken One’s shrine. But a month before that day, a stranger arrives seeking counsel for his quest: where is the Reliquary of Pentravesse?

According to the library of the House of Silence, it is an inadvisable quest, with all manner of ill consequences following in its wake. But the wizard Belthandros Sethennai finds the idea irresistible and prepares to head out. Although he will not go alone. On the day of Csorwe’s sacrifice, he waits in the shadows, tempting her to leave with him, and live. As he says, “The secret of greatness, is to know when you should risk the wrath of God.”  

So begins an unlikely adventure of a runaway and her new master, through inventive worlds delivered with magical description that brings to life an imaginative feast of worldbuilding, with vibrancy and colour supported by a wonderfully diverse cast. Csorwe is at the heart, on a journey of survival and self-discovery, adapting to her changing circumstances, transforming into a heroine of the free world.

What are you reading?

 

Stories Stories Everywhere

Comic Con, the perfect excuse for dipping into Somerset in February. As expected, it was a perfectly eclectic and colourful day. The fun at these events is infectious, and it’s inspiring to see stories embraced so whole-heartedly. And it was wonderful to be there with my fantasy series, Blood Gift Chronicles. As I meet new readers, it’s always a thrill to wonder what people will make of the stories, what parts might reach them and linger, which scenes will prove memorable. I’m also always happy to have my own character art with me on the journey, emboldening answers to what the stories are about – it is their story after all.

And of course, while in Somerset, why not take a trip to Wells Cathedral, which soared beyond expectation with its voluminous chambers and endless passageways. The outer walls encased in a stone labyrinth, are alive with flocks of roosting pigeons among other birds. Inside, stories upon stories unfold, of history, and of imagined possibility in this magical place. It is home to the second oldest clock in the world, which has the oldest working clock face in the world, which is a beautiful piece of art in its own right. To add further interest, we stumbled on an art exhibit, where old meets new in reconstructed wedding dresses raising money for local charities. Spying a rainbow flag in amongst the gowns was a bonus. And to top off a glorious visit, meet Basil the cat, who happily takes up residence in the gift shop, whenever he chooses.

To end the day, storybook scenes continue at nearby Bishop’s Palace, with a flagstone drawbridge and surrounding moat, where for centuries, swans have been trained to ring the bell at dinnertime…

And I’ll leave you with a story of a different kind, told in a memorable sculpture found at The Box, in Plymouth. The sculpture is entitled, ‘End of Empire’, depicting two figures with globe heads on a steam-punk seesaw in a symbol of Victorian industrialism. It’s fascinating to watch the slow-swinging seesaw, in a movement symbolising a rebalancing and move towards end of empire.

Ah, the power of stories… xx

 

Shades of Inspiration

It’s been a busy start to the year. Approaching the end of January and I wonder where the month has gone. Manuscript edits are under way, and I’m enjoying time spent with my characters in a world that grows more colourful, and more daring with each scene. And my collection of shorts and poetry is also growing; it’s wonderful to get out and about sharing words.

As always, January is the time for making plans, signing up, and getting dates in the diary. The excitement of the year is WorldCon coming to the UK. Plans are underway for the trip to Glasgow, with the added bonus of the guest of honour who just happens to be one of my favourite authors… guess who…

‘People get inspired to write, paint, draw, sing, sculpt, dance in many different ways. And there are many types of art. But the one thing that they all have in common is that they are all a sort of magic. Sometimes the magic flows from one’s fingers, other times it is transferred to the person who experiences the result. Magic has always worked in mysterious ways.’ – Nnedi Okorafor.

And a recent book-haul is just waiting to be devoured.

Inspiration comes in many forms, and I’m lucky to have so much around to inspire. A recent trip to the Pulp Exhibit in Bovey Tracey was a glorious injection of colour on a cold afternoon, and an interesting look at the interface between art, the environment and how we question the world. The sculptures are made from recycled cardboard and it’s the second time for me viewing this artist’s work. James Lake, it won’t be the last.

My own art project is underway, inspired by local Devon and Cornwall surrounds – more at a later date. And I continue to venture out and about, soaking up scenery that one way or another finds its way into writing.

From big skies over the Teign valley, watched over by Castle Drogo…

To waterwheels, ancient bridges, giant oaks and winter snowdrops, lining the River Bovey.

Close encounters with the outdoors, spying the layers of nature and colour making up the scenic tapestry, is the best inspiration for building worlds. And that’s where I’ll leave you for today, while I travel through the pages of my latest instalment of Blood Gift Chronicles. There may not be snowdrops, but there is yellow gorse and purple heather, and natural extracts to ward off the curse of the evil eye…

Have a great week!

For the Love of Books #29

With cool blue skies and frost on the horizon, I’m warming up with a deep dive into SFF collections; short stories that spin the unexpected, pack a punch and make you think, all while flexing the bounds of imagination. I bring you two titles by two extraordinarily inspiring authors…

Danged Black Thing; by Eugen Bacon

Eugen Bacon is an exceptional writer and I was honoured to receive a review copy of Danged Black Thing ahead of its much-anticipated release. Traversing the west and Africa, this unique collection of shorts is both dreamlike and lyrical, while delivered with the sharpness of cut glass. It is speculative and mythical inexplicably wrapped in the mundane.

It begins with Simbiyu, amid the colours of forest laced with the sweet scent of crushed guavas and the intermittent whiff of soured yams. Childhood against a rural backdrop brought alive on the page is told in textured layers of family amid the brusque contrast of loss. A boy longing for the comfort of his once pillow-soft mother, forges his way in the world, winning a scholarship that will take him to Australia. But roots cannot be shaken, and while the heady colours of home are a welcome memory, shadows of the past tighten their embrace. When the story came to an end, I found myself wanting to stay, to know more of the character that had revealed worlds in just a few pages.

This is a remarkable collection of voices exploring migration, gender and class, patriarchy and womanhood; a collection that pushes the boundaries of creativity and science, delving into family, love and loss across time and space, speaking to the future with detailed imaginings of a landscape filled with warnings to heed, and questions about what it means to be human. And that is just the first two stories.

There are tales of revenge, aliens and fantastical beasts, explorations touching each phase of life, drawing on the power of ancestors, tradition, and vivid descriptions of both modern and fantastical worlds. The prose is soaked in truth, empathy and invention, transporting you deep into physical place and breathless mental imaginings. Each word leaves you hanging in this collection that feels like a colourful celebration of life, complete with flaws, scars, magic and beauty.

Bloodchild; by Octavia Butler

Bloodchild is an innovative collection of shorts, inventive parables to the contemporary world, small in size and huge in reach. In true Octavia Butler style, the protagonists are strong and complex, and the themes astute and challenging to the status quo. The collection begins with Bloodchild, the story of a colony of humans in an extrasolar world, forced to make startling accommodations with their hosts. A perfectly weird, unsettling and memorable story that asks the question, what would you be prepared to accommodate to pay the rent?

Another story, The Evening and the Morning and the Night, explores life with a disease that causes the sufferer to feel trapped and imprisoned within their own flesh. In a world with woefully inadequate institutions and devastating consequences, the question is raised: what can we do, what can we become, what are we in relation to undeniable genetics?

Rooted in the mundane, shining a light on the bleak, brought to life with inventive experimentation, the stories transcend through alien invasions that give a whole new meaning to community, moments of tenderness shining in an apocalypse, to the big question – what would you do if you met God? Plus two essays which give great insight into the author’s journey as a writer, and her resulting advice to those of us following in her footsteps. A thought-provoking read. Highly recommend.

What are you reading?

 

Happy New Year 2024!

As New Year’s Eve turns dark outside, the storm is raging. Batten down the hatches, grateful for a moment of peace to reflect on the year gone by. 2023 has been a busy year for writing, starting with a chance to guest blog with the esteemed fantasy author, Sarah Ash. It’s the second time I’ve been lucky enough to be invited, and for anyone who has yet to read from this author, I can highly recommend visiting her many titles. Songspinners, has been one of my favourite reads of the year: the intriguing tale of Orial, a girl navigating the labyrinth of the Undercity to practice the art she has taught herself, the art of music that is her magic; in a world that is dark, evocative and beautifully drawn, a place of musical telepathy, faeries, dragonflies, and mystical reservoirs await…

Book conventions and festivals from Birmingham to the New Forest, to the Hartland Peninsula of Devon, to the city of Kansas, USA via the wonders of zoom from my writing room were all highlights. With readings and panels, it is wonderful to share, to discuss, to learn, to inspire, and be inspired. And there are lots more creative ventures to look forward to in 2024. I look forward to sharing more as news unfolds.

For now, in the lull between Xmas and New Year, in between blustering gales and rain, it was lovely to catch a few snatches of dry clear skies to enjoy a moment of the outdoors around home, and nature, for a breath of fresh air before it’s back to work. Between the lakes of Stover, with afternoon sun, fluffy clouds, scenic forest, gorgeous lakes, poetry, wood carvings, curious squirrels, hungry ducks, and a woodpecker…

 

To the fresh sea air of South Devon, and Teignmouth’s old port, and beaches crammed with colourful boats with stories to tell…

To the bright lights of Torquay to feast on this year’s bay of lights, where more wild seas await, crashing to and fro towards Xmas trees and festive Torbay palms looking especially jazzy.

And back home, where a sleepy cat awaits, and another good read beckons.

Wishing everyone a happy, healthy, peaceful New Year, 2024!

 

The Gift of Stories

Stopping by to wish everyone Seasons Greetings & Happy Holidays, and to offer a huge thanks to all of my readers of Blood Gift Chronicles, for your continued support and enjoyment of my beloved characters in Return of the Mantra, and The Warder.

And as Xmas approaches, along with seasonal traditions of jolabokaflod, as a writer and an avid reader I am once again reminded that stories are a gift.

To that end, I offer a short story of mine, entitled Moorbrooke; a ghost story set on the misty moors for those who enjoy an atmospheric haunting. Moorbrooke was recently published in audio, by The Other Stories. To listen to the audio version, click here.

Moorbrooke

By Susie Williamson

Deep in the heart of Dartmoor, John is a guilty man. As the mist closes in, he wonders, will he escape retribution?

***

John stared at his reflection in the hallway mirror. Cool grey eyes looked back. He hadn’t meant to kill her, he told himself with an affirming nod.

            There was an expected knock at the door. The estate agent was on time. John would be glad to sell Moorbrooke and get back to civilisation. He brushed a hand back through his hair, straightened his collar, fixed a smile on his face, and opened the door. There was no one there.

            ‘Hello,’ John called. No answer.

            He stepped outside and called again, wondering how the mist had rolled in without him noticing. There was still no answer and no sign of a car in the yard. He rubbed his arms, feeling the October chill, and paused, seeing a card blowing across the ground, landing at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, gritting his teeth at the sight of the tarot card’s picture of Justice. He looked out across the yard, towards moorland part-hidden in the misty haze. A lone, hooded figure stood beyond the gate. It was Hannah’s witch-friend, Sue. He clenched his fist, screwing the card up in his hand, then turned and headed back into the cottage.

            The lounge door was ajar. John was sure he had closed it. He paused, confused by the sight of green-swirled threadbare carpet showing through the open doorway. He stepped towards it and placed a hand on the door. When he pushed it open, everything was as it should be: polished wood flooring with a cream woollen rug by the fireplace. He stopped to gather himself. He was just imagining things. He went in and opened the door of the wood burner, placed a log on the dying fire, and watched with satisfaction as the flames took hold. He dropped the screwed-up tarot card into the fire, closed the door, then went to the window. Sue was still there, watching the cottage, her face framed by the furry parka hood. John looked back, until her outline disappeared as mist turned to fog. He sighed at the thought that the roads would be impassable. A remote life on Dartmoor had been his idea, and he’d enjoyed it while it lasted, but the moor’s temperamental weather was something he wouldn’t be sad to leave behind.

            He went into the kitchen to make a start on dinner, glad he’d done a week’s shop only the day before. While browning chicken, he diced an onion, so strong it made his eyes smart. He wiped the tears blurring his eyes, picked up a carrot and started to chop. Feeling a sudden chill at his back, his concentration faltered. The knife slipped, cutting into his finger. He winced, pausing at the sight of pooling blood, then went to the sink to wash his hand. Once a plaster was firmly in place, he turned and paused mid-stride. The tarot card, with edges still smouldering, lay on the chopping board. His heart was racing as he picked up the card and headed back to the lounge. Passing the hallway, he saw the front door was open ajar. He went to it and stood leaning out of the doorway.

            ‘Stay away from my house, you fucking witch!’ he yelled into the fog.

            He slammed the door and locked it, then went into the lounge, placed another log on the fire, and watched the tarot card burn.

            Once dinner was cooking in the oven, John returned to the lounge and settled down in the armchair, answering a call from the estate agent who confirmed they would try to visit the next day. The call ended and John paused, eyes fixed on the painting on the wall: an autumnal Dartmoor landscape painted by his dead girlfriend, Hannah. He slowly stood and cracked his knuckles. With teeth clenched, he went to the painting and lifted it down from the wall. He hadn’t allowed Hannah’s trash in the house when she was alive, he sure as hell wouldn’t have them on the wall now that she was dead. But just how was that bitch, Sue, doing this.

            In the hallway he put on his coat and headed out to the back of the house, one arm clutching the painting, one arm held out in front as he struggled to see in the thick fog. Inching his way to the garage, he reached the old wooden door, fiddled with the key in the lock until the rusty padlock gave way. He pulled the door open, clicked on the drawstring light that bathed the room in a sickly yellow glow. Hannah’s paintings were stacked beneath a clear plastic sheet that offered little protection from encroaching damp: various moorland scenes and nearby towns with moody tones of blue, grey and brown. John dropped the painting on top of the pile, and glanced across at Hannah’s old workbench. It might be cold and damp but it was a place of her own to work: she always had been ungrateful. He was about to leave but reconsidered, stopping to tuck the painting under the sheeting along with the rest.

            Back inside, he ate dinner, sucking the chicken bones clean, then settled in the armchair sipping Jack Daniels, staring at the empty picture hook where Hannah’s painting had been. Why couldn’t he remember what had been hanging there? He didn’t remember feeling sleepy or seeing the sky outside turn dark. The next thing he knew, he was waking up in the chair with morning sun shining in at the window. He stretched his stiff arms, rubbed the back of his neck, and slowly stood. After a morning pot of tea, he opened the front door, surprised by how warm it was and relieved to see no sign of any mist. The estate agent would surely make it out today, but first, a walk and some fresh air.

            John headed out across the yard, through the gate, and over moorland, towards nearby Rowtor, nestled among the red/golden glow of turning leaves and fading ferns. The distant sound of chattering, chirping, flocking birds approached, bringing the sky to life. He gazed up at the pink tinged sky, blossoming with rosy hues, surprised to see the starling murmuration so early in the day. Mesmerised by the kaleidoscope of flowing, shifting, mushrooming waves, a perfect balance of unity, in comparison, he felt strangely disconnected. It was a thought that stayed with him as he trekked up to the Tor, wondering at the distance between body and mind. Reaching the granite top, he lay a hand on the cold stone, but felt the ground shift beneath his feet. He stepped back, and watched something push up through the grass: it was a bone, perhaps a humerus or femur, that came to rest at his feet. The ground stirred all around, and John knew where to look. He had chopped up Hannah’s body as easily as he would dice a chicken, and discarded her bones in shallow graves across the moor; a suitable meal for passing scavengers.

            John was awoken by a sudden thump. He sat up with a start, and stared at the window to see a dead starling slumped against the pane. He rubbed his eyes, feeling his skin doused in a cold sweat, and checked the time on his phone. It was morning. It was still foggy. It had been just a nightmare. He slid the phone into his back pocket, rose stiffly from the chair, and went to make tea. He opened the kitchen door and froze, seeing the room appear as it had when they had first moved in several years ago: a vintage wood effect laminate surface set against orange and green flowered retro tiles straight out of the 70s, and in the corner, an old rumbling boiler making an intermittent dull clunk. Thud. He turned briefly, anticipating another starling hitting the window. When he looked back, the kitchen had returned to its usual natural ivory. John inhaled a long slow breath and walked towards the kettle, where a tarot card lay in wait, pictured with The Hanged Man.

            John stared at the card, wiping a hand across his mouth, then opened the junk drawer, slid the card in, and slammed the drawer shut.

            ‘You’re dead,’ he said out loud. He turned around and said it louder: ‘Do you hear me, Hannah. You’re dead.’ He pointed to his chest. ‘I killed you.’ He waited, hearing only silence, and let out a nervous laugh. ‘As soon as the estate agent gets here, this house will be on the market.’ He laughed again, then quietly added, ‘Talking to yourself. Now you’re the mad bastard.’

            He poured a cup of tea, staring at the light rippling on the surface as he stirred, one hand resting on the counter that turned grainy to the touch. He lifted his hand away from what looked like granite stone. Before his eyes, grey stone transformed back into the kitchen surface, while granite dust still lingered on his fingers. He balanced two digestive biscuits on the saucer, and carried the tea into the lounge. At the door one biscuit fell to the ground. He stopped and bent down, seeing the biscuit lying in grass at his feet. Slowly, he picked it up and returned it to the saucer, while a familiar sound, faint at first but growing louder, rang through the cottage: the chattering and chirping of a starling murmuration. He was walking through moorland grass, surrounded by calling birds, and he was in his lounge with the usual furniture, and ivory painted walls… Except Hannah’s painting was back on the picture hook.

            Should he run and take his chances in the fog? Thud. Another dead starling hit the window, leaving a crack in the pane. John placed the teacup down on the table, and walked slowly towards the painting. This time he would burn it. He reached up, taking hold of the frame with both hands, and felt a sudden force pull on his arms. He tried to pull back, tried to let go, but his hands were stuck fast. The textured oil-painted surface pressed into his skin, sinking into his flesh. John pressed his head forward, feeling the urge to swallow as nausea surged. When it subsided, he was standing bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing fresh moorland air with grass beneath his feet. He slowly stood, feeling his hands tacky as he prised them from his knees. He held his hands in front, inspected the palms, seeing his fingertips marked with dried oil paint.

            He staggered over to the nearby rocks of Rowtor, and collapsed down against the cool granite. Distracted by vibrating in his back pocket, he reached in and took out his phone. A card fell out at the same time, and dropped onto the stony ground, picture up of The Hanged man. John stared at the phone, seeing Hannah’s name flash across the screen. He raised a finger to the screen, wavering, before he pressed to answer the video call. It was Hannah’s face looking back at him. She didn’t speak, just held a solemn expression, her eyes gently narrowed as though curiously inspecting him. Then she held the phone away, holding it out, moving it around the cottage so that John could see. Outside the window, the fog was slowly lifting, the log fire burning, the kettle was boiling, and Hannah’s Dartmoor landscape was hanging on the wall. She closed the phone in on the painting. John got a close up view of the rocks of Rowtor, and of a lone man, himself, standing beside the granite outcrops, looking out over moorland with a red/golden glow of turning leaves and fading ferns. A rosy pink sky topped the scene, dotted with a starling murmuration. And as the sound of chattering, chirping, flocking birds grew near, John looked skywards, lost in the feathered kaleidoscope.

THE END