Tag: Blood Gift Chronicles

For the Love of Dragons

Writing is well under way for Book 3 of Blood Gift Chronicles. While living alongside characters who inspire me daily, I am also immersed in wildlife and dragons as I forge journeys through land, sea and sky. It’s everything I love about fantasy fiction, grounded in relatable experiences, whilst offering inspiration, colour and magic; against a backdrop of danger. There is everything to lose and everything to gain, when we embrace the truth of our identity, and look to freedom. Flight offers the ultimate in freedom, in the skies, or swimming in oceans deep. And so I look to dragons, of different kinds.

I recently received a gift through the post, a gorgeous postcard featuring the Maeshowe dragon, an intriguing and playful image, ancient graffiti left behind in the Neolithic tomb of Orkney, etched by visiting Norsemen. I love the idea of mythical creatures just waiting to be re-awakened. And I love a new book just waiting to be opened, like my recent purchase, Fathomfolk by Eliza Chan, a title I’ve had my eye on for some time now – sirens, sea witches, kelpies, and a deep dive into Japanese folklore with kappas and eastern dragons, what’s not to love.

And so what is the draw to the ever popular dragon?

‘Beyond this place, there be dragons,’ the old map makers used to say…

Fantasy requires us to take a leap of faith and step into the unknown, to render our desire for control and open ourself up to a different possibility. The fact we enjoy the genre suggests we’re looking for that kind of adventure. What better way than with creatures that can take flight or disappear into the deepest oceans, that can shape-shift, have intelligence and speak many tongues, that teach us humility, less we choose the path of destruction, or create opportunity to unite behind a common enemy – if a dragon can wipe out an entire army, it will take more than an army to defeat one. Whatever purpose they serve, they tip us well beyond the threshold of the familiar, transcend to a point of no return.

‘I do not care what comes after; I have seen dragons dancing on the morning winds,’ Ursula Le Guin.

They are also weirdly relatable, since we grow up learning about the giants of history, aka dinosaurs. And of course we know lizards, and there are those that can fly. Flying lizards appear in my WIP novel, and this photograph has been my screensaver for some time, as pointed out by my paper-mache version, companion of the book table.

The feelings that dragons can invoke are also relatable to contemporary issues of climate change, habitat loss and depletion of the species. Ann McCaffery’s dragons are literally allies in the fight against climate change. More subtle, the mysticism in Ursula Le Guin’s dragons in Tales of Earthsea explore the possibility of extinction from the world we know, melancholy at the thought of dragons flying the other wind, leaving behind a world without dragons, a world without the majestic mystery of this awe-inspiring other-worldly magic.

In my series, Blood Gift Chronicles, the theme of power is explored through the hard magic of traditional fire breathers, and the soft magic of water dragons. One power will out, which one, you’ll have to find out, but the aim was never to rid the world of dragons, but rather lean into creation. Exploring these internal and external worlds, opening ourselves up to perspectives of air and sea, considering the power of the otherworldly, gives a vast overview of the world that only dragons can bring. It’s a fly high, and a deep dive, battling internal struggles, fighting powers in a bid for freedom, with the question, if you have fought a dragon, is there any turning back?

Landscape credit to the coastline of Hartlands, where lies a partly submerged, rocky dragon.

The Art of Visual Narrative

A break in the rain sees a burst of crisp autumn sun and the promise of colder times to come, perfect for getting lost in my WIP, Book 3 of Blood Gift Chronicles, adding layers to an expanding world, and (currently) spending time with a character who’s a true survivor and an inspiration – it feels like weaving magic.

But for now, following a breath of fresh air, time to ponder the subject of visual writing, as promised in my last blog. It’s a subject that came up in a panel topic I took part in in August, at Worldcon 2024 in Glasgow, and was of particular interest for me to consider alongside also being an artist: visual imagery and colour are important to me, as well as the process of telling stories through various mediums including narrative, art and poetry.

But to start, what do we mean by visual writing?

Put simply, visual writing brings narrative to life in a way that forges connections with the reader, evoking an emotional and visual response that triggers a mental image in the mind of the reader. There are various aspects to consider, including characterisation.

Believable characters are the heart of the story, through which readers connect with both the story and the author. We need characters that readers can connect to, characters that inspire, intrigue, excite or frighten, or that we can empathise with and relate to. We need them to leap off the page, and so as writers we need to know them, their history and backstory, their strengths and flaws, what motivates them, what challenges them, how they express themselves. Social context and power structures inform how characters move through the world and what freedoms they have. Someone in a high ranking position might have freedom to speak up, someone in a low ranking position might have to stay silent. In my novels I have a character who’s impulsive and overconfident to the point of being reckless; a character who is misunderstood, powerful, burdened, and courageous; a character filled with self-doubt who evolves into a steady leader; a character whose inner struggles go unnoticed and it almost costs him his life.

I reveal the internal worlds and emotional landscapes, highlighting what is at stake within the drama. The psychological dimension is a hook for the reader, while taking care to describe just enough to maintain pace. At the beginning of The Warder (Blood Gift Chronicles Book 2), an early scene involves a girl who sees a dragon in the mountains, and consequently sees and feels herself burning in its fire. And then she realises that there is no dragon. Another character sees her appearing crazed. I allow the reader space to reflect on the girl’s traumatic confusion, and what the consequences might be, rather than attempting to over-describe and explain, which would have unnecessarily slowed the pace.

And lastly, the environment. Within my fantasy series, I move through mystical deserts, rugged mountains, lush forests, and I’m careful to describe just enough to support the scene from the viewpoint of the character in the scene. I have a character who is intimately connected with animals, and so sees the world around him through his connection with wildlife. I have characters who see things in shadows, and so their perspective has another dimension to focus on, and a whole different mood. I have a character who’s very connected to her ancestors, and so looks for experiences they may have had. And a character in book 3 that I’m still working on, and we’re moving into the realms of shapeshifting, which completely alters the perspective. Each environment, scene, and character have their own mood, colour palette and tone, (maybe it’s the artist in me). It’s interesting to switch between contrasting scenes, switching colour and mood in a way that livens up the narrative, bringing it to life for the reader. Overall, as readers, what we find visually and emotionally evocative will differ, and what is mentally thought-provoking will be dependent on our interests.

And so, I will leave you with just a few recommendations that I found visually and emotionally evocative, memorable stories that left that all important lasting impact.

What are you reading?

Worldcon 2024

At last, time to sit back and reflect on a very special trip in August, all the way to Glasgow 2024, A Worldcon for Our Futures. This was the 82nd World Science Fiction Convention brought to Scotland, and what an inspiring few days it was.

Worlds within worlds took shape in imaginative architecture nestled alongside the river Clyde, a wonderful place to take a break and reflect, with time enough for a stroll downstream and castaway on the Tall Ship, Glenlee, delving into the truly extraordinary stories of life on board sea voyages not for the faint-hearted. Research comes in many forms for writers, and immersed in the ship’s atmosphere, I let my imagination wander to an incredible journey one character of mine is forced to make. But my work-in-progress novel is another story.

 

 

Back to the convention and it was great to catch up with familiar faces, meet new people, and take part in panel discussions examining the length and breadth of these fascinating genres.

It was a pleasure exploring the connection between being an artist and a storyteller, discussing the process of being a visual writer and storytelling artist, and how the visual, and narrative, blend into a similar space, all through interwoven creative mediums. Surrounded by so much colour, there was a lot to inspire.

More on visual writing another time, but one very special guest of honour, a current favourite author of mine, Nnedi Okorafor, is a writer whose work I find particularly visual – colourful, striking and memorable. It was a wonderful opportunity to see her interviewed in person, to put a face to words I have poured over. A pioneer in many ways, her personal story is inspiring, as is all she continues to achieve through her work, a woman who stayed true to herself and her convictions, who defied genre (or at least white-centric, first world genre norms), and in doing so, we are treated with Africanfuturism and Africanjujuism. I find her work to be unapologetic, strong, colourful and pushing boundaries in exploring a vibrant world.

Another panel I had the pleasure of joining explored diversity of a different kind, from queer triumphs to utopias and everything in-between. It’s a wonderfully explorative theme to consider, stories where marginalised people are being framed as the hero, getting to the heart of identity through looking closely at a character’s intersections, glancing back at history to support understanding, as well as imagining anew. Considering the interplay between stories and the real world, how one influences the other and vice versa, we need those new imaginings, and as a writer I work alongside my characters to see their hopes realised. Themes of identity, self-determination and empowerment feature in my work, since I find that conceptualising hope stems from steps taken towards our own authentic standing in the world. From awareness of our identity, we invest in contributing to others being able to flourish, including the natural world since our futures are entwined; we are a part of nature. It’s a familiar journey for me, one that my characters walk, as they explore collaboration, connectivity and shared values.

The dealers room was a joy. It was great to see piles of the British Science Fiction Association’s Magazine, Focus, where a recent article of mine is published, entitled Breaking Binaries of Good versus Bad in SFF.

 

And of course it was a wonderful chance to catch up with my publishers, the lovely folks of Stairwell Books, as well as pick up a few titles to come home with for my ever-expanding to-read pile.

And so to end with a question: what are you reading?

Octavia Butler & the Freedom of SFF

It is just over a week ago that I returned from the International Science Fiction Convention, Worldcon 2024 in Glasgow, and what a magnificent few days it was. I have lots to catch up on and share, the sights and inspirations, but first I want to begin with a few thoughts on my latest read, a woman who kept me company for the convention, whose words have been ringing in my ears for many years, the wise and deeply human, Octavia Butler, whose ‘The Last Interview’ was a joy to read.

Octavia Butler was a survivor, a dreamer and a loner. She was painfully shy as an adolescent, dyslexic, and ‘probably’ gay was her literal answer to a direct question. Bloodchild was about male pregnancy. She enjoys working in SF for the freedom it offers, the ability to go into any technological or sociological problem and extrapolate from there. Her work is underpinned by concepts of power, told in worlds of different races, sexes and cultures, with interest in powerless people gaining power. A theme I very much identify with as a context for my own work.

I first read Octavia Butler when I was a young teen, starting with Kindred. Dana Frankin, a Black woman from an interracial marriage in LA in 1976, is mysteriously and repeatedly plucked back in time to 1824 Maryland and to a moral dilemma involving her white ancestor. The author describes how it was purposeful to give Dana a white husband, to complicate her life, and it was purposeful to make her lose her arm, to demonstrate that she could not come back whole from those experiences. The perspective is told from the viewpoint of not what it might have been like for her ancestors, but rather what it might be like for her, how slavery might reshape her emotionally, whether the compromises and capitulations she would have to make might destroy her, and if not, why not?

Octavia Butler speaks of striving to tell a good story, to take the reader to a world they haven’t seen before, one she has enjoyed creating. She subverts expectations about race, gender, and power, incorporating strong women, multiracial societies and aliens who challenge humanity’s penchant for destruction. In Bloodchild, she wanted to subvert expectation of the invasion story, often represented as humans colonising other planets and either facing aliens who resist, or who submit and become good servants. The author created another possibility in the Oankali, a centipede-like creature that you’re not supposed to regard as evil. It is a species that do not force or rush humans into mating but rather try to bring them in gradually. And in Adulthood Rites, the Oankali become convinced that they cannot destroy the humans who participate, and that humans deserve an untouched world of their own, even if it is Mars.

Octavia Butler advocated for write what you care about, rather than write what you know, (or what you think you know, which is often just regurgitating ideas you have been told, ideas you might tell yourself you believe, when in fact you don’t). Writing can push back against human laziness that is prone to stereotyping as a form of shorthand, that might be a way to deal more with the things we care about and less with the other, but it is reductive and can prevent us from discovering things we could want to know.

Last word:

“Feminism is freedom. It’s the freedom to be who you are and not who someone else wants you to be. And science fiction? Science fiction is wide open. You can go anywhere your imagination can go.”

xxx

Nature’s Magic

Summer is here and through the mixed bag of rain and shine, it’s lovely to get out and about for a breath of fresh air at the river, where cygnets are hatching and the heron’s out fishing, and swallows fly ducking and diving over the reeds.

And in the River Otter, industrious beavers are building their damns. We were lucky enough to catch sight of one of these gorgeous creatures tucking into a well-earned dinner, and all thanks to Devon Wildlife Trust. DWT successfully pushed back against the UK government who had planned to have beavers removed from the river after a sighting of kits in 2008. After consultation, the first wild beaver re-introduction project began, starting with two family groups. These industrious creatures successfully began managing the waterway, and after evidencing the benefits to both people and wildlife, in 2020 the government announced Devon’s beavers could stay – and spread naturally into other river catchments. It was the first legally sanctioned reintroduction of an extinct native mammal to England. Currently there are 15 family groups estimated, and long may they continue to thrive.

An appreciation of wildlife extends into my fantasy series, Blood Gift Chronicles, with nature and magic entwining to form a luxurious backdrop. The natural world is more than a setting, it is a character, with moods, histories and qualities that can be bizarre, tragic, mysterious, frightening or inspiring. Once the backdrop is alive, I explore how the characters interact with it, and how it weaves its way into revealing culture, belief, and conflict.

The natural world is intrinsic in the worlds we create. It provides us with food and water, and air to breathe; it nurtures crops with rain and sun, offering herbs with medicinal properties; it is one of the reasons we are alive. I enjoy stories that invite us to reflect on our relationship with living things. While some stories portray characters with human-like traits, I prefer to work with a more realistic approach, and leave it up to the human characters to discover ways of forging connections with wildlife that is wild.

The first book in the series, Return of the Mantra, explores the idea of nature being personified against a backdrop of conflict. The young woman protagonist, Suni, explores contrasting environments, surviving to discover and forge her own identity which strengthens her fight for justice. Another significant character, a boy called Wanda, begins his mysterious journey in understanding his unique connection with wildlife. Through the series we see characters age and grow as the world expands, and revelations are explored through the connections characters have with the natural world. There is tenderness, wisdom, ferocity, devastation, and strength, through themes of self-determination, environmental justice, love, loss, and becoming. I particularly enjoy scenes of heightened empathy that express the significance of our relationship with the natural world. And in writing book 3 I’m enjoying the renewed strength that characters old and new bring, among wildlife that lets us know just how significant it truly is. In turn there is an exploration of what it means to be human, vulnerable and alive.

And now, back to the novel…

Wishing everyone a lovely week ahead…

Elemental Spring

Early spring passed mostly in a flurry of wind and rain, and plenty of time to stay indoors with Blood Gift Chronicles and the magical twists and turns and soaring heights of Book 3’s WIP. But every now and then the weather holds long enough for a trip outdoors to see a refreshing sight.

From the stately home of Knighthayes, watched over by Devon’s rolling hills, and marking a grand presence over sprawling gardens of giant trees and early blooming rhododendrons…

To the watery expanse of Fernworthy reservoir, where moss-covered woodland is a step in time with magical realms…

For work, a visit to the local radio station was a highlight, in recognition of International Women’s Day. No photos this year but a reminder of last year’s late show with the phenomenal Mama Tokus, and our wonderful host, Kerrie Seymour.

It was great to be able to return this year, contributing to the ambitious 24 hour radio take-over by Dreadnought South West, sharing poetry themed on IWD, and chatting about writing, books and all I have coming up this year, including WorldCon and an epic trip to Glasgow in the summer. I’m super excited for a jam-packed, SFF weekend, and a chance to meet up with my lovely publishers, Stairwell Books.

Closer to home and we’ve just emerged from a weekend book festival on the Hartland Coast.

It was blustery there too, but a great chance to visit the dragon rocks of Hartland (or at least that’s how I see them), in the lovely company of my wife. I wrote The Warder before ever visiting this place, and yet I spy familiar sights with dramatic rock faces, circling birds of prey, rugged paths, multi-toned wild gorse, and a distant island view – Lundy Island in real life. With a writing week ahead, I’m inspired.

And while the blustery wind and rain has returned today, so too has spring made an appearance.

Wishing everyone a good week ahead…

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

 

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

Representation and Belonging in SFF

It’s been a busy couple of weeks, firstly taking part in this year’s World Fantasy Convention all the way to Kansas from the comfort of my writing room, because there’s no place like home.

With fabulous authors from all over the globe, reading and speaking on a great range of panels, there’s much to inspire, to share and collaborate. For my part it was a pleasure to sit in on the Magical Healing and Disability Aids in Fantasy panel, discussing representation of disability in the genres, and exploring the added creative options that magic and the fantastical can bring. Thankfully representation of diverse abilities is improving. A recent cinema trip introduced me to the character, Joshua in the film, The Creator, a wonderfully layered character, a double amputee with seriously fancy prosthetics in this world of AI. Still, his disability is kept visible, representation organically woven into the character arc of a hero.

It got me thinking about the book, Noor, by Nnedi Okorafor. Noor is the main character, a young woman born with significant disabilities, further disabled in a car crash as a teen. The story is her journey into cybernetics, rebuilding herself in unique ways, focused on the aim of wanting to move through the world on her own terms. And it’s a wonderful read, as is Broken Places and Outer Places, Nnedi Okorafor’s auto-biographical novella.

Empowered characters pushing back against the ableist view that disability needs to be fixed or cured in order to live a fulfilling life. Professor Xavier didn’t need a cure, and neither did Bran Stark on his journey from childhood underdog to all-powerful three-eyed raven. Just a few more recommendations to add to the conversation:

And last weekend, from Kansas to the New Forest here in the UK, where I joined my lovely publishers for the Play on Words Festival at the wonderfully colourful Forest Arts Centre.

Friday was a gorgeous evening of readings, and among other wonderful authors I was delighted to read from The Warder, a world of gifts and curses, animism and magic, where characters are inextricably bonded, against a backdrop of mysterious dragon mythology. Saturday saw a day of inventive workshops, including one on the subject of young adult fiction, facilitated by myself and Victoria L. Humphreys, author of Not the Work of An Ordinary Boy. What content is too mature for teens? What ways can we approach tough content in books that are inclusive to the younger reader? There’s not much you can’t tackle, it just depends on approach, and, done right, what a wonderful resource books can be, creating space to process difficult stuff, share stories, harbour that all-important sense of belonging. And there’s just so many great YA books out there, too many to name, but here are a few favourites:

      

In the midst of a storm, I was lucky to catch a blue sky and have a moment to contemplate the power of stories, to reflect, give space, inspire, and offer that sense of belonging.

What are you reading?