The God of Small Creatures tried to hide his boredom as a tribe of harvest mice yammered on about barley, a praying mantis prayed long and loud, and a goldfish forgot where he was halfway through whatever he was going to say.

The god’s wife looked up from her knitting and pulled a face.

“I know it could be worse,” he grinned, “It could be my week to do geeks, or poets.”

“Hush. Don’t remind me. I never knew there were so many frustrated bards out there.”

He sniggered.

“It wasn’t bards you called them.”

“I only added three letters…”

©️jj 2018

Wizard of the North is the second book in the Soul Forge trilogy by Richard H Stephens. It picks up right where Soul Forge leaves off.

The new Emperor, Karvus, is shown the power of the Serpent’s Eye by Helleden, the sorcerer:

   Karvus made a meaty fist and held the ring before Helleden’s face—oh, how easy it would be to smash the sorcerer’s teeth in. Swallowing the idea, he said, “I hold it this close to you and nothing. What good is it that? I’ll pretty well have to make love to the wizard if I’m to make use of this.”
   “What you do with the wizard after you kill him is up to you.” Helleden’s dark eyes glowered. “That ring was forged during the onset of the wizard crusades to detect spellcasters. More importantly, it was used to locate the strongest wizards. It’s my understanding the Serpent’s Eye is triggered by the proximity of a notable wizard’s energy. The more adept the wizard, the easier it is for the Eye to locate them. Your ancestors used this ring to track down and eliminate the entire guild at Arcanium.”
   “Except one,” Karvus corrected him.
   “Except one.”
   “Then why doesn’t it react to your presence?”
   Helleden smirked. “Come now. You don’t honestly think I would allow a simple trinket to detect my presence.”
   The sorcerer did something with his fingers and lips so quickly that Karvus wasn’t sure he had done anything at all. The Serpent’s Eye flared to life, staring straight at Helleden.
   Pain shot through Karvus’ finger. He flailed the affected hand around to no avail. Clutching the ring, he pulled it off and threw it to the ground, its touch burning his fingertips. “For the love of hell!”
   The ring bounced and came to rest near Karvus’ feet. The eye stared up at Helleden.
   “You see? You will know when the wizard draws nigh. The closer you become, the stronger the sensation.”
   Karvus cupped his burning hand, afraid to see what the ring had done to his skin, but when he opened it and examined his finger, there were no signs that he had worn the talisman at all.
   Helleden plucked the ring from the ground. The eye had gone dormant. He wiped off the dirt it had gathered and handed it back to the reluctant emperor. “I suggest you wear it around your neck once the ring detects the wizard.”
   Karvus gaped. The sorcerer was mad if he thought he would entertain placing something as dangerous as the Serpent’s Eye around his neck.
   “Oh, not to worry, my emperor,” Helleden said, as if he had read Karvus’ thoughts.
   Karvus wasn’t certain the sorcerer hadn’t.
   “As I said, the ring’s reaction is proportionate to how adept the magic user is. I can assure you that you will not find one who is even remotely as powerful as I.”
   Karvus held the ring in his fist. The eye flared to life, for but a moment, its surface stinging his hand. He opened his fingers and jerked his hand away. The ring fell, the eye lifeless before it hit the ground.
   Helleden’s smug face spoke of mischief. “Do not forget, my emperor. Bring me back the wizard’s staff. It is the only thing that will prove you have completed your task.”

Watch the trailer for Wizard of the North!

A Bite of... Richard H Stephens

Q1: How much of you is in your hero/villain?

   I would say my hero is very much like how I would envision myself were I to live in his world. Silurian Mintaka is a quiet person when it comes to meeting new people but he opens up and likes to joke around with those he knows well.
   Silurian sticks up for the innocent and wronged people in society. Although never wishing to come to blows, when the gloves are dropped, Silurian is more than adept at opening a can of medieval whoop-ass.

Q2: Is it important to include all shades of belief and sexual orientation in a book?

   I read almost strictly, but not entirely, fantasy, so this answer is slanted with that proviso in mind.
   Is it important to include them all? No. If the story calls for any shade, that is perfectly fine. To purposely include as many shades as one can jam into a story is wrong, in my humble opinion, and actually belittles the causes the writer is trying to support. Writing about these shades without advancing the story serves two negative purposes.
   One, it creates a disjointed storyline that does nothing but pull the reader from the story they are trying to enjoy. 
   Two is a little more complex. To point out a shade just for the sake of championing one’s belief comes across to me as preaching. If I’m reading a fictional story, especially fantasy or science fiction, the last thing I want is for someone to stuff their beliefs down my throat, even if I agree 100% with their point of view. I read to escape the pressures, anxiety, and craziness that real life throws at me in the real world, I don’t need to be reminded of every single one of humanity’s shortcomings.
   If it is critical to the story, then have at it. Every story has some kind of underlying dilemma that people face—there has to be a conflict. If a writer wants to make a point, then pick one controversial subject and run with it. Show how the main character is affected by it and write an ending that profoundly demonstrates that the shade, at the end of the day, is just part of being human. Some people have black hair, some people have green eyes. We’re all unique. That’s what’s so special about each and every one of us.  

Q3: Have you ever invented a language?

   A language per se, not really, but I do have great fun writing characters like Olmar the giant who bastardizes the English language. Many experts say that a writer shouldn’t try to write, ‘dialect.’ I say, pfft. I believe when a reader reads Olmar’s speech, they will be endeared to him. Here is an example of how Olmar talks as a female archer gets impatient with his slow movement: 
   “Can’t you move any faster, Lunkhead? Sadyra’s probably dining with the king by now.”
   “Bah,” Olmar snorted. “That’s ‘er just up ahead. Don’t ye knot yer knickers, lassie. Ye’ll be movin’ quick like, soon enough.”

Richard H Stephens in his own words

Born in Simcoe, Ontario, in 1965, I began writing circa 1974, a bored child looking for something to while away the long, summertime days.  My penchant for reading The Hardy Boys led to an inspiration one sweltering summer afternoon when my best friend and I thought, “Hey, we could write one of those.” And so, I did.
​As my reading horizons broadened, so did my writing. Star Wars inspired me to write a 600-page novel about outer space that caught the attention of a special teacher, Mr. Woodley, who encouraged me to keep writing.
A trip to a local bookstore saw the proprietor introduce me to Stephen R. Donaldson and Terry Brooks. My writing life was forever changed.
At 17, I left high school to join the working world to support my first son. For the next twenty-two years I worked as a shipper at a local bakery. At the age of 36, I went back to high school to complete my education. After graduating with honours at the age of thirty-nine, I became a member of our local Police Service, and worked for 12 years in the provincial court system.
In early 2017, I resigned from the Police Service to pursue my love of writing full-time. With the help and support of my lovely wife Caroline and our five children, I have now realized my boyhood dream.

You can find Richard H Stephens on Twitter and his website.

Papa Dobo was in agony. His face was hugely swollen and felt like it was on fire.

“How much longer, Mama?” he groaned.

“Maybe hours, maybe only minutes. It’s gonna be soon.”

He leaned his throbbing forehead on his hands and a single tear leaked out from under one eyelid. Mama touched his shoulder and disappeared returning with a brimming cup.

“Here. I think you can drink this now.”

He grabbed the potion and drained it just as the pustule on the immensity that was his chin exploded – expelling a tiny spinning globe into space as another planet was born.

©️jj 2018

Patsy got up and enveloped Anna in a huge hug. Anna patted her broad back.
“Get on with you, and let me find some grub.”
“Yeah. Come on Pats. I’m suddenly starving and badly in need of a beer.” Jim grabbed his wife picked her huge handbag up from the floor, and dragged both out of the room.
“Green bedroom, Sam,” Anna grinned, “then we won’t hear the noisy sex. There are new toothbrushes in our bathroom cupboard, plus shampoo and shower gel. We can’t help them with underwear, ours would be too small…”
Sam kissed her on the nose before sauntering out.

Jim was only a couple of minutes. He came back into the kitchen with a large grey dog at his heels and a smallish bag in his hand.
“Innovation. Overnight bag. Now the company is spread right across the south of England, unexpected over-nighters do crop up. So Pats had the idea of an overnight bag in the truck. It even has some stuff for her in it. Where do I take it?”
“Go to the top of the stairs and yell. Sam will talk you in. Then come back and have a beer. I’ll deal with Gandalf.”

Jim grinned and loped off. Anna patted the rough grey head.
“Hungry Gandalf?”
The dog wagged his tail and she went to the utility where she filled a bowl with kibble. When she got back into the kitchen Bonnie and her visitor were licking noses and squeaking happily.
“You two haven’t forgotten each other,” Anna laughed. “Here, boy, supper.”
Gandalf abandoned Bonnie for the plate of food, and she sat watching him eat. Anna put a big pot onto the Aga and emptied two plastic containers into it before slicing bread, cheese, and ham for toasted sandwiches. Jim came back into the room.
“The others won’t be long, Patsy is just getting the grand tour and cooing over the wood.”
“Yeah. I knew she’d love this house. It’s a bit wasted on me as I’d live in a shed as long as it had a nice kitchen. But Sam loves it.”
“And you love Sam, so you’ll never let him know that you are like me in the respect that a house is just a house to you.”
Anna nodded and Jim grinned at her.
“My lips are sealed. Now where’s this beer?”
“Booze fridge is the silver one in the utility. Glasses in the cupboard over the coffee machine. Help yourself.”
“Oh. I will. And thanks.”
He disappeared into the utility.
“Somebody has very good taste in beer. Fursty Ferret, Doom Bar, Proper Job. Yes, Proper Job, I think.”
Jim came back with a bottle and a big grin. He got a glass and Anna put an opener in his outstretched hand.
“What will Pats want? Brandy? Wine? Lager?”
“I saw some of that pink bubbly stuff in the fridge, I reckon that would hit the spot.”
“Good idea. Open one will you? And get out a couple glasses. I’m just going to set the sarnies toasting. So can you give also the wood twins a shout?”
Jim laughed and obliged.

Sam and Patsy ambled into the kitchen just as Anna put steaming bowls of soup and cheesy, melty toasted sandwiches on the table.
“We didn’t know what you would fancy to drink,” Anna said to Sam.
“Beer with this. I’ll fetch. You lot get started.” Then he noticed Gandalf. “Hello boy. Who are you?”
“That’s Gandalf,” Anna said.
The dog came over and sniffed Sam’s hand before wagging his tail and allowing himself to be stroked.
“Patsy’s dog I guess. So, why’d he decide I was OK when he smelled me? Or did somebody give him a sly signal?”
“No signals,” Patsy said. “You smell of Anna and Bonnie, which is good enough for him. Now get your beer and come eat. This soup is amazing. What’s in it?”
“Mixture. One part kitchen sink. One part chicken and leek.”
Sam sat and took a spoonful from the bowl in front of him. “Oh yes,” he said almost reverently. “No two of Anna’s soups are ever quite the same, but they are always delicious.”
“Try dipping your toastie in your soup,” Jim recommended, “it’s a bloody amazing combination.”
Sam looked a bit dubious, but dipped a small corner. He tried it and dipped a much bigger dip.
“You are only right, mate. That is truly delicious.”
Then he couldn’t talk any more, which might have had something to do with having his cheeks distended by a huge mouthful of dunked sandwich.

It became a more and more cheerful meal, and by the time soup and toasties had been chased by meringues, ice cream and clotted cream, they were all feeling considerably mellower.

Jane Jago

The Sunday Serial is taking a break for the festive season and will return 6 January.

“Mother Sea wont let you drown.”

Tequa had heard that all her life, and she had learned to swim before she could walk.

By the time she was seventeen, the young men in the village watched her, even though she was a SeaDaughter and not to be touched. Of course there was one. One who followed her to her hut. One who wanted what she must not give.

She ran from him into the arms of She who gave the island life, and the young fool followed her. 

Mother Sea didn’t let her drown. The young fool was another matter.

©️jj 2018

The frost was so crisp this morning beneath my booted feet
The logs we’d cut were by the barn and stacked up kind of neat
It’s Christmas in a week or so and weather’s getting cold
I used to not mind quite so much but now I’m getting old.

The warm familiar baking smells flow through the room anew
A fire crackles in the hearth as sunset bids adieu
I always love this time of year, the cosy feel within
And watching through the window for the snowfall to begin.

E.M. Swift-Hook

In England it was the depths of winter and the weather was doing its worst. It was cold and grey and wet and muddy and miserable. Which made it all the more amazing that a short dragon ride could bring one to a beach of shining white sand bordered by a sea so clear and blue it was criminal not to swim in it.
After time spent mating rapturously on the deserted beach, Leonore found she had sand stuck to so many places that the siren call of the sea could no longer be ignored. She ran until she could lift her legs no longer then just allowed herself to fall into the sparkling blueness. Unafraid, she struck out for who knew where, only stopping swimming when her arms and legs grew tired. She rolled over in the water and felt R’u’uth come up beneath her. He lifted her onto his back.
“Come” he said almost sternly. “I must speak with you.”
Leonore felt something inside her shrivel. This was the moment she had been fearing. Her dragon had grown bored with her timorousness and lack of self-belief. He was going to tell her he could see her no more. She wanted to cry, but her stiff-necked pride kept her misery hidden. Plenty of time to cry when she was alone in her bed.
They reached the shore, but not at the sandy cove where Leonore had left her clothes. Instead R’u’uth climbed out of the water onto a smooth rocky ledge. He made a step from his foreleg and a somewhat woebegone woman climbed down onto the warm rocks. Her dragon lover was not fooled by her attempt at a careless demeanour.
“Why so sad?”
“Why wouldn’t I be sad? You are going to dump me.”
R’u’uth looked as puzzled as it is possible for a dragon to look.
“Dump. You know. End the relationship. Tell me it’s all over…”
She would have continued her litany of misery had not a long dragon tongue licked the angry tears from her cheeks.
“Come here, silly one.”
Almost against her will, Leonore moved closer and he draped a wing over her.
“Listen. It is not of ending what we have that we must speak. But of having more.”
She looked at him in genuine puzzlement.
“How can we have more?”
He blew his spicy breath over her, which both soothed and excited.
“Would you have more if we could? Would you live with me and be my love?”
“Of course I would. But how might that be? I’m not a dragon.”
“You might be.”
She stamped her foot. “Look at me. I’m not a bloody dragon.”
R’u’uth removed his wing from about her shoulders and laughed.
“And I am not a bloody human, but watch.” 
Leonore turned to face him and for a moment nothing happened, then it was as if there was a flaw in the light and a handsome naked man stood in front of her. For a moment she couldn’t believe her eyes, then almost of its own volition her tongue came out to moisten her lips.
It was strange to hear her dragon’s voice coming from the lips of a human. He spoke teasingly. “Stop looking at me like that, or I will have to have you right here on this hard rock.”
Leonore knew she would be even less able to resist R’u’uth in human form, so she dropped her eyes.
“So you can be a human, but that doesn’t mean I can be a dragon.”
“It might. You might. Are you willing to find out?” For once he didn’t sound teasing, or sensual, or amused.
She gathered together her tiny courage, rooting it out from all the hiding places it found behind fear, uncertainty, self-doubt and sadness. Then she straightened her spine.
“Yes I’m willing. But what if I cannot be a dragon?”
“Then I won’t be one….”
Before she could find the words to respond to that he flowed back into his dragon form and extended his foreleg.
The next while went by in a sort of a daze, and by the time Leonore had collected her thoughts she found herself standing at R’u’th’s side on a hilltop where the grass was springy and scented and dotted with ancient megaliths. 
She wore a hooded robe of something soft and comforting and felt more at peace than she had ever felt in her life. Something impelled her to walk forward a few paces and place the palms of her hands against the surface of the tallest of the stones. She somehow knew it would be warm to the touch, and she couldn’t even bring herself to feel any fear when she felt a presence exploring her mind and heart. When the presence left her she turned back to R’u’uth to find him no longer alone. There were two more dragons with him. One was a hulking black-skinned male, the other a svelte female with the deepest darkest eyes she had ever seen in her life. She curtseyed fluidly, a skill she hadn’t even known she possessed until that moment.
The male dragon spoke. “You would be a dragon, little human?” 
“I don’t know what I would be, sir dragon. I only know I would be with R’u’uth.”
The black roared and flames split the sky, but Leonore felt no fear.
The female snapped her teeth together.
“Behave A’a’shanto,” she snarled. “The stones have accepted her. She has answered you correctly. And she didn’t even react to your showing off. Do your duty as master dragon and stop behaving like a hatchling.”
The male smiled at the female who must, Leonore thought, be his mate to speak thusly to him. He then turned his attention to Leonore.
“There will be pain,” he said almost apologetically.
“There will be more pain in spending my life without R’u’uth.”
“Extend your left arm.”
She did as she was bid, and draconic teeth snapped. For a second the pain was so excruciating she thought she might fall but then R’u’uth braced her from behind. The master dragon ripped his own foreleg with his razor-sharp teeth and as their mixed blood fell onto the sacred ground Leonore felt the change within her.
Her arm stopped bleeding and she leaned into her mate before making the change of form for the first time in her life. She simply let herself flow into her draconic body before beating her wings for the sheer joy of being a dragon.
“Look,” the master dragon’s mate said in a voice of wonder. “R’u’uth’s mate is a golden queen.”
L’e’onore heard no more as the need to fly overwhelmed her and she took to the skies over Dragonheart flying wingtip to wingtip with the other half of her soul.

©️Jane Jago

The wine was as red as blood. She held her glass up to the light and watched the play of colour in the crystal. 

The man across the table watched her perfect beauty through haunted eyes.

He put out a hand as if to touch her face but drew back at the last second, afraid to profane the moment.

She smiled with absent sweetness, and sipped the wine.

It was fast acting poison but, he had been assured, humane.

He counted silently, and when he reached twenty she slipped from her chair.

“So perish unfaithful wives.”

He wiped a tear…

©️jj 2018

Cyclist, cyclist whizzing past
In the middle of the path
Whatever gave you the idea
You were the only person here?
Whatever made you understand
It was okay to curse that man?

Cyclist, cyclist in the water
Guess you met the old guy’s daughter.

©️ jane jago 2018

Hyde's Lament by L.N. Denison is the darkest of dystopian visions and not a read for the faint of heart

Catherine Hyde is being held captive and she is the victim of an experiment that is slowly turning her into a Caver – a monstrous sub-human which craves flesh…

Once Hyde’s vision had come back, she instantly recognised Miller as the man that had told her of her true origins. The man who had told her that her whole life was nothing but a lie. She glanced at Scott, who stood the other side of the bars with his recording device, ready to catch every little detail of the death scene that was about to play out, and watched as another man entered the room, Major Clark, her commander.
Judd saluted the new arrival to the scene. 
“You’re just in time, sir.” he said as the major took his position in front of the cage. 
“Let’s see what she’s got.” Clark folded his arms across his chest and waited. 
A tide of anger rushed through Hyde’s body as she stood over her helpless victim. She looked outside the cage again and saw Judd smirking. She gestured her intentions for him by swiping her index finger across her throat. She could smell his fear, though he didn’t show it. 
Hyde slowly ran her human fingers over Miller’s naked, blistered chest. With every stroke she could feel herself fighting the urge to rip this man apart. Yes, she was angry, and to the point of starvation, but she wanted to fight her ever increasing caver mentally. 
Why are they making me do this? I don’t want to kill this man.
So hungry.
He’s human. I can’t.
But I’m so fucking hungry! And they will kill me if I don’t. 
Her thoughts ate away at her soul as she looked down at the man she’d be forced to kill. In the end, she’d rather do their bidding than face a bullet to the brain.
Hyde knew they wanted her to make this man suffer, but she was not about to play their game. She struck fast and deadly, her talons tearing between his ribs and into his heart. The body jerked a few times and then was still. She lengthened the slit in Miller’s chest, then jabbed her hand into his stomach and pulled his insides out. But there wasn’t much to pull out, barely enough to satisfy her hunger. 
“I didn’t say you could kill him,” Judd snarled and gestured for Jenkins to aim his rifle at her head again, but Clark soon put paid to the idea.
“Don’t you dare pull that trigger, private. Lower your rifle. She stays alive.”

A bite of... L.N. Denison

Question One: The world that Hyde exists in is both brutal and conscienceless. How did it come into your head to write about a future that seems without hope?

Well, I look at the way things are at the moment, and from where I’m sitting, things look pretty bleak. What I do is I intensify what is going on in the now, as I believe that this is the way of things in the future. Maybe, not our lifetime, but I can see things taking that path. Going Underground is another prime example of how I see the future heading, but that’s another book for another time.

Question Two: If you were suddenly transported to that world, what three things would you take with you to up your chance of survival?

Without a doubt, I would take Max, my Saint Bernard. He would see off any threats and keep me safe. A decent weapon that didn’t rely on ammunition, maybe a scythe with a long reach, so I can cut down any threat before it even reaches me, and enough freeze-dried rations to last a while, so I didn’t have to rely on the contaminated fat of the land.

Question Three: What was the first book you ever fell in love with, and has that book coloured your own writing?

I wouldn’t say it was a book I fell in love with, but it was my first and it was the book that started me writing…1984 by George Orwell. Okay, I tell a lie, I did love it, but I hated the manifesto and skipped the whole of chapter 9.

L.N. Denison in her own words

Layla Pinkett (AKA L.N. Denison) is predominantly the writer of Dark Dystopic and Post-apocalyptic yarns, but is open to writing anything. She lives with her husband and dog in rural Kent, and will continue to do so as long as they’ll have her (he-he). She is a keen reader…and when she isn’t writing (or working), she has her head stuck in a book.

You can catch up with her on Goodreads, Facebook and Twitter.