Brhi Stokes is the author of Caligation and the newly released Turning Pages, which is the first book in her new series The Arbiter.

Question 1: You’ve just released the first book in The Arbiter series. What inspired you to start a new series, instead of writing a sequel to Caligation?

Caligation was always intended to be standalone. However, for those that have read Caligation, this new series continues on with some of the concepts covered in the end of the book. After I finished writing Caligation, I ran with a few of these loose concepts and eventually ended up with the weird transdimensional romp that is The Arbiter. While Caligation is very much fantasy, I wanted to work on something new that had an urban fantasy base but a science fantasy feel. In The Arbiter series, Page travels across dimensions to do odd jobs. Some of these dimensions are heavily rooted in science fiction, while others are strictly fantasy. Others still are a combination of both.

There is so much to play with in this series, and I’m already having fun designing new covers and pondering what other strange places Page will end up in.

Question 2: From where do you draw inspiration for the different planes Page travels to?

In the first book, Page travels to two very different worlds. One is a sprawling medieval city inhabited by people with a variety of buglike features. The centre of the city is walled off, and anything outside the wall appears to be the slums. The technology there is medieval, except for the huge coal train that runs along a raised platform high above the city. I have a very clear image in mind for this, and I would have to say that the aesthetic of videogames like Bloodborne and Dishonored spring to mind when picturing this particular world.

The other world is an idyllic fantasy setting that I won’t tell you too much about. If I drew on any specific references for inspiration, it was definitely subconscious as I can’t think of anything specific.

Question 3: So what’s next?

I am going to try desperately to find the free time to work on book two. I have the plot down, it just needs to be written. I’m hoping to have books two and three out this year. Once book three is out, I’m going to be working on a prequel novella for the series, which I will be offering for free on a few different platforms.

Brhi has been writing ever since she could put pen to paper and daydreaming in every spare second. She adores fantasy of all kinds but has a special love for urban fantasy with a dark edge. Her fascination with different places and cultures has seen her living overseas for several years, though she currently resides in Australia. This time abroad has strongly influenced her writing, much of which focuses on strange new places. In her spare time, Brhi enjoys reading, video games, tabletop RPGs, going for long, solitary jogs and music.

Find out more about Brhi and her ongoing writing projects on her website.

They returned an hour later, laden with food and drink, to find Bonnie asleep on her bed.

“See?” said Anna.

Sam, having been considerably mellowed by Anna’s approach to shopping, grinned and shrugged.

“I’ll get the rest.”

He fetched and Anna unpacked. By the time he had everything in, the coffee machine was ready, so he poured himself a cup, and one for Anna. Bonnie suddenly sat bolt upright and shot out into the garden.

“There goes your cat,” Anna grinned.

Sam strolled to the door, and was in time to see a ginger cat streaking across the grass and up one of the apple trees. Anna whistled and Bonnie trotted back into the kitchen swishing her tail. ‘Job done’ her face seemed to say. Sam sat at the table, as Anna stashed the last few things in the fridge.

“I have never,” he said ruminatively “shopped so quickly, or so efficiently. My unlamented ex could spend twenty minutes deciding between two identical packs of tomatoes, and the amount of time she spent reading the ingredients of a frozen lasagne…”

“Why would anybody buy frozen lasagne?”

“Because they can’t cook the real thing.”

“Ah well. Sad. But I don’t buy ready meals. Mostly they taste like shit.”

“Truly. But herself even used them when she insisted on having dinner parties. Which I loathed.”

“Oh good. I hate dinner parties. Kitchen suppers, yes. Big Sunday lunches for friends, yes. Brunch in the garden, yes. Dinner parties, no! Not this side of hell freezing over.”

Sam laughed until he nearly cried.

“Anna on a soapbox. I love it.”

She boxed his ears lightly.

“Watch yourself cheeky!”

Bonnie flew outside again.

“I’m betting the cat came down from the tree,” Sam said.

“Probably. Is there anything you want to do today?”

“Just be here with you. That’ll be enough to set me up for work on Monday morning.” Then he tapped his forehead. “I just thought, Monday is one of Carrie’s days. I should be here to introduce you when she tips up though.”

“Carrie?”

“Cleaner cum gardener. Comes three days a week. The place would be a pigsty without her.”

“I did wonder. What’s she like about dogs?”

“Fine. She brings her own dog with her. Will Bonnie be OK with that?”

“Absolutely. It’s only cats she sees off. Speaking of which.”

Anna got up and went to the door.

“Come and look at this, Sam.”

He went and looked, to see Bonnie sitting bolt upright staring at the wild-eyed ginger cat, which crouched on the roof of the garden shed with its ears flattened. Sam laughed out loud.

“Come in Bonnie” he said “then the cat can run away.”

To his intense surprise, Bonnie obeyed. He bent to scratch her ears.

“Who’s a clever girl, then.”

Bonnie walked into the kitchen and pointedly looked at the tin of dog treats standing on the worktop. Sam obliged.

“She’s got your number, hasn’t she?” Anna remarked.

They spent the rest of the day happily, pottering, chatting, and walking Bonnie.

The next morning, Sam was getting outside a large breakfast omelette when there was the sound of feet on the patio and a brown dog of indeterminate parentage barrelled in followed by a big girl in jeans and a check shirt.

“Carrie. Oscar. Anna. Bonnie.”

Anna stood up and extended a hand. Carrie looked a bit surprised then shook hands.

“Pleased to meet you, Anna.”

She looked Anna straight between the eyes before grinning. “Makes a change for somebody of the female persuasion to be civil to the domestic staff. Most of them like to pretend I don’t exist.”

Anna grimaced sympathetically.

“Yeah, we used to get a lot like that in work. Always going on about how they couldn’t get decent staff, and then treating anyone who worked for them like they were sub-human.”

Carrie laughed out loud.

“You’ve got it. Exactly. But I have my revenge. I charge them double.”

Anna walked over to the dresser and collected a mug.

“Tea or coffee?”

“You sure?”

Anna nodded briskly.

“Coffee then. Thanks.’

Anna brought the mug over before putting four slices of brown bread in the toaster.

“Sit. We may as well be comfortable while we have a chat.”

Deciding he was probably superfluous to requirements, Sam finished his breakfast and pushed back his chair.

“I should be home between six and seven, depending on how busy my afternoon list is.”

He kissed Anna, patted Bonnie, and left.

By this time, Bonnie and Oscar had reached the bottom sniffing stage and Anna laughed.

“Go out in the garden if you want to sniff bums, you two.”

The dogs skipped out.

“It’s a pity,” Carrie remarked “that humans can’t find out about each other by bum sniffing. Maybe I wouldn’t keep choosing the wrong men. Maybe Sam wouldn’t have married that spoilt little madam…”

“You know her?”

“To my cost. She’s stupid, and she isn’t nice. I’ll tell you one thing for free, once she finds out Sam has a woman she’ll be after trouble. She won’t be able to stomach the idea he’s making a life for himself without her. You be on your guard.”

“Thanks. But haven’t you made a snap decision about me without sniffing my bottom?’

“Maybe. Though I’m crap at picking men, my antenna for my own sex is remarkably accurate. And I like the look of your dog.”

“She’ll be delighted to hear that.’

“She? Oh shit. Oscar hasn’t been done and he’s a randy little sod.”

“It’s OK. Bonnie has been done. And if he tries any of that stuff with her she’s liable to beat him up.”

“That’s all right then. Is it OK to leave them playing in the garden?”

“Yes. If the side gate is shut.”

“It is. I always shut it, because Oscar is a wanderer.”

“Bonnie’s not. But this is still a strange place to her.”

“I get that. Now, what do you want doing today?”

Jane Jago

An extract from Dying for a Vacation, the next instalment in the Dai and Julia Mysteries alternative history series about a couple who are detectives in the fight against crime in a modern-day Britain still ruled by the Roman Empire.

The door opened with such force that it bounced back off the wall, and Hywel stomped in. His face was puce and he was waving a sheet of paper. Seemingly unable to speak he threw the paper on the table in front of Julia.
She read it and could feel the blood draining from her own face. It was an official complaint that the family of one Hywel Llewellyn, non-citizen, had been observed to be visiting a sub aquila residence without due authorisation.
The Villa Papaverus was not their own house, it was the residence that went with Dai’s job as Submagistratus and was owned by Rome. As such it was designated sub aquila which meant only Roman citizens and those non-citizens employed to work there were legally permitted inside.
“Oh merda,” she said softly. “I never even thought of that. Dai hates having that wretched eagle above our door.”
She passed the paper to Caudinus who read it swiftly then sighed.
“I am so sorry, I should have seen that coming. As I didn’t, I shall have to investigate.”
Hywel made a noise like a cat that has just had its fur stroked backwards,
“Sorry? Sorry that me and my entire family are being criminalised by your filthy Roman rules?”
Caudinus looked at him severely. “Hush man. Be glad I didn’t officially hear you say that. As I said, I do have to investigate. So will you just be quiet and let me think. Or is shouting and blustering at a pregnant woman something you think a good idea?”
Hywel subsided slightly.
“If this goes through the fine will take most of my livelihood for the last quarter.”
“Oh it’s worse than that,” Caudinus said his expression grim. “The fine would be the lightest of penalties. If it were deemed to have been done in deliberate defiance of Roman authority it could be counted as treason. And this complaint names you, your wife Enya and your step-mother, Olwen.”
Julia felt sick. Dai’s mother, sister-in-law and brother were being placed in real peril through someone’s spite.
“Treason?” Hywel echoed, his tone hollow and slumped into a chair, the fire and fury suddenly deserting him. Treason always carried the death sentence –  a humiliating and agonising death in the arena.
Caudinus swept the printed emails into a pile and got to his feet.
“Yes, treason. But if I have anything to do with it, it won’t come to that and I will make sure you are issued with passes under my authority so there is not a problem ongoing.”
“Isn’t there something you can do to dismiss this?” Julia asked, “It is your legal jurisdiction after all.”
Caudinus pulled a face. “It will depend on the nature of the complaint and who the complainant is. It could go over my head to provincial level and those damnable bureaucrats in Augusta Treverorum.”  He touched Julia lightly on the shoulder. “You mustn’t worry about this, you hear me?” His tone was stern. She mustered a smile more for his benefit than because she felt reassured. “And you come with me Llewellyn, I need to get some details from you, if you can guard your tongue enough to manage a trip to Viriconium with me?”
Hywel struggled to his feet looking shamefaced and anxious.
“Uh – yes. I’m sorry, dominus. I know it’s not your fault.  I’m sorry, Julia too – it’s just that…”
Julia held out her arms and Hywel walked into them to receive a quick hug.
“It’s alright,” she said, letting him go, “but for Enya and Olwen’s sake and the children, you have to keep a lid on your anger over this.”
Hywel nodded and Julia felt a little more hopeful when Caudinus dropped her a wink over his head. A short time later she saw Caudinus’ hovercar gliding along the driveway.

Pushing her own fears to one side, Julia took the time to walk her two wolfhounds, Canis and Lupo, in the orchard, finding their cheerful company helped lift her mood. Then she returned to the house and with the two dogs sleeping by hearth, she opened her laptop and started composing an email to Hook-Beak explaining why she couldn’t leave Britannia at this time and probing for more information about his new married status. She was just thinking about how she could best raise the issue of Hywel’s case to see if, as Praetor, Hook-Beak could short-circuit the legal process in someway, when the sound of heavy footsteps made her look up in time to see the door burst open for the second time that morning.
Dai stood filling the doorway, his expression like a thundercloud fronting a storm. A cold and feral fire burned in his blue eyes that made Julia shiver despite herself.
“You are leaving. Today. Now.” His voice was almost a snarl. “I’ve sent for Elfrida to pack for you. Two of Gallus’ men and Edbert will be your escort. I have made arrangements. You can stay with Didero in Londinium, he has an entire legion of praetorians there to keep you safe.”
Julia opened her mouth and then closed it sharply to prevent the unforgivable, vile, words she so wanted to say from escaping. Instead she got demurely to her feet and walked over to her husband, drawing herself up to her full height of almost five feet.
“Oh you are so right, husband, I am leaving,” she said, keeping her tone sweet. “But not for Londinium. I am going where I choose to go not where you think to send me. And right now I am not at all sure that I will be coming back.”

The Dai and Julia Mysteries are written by E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago. Dying for a Vacation, the fifth novella in the series,  is out today.

Buenos dias mis hijos,

It is one, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, author, pedagogue, genius, and all-round good egg. Out of the kindness of my heart, and the largeness of my soul, and the sharpness of my intellect, I have elected to brighten your darkness, educate your ignorance, and lift your aspirations. By following my simple guides to literate and effective script, you too may aspire to the success – both in the annals of Mamon and in the estimation of the intelligentsia – of my own seminal novel ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’.

My intention to write this piece crystalised in my mind just yesterday morning when Mumsie threw open the door to my bijou writing sanctuary, her face an interesting shade of puce and mouthed some words at me, which I could not quite discern as I had the climax of the 1812 Overture playing in the background at the volume such an impressive piece deserves.

Without so much as a warning, Mumsie pulled the plug and deafening silence ensued. In the polite and restrained conversation which followed, I learned that apparently, the cannon fire had been loud enough to disturb the neighbours and even waken dear Mummy from her post libatious slumber. But, as I kept repeating, very reasonably if to no avail, how was I to know? It was not as if I could read her thoughts.

Ah, but the world of fiction is so much more amenable to such things, as I shall reveal to you my dear Reader Who Writes. And thus, having established both my bona fides and my intentions, we can move on to this week’s lesson. Pay attention…

Lesson 28: The Write Point of View

There is a great deal of advice out there on the vexed topic of point of view. Should one write in first person? Or perhaps close third person? Or omniscient third person? Or? The arguments rage long and bitterly. Devotees of each and every style consider their own personal favourite the only possible option and bitterly denigrate anyone with the temerity to disagree.

I am here to demystify the process in my usual and inimitable style. My dear little bunnies… It doesn’t matter.

Set yourself a scene and write it however it feels most fitting.

Write as if you sat above your protagonists on a pink and champagne-laden cloud. Write as though your prose was dragged screaming and turgid from the entrails of your damaged hero. Write from the careless and unfeeling head of your beautiful female antagonist. Write all three at the same time – one’s own preferred method of procedure – at least then your millions of fans will miss none of the nuances of meaning and intention.

All I will say is that the head hop, so despised by the horde of amateur lectors out there in ‘gosh I’m a published writer’ land, is the finest tool in the hand of those with true talent and exquisite sensibility. How will one’s readers know the texture of a lover’s skin, but also appreciate the blackness at beauty’s heart? Or how shall the simple folk following the journey of your broken crusader understand both his magnificence and his utter bleakness?

No, my students, hop from head to head as the muse wills. It will result in a tapestry of textures and emotions, both beautiful to the eye and instructive to the soul. This is the only way to allow your reader to immerse deeply into the bubbling cauldron of relationships and experiences that you are crafting for their delight.

And what of those philistines who would decry when you choose to write some sections in the first person and some in the third? Or when you write successive characters in the first person? These deluded individuals would have it that such stylistic magnificence is both confusing to the reader and hard to follow. Or they berate it for breaking their reading immersion. Poor precious darlings, say I! They should learn to engage with the author’s carefully chosen blend of points of view. They are lazy readers and not worthy of your literary outpourings. Shake the dust of their denouncements from your metaphorical feet with disdain.

So be bold and brazen, ignore the ignorant self-proclaimed ‘masters’ of the literary art. Whilst their poor prose may only allow scant glimpses of the inner processes of their characters, except perchance their chosen hero, yours will be as sunlight through the thickets of thought and feeling for every character who steps upon the stage of your story.

Until next. Escribe bien…

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group

The place: Jacob’s Bottom.
The time: the latter part of the 20th century, early spring 1987.

The man and the woman left the car, walked fifty yards or so along the ridge until he halted, propelled her forward a little. Across the mesh of wet, neat patchwork fields, endless sheep, they looked down towards a flat plain that suggested signs of habitation. A church with a spire, outbuildings possibly. Certainly cows.
“There,” the man said, gripping her shoulder with one hand, pointing with the other, you see those buildings? Not the farm, but beyond that. That’s the house.”
The woman, Grace, pulling her coat closer against the fine rain, could see little. Just as they had approached the village, he had swung the car sharply up an incline, headed for a narrow single-track road that weaved its way steeply upwards until they seemed to be hanging precariously above the valley. Now she found herself peering through a heavy mist that shielded clear shapes, blending them into an indefinable blur with the grey sky, the undulating land. But she tried. He was so eager, insistent. The enthusiasm of a small boy who wants to share something newly discovered.
“I think so. I think I can see the house. Is it thatched?”
“No, a slate roof. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Grace said. “Slate is better.”
“Is it? I thought you’d expect thatch in this part of the world. I’m glad you’re not disappointed.” Archie took her arm, protectively. She leant against his shoulder.

“I didn’t know what to expect. It’s all such a surprise, really, so sudden. We’ve not even
discussed it properly. The idea of this place, I mean. The country.”
He continued to look down across the valley towards the house. She was unsure whether he’d heard her, her words possibly dissolving into the damp air, snatched away on the westerly wind. It was a nursery plate for children, grazing cattle and haystacks and hares nipping and darting across the land.
“We’re not too far from the coast here either,” he said, “and you know how that’ll suit me. The sea’s no more than three or four miles away, I’d say. And we’re just on the edge of the village so it won’t feel too remote for you. Just what we want.”
Grace felt the dampness of her feet through thin city soles, her hair limp and deflated against her neck. Archie, oblivious, pulled her further down the path so that they could see a cluster of cottages, a building that could be a hall or a village school, then a car park and beyond that a narrow track that led down to a large barn and a long, low house.
“No immediate neighbours, but there are a couple of houses within view. And the lane just leads to farmland so there’s no passing traffic. You won’t mind?” Archie asked then
answered for her. “No, you’ll love the peace after London. No more complaints about
aircraft noise and people playing loud music into the small hours. It’ll suit you, Grace. It’s
what you want. What I’ve had in mind for us.”
“It looks perfect. You’re right, of course. And once there are children…”
“Exactly. Just the place to bring up children. What we’ve planned.”
They had been married sixteen months.

From Counting The Ways by Jude Hayland

Jude Hayland is the author of Counting The Ways

Q1: Coffee or tea?

Q2: Which historical figure would you most wish you could meet?

Q3: What time of day do you write best?

Early morning and/or early evening – I find the afternoon the least productive time and, in an ideal world, I would write from dawn until  11am and from 5.00 to 8.30 or 9.00 pm– but the realities of life rarely allow for this.

Jude Hayland has been writing for many years, publishing short stories for women's magazines both in the UK and internationally.  After completing an M.A. in Critical Writing, however, her interest shifted to longer fiction and she has now written two novels:  Truth to Tell (2013) and Counting the Ways (2017). She is currently working on her third.  

Her novels elude the label of a specific genre - women's contemporary fiction is about the closest - and are certainly character-driven.  She is also a teacher of English, creative writing and drama - but defines herself more as a writer than anything else.

Born in London, she now lives in Winchester but also spends a great deal of time at a family owned house on the island of Crete.  You can find out more on her website.

Raising a hand for the others to wait, the woman and her bearded companion kneed their horses gently forwards into the moonlight. The woman spoke, her voice light and contemptuous. ‘If it isn’t my old friend the Archdruid. One wonders what business is so fraught with peril that the chosen of the goddess needs the protection of a pair of Paladin knights.’
The bony old man didn’t choose to reply, but the Paladins bowed.
The younger one put up his visor and replied, his voice a pale copy of the ironic tones of the dark-haired woman. ‘One might also wonder what brings a lady warrior with an armed escort to the sacred grove on this of all nights. It is my hope that it means no evil to the Archdruid, as we have a contract to protect him.’
His companion put up his own visor and turned to look at the lady, his eyes burning red in the bloodless face of a golem. He bowed again, then turned to his companion. ‘Don’t be any stupider than you can help, my friend. This is not a lady to be spoken to with disrespect.’
‘Silence golem. Who is in charge of this detail?’
‘That depends on your perspective. According to your uncle, you are. But according to the Council, who rather outrank one knight, even if he is treasurer, I am. This was thought to be an easy job, and I’m supposed to make sure you do it properly, and return home safe.’

While he had been speaking the golem moved his horse closer to the Archdruid, and, moving with the superhuman speed of his kind, he reached over and bashed the bony old man over the head with one mailed fist. The Archdruid slumped over his horse’s neck, quite unconscious.

‘What are you doing?’ his companion almost screamed.
‘Saving the old fool’s life. He was building a forbidden spell and if I hadn’t stopped him, the elf over there in the darkness would have shot him dead.’
‘What elf? What spell? Who are these people?’
The golem looked at his companion with barely concealed irritation in his scarlet eyes. ‘What do you know of the Chaos Lords?’
The young knight closed his eyes, concentrated hard, then repeated as if learned by rote: ‘That they are set over the worlds in order to ensure that the fates of humankind pass according to certain rules, and that they come among us when dark forces seek to interfere with the course of history.’ He opened his eyes and looked at his companion in puzzlement. ‘But what does that have to do with meeting a woman in the sacred grove at Samhain?’
The golem groaned. ‘Use your eyes, fool. The woman you have just insulted is the High Lady of Chaos herself. She could obliterate you with a word. Beside her is her consort. In the shadows are their sons, called in this world Strength and Fortitude. Alongside them is an Elf Lord, with an arrow aimed at your stupid heart. And if you think your armour will protect you, then you are a bigger fool than even I thought. Your family may have paid for all sorts of charms of protection for your armour, but nothing is proof against an elf arrow.’
The young knight swallowed audibly, and when he spoke his voice had risen a couple of octaves, making him sound even younger. ‘Oh. I didn’t know that. What are we supposed to do now?’
The golem groaned again. Then it raised its sword high into the sky and muttered a few words. At once an irritable voice could be heard echoing around the clearing ‘Yes. What? This had better be urgent. It’s supper time.’
‘Golem D10/1 reporting. Have just encountered Chaos Lords in Sacred Grove. Orders?’
‘Cooperate with Chaos Lords, of course. Who is with you?’
‘Newly knighted Sir Amyas.’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘Yes my lord.’
‘Ah yes, I remember now. Well do your best D10/1, and try to keep the treasurer’s nephew alive if you possibly can.’ The voice disappeared as abruptly as it had started.

Jane Jago

Dominant, dominant fly away home
Your house is on fire your subbies all gone
All except one and that’s little Mabel
The one you left tied to the dining room table

© jane jago 2018

Find out more!

Bonjour learners,

As part of one’s campaign to educate, inform, and elucidate, one tries to be both approachable and kindly. Which occasionally causes one to make silly decisions. In a foolish moment, one allowed oneself to be persuaded that answering questions from students would be a good idea. Which it probably isn’t. However, one’s word is one’s bond. So. Have at you…

Dear Teacher,
I am puzzled. Very puzzled.
Why is a raven like a writing desk?
Regards,
Claire.

Oh Claire, Claire. Do not attempt to be clever at the expense of your teacher. One is not the Mad Hatter, and your name is Claire, not Alice. However, one will answer your question seriously.

It is a matter of symbols.
A raven? An ugly black bird?
A writing desk? Just a piece of furniture?

Err. No. In order to unriddle the unanswerable riddle, it is necessary for your masterful tutor to break down the barriers in your tiny mind and introduce you to the borderless and boundless world of possibilities that symbolic understanding can open to you.
A raven can be seen as the harbinger of evil, or as the bringer of knowledge and thought to the small minds of the little people who walk the earth beneath them.
A writing desk, of course, symbolises the earthbound woodenness of humanity and our struggle to rise above the limitations of our tiny lives.

Oho, Claire, one sees your puzzled little face. And hears your pathetic cry.
“How are such symbols helping? The raven and the writing desk are complete opposites.”

But they are not. They are opposite ends of the same spectrum of human endeavour. The raven is achievement and the writing desk is that place from which we seek to achieve.
Therefore a raven is like a writing desk because the one leads to the achievement symbolised by the other.

Without the writing desk the raven is pointless and without the raven, the writing desk cannot exist.

And now Claire, write one hundred times.
‘I must not attempt to be facetious, it is unbecoming in a female.’

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

If you have a problem you may avail yourself of one's wisdom by posting your problem HERE or contacting me through my Facebook presence. Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.