An extract from Dues of Blood which is the final part of Transgressor Trilogy in the Fortune's Fools series.

Torwyn watched the cold eyes behind the high Vyazin nose and found himself thinking of the last time he had been in such a room with the man who had then been just a Warlord.
It had been in Alfor two summers before at the time of the Fair and he had been left chained so the Warlord could talk with him alone. For the longest time, Qabal Vyazin had just walked around his naked, freshly oiled body and said nothing, examining him from every angle.
Trained to such display from an early age, Torwyn kept himself still. He had been uncertain what to expect from such a man as this. Some nobles were quick to make their desires known and wanted a response to feed their egos. But this man seemed to study him from another perspective altogether.
At last, he had stood in front of Torwyn, and held his gaze with a vice-like stare which had been cold and dispassionate. Torwyn had lowered his own eyes after a short time and it was then Qabal had spoken, his voice enquiring.
“Tell me how it is you have such power?”
Torwyn had struggled with that, uncertain what he was being asked or how he could please this man with an answer.
“I have no power, Most Honoured One,” he had said at last, aware of the burden of the unemotional eyes upon him. “I am just a fighting-slave. I cannot command others.”
Qabal had stood very still and given a sharp upward nod.
“You know your place well,” he said softly. “But you also underestimate yourself. Each time you walk onto the sand you have more power than any man – the power of death over another human being. How does that feel?”
Most who paid for private time with the Sabre were interested in only one aspect of his anatomy: that which he kept between his legs. Qabal was clearly equally obsessed, but with another part of his body: that which lay between his ears.
Torwyn stared at the Warlord and hoped the sudden rush of contempt was not visible on his face. How could he ever explain the sick sense of fatality? How to describe the gut-churning fear? How to express the burn of adrenaline which had to push you further than thought? What possible way could he put into words the sense of intense self-disgust which choked the soul each time he had to kill? Standing before Qabal he had struggled to find anything in that which had to do with power. Eventually what he had said was what he thought Qabal had wanted to hear: a simple lie.
“It feels as though I am the ruler of the world – in that moment with my opponent’s life in my hand.”
Qabal had stared at him for a long time and then given that same odd upward nod.
“Then you and I are men of the same cast. Except that my arena is all Temsevar.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

When the hole in the sky let the dragon appear
The heavens grew dark and the humans felt fear
And the ships of the light, one by one they took flight
But they fell from our sight, in the bowels of night
Though each one was crewed by the bravest of brave
None could reach high enough homeland to save
When the beast ate the sun and the satellites fell
There were no stories left: there was no one to tell

©️JJ 2017

Zelia the first novel by Zora Marie is out now.

“You know, this is the first time I’ve ever gotten you into an actual dress.” 

“They’re not good for climbing,” Zelia said, turning to give Eleanor one of her mischievous grins. “So what did you want to show me?” 

“Something special that you need to see.” 

Eleanor took her hand and lead her through a maze of corridors, leading deeper into the stone castle. When they came to a large set of doors a guard nodded and pushed the door open for them. Orania stood at the edge of a platform staring down at the water falling beneath it. A statue of a man stood staring at the open sky above them, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the brim of his helmet shading his eyes from the setting sun. 

“Do you know what this is Zelia?” Orania asked. 

Zelia shook her head, but Orania didn’t need to see to know. 

“It’s a reminder of where the O’Fell family came from. Do you know the story?” 

“They are descendants of Yargo, God of the Fallen Warriors. He hoped to unite the people by giving them someone they could follow. And this must be Lumid, guard of the bridge and keeper of the stars.” 

Orania turned from the edge. 

“That is right and you are going to release their souls to live with their ancestor, Yargo, among the stars. It is a tradition for a daughter of a fallen King to lay them to rest and since he has no daughter we have asked that you do it.” 

Zelia nodded, but she still didn’t quite understand why they would ask her. 

“Now, it’ll be getting dark soon. We should start gathering people outside.”

 

Men, women, and children had gathered on the walls and the field all around the long rows of pyres. Kion stood by her side with Orania, whatever Eleanor had done seemed to have eased Kion’s pain. Orania had just finished her long speech and excused Elizabeth for not being there, saying the grief was too much for her to bear. 

Orania gave Kion a nod and he handed Zelia a torch. As soon as she took it the flame grew brighter and an updraft pulled it higher into the sky. 

“I’ll be right beside you the entire time,” Kion whispered. 

She started with Skalary and Skyral’s pyres, but froze as she went to light Leena’s. Kion squeezed her shoulder as if to say it’s alright and she stuck the torch into the kindling. When the fire took off she stepped back and looked up at Kion, there were tears in his eyes as the soft light of the flames lit Leena’s face. 

“You can stay here Kion. I’ll finish.” 

She gave a light squeeze of his hand continued down the row. With each one she lit, she glanced back at Kion; the flames had grown, but he hadn’t stepped away. With everyone entranced by the flames, she moved from pyre to pyre a little faster and circled around from one end to the other. 

When she lit the last one, she threw the torch at the feet of the King as the flames of pyre already burned high in the sky. When she did, something happened that made all the crowd gasp. The flames turned blue and little orbs of light rose from the bodies of those fallen. As each one rose, the flames calmed back to their orange glow. 

“Kion!” Zelia pulled him back from Leena’s pyre as a wave a heat rolled out and Leena’s soul rose from the flames. 

One by one the blue orbs lifted into the stars, twinkling until they faded from view. Zelia glanced around at the mourners, what was left of families were crowded together, and those that stood alone held clasped hands over their hearts as they stared up at the stars. The crowd stood staring at the stars long after the souls had gone, but one by one people trickled away and the somber silence moved with them.

Zelia is also available from Barns & Noble, Kobo, iBooks, Google Play.

 

Zelia is the heroine in the new novel just released by Zora Marie.

 

Q1: What is your happiest childhood memory?

Racing Alrindel across the pasture on Eadon’s horse, Starjaina, before being caught by Kion for not being at archery practice. I miss those days.

 

Q2: What do you love most about your magical powers?

I don’t- well, I guess if you consider understanding the animals to be a magical power, then I love the connection it allows me to have with all of the different animals.

 

Q3: Where in your world would you most like to settle down to live?

If there were no wizards or Darkans, I’d have to say Elyluma. I grew up there and that’s where my brother Alrindel calls home, but for now there are things that keep me from there.

 

Zora Marie in her own words:

I’ve not always been honest with myself or those around me, but I plan to change that. I have never been very truthful about what my home life was like as fear and having already been turned away once held me back. After writing for a year I found my voice once again, in part thanks to a friend that has been my guide in more than just writing.

Now that I am no longer bound by the people who would rather see the spirits of others crushed than to see them blossom, I am determined to reclaim my life and do the things that I love. Acting, writing, and creating art are all just pieces of the puzzle that make up who I am. The true me has been drowning without a word for so long, but I am done.

What you see of me now, is me climbing the mountain to reclaim everything that I am and I am glad to have you following my journey. I hope that as I learn to open up about my struggles I can inspire you to take the first steps to being your true self, as so many of us fall to what others see for us rather than what our hearts see.

You can find Zora on Twitter, Amazon, Goodreads and her own Website.

The next days flew past. Anna and Sam walked miles with Bonnie, talked and laughed, confirmed the notion that they had the same likes and dislikes in almost everything, and made love at every available opportunity.

It was very late on Saturday night when Sam turned a serious face to his supine companion.

“I have to go home some time tomorrow, and I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to not see your face. I don’t want to not hear you laugh. I don’t want to not feel your skin next to me in bed. I feel like a bloody teenager in love.”

Anna lifted her head.

“Me too. I told myself I was going to be sensible about this. I told myself you might fancy me and you might like me but I shouldn’t let myself get carried away. I gave myself all sorts of lectures and then you came here, and it felt like a perfect fit.”

“So come home with me. Let’s see if the fit stays as perfect in the everyday world.”

“Is that what you want?”

“It’s a start. I want to really get to know you. And I want you to really get to know me. Then maybe we can make something together. Something lasting.”

“Sam! I’m forty years old.”

“And? I’m thirty-nine. You say you want to find out what life has to offer. Maybe I’m it. Maybe we’re it. We won’t know if we don’t try. I meant to take things slowly. Give you the chance to get used to the idea that I’m falling in love with you. But that would mean spending time without you and I think that might break my heart.”

Anna buried her face in his chest, and he could feel tears on his skin.

“Oh baby. Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He cradled her against him and crooned gently. She sniffed unromantically and knuckled her eyes.

“I’m only crying because it’s so overwhelming. I’ve been laying here dreading you leaving. Sensible Anna has been lecturing herself inside my head, but all to no avail. If you want me to come with you I’ll come with all my heart. See. I think I’m falling in love with you too. It scares me, you know. I’ve never been in love before, and what I feel is so big.”

He kissed her very thoroughly.

“Isn’t it. There we were jogging along with our lives and we got hit by a fireball. Good job it got both of us. Sensible this ain’t. But I know we have to give it a go. Or regret for the rest of our lives.”

She nodded.

“I think we have to see where this goes. If we get our fingers burnt so be it. I’ll come home with you. As long as Bonnie is welcome.”

“Course she is. You two are a team.”

“We three are a team.”

After that there was no talking for quite a long time.

 

Morning came, and Anna and Sam took their coffee down to the stream, while Bonnie retired to the bushes before having her pre-breakfast paddle.

Sam looked quizzically at Anna.

“Not getting cold feet, I hope.”

“No. You?”

“Most definitely not. I feel more positive about my life than I have for a very long time.”

“Good. Me too. Ever perhaps. We’ll give it our best shot. And, do you know what, I reckon we’ll make it…’

“I reckon we will.”

“We do. It may scare the snot out of me, but I wouldn’t sleep another night if I didn’t give it a go.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean about scared. Grown ups aren’t supposed to fall in love like falling off a cliff. However, that seems to be what we’ve done. Now we have to build from that.”

“We do. I want to make you a promise, Sam. I promise to love you, cherish you, be truthful to you, and to keep the faith.”

He raised her hand and kissed it.

“I promise the same to you. We’ll make it princess.”

Bonnie came over and indicated her approval by shaking water all over the pair of them. They laughed, and Anna patted her head.

“Breakfast?”

Bonnie waved her tail enthusiastically. They strolled back to the camper and Anna passed Sam Bonnie’s dish.

“You feed Bonnie. I’ll do human breakfast.”

“Fair enough.”

As they ate, Anna looked at Sam and grinned.

“So. Is there room to park this thing at yours, or do I have to find a storage facility?”

“Should be plenty of room to park. I’ve got a double-width drive and a double garage.”

“Okay. But if it’s awkward, you get to do the parking. I’m shit at it.”

“No sweat. But it should be easy. Straight drive.”

“Now. Getting there. I’m probably going to be driving slower than you. Do I need a map?”

“Shouldn’t. I’ll drive slow and we can stick together.”

“Together. That’s such a nice word.”

“Isn’t it just! I like it. Especially as applied to you and me. But get your atlas out and I’ll show you where.”

“Atlas is right behind you in the pocket on the back of your seat.”

He got it out.

“Right. Small town. Close enough to Cheltenham for work. My house is just off the main through road. It’s the old vicarage. I got it cheap because it needed a lot of work. Did most of it myself. Kept me busy after my ex-wife buggered off. Now it’ll be nice to share it with you.”

“Sounds lovely. My house is a modern box. I always wanted something with a bit more character, but there was no chance of me doing any more than painting and shortening curtains.”

“Is your house empty?”

“Nah. Let. Friends of mine. They want to buy it, but are renting while I make up my mind whether or not to sell. Funny enough, they are both doctors. But not as pretty as you.”

“I should hope not.” He grinned wickedly. “Not as pretty as you either, I bet.”

“I’m not pretty.”

“If I say you are pretty, you’d better believe it. I’m a connoisseur.”

“You’re a flatterer.”

“Am not. You are lovely. You just need to realise it.”

“I’ll try.”

He smiled and took her hand.

“Stick with me kiddo, I’ll make you believe it.”

 

By nine, they were ready to move off, and Sam took the lead in the battered Audi with Anna and Bonnie following in the camper. The journey took them about two hours and by the time they arrived Anna was a bundle of nerves.

“Oh Bonnie” she said “am I doing the right thing?”

Bonnie laid her elegant nose on Anna’s knee and wagged her tail gently.

“You’re right, Bon-Bon, we can do this.’

Sam parked the Audi at the kerb and ran to open a pair of big, white gates. Anna drove slightly past then bravely engaged reverse. The gates and drive were wide, but she crept in carefully.

“Oh yeah,” she said to Bonnie, “it’s nice and wide and straight. I’m glad we’ve got the reversing camera though.”

She brought the camper to a halt about two feet from the garage doors and heaved a sigh of relief. Sam brought the Audi in and parked it nose to nose with the camper. He leapt out and came round to Anna’s door. She opened it and almost fell into his waiting arms.

Jane Jago

The bullies call their victims weak
As from their deep disguise they speak
They poke and prod each tender place
Without the need to show their face
With not a care for who they harm
As long as they are safe and warm
The bullies hide in cyberspace
Without the need to show their face
They shatter others from afar
And hide behind an avatar
The bullies call their victims weak
Whilst playing cyber hide and seek

©️ Jane Jago 2018

Hengist'Dog'Gethick is one of the stars of the science-fiction show Starways Pathfinders.

Dog was half drunk and wondering if he should have accepted the invitation to join his best friend in the dive bar on thirty-three. Teram was the kind who liked to go slumming — said it kept him grounded. He ran the family salvage company and was the hands-on type who liked to do the work at the sharp end. His idea of a good night out was to go drinking with his hard-core salvage crews.
“They are good people, Dog — and they would be made up to meet you.”
“No. They would be made up to meet Sub-Commander Arlan Stude, not Dog Gethick, jobbing actor.”
Teram did not deny it, just rolled his shoulders as they took the glides down.
“They won’t recognise you anyway without that uniform and the sexy half-mask,” he confided. “But you got to know what you are to these boys. They won’t miss an episode. You are like their hero.”
Dog shook his head and altered course to avoid his towering bulk blocking the way for a couple with a baby.
“It’s all crap. Just kids’ stories in grown-up words. None of it real. Not like it’ll ever happen. I don’t see the real Strands ever funding a space exploration mission. They’d not see profit in it.”
Teram glanced up at him.
“You don’t get it do you, Dog? It’s not that it’ll never happen — everyone knows it’ll never happen. It’s that it shows something bigger than this.” He gestured to the buzz of humanity around them. “These are people penned into the cage this city’s become — you, your show, it opens the doors of that cage for a while. Opens the doors and lets in hope. More than hope. Real belief in a future that can be more than this.”
That was too much, and Dog shook his head. “I’m an actor, not a fucking messiah.”

The bar was not as bad as Dog had thought it would be. It was well ventilated and the people who were vaping whatever noxious substances sat in a side room where an androgyne gyrated naked on a podium. Teram’s crew sat together by the one window which offered not so much a panorama of the cityscape of the kind Dog had at home, but more like a murky glimpse into the bowels of the world — dark and lit by sudden flares.
“So, what do you do, Dog?”
Someone had to ask, and lulled by the strong spirits and the rough but good-natured bonhomie, Dog almost forgot himself.
“I’m an actor.” He remembered in time and quickly added, “Used to do that commercial for Eatin’ Quix delivery?”
That met with a few nods of recall and the topic moved on. But it was too much to expect Teram to let it lie for long.
“So, what did you guys make of the latest SP? You think they will find those Kyruku?” His eyes slid to Dog and he winked. “Makes you think. Aliens and all.”
Dog said nothing as the men around him speculated. “Ain’t no fucking aliens. If there were, we’d have met ’em by now. Stands to reason.”
“Yeah. But The Golden Strand is headed ’cross the fucking galaxy, not just round the block and home; it’s different.”
“Different? You see that view screen they get to see stuff on? Huge thing. Dream of that for our ship. What you say, boss — when we getting that kind of tech?”
There was laughter, and Teram laughed loudest of all.
“What if it was for real, though?” someone said. Dog had not picked up the names; he’d tried, but the faces were too similar — worn, weary and bleak. He recalled an odd conversation he’d had with Heila a couple of days before: she’d been going on about her fans, her people. Well, he guessed these were his people. Gnarled by life before they hit thirty, running on dreams and stardust and the false hope held out by the allure of each episode of Starways Pathfinders.
“What if? You kidding? I’d sign up in a second.”
“Yeah. Think of it. The freedom of the stars. Going where no other fucker’s ever been.”
“Be like, you’d be alive. You’d matter. You’d be doing something — something good.”
Heads nodded and someone called another round of drinks. Dog stared out of the window at the inky sludge that coated it, dulling the grim sights it would otherwise expose.

This is an extract from 'Star Dust' by E.M. Swift-Hook, one of 12 stories by different authors all set in The Last City from Dust Publishing.

Good morrow sweet Reader Who Writes,

It is I, Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV, harbinger of spring, dispenser of wisdom, icon of perfect taste, and world-renowned author. For those of you who do not know one, one has sincere commiserations, but no intention of repeating one’s credentials. Look me up!

Oh yes, my beloved students, your pedagogue is in waspish form on this day. Try not one’s patience lest one turns upon you with the svelte ferocity of a maculate tiger, lest one bites you with the teeth of the hooded cobra, lest one scorn you with the poisoned barbs of a beautiful woman, lest, worst of all, one turns one’s back on you and excludes you from one’s tribe. Which, with all one’s usual deftness of touch, brings one to…

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 25: The Write Tribe

Tribalism, as one needs to see it from the point of view of the intelligent scribe, is the basic breaking of humanity into groups. This occurs in order that our peculiar bipedal species may function both socially and emotionally. Even though we all – yes even you – belong to the same basic genus (the human race), it is impossible for the tiny minds of most to comprehend anything so vast. And even those of us with the largeness of vision and the scope of imagination to see the vast sprawl of humanity as our brethren will still be more at ease as part of a defined sub-group, or tribe.

Ergo, my wide-eyed innocents, it behoves us as humble scribblers, as the custodians of the communal mind, as the still small voice of the conscience of humanity, to take cognisance of tribal mores and the tightness of social groups when we build the complex worlds upon which our heroes stride and our villains crawl.

So how may we define our tribal groupings for the benefit of our readership?

The smallest and simplest group is the family, which we may simply define by name, be that patronym, matronymic, or any other device that occurs.

One up in size from family will be the village/town/school/workplace group. This can be defined by where a person lives, or they can be referred to as alumni of wherever, or, of course, we have the device of uniform for workplace tribes.

One larger will be areas, such as the counties in our own fair land, whose denizens may be conveniently delineated by accent or quirk of speech.

And finally: Nationality can be shorthanded by physical characteristics – such as the bland coldness of certain northerners, the dark oiliness of the mare nostrum nations, the dark smoothness of those who hail from some subcontinents, and so forth.

All very easy and precise, but where those of you without ones breadth of experience and largeness of both intellect and imagination will fall every time is on those tribes not defined by any of the above.

The tribe whose defining characteristic is its support of the hero: This group may be defined either by outstanding physical beauty or by its humbleness and willingness to sit at the feet of one’s hero basking in his knowledge and beauty. Or both.

The antithesis of the first will be the tribe whose sole purpose in life is to make our hero’s life a misery, or to profit from crime, or to promulgate lies, or…: This tribe may be conveniently singled out by one of the following methods. They may have chosen for themselves a uniform of sorts (preferably a black one). They will bear a distinguishing mark from birth (ugliness, mole, deformity etc). Or they may have chosen to mark themselves by means of tattoo, body piercing, hair colour/style/shaven head.

From one’s own experience the use of bodily inking in specified patterns is among the most easily understood devices by which one can identify the tribe from which one’s antagonist springs. That or many gold teeth, sharpened and set with jewels, should one’s antihero emanate from wealth as well as depravity.

And that mes estudas concludes our lesson on tribalism.

Do not have nightmares trying to identify your own tribe.

Bene scribere!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Adoring Fans can join my Facebook Group.

BAREFOOT CHILDREN RAN beside the great grey horse of their king, whooping and cheering. Uther looked down and grunted his pleasure, throwing a handful of small brass Roman sestertii he kept for such moments. They had travelled thirty miles in a slow celebration of victory from the south coast and could now see the stone walls and gatehouse of Venta Bulgarum as the sun dipped to the west.

Rose petals rained down over Uther and his knights as they passed through the impressive arched gatehouse – wide enough for two ox carts to pass side by side. Townsfolk clad in a mix of animal hides and woollen garments lined the street and hung from the porticos of terraced two-storey houses that led to the forum. Uther dismounted and was greeted by his smiling daughter, Morgana, her long black hair splayed out over the shoulders of her white, gold-edged gown. She placed a bejeweled golden crown on his head of dusty black and grey curls as he handed her his conical steel helmet. He laughed as he kissed her lightly on the cheek and proceeded up the flight of a dozen worn steps to flagging stones lined by rows of Corinthian columns before what was once the magistrate’s hall.

He ignored his fawning chancellor, Danius, and turned to address the gathering. “My people, we have indeed returned in triumph and have chased the devilish Jutes back to their Isle of Vectis!” The crowd, glad of some good news, cheered and threw handfuls of petals into the air, blowing red, blue and violet in the gentle breeze.

Uther grinned and continued. “We have reclaimed the great sea fort of Portus Adurni and have left a garrison there from our Regnii brothers who are charged with keeping the peace. There was a great slaughter of Jutes, and their villages rendered to ashes.” Boos rang out and some gestured with thumbs pointing down. Uther knew too well the anxieties and deep insecurity of his people.

“They have been greatly reduced in number, with less than one-tenth of their warriors eluding our blades to escape in their boats. They will lick their wounds on Vectis, and we will raise a fleet to invade them there in the spring!” Loud cheers and clapping filled the square as Uther raised his hands to calm them. “Tonight, a feast! Bring your tables to this square and let us share our victuals with our neighbours. I shall send ale and roast meats!” He backed away into the shade of the portico as cries of “Hail Uther!” rang out.

Uther's Destiny is the third book in the Light in the Dark Ages series of books by Tim Walker.

Today we welcome Fifth-century warrior-king, Uther Pendragon, the hero of Uther's Destiny by Tim Walker, into the chair…

Q. What is your greatest ambition?

A: To protect our lands from invaders.

Q. What is your greatest fear?

A: In battle, I have no fear and live to crack Saxon skulls. In my hall, I know I must control my nobles and be wise to any treasonous ambition. It is the politics of court that make me wary, but I am a warrior who knows no fear.

Q. Does your sword have a name and if so, why so?

A. My blade was fashioned for me by my noble brother, Ambrosius Aurelianus, and is of finely forged metal with the runes engraved named it ‘Saxon Sting’. The kid-skin grip is broad to fit my hand and the crosspiece is of finest silver. I slash at my enemies and finish them off with the sting of the sharpened point of the blade.

Q. Tell me about where you live and what you like about it?

A. I have made my court at Venta Bulgarum, once a Roman town with high stone walls and well laid out for an army garrison town. The hall I hold court in had high walls with windows that capture the light in the afternoons, when I prefer to greet my nobles and guests. Behind my raised throne hangs a red dragon banner, it’s eye watching carefully, letting my visitors know that its power is behind me.
I live with my queen, Ygerne, in a villa built for the former Roman governor – its rooms are light and airy, with classical scenes on mosaic floors and woven murals of hunting scenes adorning the walls in bright colours chosen by the queen. We have a courtyard where we relax beside a pond on fish, with a gay, trickling fountain that we say carries the laughter of the water gods.

Q. And finally, who will succeed you when you pass?

A. [Uther brings his fist down hard on the table and glares with menace at the interviewer] It is treason to talk of the death of the king! It is widely known that our son died in infancy, and since that time the queen has borne me a daughter, sweet Anne. There is yet time for me to sire a son…

Tim Walker is an independent author based in Windsor, UK. Tim’s background is in marketing, journalism, editing and publications management. He began writing an historical series, A Light in the Dark Ages (set in the Fifth Century), in 2015, starting with a novella set at the time the Romans left Britain – Abandoned. This was followed in 2017 with a novel – Ambrosius: Last of the Romans, and the third instalment Uther’s Destiny, has just been released in March 2018. His creative writing journey began in July 2015 with the publication of a book of short stories, Thames Valley Tales. In 2016 his first novel, a futuristic/dystopian thriller, Devil Gate Dawn was exposed on the Amazon Scout programme prior to publication. Both titles were re-launched with revised content, new covers and in print-on-demand paperback format in December 2016. In January 2017 his first children’s book, The Adventures of Charly Holmes, co-written with his 12-year-old daughter, Cathy, was published. In September 2017 he published a second collection of short stories – Postcards from London.

You can find Tim on Facebook, Twitter, his own website - and keep in touch by subscribing to his newsletter.