In a land of endless Winter, two heroes are born.
Jana has the magic of trees, Grieve has something…other than magic.
An oath to save their world will shape their destiny. End the Winter brought by the Ice Lord and his demons.
Enslaved by the ice demons, Grieve’s path to discovering his dark heritage will force him to become a gladiator, dragon rider, and pirate. Jana battles the lure of the dark side of power as she strives to control her magic.
It’s not going to be an easy journey. But there will be dragons.
Wintersun by Cindy Tomamichel is an old school epic fantasy quest with fabulous beasts and extraordinary heroes.

An icy wind tore through the small mountain hut. It carried cold and the thin keening sound of hunger. “Maeve…” it called, “Maaeevvee…”
Maeve’s nostrils flared. Stronger than the stench of blood and birth was the scent of evil. Predators that hunted her once more.
Biting hard on the leather strap gripped in her teeth, she grunted, expelling the placenta onto the birthing hide. Glancing at her baby, she tied the cord and gathered her close. The blood smeared girlchild moved strongly in her arms, and a tiny fist batted her on the cheek.
“Be strong daughter. We have a battle to fight yet,” Maeve whispered. She wrapped the babe and tied her against her breast, making sure she was secure. She would need both hands free in the battle to come. “Do not worry, I will not let them get you.” She relaxed as she felt the babe suckle.
The wind keened again, and Maeve shivered. The hungry sound was closer. Not for a few weeks had she heard that sound, and she had hoped she would birth in the village far below. But yesterday they had found her, and a fall down a snowy cliff had hastened her birth time by a week.
One night a bride, nine months a widow. She looked down at the reddish hair of her daughter, she was so like Gareth, the babe’s father.
“Oh Gareth, why did you not let me die with you?” The baby cooed at the sound of her voice, and she whispered to her, “maybe you are the answer.” The tiny hut around her held memories of love and death, courage, and darkness. For a brief time, Maeve allowed herself to remember, wishing Gareth was here to see his daughter. The little girl in her arms was all she had left of her husband. Maeve, woozy from birth and blood loss, let her memories overtake her.
###
Outside the air howled again, and the babe at her breast squirmed. Maeve stood up using the broadsword as a support, feeling stronger for the rest.
“Maeeevvvee…Maaeevvee…” the wind howled.
Maeve straightened and shuddered at the call. From deep inside her came an answering contraction.
Another baby. She felt her stomach kick hard.
“Well, you are going to have to wait little one,” Maeve said, standing up and sheathing her sword. “Be strong.” The kick she received seemed to be an answer, and Maeve prayed she could reach the village safe before this one was born. She patted her daughter and covered her face warmly, checking the fastening of the sling. She grabbed her dagger and returned it to her arm gauntlet. Picking up the placenta wrapped in the birthing leather, Maeve staggered outside.
The air was bitter and cold, an icy sleet froze her wet clothes. Maeve swept back her cloak to give herself mobility. She was inured to cold and had ceased to feel it since that dreadful night nine months ago. The happiest and worst day of her life, from maiden to widow in the span of a night. Icy mist flowed down the hillside filling the gully, swirling around her. It smelled of hunger.
Surrounding the hut were the ice demons.
Behind them the moon had risen. It was half hidden; the eclipse had taken a slice and was devouring the glow. Soon the dark of the moon would be complete.
“Time to die demons,” Maeve yelled, whipping her sword from its sheath.

You can keep reading Wintersun as it is available now.

Cindy Tomamichel speaks up!

1) Each book is a new writing experience, what did you most enjoy about writing Wintersun?

I wrote this from a one word prompt from a writers group some years ago. It grew into a one page story of the end scene, then during Nano into an epic. I wanted to write a traditional barbarian quest novel, but the character Grieve turned out to be much gentler and have a sense of humour. Not that he doesn’t enjoy a good fight, but he also likes cats and is kind, a result of a harsh childhood as a slave.
I got to include all sorts of beasts from my imagination and inspired by other authors of classic monster novels, so that was fun too.
The female main character Jana was also interesting, to have her struggle with the pawer of her magic and grow into a teacher of other magic bearers.
So I managed to include all my favourite bits from classic fantasy and sword and sorcery novels, and put a twist on them to make the characters more from a woman’s perspective rather than traditional sword and sorcery male authors.

2) Who is the author that inspires you the most and what is it about them and their writing that does?

I was heavily influenced by RE Howard and his Conan character for Wintersun. The fights, the fabulous beasts, and a simple honest (if sometimes violent) approach to events is a tough act to follow. But Grieve grew beyond a basic barbarian, with his own code of morals and behaviour from being a starving slave growing up.
E. Rice Burroughs is also a great influence, in the breakneck speed of action proving a page turning action filled read. He was never shy about introducing mad queens, sentient beasts and darkling gods if they served the plot. How could I not do the same?
I’ve also been turned off reading high fantasy – the endless descriptions of history, the royal line or local tribal legal systems make me yawn. So I just avoided all that and jumped into the plot!

3) Pasta, fries, or doughnuts?

Pasta is such an every day food that I bored myself with it! Fries, well only the zucchini fries from Grilled – I known, sounds ick, but try them. Doughnuts? I probably have one once a year, but I do yearn for a simple chocolate one – with sprinkles – every so often.

Cindy Tomamichel is a multi-genre writer of action adventure novels. Escape the everyday with time travel, science fiction and fantasy stories or romance. Discover worlds where the heroines don’t wait to be rescued, and the heroes earn that title the hard way. You can find out more about her on her website or sign up for her newsletter to keep up-to-date with all her writing news!

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

“There’s many a thing I’ve seen as I wish I could unsee,” the old spacefarer sat at a table in the bar, “Space gribblies, the face of a man about to be put out the airlock without a suit and the final breaths of last living being on a dying world.”

The young man nodded eagerly.

“So tell us about these space gribblies?”

The old spacefarer smacked his lips

“Talking is thirsty work, son, thirsty work.”

Three drinks later, the young man left and the barman wiped the table.

“Not bad for one night,” he observed.“Those youngsters’ll believe anything.”

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jacintha Farquhar, maternal parent of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV offers important life lessons to those who like to think they’ve got what it takes to write a damn book…

Here we go again.

Yes, it’s me Jacintha Farquhar, and not – as promised last week – my son, Moons.

I had hoped that I’d not have to come up with another one of these. I was kicking back with a Pernod and Pimms spritzer enjoying the blazing sun in the back garden and admiring the abs on my new next-door neighbour as he was up a ladder fixing something on his roof, topless. But then the peace was broken by a call from that pompous prat I have the misfortune to have to claim as my son. He is back to being his obnoxious self as if nothing had happened to dent his massive ego.

The good news is I am spared his presence for another week, as he has decided to take a long ‘cultural cruise’ of the Adriatic and stay on various Greek islands with someone called Stavros. The bad news is that it means I have to get out my iPad and come up with something vaguely intelligent to say to you lot in the meantime.

I hope you bloody appreciate it!

Writing about People

And by ‘people’ I also mean aliens if you write that science fiction stuff Moons is so fond of. They are people too. And so are those elves and dwarves – and vampires. In fact, any character you ever write, even a talking computer, is going to be people. So you might as well listen up as too many of you wannabes don’t have the first idea about any kind of people except those who are exactly like you.

Oh yes, you might write about some poor orphaned starveling who is abused by the world, but does she think and act like someone who’s been through that kind of experience? Or just your weak and idealised imagination of what it might be like? I mean, how many genuinely damaged people do you count in your close circle? If the answer is ‘Well, Olivia’s parents divorced and she had to give up her horse riding lessons which left her traumatised for life’ or something similar, then you need to rethink writing that starveling. You. Have. No. Idea. And if you don’t, then no amount of effing imagination is going to fill in the gaps.

And, no I’m not saying you can only write about your own level of privileged life, I’m saying get out there and meet the kind of people you want to write about. Go to that dive bar, visit that job centre, help out at that homeless shelter, and find out what the people you want to write into your stories are really like. And the same the other way around. You want to know how the better off think, go along to the local posh golf club and listen in on their banter, hear what they really talk about. A useful tip here is go volunteer to visit an old people’s homes – chat with them. You’ll get the full monty on life across the spectrum, I promise you.

Don’t be like my naive and self-righteous prig of a son who firmly believes that he understands all people because he is one.

Oh, if you can’t bring yourself to actually go to those places and interact with real people, then you can at least read about them. That’s what the more precious twonks amongst those who call themselves writers (yes Moons, I’m looking at you) that I know seem to do. Most are too bloody afraid of real people to go out and actually talk to them.

Right. I’m done. If my sodding son is not back soon I’ll be posting cocktail recipes with naked pictures of me drinking them. You have been warned.

Now bugger off!

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

You can find more of my son’s ramblings in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago, but please don’t as it only encourages him!

White dove of hope flies freely now
Carries my love in her breast
Escaped the bars of hate somehow
Freed at a child’s behest
White dove of joy, bright in the sun
Carries my heart to that far someone

jane jago 2024

Dying to be Roman by Jane Jago and E.M. Swift-Hook is a whodunit set in an alternative modern day Britain where the Roman Empire still rules.

“What new information did you have for me?” Julia asked. “You mentioned something when I arrived.”
Decimus frowned.
“I did?” Then his frown cleared. “Oh yes, I did, we have tracked down where Quintillas Publius Luca and his wife have been staying. They were under assumed names, of course. As he was the one banished, not her, there is no grounds to arrest her. But someone will have to go and break the news to that grieving widow too.”
“She can wait, this needs to be sorted first.”
It wasn’t too long before the sound of hurrying feet announced the return of the guard.
“Yes?” Decimus barked.
“The domina is not in the house. The rear door guard reports that she went out about two hours ago. A hovercab was waiting for her.”
“Thank you.”
The guard made a smart about turn and left the room. Julia poked around inside her head for something to say. She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the guard came back.
“One Llewelyn asking for Domina Julia,” he said woodenly.
“Let him in, man. Let him in.”
Dai came in, looking, Julia thought, distinctly uncomfortable. She noticed there was a new garum stain on his tunic. Didero gave him a wry grin.
“It appears,” he said heavily, “that my lady wife, who may well be connected to your investigation, has chosen to leave home. I have no idea where she has gone, though I fully intend to find out.” He cracked his knuckles, which sounded as loud as a pistol shot in the quiet room. “So just spit out whatever it is you are worrying about phrasing tactfully. I promise not to bite your head off.”
“I can help with the whereabouts of the domina,” Dai’s voice was flat. “I’ve just left her. Considering what she promised would happen to me and Bryn if we didn’t keep our mouths shut, I wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. But. I left Domina Lydia comforting the widow of Urbanus Hostilius Rufus.”
Didero leapt into action and before Julia had chance to think about what to do next, half a dozen grim-faced Praetorians were dispatched to the upmarket apartment building with orders to arrest anyone they found in the Rufus home.
Julia shared a grimace with Dai.
“Why do I have the distinct impression they won’t find anybody?”
Dai shrugged elaborately.
“There’s something else. I could be wrong, but I don’t think Rufus’ death came as news to the domina.”
Decimus looked at him soberly.
“You could be wrong, but you don’t think you are, do you?”
“No. I don’t.”
“So we wait.”
We do,” Julia agreed, then she had a thought. “There is something else we can do. The wife of Quintillas Publius Luca. I think she might be part of whatever is going on. You wouldn’t consider having her picked up, would you?”
“Why not? It smells to me like she could be up to her patrician titties in whatever is going on… apart from anything else she made no attempt to report her husband missing.”
He bashed his bell again and dispatched more Praetorians.

Part XVI will be here next week. If you can’t wait to find what happens next you can snag the full novella here.

Things that make us go poop…

Granny and the ‘ladies’ darts team of The Dog and Trumpet alphabetically collate their collective contempt for the inhabitants of the twenty-first century.

B caused a certain amount of spirited discussion as the candidates all have adequate reasons to be detested. So. Are we disassembling Bagpipes, Botox, or Brexit? None of them as it turns out. Brenda pulled rank and thus:

B is for: Brazilian

Not the football team, or the people of that fine country, though. The Brazilian in the firing line today is the waxing of the lady garden.
Aside from the undoubted painfulness of the procedure, and the fact one is expected to go to a ‘salon’ and pay good money to have ones pubes torn out by the roots…
One has to ask why.
Why do you want your most intimate area plucked like the Sunday chicken?
What possible benefit is there to removing the protective covering from one’s fanny?
Why does an adult woman want to model her pudenda on those of a pre-pubescent child?
And, if you are saying that you want it all gone, what the actual **** is that little strip of hair, coyly (or not) known as a landing strip, for?

Let’s hit the old chestnut first. Hygiene. There are no benefits to personal hygiene in having no pubic hair. In fact it may be deleterious to such, as the hair is protective.

It looks nice. If you really think that it’s your privilege. But you’re wrong.

My husband/boyfriend/clients like it. Unless they are paying for the privilege (when even Brenda is willing to admit that men may get half a vote), you should maybe ask yourself why he likes the frozen chicken look. Does he want you to be his baby? Is he wanting to control your labia? Or does he just think he should like it because some bozo on the internet told him he should? Whatever the reason behind his championship of this refined torture, we girls would suggest a quid pro quo. Tell him you’ll get a Brazilian if he gets a back, sack and crack wax. See how keen he is then…

Though the biggers never see it, there is much going on in their own backyard where the ‘nomes make their home…

The gnomes watched furtively while some strange biggers dug, sweated, swore and laboured at building a big pond. A pond with square sides and blue tiles. Late at night, when the garden folk had the place to themselves they strolled over to stare.
It was, as Big Sid declared, a bloody big hole.
But then it was finished and filled with water, and the household biggers jumped in and out squealing gleefully.
The party to christen the pool might have been less successful if the guests had seen a line of grinning gnomes pissing into the water in the moonlight.

Jane Jago

Writing inspired by the art of Ian Bristow

The smoke which filled the interior of the Dreaming Room sneaked around the edges of Kanu’s thoughts, whispering of what was to come.
“You must lie here,” the High Priest declared, gesturing with his staff of office to a place on the stone floor which had been marked around by engraved with holy symbols. They glittered darkly in the sputtering light of the torches, having been filled freshly with the blood from the sacrifice just made to send Kanu on his journey.
He wanted to say no, to protest this was a mistake that the birthmark he bore was just that and not a sign that he would be the one to fulfil the prophecy. But the eyes of the High Priest were without compassion and the expressions on the faces of the two strong women armed with fire-spears who flanked him were invisible behind their beaked masks.
So Kanu lay down in the sacred place in the Dreaming Room and closed his eyes. The rolling chants of the priests in the god’s sanctuary reached in through the doorway lifting his inner self like waves on the shore.
Then he was standing on the shore beneath a dark star-filled sky on the shores of a blood-red sea.
“Look!”
The voice was that of the High Priest and yet also that of the god. Kanu looked into the water and saw his reflection. Talons. Wings. Horns. A towering body with primal strength.
It was true.
The prophecy was true.
He was indeed the Destroyer.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Ian is an awesome artist and cover designer, you can find his work at Bristow Design or watch him in action creating this piece on ART with IAN

Telling an entire story in just one hundred words…

Mo Ryan whacked the ball back over the net and then raised his arms high in victory as his opponent failed to return it. On the next court in the women’s championship finals, Emily Payne made an identical gesture as she won her match point.

The pictures went viral, but the comments were very different.

‘Tennis hunk Ryan celebrates victory’

‘Disgusting Payne shows up unshaved.’

Later, in their hotel bedroom, Mo shook his head in disbelief.

“So why is my pit hair sexy and yours disgusting?”

Emily shrugged.

“Dual standards.”

“We’ll see.”

In his next match, Mo wore a skirt.

E.M. Swift-Hook

Jacintha Farquhar, maternal parent of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV offers important life lessons to those who like to think they’ve got what it takes to write a damn book…

If you tuned in expecting advice from Moons, you are out of luck this week. Instead, you’ve got me again, Jacintha Farquhar, hag of this parish.

All right you load of miserable excuses for human beings who fancy yourself the next Stephen King, pin back your lugholes and be prepared to learn. You are all very keen on writing epic battles and knights in shining armour and all that crap, but I’m willing to bet there isn’t a one of you has ever actually even seen a fight leave alone dirtied your precious pinkies by being involved in that most working class of pastimes that is a bloody good bundle.

Writing about Fisticuffs

Okay then. Here’s the deal. This week’s lesson is entitled fisticuffs and is intended to give you at least the vestige of an idea about what happens when adult human beings set out to beat the crap out of each other.

First things first. If you want to really understand your knights in shining and their trusty steeds, join a re-enactment society. Get your feet stomped on by something that feels like Mummy’s best le Creuset Marmite, crawl around in mud and snot and tears for a while, watch as the bloke on the horse breaks every bone in his body when he hits the ground from a height of seventeen hands. Then go rewrite your crappy medieval fight. Similarly, should you be romanticising the English Civil War, go join the Sealed Knot and enjoy the delights of a pre-dawn melee on a frozen moor. I’m sure those of you living in the colonies have something similar recreating your own local battles. Want an idea of modern or futuristic combat? Try laser-tag or go paintballing.

The more mundane sort of present-day scuffling is a little more problematic to become personally involved in. For two reasons.

One: there is the potential to get hurt quite badly (and should some middle-class twat turn up and randomly start throwing punches, everybody will forget their grievances with each other and unite to beat the living crap out of him or her).

Two: the real possibility of getting arrested exists.

For the above reasons I have chosen not to suggest you seek personal involvement. Instead, I’ll let you learn from my experience and debunk some of the popular and misguided myths that pepper the writing of the fight virgin.

1. It is extremely difficult to knock somebody out with one punch. And should you manage to do so the chances of having inflicted serious and life-threatening injury are very high.
2. It is almost impossible to punch someone and cause sufficient pain so that your opponent will admit defeat. This is because most people in fights are seriously impaired by drink or drugs and have had their pain threshold raised to somewhere in the stratosphere
3. If you knock somebody down, don’t be thinking that makes them not dangerous. Nine times out of ten they will get up. Fucking furious. If you should ever manage to put an opponent on the floor the only sensible action is to leg it.
4. Please do not ever think that any sense of chivalry can be found in a Saturday Night Special. When they are in the moment, men will hit, men, women, OAPs, cats, dogs, toddlers, their own mothers. You have been warned.
5. Nobody. But nobody walks out of a mass punch-up with their hair/make-up immaculate and their clothes in apple pie order. It. Does. Not. Happen. Participants (even those accounted victorious) will be dirty, bruised, smeared with blood and mucus, and, in the case of the female of the species, inevitably missing one shoe (almost always the left).

So, there we have it Jacintha’s guide to the grim realities of physical combat. Read, learn, inwardly digest and get your fucking act together. Now you have no excuse to get it wrong so go and rewrite that last fight scene and leave me to my prosecco.

Next week: Moons will be back so you can get more of his drivel on how to write a book.

Jacintha Farquar, unfortunate mother of Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV.

You can find more of my son’s ramblings in How To Start Writing A Book courtesy of E.M. Swift-Hook and Jane Jago, but please don’t because if you do he’ll be gloating for weeks!!