Gaston

But now as he leaned over the basin, he realized he had become his father. Clutching his chest, he breathed in and staggered to the edge of the bed. Sweat poured from every pore in his body as he swung his legs onto the well-worn softness of the mattress. He clenched his teeth and let out a hiss as another surge of pain assailed his heart and he told himself – I don’t want to die. I’ll change, I’ll make things better. Pain sprung like a cleaver in the center of his chest, and he gasped loudly and choked before his body slackened.

“I’m telling you Daisy, something is wrong. I can feel it,” Beatrix’s husky voice said as she turned to look at her sister. “Fine! I can’t rest with you nagging every five minutes. Let’s go and see then.” The two women rolled to the edge of the bed and struggled to a sitting position. They were bound by flesh from the shoulder to the hip. One had to be aware of the other’s intentions to prevent harm by tripping hazards and the like, but over their twenty years they had come to know one another intimately and now had the ability to know what the other was thinking before she even thought it.

The girls were born as conjoined twins and with an innate ability to conjure and perform spells of witchcraft, which made living in one place extremely difficult. Townsfolk always kept their distance, worried that the sisters would pass on their ‘disease’, or curse them to an eternity of hell if they said the wrong thing.

Beatrix lowered her head and furrowing her brow said quietly, “I had a vision. A vision of death and manifestation. I can feel the darkness surrounding us now.”

Her eye lids fluttered as she turned to her sister.

“I feel it too. Let the spirits guide us.”

The two women stood and rolled their necks in a clockwise circle, cracking the tension, as long strands of flame-red curls swayed with the motion. Without another word, they left their wagon and walked towards the small blue and white one a few hundred yards away.

Beatrice and Daisy approached the wagon and began mumbling incomprehensible words to themselves; a gusty wind responded. It burst forth, increasing in velocity as the long dry grass flung backwards.

Raising their heads and arms they said in unison, “I am a witch, a shepherd of this world. I am here to claim the soul of the stricken.” The wind howled around the wagon then eased and stilled, allowing the twins to enter.

Gaston lay on the bed motionless, his mouth slightly ajar and his eyes open. His eyes were like a dead fish, lacking shine, and his skin already cold to the touch. The women each placed a palm on his forehead and mumbled a chant.
Do not dwell in the past

Do not dream of the future

Your work on earth is not done

In spirit please help find the one

Our savior, then you may rest

Save Cirque Monter en Flèche

A loud rumbling noise made the bed shudder violently and it continued as the women’s voices grew louder and stronger. Their conviction was unyielding as the noise lessened and the shuddering stopped.

A white mist lazily began to swirl from Gaston’s mouth, and as it left his body it formed into a likeness of him. Soon it was half the height of the dead man and the same shape, except the spirit faded at the edges, and having no feet, it hovered in the air.

“Oh, thank God, I thought I’d kicked the proverbial!”

“You have. Geez, you were a ninny in life and you still bloody are when you’re dead!”

Beatrix’s anger blazed momentarily before she added, “You are a spirit.”

“And until you finish the job you were meant to do on earth, we must put up with your sorry ass,” added Daisy as she poked the mist spirit with her finger.

“Don’t! I can feel that!”

“You shouldn’t be able too,” she replied, looking at Beatrix who shrugged and added, “It’s because he’s only just died. His feelings will disappear in time, just like they did when he was alive.” She drew her lips into a thin tight line which relieved a hurt that still stung, and Daisy reached with her free arm and touched her shoulder.

“He was always an ass, Sis.”

Melissa North told us:  “My upbringing in the Brisbane, Australia was inspirational as my young creative mind overflowed with ideas and images. After marrying I moved, with my husband, to the North West region and have lived here and in the Lockyer Valley long enough to see both my children born and raised. 

“I return to Brisbane every year to our family home. I have always loved telling stories and so writing seemed to be the next natural thing to do. I love the journey I am on and would like to share my creative adventures with the youth of Australia and the world.  As an Author, I am creative, imaginative and original with a unique writing style that provides a reading experience unlike any other. I’m so appreciative and delighted by the positive response my work has received. I’m looking forward to sharing my future stories as they come to fruition.”

You can find Melissa on Twitter, Facebook, Goodreads, her blog and her website.

Q1: What do you like most about yourself?

Ha! Just before my heart attack, the realisation that I’ve become my father hit me. So, there’s not a lot I like about me at the moment.

I don’t think many people will miss me either, I’ve been called an asshole so many times, I’ve lost count. I’m a spirit now and besides hanging out for a smoke and to feel the taste of gin sliding down my throat, I flit around wishing I’d made better choices.

Q2: If someone offered you the chance to change one thing in your world what would it be and why?

*Gaston looked to be pacing the floor, however with spirit qualities, pacing really just doesn’t seem to sound right. His brow creased and dark eyes narrowed as he turned*

I would change the day my father lost the plot. He cheated on my mother with whores from a town the circus was performing in, and the bastard loved the moonshine… I tell you! If I was older then, I would have killed him myself!

*The caravan we are sitting in begins to shake and the drawers spring open dislodging their contents onto the floor*

Q3: What career would you most like to follow if not your own and why?

*Gaston shakes his head and scratched his bulbous belly*

In hindsight, I would not change my career, if I knew now what the future was to deal out, I would of changed my ways. I should have taken more notice of a lot of people. I’ve hurt some-one I love and I miss her.

*He fades in and out of view as he speaks before disappearing completely from my view*

You can find more about Gaston in Melissa North’s ‘A Confabulated Compendium of Anecdotes’ which you can find on Amazon USA, Amazon UK, and Amazon Australia and all other Amazon stores.

Please note ‘Castle Perilous’ is an Adult Read.

The gate guard at Castle Perilous was alert and unobtrusive, and a single robed and cowled figure mounted on a tall, grey horse was closely observed as it mounted the causeway. As the horse approached the gates the rider drew rein.
“Traveller seeking shelter.”
“Shelter granted.”

The rider shook the reins and the horse moved forwards with its iron-shod hooves echoing hollowly on the wooden planks of the drawbridge.

Once they had passed under the portcullis and through the curtain wall, a guardsman appeared at each stirrup.
“What is your business at Castle Perilous?”
“I have no business here,” the voice was low and pleasantly husky. “I merely journey from one place to another and seek shelter from the storm whose clouds roil and boil in the western sky.”
“Very well. We will take your horse.”
A hand went to the bridle, but was snatched away just inches from a set of snapping yellow teeth. The rider laughed.
“Be careful, Horse has been known to bite.”
“Indeed.”

A shaven-headed dwarf with massively muscular shoulders stepped forward and grasped the reins in one horny hand. He and the horse eyed each other intensely for a moment, then Horse gave the equine equivalent of a shrug and abandoned the attempt to win the staring match. His rider laughed, swung one leg over the pommel and dropped lightly to the ground.

The sergeant of the guard indicated that the visitor was to follow him.
“One of the guard will bring your saddlebags.”

The cowled figure followed in his wake and was brought to the doors of the Great Hall. The sergeant opened one leaf of the door and bowed the visitor inside.

The visitor trod the worn white flagstones towards the western wall whose arched windows overlooked a green valley up which the purple-black storm clouds were racing. Whoever or whatever was under the cowl seemed unsurprised by the magnificence of the grand chamber, and walked with bowed head and hands tucked into the sleeves of a monkish woollen robe. At the steps to the dais the visitor looked up, straight into the cold eyes of the incumbent of Castle Perilous.

He was huge and blonde-braided, with intricately tattooed runes running across his pale skin. Other than his moustached face, the hands that rested on the arms of a deeply carved wooden chair were the only undecorated flesh visible, being as white as milk but calloused and scarred withal. Those hands clenched and unclenched for a moment before he spoke.
“Do they send a monk to convert The Knight of the Doleful Countenance to their weak womanish religion?” His voice was deep, and booming, and filled with contempt.
His visitor put back the concealing hood to reveal that it was no monk who stood at the foot of the steps looking critically upwards.

It was a woman, an austerely handsome woman – broad of cheekbone, and with alabaster pale skin and astonishingly blue eyes. Her yellow hair was brushed smoothly away from her face and gathered in a club at the nape of her neck. She regarded the seated giant much as a cat regards a mouse and he shifted uneasily in his great chair.

“What then have they sent you here for? To seduce me?”
She laughed.
“Hardly.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I seek shelter from the storm.”
“What storm?”
As if on cue, the sky darkened and the air was rent by sounds of thunder. The windows behind the dais were battered by hailstones and lashing rain.
“This one.”
“Very well I will believe you. But there is payment to be levied.”
“Payment? What of the laws of hospitality?”
“I care for no laws. In Castle Perilous I am the law.” The enormous man laughed derisively as he looked into the woman’s face. “You look to be a tasty little morsel, and one that might while away a boring hour or two.”
The woman regarded him patiently.
“And what if I say no?”
He shrugged.
“It matters not a jot to me. Will ye or nil ye, I will have you.”
Her eyes remained unafraid and she lifted one shoulder.
“We shall see.”

The Knight actually chuckled, before rising to his full seven feet and extending a hand.
“I can at least offer you food while we discuss this further.”
The woman put the tips of her fingers on his bulky forearm and they walked together out of the great hall and up the stairs to the solar, where a noble fire warmed the air and the walls were hung with rich tapestries.

Behind them the household held its collective breath. It was very rare to see a woman walking up those stairs on her own two feet before, and the staff had learned to expect something cataclysmic to ensue.

However, the sky did not fall in and there were no screams to be heard, so a stream of lackeys mounted the staircase bearing bottles and covered dishes.

While the nameless ones went about their business, the Knight and the Lady stood by the window in silence and watched the driving rain. Once the last servant had bowed his way out, the Knight went to a side table and poured a glass of blood-red wine.

He brought the glass to the Lady who took it from his hand. She sniffed its bouquet and sighed.
“I do not need your wine laced with opiates.”
She put the glass down and looked into the Knight’s face.
“I meant it only as a kindness,” he growled.
“Kindness? To whom? When you rape me I intend that you should hear my screams…”
He would not meet her eyes.
“Why call it rape?”
“What else should I call it. You say yourself that you mean to have me, whether I will it or not. I do not. So there is no other name for it but rape.”
He bulked his shoulders but did not reply.

The lady put hands to the belt of her robe and unfastened it, removing the serviceable brown wool to disclose a simple creamy linen garment beneath. She sat on the window seat to remove her stout leather boots, revealing long delicately boned feet to the Knight’s heated gaze.

He swallowed audibly, but said nothing, merely handing her to a seat at a table laid for two. He served her a plate of carefully chosen meats before bringing his own meal to the place opposite her at the table. He watched her intently, with his lightless eyes resting on the hollows at the base of her white throat. She looked back at him.
“Why do you watch me so?”
“Because you do not fear me.”
“How do you know I do not fear you?”
He chuckled, and it was an almost human sound.
“You are not the first woman to sit at this table with me. There have been those before you whose bravado carried them thus far, but here in this room I have seen their fear grow and watched their hands tremble. I do not believe you could eat so calmly were you in fear.”
“Maybe not. Or maybe I just have more pride than those who have gone before me.”
“More pride than queens and priestesses and witches and seers?”
“Mayhap. You will never know.”
He inclined his head but said no more.

The silence between them was far from comfortable and it stretched for many moments before the Knight spoke again. His voice was a low growl.
“I wish you would drink the wine,” he said almost plaintively.
“Why? So that I cannot call you rapist to your head?”
“No, lady. So that I shall not cause you pain.”
She raised her brows and the Knight reddened under the weight of her gaze. He spoke with some reticence.
“I am not a small man, in any dimension, and when the lust rises in my blood I have no moderation. I have respect for your courage and I find myself reluctant to hurt you.”
“If you have no wish to hurt me the remedy is in your hands.”
“It is not in my hands,” the words sounded as if they had been ripped from his very soul.
The Lady looked at him in some pity.
“How so?”
“It is the castle,” he whispered, “it craves blood. The life blood of those knights who dare challenge me, and the virgin blood of the women sent in tribute.”
The Lady showed a row of perfectly even white teeth.
“Life blood or virgin blood? It seems you will have to kill me.”
It took a moment for the import of what she said to register, then the Knight threw back his head and roared in frustration, underpinned by something one might have called sorrow if he had been entirely human.
“Nooooooo….”

As he bellowed his defiance, the Lady felt the castle’s hunger as a vibration through the soles of her bare feet where they rested on the floor.
She sighed. “Lend me your dagger.”
Somewhat to his own surprise, the Knight handed it over and watched as his guest walked to the chimney breast. She laid her hand on the stones and the castle’s hunger became a high-pitched voice singing in the air around her head.
“You shall die
And you shall bleed
And on your blood
These stones shall feed”

The Knight fell back in his chair.
“You can hear it too?” his voice was a saw-toothed whisper.
“Of course I can.”
“It wants me to kill you.”
“I know.”

The Lady cut deeply into her thumb with the Knight’s blade and smeared her blood on the warm wall, making a complex rune. The eerie singing stopped, and the castle felt replete.
“How? What?” the Knight was perplexed, then he stretched himself to his full height. “Go now,” he whispered. “Leave while the monster is quiescent. The rain is almost over. Get your horse and go before the castle knows you are gone.”
“And what will happen to you when the castle wakes?”
“Nothing,” he said dully, “it needs me too much to do me harm. It will be angry for a while.”

The Lady smiled.
“Liar. It will punish you horribly if you let me go.”
“And if it does? What have I not done that deserves punishment? I have survived before.”
He shrugged off his leather waistcoat to display a whole landscape of scars, some as deep as the thickness of a man’s thumb. The Lady swallowed around a sudden sickness in her mouth.
“Why?”
“I let a virgin go free. She was too young and too small, and even the bloodlust of the stones was not strong enough to make me take her.”
She put one cool hand on his chest and he noticed that the cut to her thumb had healed already, but somehow it was too much effort to think about anything except her wide-set sapphire eyes.

The Lady appeared to reach a decision.
“How much do you want to escape?”
“When I am myself, I want to get away with every fibre of my being. But when the castle takes me over…”
“Understood,” she looked deep into his eyes behind which she could begin to discern a spark of humanity. “Understood, but are you of high enough courage to take a chance at my side?”
In lieu of a reply, the huge Knight knelt and kissed her foot.

She smiled and gave one of his braids a shrewd tug. He stood looking down at her as she dropped her robe.
“Undress,” her voice was soft but brooked no argument.
The gigantic Knight stripped quickly, standing before her naked save for his tattoos.
The Lady grinned into his uncomprehending eyes.
“We have one chance, and one chance only, will you trust me?”
He nodded, and she plunged his own knife into the femoral artery that pulsed in his thigh.

He let loose a cry of pain and shock as his blood spattered the walls of the solar.
At first, the castle seemed quiescent, then it began drinking the blood drawing the scarlet spatters into its very stones, finally it realised whose blood it had taken and the very stones cried out their anger and alarm.
“Too late,” the Lady spoke in a voice that seemed to echo from the heavens themselves. “Too late. You have eaten your own heart.”

As the stones of the castle began to let go of their form and slip and slither like living things, the Lady turned her attention to the dying giant at her feet. She extended a hand and he reached for the comfort she offered.

No sooner had their hands joined than a pathway opened up before them, a moonlit pathway leading upwards to who knew where.

The Lady smiled at the Knight; both stepped out of their fleshy prisons and set their feet on that upward path and walked away from the death throes of Castle Perilous followed by a dwarf and a tall grey horse. Behind them, their mortal bodies turned to dust, and the stones of the castle fell down never to be reassembled.

Mes Chers Readers Who Write,

I am sure I do not need to remind you of who I am at this point in our relationship, but I will acknowledge there may be a handful of benighted individuals who have yet to make my acquaintance. So for their benefit, I will again mention that my name is Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV and I am the renowned author of both the speculative fiction classic ‘Fatswhistle and Buchtooth’ and of this ‘The Thinking Quill’ which offers insight into the mysteries of the authorial craft.

Indeed it was only yesterday Mummy observed: ‘You spend too much time in that coal cellar. You should get out more.” But I assured her the reason I was committing so much of my life to my literary sanctum, was both to progress my own literary offerings and to selflessly share of my copious pearls of wisdom with you, oh Reader Who Writes.

So, without further hesitation or procrastination on either side, let us undress the goddess of literature and peer beneath the skirts of her most intimate places. In brief, dear RWW, let us consider the very building-blocks of her DNA – the tools with which one has wrought such wonders – words.

How to Start Writing a Book – Lesson 5. The Write Words

It is a truth universally acknowledged that paucity of vocabulary is the fence at which a multiplicity of putative novelists fail. Gird up your loins my children and do battle with the twin dragons of over-simplification and ugly language. Let that duo of decrepitude be downtrodden under the heels of linguistic loveliness. Let your Muse speak to you in honeyed prose. Let the thesaurus be your Bible and let not the commonplace leave your fingertips. Never say that your grass is green, rather enchant your readers with the verdant viridian verbiage. Let them inhale the aroma of the recumbent emerald as it is crushed beneath the bare toes of powerful simile.

Let your doting following bask in the sunlight of your fertile poesy. Let your words be as sunlight to the face of the damask rose. Let your adjectival imagery lift your children from the commonplace to the heights of quasi-sexual ecstasy. Let your voice be as the zephyr of a southern breeze carrying the redolence of olive groves and lemon trees and the salt tang of mare nostrum.

Lead your interlocutors along primrose paths of erudition and titillation, and do not cease in your endeavours until your mind’s ear can hear their sighs of replete completion. Only then have you begun to understand the manifest prognostications of your craft.

To encapsulate this vital educational epistle:

1. Never use a simple word where a periphrastic locution can be set.
2.  Never use a sole descriptor – a lonely adjective should be a contumely maxim! Instead, allow the perihelion swirl of elucidatory and expressive ornament to embrace each noun and verb.
3. Seek always the etymological road least travelled and endow your audience with rare gems mined from deep archaisms and seek the perfect bon mots from languages few speak. Thus you will both educate and impress.

Consider my words with care.

Until next mes enfants, adieu and may Erato and Calliope attend your dreams.

Bon Ecrit!

Moonbeam Farquhar Metheringham IV

Join The Adoring Fans of Moonbeam Farquahar Metheringham IV

From Arkad’s Children – which is released today!

Lutan Jakan nodded to the Tamrin guard and pushed open the makeshift door of the stables. A musty smell of old hay, manure and sweaty fear pervaded the dim interior. Patches of light filtered down through the rotted thatch roof and warped walls onto a hardened mud floor. A rag tag bunch of girls and boys ranging from ten to sixteen sat around the on sacks, piles and boxes or sprawled out on sleeping mats.

‘Listen up, youngsters. This is Dinnis, another lost waif. Hasuk lad, show him the facilities and a place to doss down for the night.’

Even in the filtered light, it was obvious all present had the bronzed colouring of the Tamrin. No blue-skinned Nolmec here. The palest was the colour of pig ivory, others like dark wood. His sister was not among them.

Dinnis caught the Lutan’s hand. ‘Ista?’

‘Don’t worry, lad. She’s safe.’ He turned and left, the door rocking shut behind him.

‘Karis …’ No, not Nolmec. Dinnis searched his memory for the Tamrin greeting appropriate for this situation. ‘Ah, greetings friends.’

A few glanced his ways, their faces unsmiling. No one moved or spoke. Most of the group looked tough; barefooted with work roughened hands and blunt speech. They gathered in clumps around the fire, dipping their maizebread into bowls of hot bean stew, gulping it down with few words.

‘Here, eat this.’ The boy Jakan had named Hasuk thrust a clay bowl at him before turning and joining his two friends at the far end of the stalls.

Dinnis ate his meal a little distance from the fire and alone, before finding a spot to sleep.

Next day, as the sun rose in a dirt-smudged sky, Jakan arrived with another officer, a lutan by the shape of his oval chest plate and headdress.

‘Okay boys … and girls. I’m leaving with the main army and will arrange for your care once I get to Tarka. You will be travelling with the baggage train. Lutan Zaven will look after you. There will be no free rides—you need to help.

Lutan Zaven directed the orphans to help dismantle the tents and pack up the heavy equipment and supplies. By mid-morning, the vast bulk of the army had packed up and was streaming through the outer gate heading towards Tarka far to the south, leaving behind the units under Markan Haka command.

By the time the baggage train made its ponderous way through the gates and along the southern road, the pale washed out disc of the second moon Argenti chased the burnished orb of the sun in the western sky.

‘We just got here yesterday and have to pack up again,’ one of the children muttered.

While the youngest of the orphans perched on the back of some of the heavily laden yarmas, the older children walked. By the evening, Dinnis was relieved that they had left so late in the day. His feet stung with painful blisters and his legs felt like heavy boulders had been strapped to them.

Lutan Zaven strode towards them. ‘You older boys, dig latrine trenches for the night—over there.’

‘You’d think we were peasants,’ a burly boy about eight grumbled.

Dinnis picked up the digging tools and followed.

And then, after another solitary meal, he scrubbed the pots with some of the others. When he rolled himself up in the blanket provided and he fell to sleep instantly, despite his aching limbs.

As the days marched by, his feet toughened and his leg muscles hardened. Despite the ostracism and the teasing from his companions, the long daily trek with the added morning and evening tasks became easier. The luminous smile of the young woman with the silver skin haunted his dreams and Dinnis’ doubts began to melt away. Jakan had said that Ista was safe and the Kapok had instructed Jakan to bring him to Tarka. There would be a good reason why Papa couldn’t speak to him at North Pass.

The high mountain vistas and village scenes unfolded before him and Dinnis forgot the pain of blisters, his aching legs and overwhelming tiredness in wide-eyed wonder. In stolen moments at the stronghold, he’d read in Akrad’s books of such faraway places and dreamed of visiting them. It wasn’t quite as he’d imagined it, but soon he would be in the fabled city of Tarka with Papa.

This is from Arkad’s Children the first book in the Akrad’s Legacy series – and ties in with previous short stories and novellas in the world of Nardva by Jeanette O’Hagan — The Herbalist’s Daughter, Lakwi’s Lament, Heart of the Mountain, Blood Crystal.

Gain insight into Dinnis, a major character in Arkad’s Children which is released today!

Q1: What do you most like about where you live and why?

Dinnis:  I live in the Golden Palace of Tamra as an age-mate to the heir to the Throne, Prince Mannok. Sounds like a dream come true, right? But it’s not. Not where I want to be, but it’s better than being treated as a captive or sent to work in the mines or killed, I guess. I do love the Royal Library – it’s huge, full of old codexes and maps and other wonders. Oh, and I like the kitchens. Always good to know where your next meal is coming from.

Q2: How would your friends describe you?

Friends? I’m not sure I have any. Well, Garvin I suppose, but he would make friends with a doorpost if he thought it was lonely. And Tilli and her family. They’d say I’m morose, difficult and snarky. Not a great warrior, but someone who knows things and gets the job done when needed.

Q3: What is your greatest ambition and why?

To make my own life, not to have my future determined for me. And to be a healer rather than a warrior, someone who brings life rather than death. It’s difficult though as I’m expected to fit in at the Palace, but I think I can do it with a bit of ingenuity.

Jeanette O’Hagan first started spinning tales in the world of Nardva at the age of eight or nine. She enjoys writing secondary world fiction, poetry, blogging and editing.

Her Nardvan stories span continents, time and cultures. They involve a mixture of courtly intrigue, adventure, romance and/or shapeshifters and magic users.

Recent publications include e-books Heart of the Mountain: a short novella, it sequel Blood Crystal: a novella, The Herbalist’s Daughter: a short story and Lakwi’s Lament: a short story. Her other short stories and poems are published in a number of anthologies including Glimpses of Light, Another Time Another Place and Futurevision. Jeanette is also writing her Akrad’s Legacy Series—a Young Adult secondary world fantasy fiction with adventure, courtly intrigue and romantic elements.

Jeanette has practised medicine, studied communication, history, theology and a Master of Arts (Writing). She loves reading, painting, travel, catching up for coffee with friends, pondering the meaning of life. She lives in Brisbane with her husband and children.

Find her at her Facebook Page or at Goodreads or on Amazon or on her websites  JennysThread.com or Jeanette O’Hagan Writes . if you want to stay up-to-date with latest publications and developments, sign up to Jeanette O’Hagan Writes e-mail newsletter.  

Con Trevithick stood on the cliff path with the pack containing all he had left in the world leaning against his left leg. He stared across the water to where Plymouth squatted like a carbuncle against the clean morning sky. It was an hour past dawn, and he had been waiting, standing stock still and silent, since just before the sun rose. To be honest, he was beginning to think himself on a fool’s errand but he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn his back and begin the long trudge home to Lamorna on his own.

He had never felt quite so alone in his life, especially when he cast his mind back to the heady days before the parliamentarians took over the city. He found it painful to remember a time when it didn’t matter who your father was so long as you kept your nose clean and worked hard. And even more painful to recall the feel of a certain small hand in his as they danced around the Maypole in Stonehouse. Of course, that was back in the days when her father smiled on their courtship. Con stood alone in the early sunlight and tears pricked his eyes as he thought about their betrothal – how he had saved to buy her a little silver ring, and how she had shed tears of joy over that small gift.

But those happy days were long gone. In March, when the city fathers declared for parliament, Cornishmen were driven from the city by bands of marauding dockers. Con had been lucky to escape with a whole skin, leaving before the marauders reached his lodgings with his girl’s father’s words ringing in his ears.
“Go and be damned to you. And you can forget my girl. She weds Peter Sailmaker on her next birthday.”

Con had found work on a farm in St Germans while he waited out the spring and summer. He was a hard worker, and skilled, and he was made aware that he could wed the farmer’s comely daughter and stay on the farm in comfort for the rest of his days, but he would not marry without love. He just waited out his allotted time and kept his head down. Yesterday he had packed his belongings and shaken the kindly farmer’s big hand.

He headed north-east as he had a thing to do before he turned his face to his father’s house and the boats bobbing on the tide in Lamorna Cove. And that was why he was standing on the clifftop watching the city over the border with a mixture of hope and fear in his heart.

It was September and he was here to keep a promise.

It was September, and there was a taste of frost in the morning air. It was September and tomorrow his love was to be the bride of another man. It was September, and Con was waiting to see if other folk kept their promises.

As he watched the water’s edge and the tiny pathway that climbed to where he stood, he began to realise how futile were his hopes. It was past time. His dream was dead.

He picked up his pack and tried to ignore the tears clogging his throat.

He had just set his foot on the path when he caught the sound of something running through the bracken. He turned his head in time to see a small black and tan dog break cover and hurtle towards him. He dropped his pack and bent in time to receive a frantically wagging body in his arms. Finding himself unable to speak he clutched the terrier to his chest and stared in the direction from which it had come.

He didn’t have long to wait. First his keen ears caught the sound of footsteps, and then she was there, coming out of the dark shade with her skirts kilted up to her knees and a bundle under one arm. She smiled and he felt tears of joy run down his cheeks.
“Con,” she said joyfully, “you came, I thought you may not”.
He put the little dog down and took the half dozen steps he needed to gather her to his heart.
“I came, and I was beginning to fear you had not.”
“I missed the landing and had to beach the boat on the undershore. It took me a while.”
He smiled down into her eyes and looked at the bundle she had dropped on the grass at his feet.
“Does that mean you have left your father’s house?”
“It does. Although he won’t know until supper time. By then we shall be long gone.”

Con kissed her just once and she responded by touching a hand to his face.
“Shall we go home then love?” his voice reverberated with joy.
She put her hand in his and nodded. Turning her back on Plymouth she raised her face to the Cornish sky.
“Aye. Home it is.”

And they set their feet on the path together, with their little dog dancing around them on the springy turf.

© jane jago 2017

You are young so you shouldn’t be that
All pasty, complaisant and fat
With your mouth-ends turned down
And a grumpy-arse frown
From under your middle-aged hat

© jane jago 2017

From ‘The Engineer’ by Darran Handshaw.

“Destroy them, Engineer. I give you my command.”

“Aye aye, and so we will. Remove the aperture.”

One of the attendants pulled free another blackened hide with a circular aperture in it that limited the amount of light that entered the array. There was a bright flash of light in the image of the encampment and Actaeon could see that the tent had ignited instantaneously.

“Excellent! It is alight! Rotate element one to right by one degree. Yes, now up by one half degree. That’s three of them! And one quarter degree to the right.”

As he called out the commands and lit more and more of the enemy tents ablaze, he watched the tribemen awaken in a panic as they moved to wake others and extinguish the flames. He could hear them blowing horns in the far distance to alert the whole camp. The Ruinic tribals emerged from their tents with weapons drawn and readied, but they soon realized that it was fire they were dealing with and they ran to help extinguish the field of blazing tents. The Engineer frowned as he watched several of the tribals spill from one tent, their flailing bodies engulfed in flames. He could see them screaming through the scope, though they were much too far away for their screams to be heard. They struggled in abject horror for but a moment before they lay still, the fire flaring up as their bodies continued to burn.

“Very good, Engineer. He will wait until they are the most preoccupied and disorganized,” said the Prince, his voice snapping Actaeon out of his horror.

He’d just burned those men to death – he hadn’t realized that the tents would catch fire so quickly. It was only supposed to serve as a distraction. Even though he knew many of the tribals far off in the distance were destined for death by sword and spear, it didn’t subtract from the savage fact that he had caused those deaths by fire.

As if on cue, in the bottom left corner of the image arrived the Shieldian troopers, led by Enrion, his sword held high. Adjutant Minovo was at his side, her two swords out and flashing in a blur as she reached the first Ruinic lookout, sending his head spiraling to the side. At their flank were Trench and Wave. The duo was unmistakable with their disparity in height. As they neared the panicked tribals, Wave let loose a bolt from his crossbow and slung it over his shoulder, his own rapier a blur that sent enemies reeling to either side of him as they fell as he dodged and weaved between their spear thrusts. Trench stood behind him with his heavy maul and took care of anyone that the swordsman couldn’t handle, shattering them each in a single blow.

Indros placed a hand on Actaeon’s shoulder and spoke in a low voice that only the Engineer could hear: “Do not fail me now, Engineer. War is Death. If not theirs, then ours. Continue your work. Our countrymen are down there fighting.”

Actaeon shuddered and scratched his right arm before he continued to call his commands to Endira, lighting more and more of the encampment on fire and even using the light to blind enemy troops that turned to face the attacking Shieldians. Many tribals could be seen fleeing toward the distant forest at the foot of the mountains. A group of the tribals had begun to organize at the right side of the camp, their shields held high to block the light that swept over them from the Suntower.

You can Follow The Engineer on Facebook it is  is due out in late 2017.

Q1: Your main character Actaeon is something of an inventor as well as an engineer, how much of you is in him – or is there another who was your main inspiration when writing him?

Great question.  There’s definitely a bit of me in Actaeon.  Before he was a character in the novel, he was a character that I played in a game, so it is useful to stick to what you know for certain aspects.  I’m an engineer and inventor in real life, but I work in a very specific field.  Imagining what someone with an engineering mindset – a person that uses empirical evidence, can deduct clues about things around them, and create intuitive solutions to real problems – could do in a world where people only have a rudimentary understanding of things around them and in most cases no desire to learn more, was a very compelling thing to write about.  Some of Actaeon’s shortcomings too, his verbosity, nervous tics and social awkwardness are exaggerations on some of my own qualities.  It is fun to poke fun at some of those quirks through Actaeon as a character.

One big difference between myself and Actaeon is that he has the potential to use his skills for either good or evil at the start of the novel.  I think as the reader progresses into the story they’ll see that he threads his way along some very morally gray areas.  In the end, it is the other characters in the story that inspire him toward the direction he chooses with that.  It is one of the tension points of the story though and you can see how it would be easy for him to turn his back on any morals with the ways some of the people in Redemption threaten him.

Q2: Why did you decide to write The Engineer and what did you need to set in place before you could do so?

I’ve started writing probably a half dozen books before The Engineer, but I’d never finished a novel until this one.  The big difference for me with this story was that it is the true story of how I met my wife on Redemption MUSH, a text-based RPG that she had created with a friend. The fact that the story was so personal to me was certainly encouraging for me to write.

There were a few things that needed to be set in place before I could complete the novel.  One was to set aside a time to write every week to make sure I could slowly but surely finish the book.  Another key item that I wanted to do was to speak with some of my old in-game friends to see if I could include their characters in the story.  It wasn’t necessary to the story, but the inclusion of their characters certainly made the story feel more real and it was great to share the story with so many people. Everyone I spoke to gave me the go ahead and was very excited about reading the final story.  Who knows, maybe there’ll be a few spinoffs if people write their own characters’ stories.

Q3: How do you feel your experiences as a firefighter have come out in your writing?

That’s another fantastic question and one I really hadn’t considered.  They’ve certainly come out in many ways during the story, especially when injuries, explosions and fires occur.  The construction of Act’s workshop too, is designed to be virtually fireproof.

Trench and Wave are the biggest way that I can see my firefighting experiences come out though.  They are two veteran mercenaries that Actaeon hires early in the story to help protect him.  The brotherhood that those two share is quite similar to what we have in the fire service.  The two of them have been through a ton of difficult times together and they’ve learned to get through it with humor, competent teamwork and no small amount of ball-breaking.  There are a lot of traumatic events from their past that haunt them, and we hear shadows from their history as the story progresses, but they never let their experiences stop them from doing the right thing, or just their best in general.  They’ve got a rich backstory that is only hinted at and I hope to write their story one day.

Darran M. Handshaw is the author of The Engineer – his first novel, anticipated for late 2017. In addition to writing, Darran works as an R&D Engineer where he designs and invents new products and holds more than 15 patents. In his spare time, Darran is also a firefighter and EMT with his local fire department where he recently completed a two-year term as Captain. When Darran isn’t writing, inventing things, or responding to emergencies, he enjoys his time with his wife, Stefanie, and baby son, Corwin. You can follow Darran on Twitter.