Category: Uncategorized

Commentary: IFWG Publishing’s “Social Contract”

The last few weeks have been heady days indeed. IFWG Publishing has been created, and all the necessary technical and procedural elements have been put into place to actually allow us to publish. Now the hard work begins.

Somehow, someway, despite the hectic pace, I actually had moments where I was able to contemplate the bigger picture, and review why we are doing what we are doing. We want to run a business – that’s a given. We want to make a living doing what we like best, in the industry that stimulates us the most, and we want to be rewarded for hard work and innovation. This is true, very true, but we also have an ethos – a philosophy that permeates all elements of what we think and do. We want to help good writers to be better writers. We want to publish good work and get the buzz.

I have just described to you, the reader, what we want to do, but we have to prove it to you too, and win your heart and soul. The biggest obstacle to this, in my view, is the fact that we are a self-publishing company (I should note here, however, that we certainly do more than what a self publishing company would normally do, and it is definitely part of our plan to also have a traditional publishing imprint).

Self publishing has an enormous stigma and this is our clear challenge to overcome. Many people – including those in the industry – intentionally or via ignorance, interchange ‘self publishing’ with ‘vanity press’, or dead end, low quality products. It isn’t surprising, because we have a publishing industry in a technological, economic, and cultural hiatus. All you have to do is spend half an hour on Twitter, or visit one of the hundreds of blogs out there in the Internet, to get a sense of the excitement about where the industry is headed. What we do know is that an an author, or a small self-publishing press, CAN print high quality books, given the skills and effort applied to it, and it can be marketed to a reasonable degree. It is equally well known that new authors entering the business will still look to keeping their day jobs for many years to come (if not forever) because the efforts by large publishing companies to invest in ’emerging authors’ is conservative indeed. With some few exceptions, regardless of self publishing or not, the onus on marketing has fallen to the author, and perhaps a third party, if they can be afforded.

In my estimation the real obstacle for ’emerging authors’ is not the constant barrage of failed queries (which are symptoms), it is the conservative nature of the industry itself, where authors are commodities, not human beings. The irony is that for every potential great writer that gets discouraged, there is a financial investment lost to those same companies. It is an incredible waste.

So I thought about how we could do things differently, and it occurred to me that what we needed was something analogous to a ‘social contract’ – where there are two parties of very different ilk, who have an agreement about how things are done (this is my definition, as it is hardly the sociopolitical definition). In other words, we need to be able to convey to authors what we can do for them, and at the same time describe what they can do for us. For instance, we can publish an author at an incredibly low price compared to most of the self-publishing industry and which would have been unheard of only a few years ago. That is one of our commitments. However, we also require quality – we need to maintain a standard in the industry that will, over time, prove that a self-publishing company can produce titles that a retail store will gladly place on their shelves. Authors will certainly gain from that! Authors in this relationship need to work beyond their submitted manuscript level – they need to be willing to rewrite and work with editors – and pay for the effort.

On a similar level, marketing is critical and has a place in the ‘social contract’. We are committed to market your work if you publish through us, but we can only do so much. But we will help, and advise. We will help you, help yourself. Your commitment, is to participate in the marketing process, assuming you want to make a success of this.

There are other examples, but I will leave it at that. It is all about relationships. Ultimately, it is about making good authors better authors.

I hope that many of you who read this get a sense of what we are trying to do, and join in the ‘social contract’.

Short Story: The Wyrm’s Footprint

The following is one of many short stories that I have written in the epic fantasy genre. This one is set in my Chronicles of Evyntyde.

Each step was carefully placed as the cave floor was eternally damp and the slimy stones were polished by thousands of years of water running over them. One slip and he would tumble hundreds of feet to a shattering end. Cimiar grimaced, imagining his end in a fall – the underground stream would eventually carry his rotting corpse to the Eralyn Plains.

The young alchemist had a blazing torch in one hand, but had the other free: he more often than not needed it to keep balance or hold onto stone formations or stalagmites to keep himself from slipping. He guessed he had descended at least half a mile beneath the mountain and had no idea how much of his climb was left. The wyrm’s lair was deep indeed.

Cimiar started to wonder why he had chosen such a difficult task, why he was willing to risk his life for a single wyrm’s scale. He then reminded himself that it was worth it: that rendering the scale to powder would give him the final ingredient needed to enchant the blade he had forged. The scale’s sympathy toward fire resistance would be used to bestow the same to the wielder of the sword. He smiled at the thought of achieving this magic. His fame would spread throughout Kul-ra, and he would be invited to the Court of the God Emperor Kul himself. After pondering this his fears dissipated into the hollow darkness of the colossal cave network and into the sounds of trickling streams that joined the rushing river far below.

It seemed an eternity, but eventually the steep descent turned into a gentle grade. The river was near; its cataracts already roared in his ears and fine mist caressed his face. In minutes he was saturated.

He raised his torch and muttered an invocation to the god Aquyla in the old Kulric tongue, and for a few seconds the sputtering flame erupted ten feet in height, lighting his surrounds completely. He quickly scanned the area. Yes, the cave is still gigantic in size! A wyrm would have no problems getting down to this level. A wyrm would nest here.

He dared not enhance his torch’s flame again for fear of being noticed by the ancient creature. Assuming the alarm has not already been sounded, he soberly thought. His plan was not to see the wyrm at all. All he wanted was a scale. For hours his eyes had scanned the rocks and crevices, hoping to spot a scale that was shed or scraped off on the rocks. To no avail – so far.

Cimiar rounded a turn in the cave and encountered a narrow path, lined with stacked boulders on each side. This was the first sign of anything other than natural formations in the cave network. He wondered what purpose it could serve, having rocks the size of cows stacked up twenty feet on each side of a five foot wide path, and extending for two dozen yards. There was no easy way to get around them; it had to be a trap. Crude but… he remembered reading that Wyrms often had magical abilities.

Cimiar closed his eyes, thanking the gods that Olander, the largest of the six moons – and which held sway over the element of earth – was in the ascendant this day. It added considerably to the power of his earth based spell casting. In seconds the walls of rocks came into his mind-view – and they became known to him in every facet – the boulders were understood completely: weight, dimensions, makeup – down to the finest grain, and also their smallest weaknesses. It was costly, but he opened his eyes. Maintaining his concentration on the walls, he slowly walked down the path.

When he was exactly halfway down the rocky corridor a rumbling suddenly emanated from beneath his feet, and then the walls started to collapse in on him. This was expected and now that he fully understood the nature of the rocks, he countered their sympathy to fall – with all his might. The entire length of both walls were leaning over the path, ready to crush the alchemist like an insect under foot; but they no longer moved. They were suspended in mid air. Cimiar continued to walk but his pace was agonizingly slow as he had to spend the lion’s share of his concentration on his spell. As he approached the final yards he could sense that his strength was waning and that some other magic was trying to counter his effort. Gods! he thought, this is not going to work! Then an idea entered his head – another way to save his life. He forced his remaining strength to rapidly separate every grain that constituted the boulders; and he pushed.

Instantly, in a mighty cacophony, all the toppling rocks within a three yard radius exploded into fine dust, and Cimiar leapt forward in an attempt to avoid the tons of material. The torch snuffed out as he was engulfed by the waves of sand. Holding his breath for as long as he could, he scrambled in slow motion, trying with what little strength he had left to move toward the edge of his improvised grave. He moved his hands and arms as if he was swimming, furiously trying to edge his body forward. Suddenly he felt the freshness of the cave air caress his face, and the powdery remains of the rocks run off his body. He climbed to his feet. He was very weary but he was still alive. A simple mental gesture set his torch alight again.

“Impressive indeed,” came a hoarse, venerable voice from Cimiar’s right. He turned and saw a man so old it was difficult to grasp he was still alive. The wizened figure’s back was bowed to the point he could barely lift his head to look at Cimiar. He wore grey robes and had nothing on his dirty feet. A gnarled hand firmly grasped a crooked walking stick. “No man has ever succeeded in getting this far. You must be a powerful sorcerer indeed.”

Cimiar dusted himself but kept his eyes firmly focused on the old man. “I am an alchemist, sir, and traps that are constructed from base elements are a trifling matter to me.” He hoped his lie was convincing and did his best to disguise his exhaustion. “Now tell me, old man, who are you? I expected a famed wyrm to reside deep in this cavern.”

The figure laughed. “You could perhaps call me the Gatekeeper. I am as old as the caves and I am charged to protect those who live here.”

“Including the wyrm?”

“I am charged to protect those who live here,” the old man repeated.

Cimiar sighed. “Does the wyrm live here?”

The Gatekeeper laughed again. “No, no, no. He passed on scores of years ago! I am afraid that I now protect the bats, the crickets, lizards and fishes.” The old man’s face turned quickly solemn.

Cimiar was now concerned that he may have risked his life for nothing. “What do you intend to do now, since I am still alive?”

“It depends,” the Gatekeeper replied. “What are you planning to do?”

“With no wyrm, to return to the upper world. All I wanted was a single scale of its hide.”

The old man looked surprised. “Is that all? A mere scale?”

Cimiar nodded.

The Gatekeeper held his hand up, indicating for Cimiar to stay put, and he wandered past a small outcrop of rock and disappeared. Ten minutes later he returned, carrying a shiny red scale, the size of a small shield. “Would this do?”

Cimiar nearly choked. “Why, yes. It is exactly what I want.”

The Gatekeeper handed the glistening scale to Cimiar. “You must make a promise to me, in exchange for this boon.”

Cimiar nodded again.

“Never return to this cave. It is a sacred place and it deserves to be undisturbed.”

“I swear Gatekeeper,” Cimiar responded, genuinely.

The old man acknowledged the oath and started to walk away. “Then I bid you farewell, alchemist. We shall not see each other again.”

When the old man disappeared behind the outcrop, Cimiar turned to the path he had nearly died in, and to his surprise it was clear and lined with the same stone walls. He was weary but he chose to climb some of the way before resting, in order to honour the Gatekeeper’s request for privacy.

The return journey was difficult as Cimiar’s spell had taxed him nearly to his limit, and despite the short rest, it would take days to fully recover. When he finally exited the cave mouth overlooking a small clearing on the side of the mountain, into the freshness of the Western Waymoor Ranges, he was barely able to find a spot to collapse and fall asleep. It was night, and it seemed so easy to close his eyes. He cared little for his safety…

***

The sun had already risen an hour before when Cimiar awoke. He stretched and scratched his chin, slowly getting up, trying to shed the last vestiges of his sleep. He was lying on a small patch of grass on the side of the cliff face where the cave mouth yawned, and as he stepped forward to gain a better view of the valley below, he tripped into a shallow hole in the ground. He was sure it wasn’t there before.

Cimiar stepped out of the hole and studied it. He then fell over laughing. “Old man, or should I say old dragon! You sly devil!”

He had fallen into a fresh wyrm’s footprint.

Sanity Fifteen Minutes Away

I live in an apartment in Southbank, very close to South Melbourne. It has huge advantages –  I can walk to work, and pretty much stroll to any convenience under the sun. Our apartment is reasonable in size, on the twenty-third floor, and offers an incredible view of Southbank’s skyline, the "Gee" and Rod Laver Stadium, Albert Park, and a breathtaking view of the coastline – Port Melbourne, St Kilda, Brighton etc.

When you have a nasty flu, and a bout of angioedema, it is like being in a small birdcage, and a cooped-up four year old girl doesn’t help – no siree. So I can praise my wife for suggesting, despite our battle scars with health, that I struggle out and go to the beach at Port Melbourne. Great idea – and it was.

We were only there around two hours, but it made a world of a difference. It was sanity. Recuperative. And best of all, fifteen minutes drive down the road. Another advantage of where I live.

As it turned out, this was the first day since last summer, that a hot day magically appeared – admittedly a little too warm on the beach, but hey, for a four year old to paddle in the Bay’s water, fantastic. Now for those of you who don’t know Melbourne, because we are on a Bay the beaches are simply not like Sydney’s – no competition, and probably most of the coastline. Australia generally has vast numbers of perfect, fine, white sand and wonderful waves – not so the Bay. But, the little one didn’t care at all (water – that is all it has to be), and frankly, the return of Sanity was all I was focused on. Hallelujah!

     
Our beach shelter at Port Melbourne’s ‘beach’                         Erin having the time of her life

   
Erin enjoying a paddle in the Bay                                        Our shelter on the beach, dodging the dead jellyfish

Short Story: The Past Catching Up


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First Lieutenant Samuel Parker lifted his felt hat, embroidered with the company insignia, from his sweat-soaked head and briefly glanced at the naked sun high above him.  He squinted in pain, swung his hat several times to cool it down, making a feeble attempt at drying it, and returned it to his head. There was about two seconds of reprieve before he started to sweat again.

“Desert gets darn hot; what d’ya say?” Cal commented from the mount beside him.

Parker grimaced and peered at the scout. It was always difficult to look at Cal “Bear Trap” Johnston in the eyes. The Montana frontiersman had a reputation of being more predator than human – uncomfortable in human company. He would stare at people with his steel-grey eyes – more wolf than man – and keep them focused until they had to look away. They never found it easy to concentrate on what they were talking about.

“Never been this cooked in all my life,” Parker replied, “and I’ve been posted in this desert since the beginning of the War.”

Cal seemed suddenly interested in conversation, something Parker hadn’t seen in the five days the company had been riding out from Fort Piute Hill. “War’s been over a year, Lieutenant – that means you’ve been here five or six years. Didya fight in the east, or play shenanigans out here in the west?”

“Neither, Cal.” Parker had been in this conversation before with other people in other places, and had the answer well rehearsed. “I served in the California Volunteers and admit it was long and wearisome. But there were a few skirmishes and we protected the trade routes into western Arizona.”

Cal lifted his hand, smiling – something never witnessed before by Parker or in reputation. “Wasn’t pickin’ a fight, Lieutenant. Just interested. I was around these here parts in some of those years. What ‘skirmishes’ were they?”

Parker started to feel uncomfortable. This was the type of question no rehearsal could fix. “Most… most were too small to be worthy of mention. There was one where rebel sympathisers were harassing our military mail run – I led a company to counter their force. We won, but there was some loss of life on both sides.”

“Was that out near the Springs?”

Parker now felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Yes… very near it.”

“I heard you fought Indians – Navajo, not sympathisers in the normal sense – yeah, I know, they got some help from the Rebs.”

The company leader closed his eyes, as if in pain. “Yes, they were Indians. Navajo, with a few Apache scouts.”

“And women and children, Lieutenant. Women and children.”

“They often brought their women and children with them, in camp.”

Cal’s cold eyes started to drill into Parker’s as he chose his words carefully. “I was at the scene soon after the ‘skirmish’, Lieutenant. It was a massacre. Most of the men, women and children were still in their camp when they were shot and cut down. Many were decapitated, and not by accident. Some, including women, had their heads put on poles. I’ll never forget that day, Lieutenant, not until I meet my Maker.”

Parker didn’t reply; at least not for a few minutes. The company column continued its comfortable trot down the desert trail and the horses’ hoof falls click clacked on the stony terrain. “I couldn’t control my men, Cal. They had the blood-lust and they were angry because two of our men had been killed by the Navajos the day before. We were excited to have found their camp, but I… lost control of them.” Tears started to well in his eyes, smudging the desert dirt that was caked beneath them. “I too will not forget what I saw.”

Cal shook his head, his eyes downcast. “It’s not fer me to pass judgement, Lieutenant, ‘cause I’ve done things that’ll keep the pearly gates shut to me. But fer what its worth, you should’ve held back yer men.”

“I know.” Parker and Cal fell silent again, and in the background they could hear the usual mutterings and jibes of the men in column, thirty yards behind them. They remained quiet for the next few hours, deep in thought, battling the ghosts of their past.

Then, much like a stroke of inspiration, Parker decided that to exorcise his ghosts he had to say more. To tell the plain truth. He began to speak, and inexplicably Cal listened as if he knew this was going to happen. “When I gave the order to attack their camp at dusk, having succeeded in dispatching their sentry, we charged in on foot. At first I was in complete control and I gave orders to the men, making it clear that women were not to be harmed unless they posed a threat; that men were not to be harmed if they surrendered. It started off fine. Then some of the men started to shoot and stab Indians randomly, and it spread among the men so quickly that it was impossible to stop them. Then many of the men started to shout ‘For Jed! For Merle!’ and… I don’t know; I just got caught up with them.

“God forgive me, Cal, I started to shoot them too, and I didn’t care who they were. I lusted for blood, and I wanted more – I wanted each action to be more disgusting and horrid then the next! I then rushed into a tent and to my surprise I found a squaw – but she was white! I heard that some white women were with Indian men, and again I saw red. I aimed my pistol at her and shot her in the chest. She collapsed like a mannequin, and I was going to close in with my sabre to… never mind. What happened next chilled me to the marrow and shook me out of my blood lust.

“The white squaw pulled herself up, in agony, and pointed her bloody hand to me. In perfect English she cursed me. ‘Dog! You rape and slay innocents to satisfy your lust! There will come a time when the eyes of blood will stare upon you, and you will pay for what you have done to my people!’

“I would have laughed at her delusional croaking, but suddenly her eyes turned completely red, having filled with blood, and the look upon her face! – it was of complete and utter hatred. It was demonic. Not for want of blood – but to rid myself of that horror, I cut her down with my sabre, over and over again. I was so tired I could barely hold my blade, and then I saw her visage. The eyes were still open, blood red, and I swear they were looking at me! I ran out of the tent and did my best to gather my men.

“As I ran away from the camp, with my men following, I saw the carnage scattered about. Each lifeless face had its eyes open; each was blood red and staring at me.

“You may call me mad, Cal, but I swear that what I described is the truth. Since then I have not seen those bloody eyes again, but I fear that one day I will, and… I believe God will have a reconciliation with me.”

Cal’s face was expressionless throughout Parker’s account, eyes downcast, and it did not change afterwards. He expertly rolled a cigarette and lit it with a match. He sucked in the tobacco smoke and exhaled. “Lieutenant, I believe you. I really do. People who are dyin’ can have the second sight. Those injuns have a way with the second sight too. I believe you’re cursed too.”

Parker didn’t know what to say, as Cal’s matter-of-fact statement was completely unexpected.

Again, they fell into silence.

The sun started to set and the company were still on the trail. Parker broke the long silence with Cal. “Where do you intend us to camp?” he asked.

Again, Cal comfortably slid into the conversation. “Just around that bend there, in a canyon, is a water hole. The only reliable one for three day’s ride. Sacred to the Indians. Ideal for our camp.”

“Good.” Parker felt relieved, as he sensed his men and their horses were in dire need of rest as well as cool, clear water.

As they approached the mountain side, whose prominent rock outcrops hid the life-sustaining spring, Corporal Maddison – ‘Maddy’ to the cavalrymen – came riding in from his forward scouting mission. “Lieutenant Sir, we struck it lucky! They’re camping at the spring!”

Parker couldn’t believe his luck. What was thought to be a pursuit that could take weeks, perhaps even a few months, had turned into a doorstep exercise. “Get the men to stay put to the right of that outcrop, Maddy. We will catch the scum at dusk.”

“Yessir!” the corporal enthusiastically replied, saluting. He galloped to the waiting men.

Parker turned to the east, expecting Cal to be inspecting the trail a hundred yards ahead, but there was no scout to be seen. He felt moderately annoyed, as Cal’s expertise was useful to plan the ambush. He knew Indians. Parker assumed the old man would be back sooner rather than later.

At the outcrop the men were excited about the prospect for a fight. This was more than just a necessary task, it was also personal. Parker followed his usual ritual of dusting off his uniform, using his last canteen water to wash his face, and shaving his two day growth. He peered into his small shaving mirror and saw a serious face, one where the ghosts that he carried weighed heavily on him. He didn’t like what he saw. Suddenly the reflection of his eyes turned blood red, filling like a pair of wine glasses.

He jumped back, dropping his mirror, shaking in fear and shock. Slowly, he approached his mirror and picked it up and peered in it again. His eyes were normal. He sighed, but it was not completely with relief. His past seemed to be rapidly catching up to him. God! Is it my time?

He looked at the setting sun and realised it was now time. Cal hadn’t returned, which deeply worried him, but he decided to attack the camp nevertheless. My eyes – my destiny lies before me.

***

Parker had spent some time giving Cal the account of what really happened, and in some ways it made him feel better… but only to a point. It also vividly replayed the horror of that terrible dusk attack on the camp at the Springs. Cal, riding slowly in the hot sun, kept the poker face he was well known for, eyes downcast.

Parker felt he needed to say one more thing. “You may call me mad, Cal, but I swear that what I described is the truth. Since then I have not seen those bloody eyes again, but I fear that one day I will, and… I believe God will have a reconciliation with me.”

Cal kept his eyes downcast. He always did when they were filled with blood. He had done this many, many times before; and eternity lay before him.  There was no reconciliation.

 

My Urge to Write (and why I don’t get involved in NaNoWriMo)

This isn’t a one-sided rant, oh no. Far from it. But it is an observation of the group dynamics of Nanowrimo (Nano for short).

Over the last few years those who do participate in Nano implore me to join it, saying it’s the best, "you just HAVE to do it!", "it’s good for you!", etc. I have to say, I had a little bit of a distorted view of it at the beginning, thinking what a waste of time it was to just spit out garbage, when as a writer, wouldn’t one be spending the days and nights of November actually writing? I got in a few heated arguments about it too, and regret it.  Since then I am aware that there are positive features of this phenomenon, including the charity elements, the way it can help those with motivational issues or even the dreaded Writer’s Block. But I still wont join in. No, sir.

My reasons are different now, and purely pragmatic, although with a taste of just allowing for me – the way I do things. I completed a 200k novel not too long ago and I’m trying to flog it off. I have written two-thirds of the second book in the series and put it on hold in order to write a YA novel that is now half written, and I aim to get a good version of it completed by end December. I write lots of short stories. I just started an international Publishing company with three partners and I am the Chief Editor – and I need to help drum up business. Then I have an arduous day job, a wife and four year old daughter that I love, and a need for at least some sleep. There, the pragmatic element is over and done with.

There are other reasons why I don’t want to do Nano. Perhaps selfish. I love my writing and I can’t bear removing myself from my projects to start another for a purpose that isn’t really suited to my needs. I don’t get WB and I don’t lose motivation – or if I do, at worst it lasts a few days. I can’t bear tearing myself away from them. Nano would do that to me.

To a lesser extent I also wonder if it is altogether healthy to have such enthusiasm generated by hundreds of thousands of participants. I will be the first to stand up and say it has a whole lot of positives associated with it, but there’s the down side as well. Only on Twitter and FB over the last few days, there are postings and blogs popping up with authors agonizing over their difficulty to keep up with their targets, and wondering if they should opt out or not. It seems like Nano definitely has a dark side to it, but it is caused by the group dynamics of this most popular event. A form of peer pressure.

Again, I emphasize that this is just an overall assessment and not a Nano-bashing exercise. I am just trying to be an observer.

I hope those of you who are enjoying it continue to get something worthwhile out of Nanowrimo. Those of you who are suffering a little – there is no penalty for dropping out and there should be no guilt from something that was generated by something as intangible as group dynamics. And there is certainly nothing wrong at all in not wanting to participate – I salute you for existing outside of those dynamics. 

Well, now that the soapbox is over, I might write my targeted 3000 words today in my YA Novel….

Short Story: Hunger

The Comte de Lyonnesse sat stylishly in his outdoor seat and closed his eyes, allowing the smells of his sumptuous banquet to invade his flaring nostrils. His sense of smell was renowned throughout the land and on this evening he could discern every meal laid before him and his four guests, and he could even identify the most subtle of ingredients in all of them.

Some of his favourite meals were laid on the table, including venison tartare – so fresh he could smell the blood pooling on the plate around the finely chopped flesh; roast buffalo calf – again, he could sense that it had the right rawness about it, so that the flesh could be fully appreciated; and lightly braised blood sausage – dark with the richness of congealed sanguis, contrasted with delectable globules of bone-white fat.

He opened his eyes and caught the remnants of the setting sun behind the far-off hills, the sky blazed in burnt umber, and in places nearly as red as life-blood. His eyes turned to his guests, the Vicomte du Mal and his wife, and Margrave Champoleon and his very lovely daughter, Cybele.

Cybele. He had loved her the moment he saw those emerald green eyes, her jet-black hair, surrounding her porcelain-white skin. It was her skin that drew him in at first, that flesh which promised so much softness to caress and to place one’s mouth against. He swallowed hard. This was always so difficult, so frustrating.

He had seen her that first time four years ago in a royal function, and it took nearly twelve months for Champoleon to finally agree to attend a dinner engagement on his estate. The elderly nobleman enjoyed his feast, and eagerly agreed to return regularly. This was what he wanted, in order to be near Cybele, and hopefully win her heart. Unfortunately she was shy, or perhaps disliked him, as she only spoke to him when responding to his questions or statements; and when she did speak, she never allowed eye contact.

Tonight was the nineteenth dinner where Cybele attended.

He worked his way slowly through the dishes, always sticking to his favourites, finding rapture in the taste and texture of the raw or near-raw animal tissue. He was the perfect host, responding to each guest’s needs, partaking of small talk, offering titbits from the banquet table when they were out of reach. Much of his behavior was automatic: his mind was only half devoted to etiquette. The other part of his attention was centered on Cybele, as it always was, hoping that he could break down her barrier.

A servant refilled his goblet with the dark, blood-red wine, and he sipped it, feeling the soothing effects of the alcohol permeate his body. He noticed that she hardly touched her own. He wished she was less inhibited, to give his love – his need – a chance.

Like all previous dinners graced with Cybele, this night saw no progress at all. His disappointment was tangible, heart-rending, but he still continued to feign the perfect host.

There was one last meal that was numbered among his favourite that was not sampled this night – the tartare. It was untouched, and on the far side of the table near his object of adoration. He studied the small plate with the minced venison molded in a slightly rounded shape – much like a young girl’s breast he thought, and he felt himself salivate at the bright redness of the freshly chopped flesh, and the glistening, diluted blood around the rim. He then turned his eyes to Cybele, as he frequently was want to do, and for a fleeting moment their eyes met. Gods! Is there a possibility that the ice is melting? His heart started to beat faster, his anticipation started to rise.

He saw her pick up the venison tartare dish and offer it to him. He couldn’t help but stare at her, and her eyes locked onto his and she smiled. “Comte de Lyonnesse, are you still hungry?”

He smiled back; his teeth were long and straight. “Yes thank you, Mademoiselle Cybele, I am hungry like a wolf.”

A Copy of A Response to An Emerging Author, Frustrated With Rejection Letters

You have my sympathies, Furball, as I have been through this, and so have many of my friends, including my fellow cofounders of IFWG Publishing. This was part of the reason why we founded our company.

I have read some revealing articles by publishers and agents about what motivates acceptance of new talent etc, and it is a tangled web – very difficult to separate and thoroughly analyze. I think we all know that one telling factor is simply the skills and taste (and perhaps even the moods) of agents and submission editors. They are busy folk and they rely on a trained eye and their "gut feel" when skimming query letters and synopses (if they get as far as synopses). Many will claim that they are so well trained they can tell by the quality of the query letter whether it is worth steaming on or not, but there are plenty of authors who have been rejected, to only "come good" by the 100th attempt, to question the quality of these folk who represented the 99 initial rejections. I wish there was a database out there somewhere that keeps track of agencies that missed opportunities. It would be telling indeed.

Then there is simple business. Most large publishing houses (and reflected by the backdrop of agents) make most of their money from established writers or celebrities. This is where they spend most of their marketing money and they know that newbies don’t return much with their first few Titles. They are not very investment oriented – they want the fast buck, often driven by their shareholders. This doesn’t help the new writer trying to get a break.

There are other reasons, but it is pointless to go on. You know, despite this, I genuinely believe that a good writer will come good eventually, more often than not. I also believe that even established writers have to market themselves – it is a simple fact, and there is good literature out there on that topic as well. As one wise editor once said, "once you get published, that is when the journey begins." So guys, those of you who haven’t been published, remember there is a journey after THAT.

Some of the strategies that I think can help get the foot in the door are related to credentials and publicity. And which tool is  most important to get there? Your writing. Try to win competitions. Try to sell as many short stories to magazines and anthologies (print and electronic) as you can. Target the bigger names – for instance, there are a bunch of sci-fi magazines where if you publish with them, you automatically qualify for entry into the Science Fiction Writers of America association. Every milestone will be another dot point on your CV which is attached to your query letter. Another way to get cred is to publish through companies like ours – and you have to help work the publicity. Once you sell enough units, you get street cred. People sit up and take notice. There are notable examples of this happening (think John Grisham, think Christopher Paolini, think Matthew Reilly).

Sorry, Furball – started to soapbox. In a nutshell, you are dead right. I say don’t give up, though – build a network of friends in the industry and place yourself in a position where luck is minimized.

cheers

Gerry
Chief Editor

Short Story: The Soldier

The rain had been pelting down for hours, and in a strange, twisted sort of way it washed and anointed the bodies lying on the battlefield. Mud and blood were mixed in puddles forming around the soldiers; most of these men were dead, others were slowly stirring, struggling with their personal pain and horror. Many men had already left the field – crawling, hobbling or walking; they numbered in the hundreds. Horses were among those who had fallen, and scores were aimlessly wandering the periphery of the field, still wild-eyed and frothy-mouthed from the battle that had taken place only minutes before. Despite the rainfall a wispy layer of mist hung a few feet above the battlefield due to the concentration of body heat of those tangled together. It made the men look otherworldly, as if their spirits had been taken and placed on display before Helwyer, god of death. There was something else permeating this large clearing on the northern side of Owerling’s Gap – a low level sound, a collective hum of pain from those who were not dead or unconscious. The downpour could not mask their suffering.

Crows were already gathering on the nearby rocky outcrops, chatting among themselves about the feast that lay before them. They were patient, their cold, yellow eyes focused with intense interest on what was happening at the far end of the clearing, where what remained of the Sundra mercenary army was forming a last stand.

 

The soldier started to choke, as he inhaled water from a dirty puddle, stirring him from his pain-wracked faint. After he had coughed out the gritty, bloody water he could hear the groans of a man lying behind him, and through his half-closed, swollen eyes, he saw a dead horse only a few feet away from his face with its mud-matted tail laying limply on the soaked earth. He painfully picked himself up from the ground, using the horse as a support, and shakily got to his feet. The soldier didn’t feel like he was hurt badly, but he ached all over and was unbelievably exhausted – nothing in his past compared to this moment.

The strength in his legs suddenly gave way and he collapsed painfully to his knees.

His studded leather armour felt as if it weighed as much as three men, and he had no choice but to sit back on his calves, clawing at his helmet, flinging it weakly onto the muddy ground, for fear of it dragging him down to the mud and muck again. Even the light cladding on his forearms and his water-soaked clothing encumbered his actions. A hoarse curse passed his swollen lips.

He raised his eyes and surveyed what had transpired around him. The rain stung his eyes, but he felt little of it. His senses were numbing. The soldier wasn’t a large man, but even in his kneeling position he saw all of the battlefield, albeit through a hazy mist and the lack of focus in his sight. Closing his eyes tightly, he willed the blurriness of his vision to disappear, and when opening them again, found greater clarity. He sighed with relief as he now was sure he was not wounded badly.

Now there was an opportunity to scan the rain-drenched field properly. To his left, to the south, was the three hundred foot high ravine that formed Owerling’s Gap. It was here where Duke Edmund had fooled Berech, general of a thousand horsemen and five thousand foot soldiers, to unwittingly march into a trap. It was a masterful strategy. Peasants were gathered from far and wide, willingly agreeing to ride fifteen hundred of Edmund’s three and a half thousand cavalry horses. They also wore the cavalrymen’s cloaks and carried sticks or farm implements underneath, to give observers the impression they bore weapons. The Duke waited for a rainy day, and when it came this morning, Berech’s spies predictably reported seeing nearly half of Edmund’s men journeying to the west, presumably to find a way through the difficult mountain ranges and attempt a flank attack on the invading mercenaries. Berech committed his entire force to a rapid counterattack through the Pass and met a thousand spearmen behind barricades, and a completely unexpected feint from two and a half thousand waiting cavalrymen.

The kneeling soldier smiled. The plan had worked perfectly. He was one of the cavalrymen who found himself on foot, and as Berech’s horsemen charged toward his line he just had enough time to see Edmund’s cavalry sweep swiftly into the enemy’s right flank and cut deep. It was too easy, as spears sliced into man and horse, collapsing Berech’s disciplined formation, scattering many of the mercenaries in panic. The rain could not drown out Berech’s battle-cry to his foot soldiers, who then rushed in. That was when the great melee commenced.

The soldier suddenly stopped smiling, as he remembered how he leapt over his barrier and rushed with the other cavalrymen into the fray, swords and shields ready. Berech’s mercenaries were seasoned veterans, efficient killers of a hundred battles, but Edmund’s plans placed all the advantage on his Arlen army, tactically and in terms of morale.

The final stage of the plan that ensured success was carried out by one of Edmund’s chief lieutenants, Maelwyk, the young but mystically talented alchemist, who waited for Berech’s army to pass completely through Owerling’s Gap. He used his Gift to cause the high eastern face of the ravine to collapse and block any possible retreat by the invaders.

The soldier’s face turned grim when remembering the last hour of the rain-drenched battle. He had little idea how the fight was progressing; all he could do with his fellow cavalrymen was hack and stab their way forward, bodily pushing and shoving the mercenaries back, hoping that the enemy would break and flee, and more importantly, praying to Rydon and the other gods that he was not going to die.

He turned his attention to the north, where the barricades had been constructed, and where he was first posted for battle. It was then that he realised the final chapter of the conflict was not over. Sundra mercenaries were fleeing in every direction, but three noblemen remained, surrounded by scores of Edmund’s men. Sundra noblemen did not surrender – they died fighting. One of the men wore fine armour and by his colours was the mercenary army’s general. This was Berech, and by his movement, and his posture, he seemed grievously wounded. The fighting stopped and Edmund’s men shifted in the mud to open a corridor to allow their Duke to face Berech.

The general suddenly found some hidden, untapped strength and charged Edmund, but the Duke deftly parried Berech’s lethal strike and thrust his blade deep into the general’s chest. The two other noblemen then attacked, screaming above the din of the rain, but they were cut down in seconds by Edmund’s bodyguards.

The kneeling soldier smiled again. He had just witnessed the end, the final glory of the battle. It was so very satisfying, although he could not explain exactly why.

He felt a twinge in his left side, and he looked down to where his cuirass met his breeches. There was a trail of blood running down his leg to the pool of water he was kneeling in, mingling with the awful pink colour that was everywhere. He didn’t see the blood running too swiftly and he had suffered worse wounds in the past; again he was reassured that his situation was not dire – not like some of the poor souls around him.

The thought of his mortality overwhelmed him when he turned his mind to his family back home in Highwater, the seat of the Earldom of Arlenmoor, a part of the greater land called Arlen. He missed his beloved Alyra and their two infant boys. He imagined holding his boys, the warm and comforting smell of their hair seemed so real to his senses; and then he thought about holding Alyra, her soft, sweet skin against his – again his senses were immersed. There was no desire in him, only a need to be in her arms. He missed them so much he began to weep.

The soldier was one of Earl Oloryk’s overseers of the nobleman’s lands, and led his Lord’s hunts. It was natural to join his Liege in Edmund’s call for arms, and he knew that his family would be provided for if he perished in battle. But these were grim times, and this battle was only the first in a long war, one where the homelands of Duke Edmund’s Arlen were threatened by a larger army than what was conquered here. He needed to be alive, to be sound of limb so that he could return to his family and protect them.

His sense of urgency was so profound, so fundamental, he felt some of his strength returning to him, and he defiantly raised his head and let the rain wash directly over his mud-stained face, allowing the drops to sting his eyes.

His thoughts turned to Duke Edmund of Arlen, the Lord of his master, the general of the Battle of Owerling’s Gap, the leader of the civil war against his brother, King Eglund of Waymoor. Some of the soldiers who he journeyed with to the Gap directly served Edmund and they worshiped the ground he walked on. Nine days ago five hundred cavalrymen from Arlenmoor – the kneeling horseman included – joined Edmund’s expeditionary force. He didn’t initially know what to make of the Duke, but it didn’t take long before he liked the man. Edmund was a true leader, was able to talk to the troops as if he was one of them, and yet inspire the hearts and minds of an entire kingdom. What became profoundly clear to the soldier was that the actions of the men in battle today was the true reflection of Edmund’s character.

They fought for him, and for his cause, and lifted themselves against the hardened skills of the Sundra mercenaries. They died for him. They placed Edmund’s orders impossibly before their waiting families – their loved ones who needed them to return.

He wondered why he had done the same as so many of the men in battle this rainy day. Why he took the risks and extended himself for his Duke. He wondered if it was Edmund’s charisma that had caused this. He pondered this notion and concluded that it wasn’t the case. Edmund’s magnetism contributed to it, but it wasn’t the core reason. He returned to thinking about his family, waiting in Highwater, and then it dawned on him what caused him to risk his life for the Duke – because Edmund knew what the fighting was for; he was perfectly in tune with what ordinary folk needed for their survival, and he therefore represented the hope of Arlen, including his homeland of Arlenmoor. The Duke was their saviour, and for the kneeling soldier Edmund was also his family’s saviour. When Edmund thrust his blade through Berech’s heart, life was given to Alyra and their two sons.

This thought, this insight made him feel content, and he raised his head again, looking at the rain-drenched battlefield with wiser eyes.

He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, stronger than ever, and for a moment he thought he heard his youngest son call out to him.

Two figures slowly made their way among the fallen and the maimed, followed closely by chirurgeons and soldiers giving aid to those who could be helped. The Duke pointed to the kneeling soldier. "Maelwyk, look! Let us help this soldier to his feet and carry him to shelter."

The robed figure ran to the Arlenmoor cavalryman and then stopped short, shocked by the site he had just seen. "Your Highness, I am afraid it is too late. This man has bled to death while he was kneeling. It must have taken a great effort to get up as far as he did. Poor soul, may the gods embrace his passing to the afterlife."

The Duke knelt before the dead soldier and studied his face. "Maelwyk, I have seen many battles and witnessed countless deaths, but I have not seen anything like this. His face is not downcast, it is straight and facing the battlefield. And look at his expression – it is neither pained nor peaceful, as the dead usually are. He seems exulted. As if he witnessed some great event, or understood some great truth."

"Curious indeed, my Duke. Nevertheless, this is a sad sight."

"True, Maelwyk. True." Edmund shook his head and clasped Maelwyk’s shoulder, and they continued their way among the bodies lying on the field.

The rain was still falling and hard drops of water hit the lifeless eyes of the kneeling soldier. They did not sting at all.

Short Story: The SInkhole


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I awoke with the sound of rushing water jetting from above, and the chilly swell lapping at my face.

It is pitch black. I groggily get to my feet.

I cry out in pain. The echoes of my voice reveal a confined space. I remember what happened.

The sinkhole is deep; it’s amazing I didn’t die in the fall. I know I’m bleeding all over, and I have broken ribs. I must be a ghastly sight!

It’s night up there and it’s still probably pouring. I’m numb from the cold, shaking from shock, and the acrid water is rising. It’s up to my ankles already.

I was running for my life. I thought they would never find me, especially in these wild hills… but they’re resourceful. The stormy winter night didn’t help me evade them, so I simply ran. I was drenched but didn’t care; my runners were soaked and heavy from the scrambling through rushing creeks and puddles. I never saw the sinkhole until it was too late.

The churning water is up to my thighs and I can’t feel my legs any more. The cold is oppressive. I am holding onto the rocky wall, trying to think. I need to figure out how to get up and out of this death trap.

Brian had it coming to him. He cost me a hundred thousand and the Johnson brothers will be after me now. They’re unforgiving. They’ll kill me if they find me. I dragged him into the freezing surf and when the waves lapped against my upper legs I let him go. A drowning. I was sure it’d work. I covered my tracks and headed for the mountains.

I’m scared. Terrified. I’m in the middle of nowhere; the only humans within miles want to torture and kill me, and I’m too injured to climb out of this prison. The water is high up my waist and I can barely stand. I have companions… several rats trying not to drown. I laugh. We have much in common.

I cast my mind back ten years. I was fifteen, already a year on my own – escaped my loveless, smacked-out parents. I joined the Johnsons – they taught me how to survive and make quick money. My first big job was to collect drug drop-offs – and all I had to do was wade waste deep into the estuary, locate the buoy, and retrieve…

It’s up to my neck now and rising faster than ever. I’m done for! I can’t even swim ‘cause my body is half dead already. I have no God to pray to, no parents to mourn me. I so wish I could do this all again, differently…

Things are fuzzy, slowing down. I am surrounded by a warm and comforting liquid, and it is dark. My heart beats but there is no breathing. I feel pressure and there is a dim light before me. I am born, and I am free…

Short Story: A Far Away Place

Crystal opened her eyes and saw a late afternoon sky, streaked with dark-marbled sepia clouds, and sunlight beaming through the gaps. She smiled. She knew where she was – her Far Away Place. She could smell the lush grass that she was lying on, and there was a strong scent of rose and lavender permeating the land.

She lifted herself to a seated position and felt a wave of weakness overcome her. There was also pain deep inside her chest. I have not recovered yet from my last battle with Rhab-di, she grimly thought.

She scanned her familiar surrounds: the fertile, green fields, with the deep, serene river that wound its sleepy way through the valley. Three castles were in close proximity to each other – Sir Kenneth’s fortress, accessible from the fields and roads, but impenetrable to all but the most powerful of magic; Lady Xena’s abode, once a humble cathedral but now the lady warrior’s home, protected by an enchanted wood; and finally Goldmire’s Tower, jutting from the Meandering River, and only accessible by boat.

Aside from the ominous dark clouds, all signs seemed to indicate that life was peaceful – birds were high in the sky riding the air currents; a mother duck paddled slowly in the river, followed by a line of eight ducklings, watched by a half-snoozing crane. Wild horses could be heard galloping along the east bank, neighing in exuberance at their unbridled freedom.

Crystal forgot the pain in her torso, and her weariness, and soaked in the beauty and tranquillity of her home away from home, the land she swore to protect with all her might and magic for four long years.

She heard the sound of splashing water and turned her attention to the Tower. A row boat appeared from behind the circular wall and Goldmire was sitting comfortably in it, although his hulking form caused the boat to draft deeply – leaving only an inch or two between floating and sinking. Only after a dozen strokes, the giant clumsily stepped onto the riverbank, only a few yards from Crystal. She grinned, for she always enjoyed the company of the Far Away Place’s least comely inhabitant. They looked quite a pair when they were close to each other. He was nearly twelve feet tall and Crystal was barely above three – she was quite short for a seven year old.

Goldmire was no ordinary giant, for he really was a monster, turned to the cause of goodness. He was tamed by the child-mage, Crystal. He had a humanoid form, but he was covered in bright yellow fur and he had long, sharp claws on his hands and feet. His fangs were long too, but ever since he was turned, he had a kind face – most of the time. When Rhab-di attacked the Far Away Place, Goldmire changed into a menacing defender, a ferocious adversary.

“Young Mistress, you have come back, and yet you were here only a few days ago! Does this mean the enemy is attacking again?”

Crystal got to her feet, flinching with the pain of the effort. “I suppose so, Goldmire. I never pick when I turn up, but it’s always when I’m needed.”

The large hairy face showed deep concern. “Lady Crystal, you are still wounded! Sir Kenneth has a healer – perhaps he should see you.”

Crystal shook her head. “Nothing can heal me like the land itself, and with the blessing of King Saxon. The trouble is that it always takes time.” Her thoughts turned back to the times when she had audience with the King. Saxon was an elderly man, or so it seemed to the seven year old, and had a very kindly face. She knew him all her life and he was her protector. He was like a grandfather and she loved him dearly. “As long as he is King and this land is free, I will heal.”

Goldmire looked to the sky. “Hmm. I think Rhab-di will be coming soon. The sky is turning the colour of his soul. That is always his way. Will you be strong enough?” His eyes could not disguise a mortal fear for her life.

“I’ll survive, and so will the land. I’ve had greater challenges in past battles.” Crystal had a sense of purpose few adults could match, and her eyes sparkled with determination. This was the core of her magical ability, along with her mysterious tie to the Far Away Place.

Out of the nearby woods a female form appeared, with a long bow in hand, and a quiver strapped to her back. It was Lady Xena, and when the huntress-warrior saw the pair by the river bank, she ran effortlessly across the green field, literally jumping the narrow road to Sir Kenneth’s castle, and tightly hugged the petite girl.

It took only a few seconds for Xena to realise Crystal was hurt. “This is no good, child,” she observed.

“But I am here, and we are about to fight Rhab-di again.”

Lady Xena straightened herself and surveyed the hills that surrounded the Far Away Place. Her green eyes were piercing, and she could see the smallest of creatures miles away. “I see nothing, but the signs are all around. I fear you are correct.” She placed her bow on the ground and quickly tied her long black hair into a pony tail, a ritual she followed prior to every battle.

Goldmire started to pace around the field, slowly building his mental preparedness for war. Each stomp of his foot on the ground sent tremors around him.

Trumpets suddenly sounded from the most majestic castle in the Far Away Place. The great gates opened and a silver armoured knight, riding a great white horse, rode out and followed the road toward Crystal’s group. Sir Kenneth wore red plumes on his full helm and he firmly held a long white lance with a gold blade at its tip. The horse galloped the span to the river bank in a matter of seconds, without a single bead of sweat forming on its muscular body, and he snorted when Kenneth reined him in.

The Knight effortlessly dismounted and took his helmet off, and dropped to one knee before the blonde-locked girl. “My Lady, I have seen the signs, culminating in your appearance. I am, as always, at your service.”

Crystal looked at her knight and her heart warmed with his conviction, and his strikingly handsome features. He was perfect, like Sir Galahad, and he completed the group that had, for the past four years, defeated the Foe that threatened to turn beauty into ugliness, harmony into chaos, and peacefulness into pain and misery. “Sir Kenneth, I will need your skills today.”

“As always,” he responded, echoing his former statement. He returned to his feet and saw the look in his compatriot’s faces, and then returned his gaze to her. “You are still weak. I had a feeling this may be the case, as it was only a few days ago that we had battled with Rhab-di. Will your magic be strong enough, my Lady?”

Crystal’s lips pursed and her eyes sparkled again. “Of course. We will defeat the black-hearted creature.”

Sir Kenneth dropped his head in acknowledgement and respect, and smiled. “As I guessed. You are a wonder, Lady Crystal.”

Just as the knight completed his words, lightening started to rain down on the hills to the east, and the few rays of sunlight were snuffed out by the dark clouds completely filling the sky. He jumped back into his saddle and unhooked his lance, ready for combat.

Lady Xena loosely nocked an arrow on her bow and simply stood still, eyes penetrating the eastern hills, having already spotted other signs that Rhab-di was going to attack from that direction. Goldmire stopped pacing and flexed his hands, mumbling words that could only be understood by his kind, but the intent was absolutely clear. Crystal shakily turned to the east and opened the palms of her hands to the heavens – large balls of light materialised in each. She focused on them, ensuring they were ready to defend her small group. She felt tired – more weary than she had ever felt before, and yet her magic was still strong. Her determination fed it.

The four did not move from where they were. They knew that Rhab-di always went for them – that was the creature’s purpose. Crystal secretly thought that the fiend actually targeted her, for she always sensed that her life, and the Far Away Place, were intimately connected.

Rhab-di appeared atop a hill a mile to the east. The creature was bigger than it had ever been before – a massive black cloud, shapeless, menacing. Lightning flashed from within, but it could not illuminate the cloud itself. It was a rolling mass of nothingness; of death.

Rhab-di, even without any sign of being a living, breathing creature, emanated a human-like malevolence. There was a shriek of glee that projected from the boiling cloud, and it seemed to sense Crystal’s weakness. It picked up its speed and came thundering toward the four warriors.

Sir Kenneth suddenly spurred his stallion and he immediately charged at the cloud, lance as steady as if it was resting on the ground. The gleaming head of the weapon penetrated the cloud and it flashed gold light, scattering – annihilating, a great swathe of Rhab-di’s mass. A shriek emanated again, but this time of pain. However, the cloud was huge, and the majority of it still remained, and it rolled effortlessly past the valiant knight.

Lady Xena fired arrow after arrow into the mass, and each time it entered the cloud, a giant chunk of cloud evaporated with a silver flash from the arrow head. The enemy felt this too, and Xena destroyed as much volume as Sir Kenneth, but still there was a tsunami left, heading for Crystal.

Rhab-di, despite his pain, was jubilant. Confident.

In a rage not ever seen by the mundane of humanity, Goldmire screamed out so loud that it shook leaves from trees, and then he slammed both his fists into the ground. A shock wave pulsed forward and lifted the very earth in a foot high wave, and when it hit the cloud, it shook the mass, the very vibrations causing internal disruption. Lightning bolts crossed each other, causing explosions and collapsing great pockets of Rhab-di’s gaseous body. And yet, after all of these attacks, there was more left of the enemy than what was taken away.

The cloud was now only a dozen yards away, and while it had slowed considerably, it was going to encompass all except Sir Kenneth. Crystal had been in this situation before, but the foe was always more diminished than what she now faced. She threw both her globes of power with all her might and they entered the darkness, and as they fell into the blackness and collapsed, Rhab-di cried in pain as great volumes of the cloud sucked into a new-born whiteness. Crystal saw the great Rhab-di, second after second, shrink smaller and smaller. For a while she thought that this battle would end like all others before, with the enemy disappearing…

Then Crystal’s greatest fear came to realisation. The magic had ended and there was still some cloud – no more than six feet in diameter. Goldmire leapt for the gas but the cloud evaded him; Xena had run out of arrows and drew a dagger but it was too late to intercept the foe; Sir Kenneth cried out in despair as he was far too many yards behind Rhab-di.

She invoked another two globes just when the cloud encompassed her. They were small conjurations: faint, barely holding their shape. She was spent… there was so little left in her. She fought with all her might, all the determination she had that made her so special, and then… she felt her globes collapse and drag the entire cloud into them, as well as herself…

As she became distended and one with the bright light of her magical globes, she saw the face of King Saxon – that warm and kind face – and she was able to feebly speak. “My King, I’ve failed you! We’re all lost!”

He shook his head, as he too was sucked into the white light. “No, you did not fail, my dearest one. You fought a great battle and war.”

She was one with the light.

                                                                                            ***

The heart monitor flat lined.

Crystal’s mother and father collapsed by her still body on the hospital bed, weeping uncontrollably. Dr Saxon, Crystal’s surgeon, couldn’t help but sob as well. He loved the dear, little fighter, and he was there with her since she was first diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma four years before.

He looked at her pale face and saw peace, but also a trace of that incredible determination that allowed her to fight and win many a battle over four years, where perhaps other children would have given up much earlier. He was proud of his own achievements, because he gave her some life and she grasped it with both her hands and became a wonderful person and inspiration for all who knew her.

He then turned to the small table next to her bed and saw the little diorama that Crystal had built and augmented over the four years. A small scene with three castles and a river running through. Three figurines were placed close together next to the river bank – a knight on a horse, an Amazon warrior, and a strange monster that seemed to have come from some fast food children’s meal. She loved her table, he thought. It was the world she went to when she was most in pain, when the chemo was overwhelming, when the radio therapy beat her down, or when one in a long line of operations had taken place when another malignant tumour was cut out.

He knelt and joined Crystal’s parents at the bedside and wept with them. He could barely speak but he needed to say one comforting statement. “She’s at peace now. She is now without pain in a Far Away Place.”