A Welcome Time Out

Boy oh boy have I had a nasty 10 months, in terms of work, and I needed to recharge my batteries, even if it is only partially. Jen needed a break too (having to cope with me being crabby some of the time), and so a few weeks back we booked for two nights what appeared to be a nice cottage in Lorne, Victoria (on the Great Ocean Road – facing the prodigious and windswept Southern Ocean).

We left on Friday morning and came back Sunday afternoon – two nights and essentially two days, and despite the short nature of it, and pretty horrible weather, it was absolutely wonderful. Nothing refreshes me more than the smell of salty air, and the sounds of waves breaking on rocks and on the beaches. I will one day live on the coast, I swear it!

Erin loves water of any kind, and particularly beaches, so she was in her element – perhaps too much so! Our first visit to the beach was without any appropriate clothing as it was windy, rainy and cold, but yes, she insisted on paddling her feet in the shallows, and yes, she fell over backwards and got soaked and sandy! Fun nevertheless.

Lorne is a pretty nice place, but expensive – as it is close enough to Melbourne (2hrs) to have a steady stream of clientele (such as my family) and far enough away to ask for premium prices for everything. Having said this, they had great fish and chip shops, bakeries and restaurants, which really do go well with the type of break we wanted. By coincidence, Lorne was having what Bondi has been famous for – a large sculpture exhibition running along a long stretch of the beach front, as well as among the beach-facing shops. Fifty of them, and some were massive! Not all the artwork was stupendous, but there were enough that were pleasing to the eye or thought-provoking enough, to add value to our trip.

I promised myself that I wanted to spend more time with my family and do ‘family things’ than writing, and I kept it. In fact, I spent no more than about three hours writing, and I finished a particularly difficult chapter in my YA novel, so it was concentrated goodness. No regrets – my family is more important than anything in my life.

So here’s a few photos for your perusal. Hope you get a sense of our enjoyment in that narrow window of opportunity.


Erin on the beach, playing in the sand


One of the sculptures.


Another sculpture.

Short Story: Three Destinies


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Note:
I wrote this short story a little way back, but I only recently exposed it to a wider audience, on another site. This coincided with a very healthy discussion about what constitutes a Short Story – what are its essential elements.  No rocket science, mind you, as there are numerous books and courses out there that talk about these ingredients, with few variations. Why I bring this topic up is that I put forward the following short story as an example where, perhaps, a rule or two is broken – but for a good reason. This erupted into an interesting (but healthy) debate – some say that only one major POV and only one major CHARACTER may be used, and otherwise it isn’t a short story (I posed the question that if these rules were broken, what were these stories – micro-novels, or novellas?)

As for my own opinion on my work below, I actually enjoyed writing it and I believe it is successful in its experimental nature – you will hopefully see what I mean. My only self-criticism is that it has a rushed feel about it and probably could benefit from a doubling of its size.

Kind visitor, I would love to hear your comments on this story – any comments are welcome, but I am looking for whether I have violated what constitutes a short story or not, by introducing more than one POV and more than one CHARACTER.

Journey on!

========================================

My name is Scaramouche and I was made by Cimiar, the greatest alchemist of all time.1

Snick, snick. Bite sharp! Taste blood; drink deep.2

I am no ordinary dagger, oh, no. Not even for an enchanted blade. I was crafted by the master, and he had one, specific task for me. My sole purpose is to kill one human – the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk.3

I remember when I was born, over two thousand years ago, in one of Cimiar’s tall-towered castles, perched atop a small mountain thousands of miles from the Kzar – it was surrounded by green fields at that time, but now it is enveloped by burning, dusty desert. My making took many nights of work, and over many months, for it is uncommon to have three specific of the six moons in alignment – Asanar, of the Spirit, to allow life to embrace the cold metal; Melura, of Fire, essential for powerful enchantments; and Olander, of Earth, the element that governs my existence.4

Snick, snick. Seek the Sultan’s flesh! Churn it into gory pieces!5

Cimiar, my father, found the purest of iron and transformed it into the highest grade steel, by use of masterful craftsmanship as well as the most arcane and powerful enchantments. He invoked the gods and demigods of Earth, and captured the stark, dark attention of Zirvana, goddess of black magic. He delved deep into the building blocks of my metal and rendered me virtually indestructible, and sharp enough to cut granite as if it was cheese. While I was still white hot he dropped a few pieces of ice on me, and as they instantly evaporated, they instilled the icy malice into my heart that was needed for his task.6

He wanted me to be single-minded, focused entirely on one vengeful mission.7

Snick, snick. Consume the Kzar essence! Fulfil my bloody purpose!8

Cimiar served his liege-lord, the God Emperor Kul, and obeyed every one of His wishes. The Sultan of Kzar-Runuk had deeply insulted the Emperor and posed a threat to the stability of Kul’s northern sultanates. An object lesson was required for the civilised world. And consequently I was born.9

Fate, however, had different plans for me.10

A young soldier volunteered to carry me to Kzar-Runuk and all he had to do was get near enough for me to smell the Sultan. That was all that was needed, for then I would do the rest and no-one would be able to stop me. Afterwards I would be finished, depleted. I would die, happy, fulfilled. But alas, this young man was assailed by brigands and slain, not even half-way to his destination. These murderous thieves found me and sold me to a wealthy merchant, who kept me as an ornament. When he died a few years later, he had me buried with him – such was his vanity.11

I slept for nearly two thousand years in his grave, until… well, that is another story.12

***13

We are sisters and call ourselves Vengeance and Retribution. We once were dormant, asleep, but a villainous crime – one so heinous it outraged the gods – caused us to awaken.14

Ching, ching. We are two and we seek justice! We will never rest until we are sated.15

Before we were born we were but simple silver coin of the mountain city of Tzic-vec, in the heart of the Sultanate of Kzar-Runuk. We knew not of our existence then, but we have on many occasions imagined that we would have been kept in the purses of rich Kzar merchants, and perhaps exchanged in vendor stalls in Tzic-vec’s busy streets. For over three hundred years we have discussed between us what delightful, serene, and simple existences we must have had. But now…16

We know that, just prior to our awakening, we were together, among other coins, in the purse of the Vizier to the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk.17

Ching, ching. We feel the agonizing pain of our adopted mother! We long for justice!18

The captain of the guard of the Sultan was, on one dark night, ordered to slay one of his lord’s enemies. It was a vile task, one more suited to an assassin, as the target was an important administrator of the sultanate and an honourable man. The captain was upright in character and refused, but he was told that his family would die if he failed to complete his murderous task. He had no choice but to obey, but before he journeyed to his victim’s home, he confided all to his beloved wife. He kissed her and left hurriedly.19

The next day the Vizier knocked on the door of the captain’s home. He informed the captain’s wife that her husband had died in the service of the sultan. She looked in his eyes and saw the truth – he had indeed killed the sultan’s target and then was killed himself to remove any evidence. She was horrified and could barely stand on her feet, but then the Vizier added insult to injury by taking two silver coin from his purse and dropping them into her hands.20

We were immediately born from that lowly act – the first thing we saw was the wronged woman’s blue eyes, surrounded by her white silk hijab, lost in indescribable numbness. Yes, we were born and my sister and I knew that our purpose was to find a way to avenge the death of the captain, and the disgusting insult to his wife!21

Ching, ching. Let him touch our tarnished silver bodies! Let us draw him to disaster!22

She threw us into the desert sands, of course. What else could she do? Her life was disrupted, destroyed. We have never blamed her for separating us from her. We knew we had a task to complete.23

Many years passed and we were left in the dirt, undiscovered. But one day, a lowly peasant child found us and presented our good selves to his parents – and within a day we were exchanged for a herd of goats and our long journey began. We visited many cities and lands, riding in the purses of numerous men, and we learned how noble, and how vile, humanity could be. A thousand transactions had taken place and yet we always stayed together. Kismet.24

But greater miracles had taken place. We soon discovered that we could control our bearer – at first, in simple ways, swaying him to choose one action over another, if the choice was difficult; later we could instil ideas, especially in his sleep. As we became more practiced with our new-found talents we found that we could do more, such as cause our bearers to take action contrary to their nature. Never, mind you, with evil intent.25

Ching, ching. Lead him to the precipice! Let him jump!26

It was only a few months ago when we were given a sign that we had to return to Kzar-Runuk. Our bearer met an old, wizened woman who claimed she was a soothsayer. Whether she was or not did not matter, as she was possessed by some powerful, female spirit who wished to speak to us. She said that we must journey to Tzic-vec and complete our quest for justice.27

It was easy to manipulate the man who held us in his purse, and our journey was swift, given the many leagues we had to traverse. And now… well, that is another story.28

***29

My name is Lalitha, a sorceress, and I was, once, the number one concubine of the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk. That was many centuries ago. My mortal remains now lay in an unmarked grave.30

Jingle, jingle. Curse him for his treachery! The dog deserves to suffer!31

I had been number one for seven years and my eyes were always open to his machinations and his contempt for human life. It was helpful that I had the Gift where I could see events, past, present and future, and also far away and near. I was rarely able to control my powers, but it often gave me advantages in life, and saved my skin on more than one occasion. It was a good life; despite him.32

I was in awe of my Gift and trusted my intuition as an extension of it – I still do, even though I am now but a spirit residing inside this gold necklace.33

Jingle, jingle. Gods, allow me the chance to witness suffering in his progeny!34

I remember the day so clearly, as if it was only this morning. My intuition – my Gift – failed me. I knew that he was in a bad mood, that something was bothering him. I also knew that I had been gradually losing favour, much like being aware that a dull ache in my mouth was perhaps more than just a simple tooth ache, but still not doing anything about it. I do not know why, but I did not panic when a pair of the sultan’s eunuch guards entered the harem. I did not see.35

Suddenly, without warning, they grabbed me and dragged me out of the harem. I remember the look of shock in the other girls’ faces. The guards threw me into a palanquin and took me into the desert. We journeyed for hours, and I can remember the slaves huffing and puffing in their arduous task, but eventually they stopped, and I was dragged out. I did not recognise the place I had been taken to, although the rocky outcrops and heavily weathered hills indicated that it was part of the desert near Tzic-vec that was riddled with chasms and ridges – all too easy for someone to get lost in. All too easy to hide a body.36

Before a small hill severely eroded by wind, with the desert sand blowing about me, the bodyguards cut my throat. They hurriedly buried me between the vertical fall of the hill and a column of stone that jutted from the ground into the cliff. One of the guards claimed my gold necklace, but not before I willed my soul into it. At the end of my mortal life, my Gift did not betray me.37

Jingle, jingle. Slay those who carry his blood! Reveal the contempt of a murdered sorceress!38

The guard sold me to a deceitful merchant who made a tidy profit from his exchange, selling me to a nomad chief who wanted to please one of his wives. I was angry and ignored the world around me for several generations, but eventually shifted my awareness to what was happening outside, instead of within. Scores of years had passed me by. I discovered that my Gift was more powerful in this new form than when it was contained within flesh and bone, and that I could, if I wanted to, exert some small influence on those who wore me; my Sight had become powerful indeed, and I was able to spiritually wander the lands and witness the lives of people in all corners of the world. For a while I was distracted, but my need to avenge my murder had no bounds and I often withdrew into my golden home, gnawing at my heart.39

One day, not too long ago, having been handed from mother to daughter for centuries within a noble family line that ruled a city of tents, I stumbled on an idea to exact the revenge I so longed for. Using my Gift, I searched for humans who wanted the same retribution, and surprisingly, instead of beings of flesh, I found an ancient dagger who was given a spirit to destroy the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk, and a pair of old silver coins who were bestowed a similar sentience by the grace of the gods of justice. They had the power to destroy the sultan of the day, and it mattered little what human receptacle was needed to carry them. I used my Gift to contact them, in the best manner available to me, and summoned them to this oasis. The coins controlled the mind of a merchant, who journeyed to the graveyard where the dagger is buried, and on its recovery, had many leagues to travel to this city of tents. All I had to do was wait.40

Jingle, jingle. Waiting, waiting. The three of us must unite! Our needs will be met, combined!41

Today the dagger and the coins were delivered to the young girl who owns me – and she is of noble birth. I asked the coins to erase her mind of memories, so that she can better be controlled; she can show no fear when approaching the Sultan of Kzar-Runuk. I am excited by the prospect of what will come next. She will ride a camel to Tzic-vec by the coins’ compulsion – only two days journey – and all she needs to do is be within sight or smell of the sultan. Then the dagger will fly by itself, cutting through anyone and anything in its way, and exact the revenge and justice we all seek!42

When the girl awakes, she will steal out of her camp and ride to Tzic-vec.43

***44

I am aghast! How can this be? Am I not Scaramouche, the deadliest weapon built by man? Why is my purpose in existence eroding? Is what Lilitha had told me so profound in significance?45

***46

We are fading! Vengeance and Retribution will melt into this desert sand. Is it true what Lilitha has said? And if so, why is it that it defeats our purpose?47

***48

I have done it. I have told them what I have discovered. There is no point in hiding from plain facts.49

Jingle, jingle. Truth is penetrating, permeating… calming.50

The girl awoke in the early hours, only a few minutes from the rising sun. As a final step in my preparation for my plan for her to bear us to Tzic-vec, I opened my Gift, my Sight, to her, to find out more about her, and how best to use her. What I saw made me dizzy, crushing hundreds of years of belief in a single blow! Fate drew the dagger and the coins to me, but Fate played a higher game and drew me to this girl. She is a noblewoman, of strong lineage among the nomadic tribes of Kzar-Runuk, but she also has other blood in her. I saw the different strains as plain as day.51

The girl had the blood of the captain of the guard who was murdered by the Sultan’s men, and she had the rare blue eyes of the captain’s wife – also her ancestor. She had the blood of the sultan’s line and so the vile men who perpetrated all those awful crimes were her ancestors! More importantly, she was a descendent of mine.52

We had created an assassin who was the least likely candidate. Or was she?53

***54

Snick, snick. I am altering; dying. My edge is blunt!55

Should I just cut her down now, before it is too late? No… it does not seem right. And yet, the need to sate my thirst of so many hundreds of years…56

Useless. I can feel my very being fade. Why?…57

Is it because the sultan – my target – is long dead? Is it possible that Cimiar, my maker, and Kul, my patron, never intended me to carry on? Am I that temporary? Was my purpose such a miniscule fraction of what I actually thought I had?58

I feel myself being distended… I wish that I…59

***60

Ching, ching. The gods, we can hear them calling us!61

How can we hurt such an innocent girl? Nay, beyond innocence, because we have removed her past from her memories! Why have the gods played such a cruel trick on us?62

We see her eyes now… just like our mother’s. The injustice, unpaid, sickens us… but wait. Look at her. She has the strength of our mother in her, and the tenacity of the sultan’s line. Is it possible she has been fated for some great deed? Is it possible that justice has been served by reward, instead of penalty?63

Look… the Spirit Realm now beckons, and the path is before us! Perhaps it is time to go, after all.64

***65

Jingle, jingle. The cancer is gone. I am content. Where to from here?66

I am alone with this girl, for my allies have left. And yet I am with my daughter, albeit many times removed. She is wonderful, young, fit and ready for adventure. She has no memory, which is sad, but perhaps it will benefit her, as she has nothing to unlearn.67

And she has my Gift. My Sight.68

She has the dagger, but it is – almost – ordinary. She has two ancient coins, which will feed her for her adventures ahead – for a while. And I think I will stay with her. 69

I may teach her some tricks that I have learned over my very long life.

Short Story: The Prey


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On the fourth floor balcony of an aged, decrepit apartamento block in Old Havana, a flower petal began to sway in a salty breeze, sourced from the Straits of Florida. The older folk who lived in the street, despite the very late hour, made themselves comfortable at their open windows, for the stifling November heat was now being relieved by the rare wind, and those in the know started to chat about the chances of a hurricane coming their way. They whispered because they considered the midnight hour to belong to the dead.

1

 

The yellow petal suddenly separated from its parent flower and zipped up, over the rusted iron railing.  It spiralled and climbed a hundred feet into the air, far above the sweaty, smelly streets of the oldest sector of Cuba’s capital. The updraft ceased and it then followed the prevalent wind, toward the Vedado district of the old city. It dropped and climbed, depending on the chaotic rhythm of the breeze, finally plummeting into the 140 acre Colon Cemetery, dodging the multitude of mausoleums, and racing along the narrow paths among the many hundreds of thousands of grave stones.2

The petal bounced along the concrete path and missed the footfalls of a pretty young girl, who purposefully trudged toward the centre of the massive necropolis. The wind ceased for a moment; the tiny object rested lightly on the dimly lit path, and was crushed by the young girl’s left shoe.3

As quickly as the flower petal was pulverised, thunder and lightning cracked over the sky, and heavy drops of rain spattered about, and within seconds, the rain fell heavily, soaking the young girl. She completely ignored the change of weather; it was as if the rain did not exist.
4

***

Nearby, deep beneath a ninety year old, cracked grave, amongst the dry and mouldy bones of a coffin’s inhabitant, something stirred. It wasn’t like a wakening, as the being was not exactly asleep, and it wasn’t something physical, terrestrial; the spirit had been preoccupied within its own world and it had sensed that something alive was walking the path in the hours that belonged to him. Alive. Breathing. Disgusting. I am not breathing. Join us, mortal. Feel the worms and decay erode your body; feel your flesh corrupt. He expanded his consciousness and allowed himself to rise to the surface…5

The spirit of Emilio Esteban eased its way through the ground into the necropolis proper, the place for the dead, yet part of the world of the living. At night, however, the living had less right to claim the place theirs. He had no interest in the weather, only the fact that it was the dead of the night, and that there was, inexplicably, a young living being taking a seat on a nearby bench. The nerve of her. Is she insulting us? Does she take pleasure in flaunting her aliveness?6

“Emilio, do not fret,” came a very familiar spirit-voice from behind. “She seems like a lovely girl, doesn’t she. Very young – surely no more than seventeen, no?”

“She’s alive, Beatriz.”8

“Ah, Emilio, you are so depressive, so morose. We all were alive, and now we are dead. She has an unknown allotment of time on Earth – why begrudge her her time?” The female spirit could not be seen, but was tangibly sensed by a matronly presence – empathic, warm. 9

Emilio was about to retort with a barrage of reasons why he was angry and why, as a result of a bitter betrayal, his life was cut short, when a third spirit emerged from the depths of the earth. He grimaced; it was Alejo, that estúpido writer.10

The spirit of the young novelist joined the other two phantoms. “My, my, my, what do we have here? A young, and pretty girl sitting in Colon? How interesting. Ah, if only I was made of flesh and blood… what a scrumptious looking thing.”11

Beatriz laughed. “And what are you planning to do? Woo her with your skeletal visage? Caress her with your bony – oh my – the best you could come up with is a chill on her flesh!”12

Alejo feigned injury. “If I did not know you well, I would have thought you were being cruel. Yes, it is just my imagination at play. Alas, all I would do is frighten her.”13

Emilio jumped in. “Why not? Sneak up on her and frighten her! With luck she will die from heart failure and then you would have the companion you so yearn for.” His eery presence intensified with his malignant words.
14
“Now that was cruel,” Alejo replied. “I could not do this to such a frail girl. Look at her – she ignores the downpour and just morosely sits on the stone bench. What is she thinking? Why is she here?”15

“Hard to tell, my friend,” Beatriz replied. “It does seem strange. She is small and fragile – must be from some well-to-do household. And yet she should be asleep. Look at her face, it is angelic, although a little pasty. Perhaps she has had some bad news given to her, or someone close has recently died and lies here.”16

Alejo sighed. “I believe she is depressed. I recall that some adolescents – many of whom have moments when they are dark of mood – cannot escape it as the years roll by. Her frowns lay too comfortably on her face. I fear she may be a troubled child.”17

“Poor dear,” Beatriz said. “If I could only console her. I fear that if I make myself appear before her I would only make matters worse.”18

“And why not?” Emilio chimed in, venom dripping from his words. “She is doomed! Look at her; of course she is loco! Why did she come to this God forsaken place? Because she means to commit suicide. I have seen this before, a number of times. This is a favourite spot for those fools.”19

“You can’t be sure, my friend,” Alejo said, indignant at Emilio’s tone.20

“Don’t call me friend! I am no-one’s friend. If I had friends I would have died an aged man and passed to a better place. Instead, I am here, stuck for eternity with a pair of pathetic ghosts!”21

Beatriz ignored Emilio. He ranted so often there was little meaning to his words. “There is too much speculation. She is a mystery, and only time will tell us why she is here. Let us just wait and observe.”22

“Why?” Emilio blustered. “I am sick and tired of both of you – why should you care for her? She is ALIVE – do you understand? She is a blasphemy to us! This is our territory, where we can suffer the agony of our existence. Why should a young girl come here and remind us of what we have lost, and yearn for so much?"23

Beatriz looked in Alejo’s direction quizzically, expressing concern at a turn of emotion Emilio had not demonstrated before. When she turned her attention back toward Emilio, the spectre had gone. “Oh, dear. I hope he doesn’t do something rash!”

24

***

Emilio materialised ten yards behind the girl. He studied her, angry that she was there at all, but nevertheless trying to explain the mystery of why she was sitting in the pouring rain, alone, in the cemetery. He could not see her face, but her body language was that of someone broken, or depressed. Her head was slightly tilted downward, and her long auburn hair was soaked and clingy, exaggerating her posture. She wore dark clothing and had long leather boots, which were alien to him, as he was accustomed to women wearing light colours and much more modest dresses. There was a moment – only fleeting – when he felt sorry for the young one, and thought of retreating, but his anger flared again. He revealed as much of his being to the mortal world as he could muster.25

Aniya, the young woman who sat on the stone bench, sensed that someone – something – was approaching, and she jumped to her feet and spun around. She saw a dimly glowing human form approach her slowly, wearing a wispy shroud, but revealing skeletal hands and a skull where a face would normally be found. A dark green luminescence emanated from the eye sockets, and liquefied flesh oozed from all of the ghost’s spectral bones.26

She sucked her breath in quickly, not in horror or dismay, but in glee.27

The young girl pulled out of her right sleeve a small doll made of wicker and leather, depicting a terrifying skeletal god, and out of the other a wrinkled, severed human hand, decorated with colourful feathers and blood. She quickly raised her clutched objects into the air and cried in a Haitian accent, “Dieux de la mort, permettez-moi à manger!”28

Emilio was taken completely by surprise and reacted slowly – too late to fade into the earth. He no longer had control of his form, and to his horror, he was slowly being drawn to the girl.29

What the spirit was witnessing was a nightmare he never thought he could have. This child was petit, and she had porcelain skin. Her eyes were brown and her lips were red and full… and then he realised that her face was actually painted white and was already starting to run, and her lips were red with blood. She screamed in some foul, uncouth tongue and her teeth were bared, and each tooth was filed into triangular daggers. Emilio shuddered but could do nothing. As he got within a few feet of the witch-girl, her mouth extended to four feet in diameter, and he felt his being drawing into her hell-maw.30

“What are you doing? This is my home, not yours!”31

She said nothing, but her eyes turned claret-red and there was a slight turn to her cavernous mouth, that resembled a smirk.32

Emilio almost instantly disappeared into Aniya’s gullet. She closed her mouth, and in moments appeared again as the lonely, rain-drenched girl. She gazed about her, and stopped for a few extra seconds, staring in the direction of the Baseball Hall of Fame Mausoleum, nodding slightly to Beatriz and Alejo, who were cowering behind a monument. She smiled, invigorated with the energy she had consumed, and retraced her steps out of the Colon Cemetery.

 

Recipe: Chorizo, Fennel & Baby Spinach Risotto

Made a delicious risotto tonight, so I thought I would share it with you.

First and foremost, if there is any dish that benefits from quality ingredients, it’s risotto.

Serves 4.
20 min prep time; 40 min cooking

Ingredients
arborio rice
250ml Chicken Stock
50ml white wine.
2 chorizos (plain)
3  eschellots
half a fresh fennel (or 1 baby fennel) roughly chopped.
3 handfuls of baby spinach
1.5 cups of grated Reggiano cheese
1 tbsp fesh marjorum, finely chopped
garlic to taste
olive oil for cooking
olive oil for dressing (quality)

Method
1. Slice chorizos, and then cut each slice in half. Fry until golden and then drain oil. Set aside.
2. Heat a few tablespoons of oil in a deep fry pan on high heat (I actually believe woks are best). Fry for a few minutes the eschellots (cut in halves, then sliced lengthwise). Then add several handfuls of arborio rice, marjorum and garlic. Constantly stir until arborio rice turns while, and some grains start to brown.
3. Add white wine and stir constantly until sizzling settles – then turn heat down to medium-high (enough to be able keep mixture boiling, even when adding small amounts of liquid.
4. Add a small amount of chicken stock, and continue to stir. At this point, keep stiring (the main thing is to avoid residue clinging to pan and also to ensure that all rice is folded into liquid). The rice should quickly start absorbing the stock. When it gets a bit gluggy or dry, add more stock. 
5. Repeat process until rice is half cooked – add chopped chorizos. Repeat adding liquid. You should run out of stock – replace with water.
6. When rice is three-quarters cooked, add fennel. Repeat stirring/adding liquid process.
7. When the rice is very near ready and the liquid is reducing to a point where there is only a small amount of runny liquid, add spinach and keep stirring. The spinach will wilt quickly.
8. Turn heat off and add parmesan cheese. Stir the mixture until the cheese is completely mixed with the rice.
9. Serve on plates and drizzle with a small amount of quality olive oil.

 

Short Story – The Wooden Tomb

Themba wondered why the other children were so cruel.  Just for a lark, at dusk, Fulathela, Gebhuza, Gazini and Hlengiwe quietly snuck into his family hut and wrestled him to the ground. They covered his mouth and carried him out before the rest of his family could tell that he had been abducted.

The sun had just disappeared behind the distant hills of the KwaZulu Natal plains and there was still some light left to see where the boys were taking him. Carrying him like a flimsy tree trunk, the sixteen and seventeen year old Zulu youth – all warriors – easily handled the younger Themba. He could smell their dusty sweat and could sense their excitement, all at his expense. What are they planning?

 

The boys were running with their captive, and Themba could see that their intent was to take him past the small hill near their village, and out of everyone’s sight. He struggled again for he now feared for his life.

“Do not squirm so, Themba,” Hlengiwe said, the eldest and leader of the group. “For if you do, you will suffer.” The tall, slim warrior was good at forming a stern face when it suited him, and on this occasion it was fierce, almost demonic.

The captive had little opportunity to respond, as Gazini kept his hand tightly clamped over Themba’s mouth, not even providing him the opportunity to bite. He did stop struggling, however, as there was a glimmer of hope if Hlengiwe offered the choice between ‘suffering’ versus, presumably, ‘non-suffering’. But he still wondered, what are they planning for me?

As the last vestiges of sunlight dissipated from the land, Themba saw that the four warriors were taking him to the largest and oldest of the boabab trees in the region. It was called the Wooden Tomb, as it had a hollow going so far back in time it was central in his people’s legends; and when a villager died, his or her body was interred inside the tree. A door was fashioned a thousand years before and it was often repaired or replaced. It had fasteners attached to the boabab to ensure that creatures would not come into the tomb and desecrate the corpses, and the women of the village whispered that it also stopped the restless spirits from leaving the tree to try to complete some unfinished business…

Themba couldn’t believe he was really headed for the Wooden Tomb, and so he hopefully imagined that the boys were headed for some other destination near the ancient tree. As their course continued toward the bulbous giant, he started to experience fear that he never thought was possible. This was not a worry that he was going to be roughed up in some childish prank; it was fear of the place of death; it was horror.

The boys stopped and dropped their burden before the Wooden Tomb’s door. Themba landed heavily, but found he was now able to speak… or cry out for help.

“Do not think they can hear you,” Hlengiwe stated, reading the young boy’s mind. “And if you try, you will regret it.” He again had that ferocious look about him.

“W.. what are you doing?” Themba whimpered. “Have I done something to make you angry?"

Fulathela, who never spoke much, and had even less brains, laughed. “Look, he is about to cry like a woman! What chance has he to become a warrior?”

Hlengiwe held his hand up, to silence him. “You may be right, but our test will make sure.” He then turned to Themba, who was still lying in the dirt. “You will spend the night in the Wooden Tomb, and if you walk out in the morning with a brave face, you can join our group. If you emerge as a frightened child, you will become our slave.”

Themba realised he had no choice but to endure what was in store for him. The warrior spirit was a strong ethic instilled in the boys of the village and he couldn’t face being called a child, when he was so close to his initiation ceremony. He displayed the emotionless face of the Zulu warrior. “I will face the dead with bravery and return with pride.”

Hlengiwe laughed. “We shall see.” He pointed to Gebhuza and Gazini and they opened the door, allowing Hlengiwe and Fulathela to unceremoniously dump him into the hollow of the boabab.

The door was shut very quickly and Themba could hear its four straps being wound on their fasteners. It was already dark outside, and he saw nothing but blackness when he was pushed into the massive cavity. He lay on the ground, hearing his breath come out in rapid cycles, the fear of the unknown turning his body ice cold. He was only a few feet away from the door, and he had no idea how far away he was from the remains of hundreds of years of dead villagers, and his own ancestors.

He did smell them though.

He lay on the floor, frozen in abject fear. He couldn’t move a muscle and he controlled his breathing so that it slowed to a crawl, in order to reduce his movements further. There was an overpowering musky smell, almost sweet, but it was associated with decay, like the mould on a dead tree. There seemed to be a coolness as well, but it wasn’t comforting like being in shade and a comforting breeze wispily blowing by; it was like Death’s home.

He waited. He didn’t know for how long, and it seemed agonizingly long, but he did not move an inch. He was starting to shiver.

A hollow voice came from the darkness ahead of him, sounding as if it originated only a few feet away. “Who are you, child?”

Themba nearly jumped out of his skin. “I, I am Themba.”

The voice, still faint and airy, as if it was caught on the wind, responded. “A good name. It means ‘trust’. I like it.”

“Who… who are you?”

“Never mind; at least for the while,” the disembodied voice replied. “I want you to do something for me.”

“What…?”

“I want you to gather the bones and what is left of the bodies here and carry them for me to the far end of this tomb."

Themba couldn’t imagine anything more repulsive. He shook his head.

The voice grew in volume and it’s tone was grave. “Listen, Themba. If you stay where you are you will die. Either the cold of the dead will seep into your bones and cause your heart to give way, or you will walk out into the sun tomorrow morning and die of shame. Do what I ask and you will live.”

Themba heard the truth in those words and got to his feet. He could feel the ache of the clingy cold of the Wooden Tomb.

The voice continued. “Open your eyes – tune them to this world of the dead.”

Themba concentrated, and slowly, but surely, he was able to see what it looked like inside the tree. It astounded him and terrified him at the same time. Based on the size of the tree from the outside, he expected enough room inside to be much like a small hut; but it was huge – it had the width of a hut, but it stretched back for hundreds of yards, and he could faintly make out hills, trees and a river beyond. However, just before him was a semi-circle of bones and desiccated corpses, some grinning as if there was some secret joke among them, others looking like they were agonizingly reaching out for some object.

The voice echoed in his ears again, but Themba could not work out where it came from. “Boy, pick up these bones and take them to the river and lay them on its bank. Every single piece. Do this and you will not die.”

Themba obeyed, and after a score of journeys, he laid the last set of bones on the river bank.

“Good work, Themba,” came the voice. Suddenly a group of bones gathered together and transformed into a whole man, of about sixty years. He had the look of the people of his tribe. “I am Qinisela."

Themba fell before his feet in supplication. “I am honoured. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

The old man laughed. “You already have. A mortal is needed to move the remains beyond the boabab, to make room for the new dead, and more importantly, to allow us to pass to the land beyond – here. You have enabled me, and my kin to move on…” He swept his hand around him and the bones and corpses were replaced with villagers, many of whom he knew before they had died. “Now go, Themba, for it is morning, and your father will be opening the door to the Wooden Tomb.”

Themba now started to understand why he was abducted.

Qinisela raised his hand before the young boy could speak. “Yes, Themba, your father knew that you were taken to the tree. It was planned. For some, the blessed, entering the boabab tree and helping the ancestors to journey to their final resting place, is their rite of passage to become a warrior.”  The old man smiled, and for Themba his face then seemed somehow familiar.  "Yes, grandson, indeed, you have proven yourself; you have done a worthy deed!"

Publishing and Author Help

I have something in common with a lot of people out there in the world – we want to be full time writers. Not necessarily successful, not necessarily filthy rich (both of these are desirable but optional), but we all want to do what we love, as a profession. Some of us have what it takes, some of us don’t. I am not here writing about those who don’t – that is a very personal journey, and we should all at least have a chance at getting properly assessed, and have the appropriate experience and perhaps training, to come to a definitive decision.

I am writing this blog to you, the person in my situation, and I am assuming you have what it takes.

About a year and a half ago I made a fair number of friends of people like you, and several of them have become as close a friend as you can get while not being on the same continent. We spent a lot of time coaching each other and participated in short story challenges – all of this has become invaluable in improving our mastery of the craft, and we all had/have other projects. Then, not sure how long ago, we explored POD and other publishing concepts, and one of us actually published his first novel, via POD, and learned much from the exercise. While none of us have published through traditional publishing houses, we all have much to share with others.

So, we created a Guild, based on a more confined Guild we were previous members of, and we call ourselves the International Fantasy Writers Guild – because fantasy is the prime genre among us. We are, however, equally comfortable with Science Fiction, and any number of genres and subgenres in that space. The purpose of the Guild is twofold – to supply the usual shared community networking that sites like that provide, but with two important differences – firstly, with membership regions so that work can be discussed without ruining "first publishing rights" which can occur in open Internet sites; and secondly, we will form a POD group that will specialise in the genres aforementioned, and which will be particularly generous to author interests. We also will not compromise quality.

I have blogged this now as we are actually ramping up our activities and will in fact start publishing over the next coming weeks, perhaps few months.

We are still getting our proverbials together, but our intentions are clear, and we are able to publish ebooks, kindle, and softcover books now, if we want to.

I invite you to join us, or at least check us out. If you want to go the traditional path, be my guest – hey, even with this stuff happening, I would like that break myself, but I also believe there is a place here for those who want to publish, and also to learn by sharing with others.

This is the place to go, but it is still a bit rough. Email me and I can give you more information if you have any questions.

Guardians of the Sky Realms

Wow, am I excited and motivated!

Over the last few days (sick in bed, mind you), I have written over 7k words toward my small YA novel. I am guessing it will get to around 60k when finished – which is odd for me (as I tend to write them a lot longer). 11k in all has now been written. I am on a roll big time, and I don’t suspect it will sustain at this rate all the way to the end (yes, work is calling), but it will make a sizeable dent to the novel and, more importantly, I am in the groove – there will be no stumbling blocks now.

This is new for me, but it feels right. I call it a YA novel, but I am guessing the core readers will be girls aged from about 13 to 17 – I am guessing, as I am 48 and a male. That’s radically different! Does this constitute a YA novel? It wont be long before I start to find some of my nieces and get them to sanity check what I have written.

I have a short story posted on the Internet that is pretty close to what the prologue of my novel will be. Here it is to give you a bit of a taste what the story is about (but only a taste – there is a lot more to it!).

I call the short The Painting.

It was a balmy night but Maree shivered, buttoning up her coat. It was fear. Not for something specific, but the unknown – the back lanes of The Rocks were dark and menacing at midnight.

This was one of the oldest parts of Sydney and many of the narrow buildings she silently passed were nearly two hundred years old. In the old days the narrow byways were frequented by footpads and other villains. They killed for a few shillings. The history of the area was tangible: you could smell and taste it, and every shadow seemed to form into a knife-wielding psychopath.

She kept reminding herself that it was just her imagination as she continued down Kendell Lane, looking for No. 42. She still glanced over her shoulder every few seconds.

“There,” she whispered, when she spotted the rusty number in the dim light. She read the signage underneath it: ‘Azimuth Galleries – viewings by appointment only’. Not this night, she thought.

Maree looked around her, making sure that no one was in sight. When she was sure it was clear she pulled out a pair of wires and expertly picked the old lock.

She quickly entered the old building and shut the door. She then pulled out a pocket torch and switched it on, immediately flashing it around to get her bearings. It was, in some ways, scarier in the gallery, as the paintings in the shadows seemed to come to life, shifting as the torch flickered by, the eyes of abstract figures seemingly following her. She shivered again. She wandered into the next room, picking her pace up as if to avoid the gaze of the phantoms behind her.

Her torch light almost immediately found the painting she was after. Wings. The work she saw in the magazine, the magnificent work of art she had to have. This was not going to be theft for profit; this was for her.

She had been dreaming about the painting for weeks, the swirling reds, greys and oranges of barely discernible winged figures; angels perhaps, but the subject matter wasn’t angelic. There was grief and death in it. She needed to study it alone, to absorb the artist’s impression, to feel the paint under her fingertips, to grasp the complete meaning of the work.

Maree held her breath and approached the painting. It was larger than she thought, perhaps four feet square. The colours were richer, more penetrating, and the winged man and… yes, woman! were more easily discernible. She was in awe, frozen in wonder before it.

“A beautiful work, no?” a deep, masculine voice came from behind her.

She started in surprise, but she didn’t move an inch. She was now frozen in fear.

The voice came again, this time a little closer. “Do not worry. I am a stranger in this gallery as well. I too have an… affinity with the painting.”

A sweat bead ran down Maree’s neck. She found the courage to turn around. A tall man stood before her, no more than five feet away. He had short cropped hair, dark but the exact colour was unclear in the shadows. His eyes seemed light, perhaps grey; his face was thin but his body seemed full and fit. “I suppose you are wondering why I am here?”

Maree’s voice was weak, still with fear. “I… I suppose so…”

“I too wanted to view the painting. I have seen it before but I never tire of viewing the captured emotions on the canvas.” He slipped past Maree and came within a few feet of Wings. “Do you mind?” he asked, pointing to her torch.

She complied, standing next to the stranger, and illuminated the painting.

The mysterious visitor’s voice seemed to mellow, almost break with emotion. “This is the story of Alanar, the Guardian of the Northern Sky Realm, and his consort Mirriam. They were Protectors and fought the daemons of the Fire Lands valiantly, never allowing the enemy to taint the Homelands. Protectors always worked as pairs, as a team.” The stranger started to cry, not vocally, but allowing the tears to cascade down his cheeks. “Then one day a stray arrow dug deep into Mirriam’s breast, cleaving her heart. Alanar was devastated, and he caught her as she fell and carried her in his flight to the Homelands.

“This painting captures the moment when Mirriam’s body was caught. It faithfully portrays the agony of Alanar, his yellow-tipped wings rippling in the wind as he concludes his terrible descent. The swirling colours reflect the awful light of the Fire Lands but they also depict Alanar’s darkened heart. I look upon this work and I cannot but weep.”

Maree heard his words and they all rang true to her. How could this be? she asked herself, for this was but an artist’s fantasy; and yet she now realised why she was drawn to the painting. There was some inherent truth in the canvas. Something that needed to say something to her. She also began to weep.

His hand gently clasped her shoulder. “You feel this too?”

She could only nod. Words were too difficult to say.

“And why?”

She shrugged her shoulders. She still couldn’t speak.

“Come with me.”

Maree turned to the stranger, looking up at his face. She saw compassion in him, and yet she only met him a few minutes ago. She wanted to instantly reply ‘yes’, but all she could do was look at him quizzically.

He laughed while he cried. “Look at the painting again.”

She did. The swirling colours suddenly seemed to have a life of their own; they actually were swirling. The tall man’s hand was still on her shoulder, and it ever so gently urged her to move toward the canvas, but not forcibly.

She didn’t know why but she allowed herself to fall into the painting, and then, without warning, she unfurled her expansive, blue-tipped wings, and flew into the maelstrom of colours.

He never let her go.

“It has been a long time, Mirriam.”

The Sceptre and the Orb

Where do I begin? This is my first novel, my baby, and I genuinely believe it’s very good. It is epic High Fantasy, all 200k words of it. It is also reasonably uniquely structured and has the right story lines to introduce the world where Evyntyde exists.

As I stated in another blog, the world I write about was not altogether my construction – there were a bunch of roleplay game designers who collaborated on convention modules, and with a great deal of enthusiasm, we did a lot of world building. I was one of the most active, but certainly not the only one. The group eventually went their separate ways in terms of this project, and I continued it pretty much solo for a while, and eventually realised that the world had a lot to offer from a writing point of view. The other designers either formally handed over rights to the world to a smaller subset of designers, and those that remained consented to allowing me to dip into the stuff we collectively built. I should point out that my creative writing effort is mine, and mine alone, and by far the bulk of the world building used to construct the novels (and short stories) are also mine.

For fear of jeapardising my chances of selling the book through a publisher, I will refrain from quoting from my work, at this stage, and for that matter, divulging too much about the story. The following is what I am willing to offer.

The Sceptre and the Orb (‘scepter’ in US English) are two ancient artefacts, one created by a god-emperor, while the other by one of the greatest alchemists of all time, who used god-originating materials to construct it. They were designed to work together. They symbolised the right to rule the Kingdom of Waymoor, as well as the Kingdom of Evyntyde, that came out of a Great Migration from the earlier land. They also are powerful items of magic in the hands of people who know how to wield them (spell casting alchemists), and who have the Gift.

The novel is set in two places and timeframes, and appear to be two different stories, although each have spell casting alchemists of the Cimiaric Order, and the two artefacts play an important part in the conduct of events. The earlier thread takes place in the Kingdom of Waymoor, about 550 years prior to the events in the Kingdom of Evyntyde. The lives of three alchemists are followed, each having challenges in their lives, but also being entangled in the fate of the Waymoorian Sceptre and Orb.

Civil War, treason, jealousy – great events take place and near the conclusion of the novel all threads join together and add meaning to each other.

The story is truly epic, and I am proud to have written it.