Tag: writing

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’.

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….

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: 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.”

Short Story: She Has Been Here

The two officers led the pair of British visitors along Table Rock, the precarious outcrop which touched the corona of Niagara Falls, carefully traversing the ice and sludge that served as their path. The roar of the falls was deafening – in fact it’s deep, penetrating bass could be heard and felt from the tourists’ hotel. In moments the frigid cloud of spray they entered saturated their clothing.

Charles Dickens turned to his travelling secretary, brushing long wet locks from his handsome, boyish face. “George, isn’t this marvellous! Great God! How can any man be disappointed at this!”

George Putnam adjusted his overcoat, shivering from the cold. He moved closer to his friend and patron, so that he could be heard over the noise. “None can, Charles. However, if we stay out here for more than a few more minutes, I suspect we will succumb to the cold.” He flapped his arms, trying to warm them. “I fear that we may even end up frozen, and become additions to the scenery.”

Dickens was about to respond with a witty remark, when his eyes adjusted to the concentrated cold and moisture in the air and he saw, with absolute clarity, the intense green colour of the water falling to the frothy, jagged base below. The playwright and novelist was now at a loss for words. He was astonished by the vastness of the scene before him, more so than what he had seen when he and his small entourage had arrived at their hotel that morning.

He focused for a moment on the two dapper officers, who had earlier kindly offered to escort the visitors, and he observed that they too were struggling with the frigid conditions. He glanced behind and saw Kate and Anne – his wife and her serving maid – rugged up and under shelter, eagerly waiting for their return. Dickens realised that it was time to head back, and mentally noted that he wanted this short excursion to occur again before he left for Montreal. He stole one last glance at the green wall of water with its billowing, frosty white exhalation. His own breath was suddenly taken away; he was stunned by a vision that nearly pummelled him to his knees. Time seemed to slow to almost a standstill.

Despite the biting, scratching water vapour flailing his eyes, he saw a face forming within the churning whiteness and verdigris of the falls. It started out as a pale visage of a young and innocent female beauty, becoming, as the fractions of a second slowly passed by, more clear and attractive. Dickens’ eyes widened as he saw dark, curling hair form around this feminine form and then rose-red lips and large, bright blue eyes. Mary! Oh my Lord, it is Mary! It was the face of Mary, sister of his wife, Kate, who had died three years earlier at the tender age of seventeen. It had torn his and Kate’s souls apart. The thought of her still ached like a steel rod that pierced his heart and lungs, and which could never be removed.

Perhaps a half a second had gone by. Mary’s face started to come to life and her eyes turned to him and she smiled… a deep and penetrating smile, with a look of understanding. She acknowledges me! Then a cloud of spray engulfed the party and Mary disappeared. He thought he heard a fading sigh, amidst the cacophony of the falls.

One of the soldiers approached him. “Sir, it is too cold for a soul to survive here for long! I sincerely recommend our return to your hotel!”

Dickens nodded, but only a small portion of his mind was on what the man had said. He was still shaken to the core by his vision.

George grabbed his shoulder and turned him around, shouting. “Charles! He is right!”

This time he understood. He could feel the cold and the wet seeping into his insides. “Yes, my friends. We must return.” They all carefully made their way back to the hotel.

On their return Kate saw Dickens’ face, and knowing her husband well, could see that his paleness and the unusual look in his eyes, was more than just the extremity of the weather. It was also more than just the majestic spectacle that he had just witnessed. She joined the group and locked her arm affectionately around his. The group walked briskly back to the hotel, and Kate nonchalantly whispered in his ear. “Charles, is there something troubling you? Do you want to talk with me in our room?”

Dickens smiled. “Dearest, nothing escapes your discerning eyes, does it?” He paused for a moment. “I do need to go to our room, but… do you mind if I go there alone?”

Kate could barely disguise a frown. “I have seen that look in your eyes before, Charles. She has been gone a long time now. I do not want to see you enter that dark place again…”

He stopped walking and held her close, both hands tenderly grasping her waist. “Darling. I need to collect my thoughts. I would be lying if Mary is not on my mind at this moment.” Kate was about to speak again but he squeezed her slightly tighter, conveying the importance of his point. “I swear that I am fine. There is something I need to reason out, to reconcile.”

She sighed and nodded. “Go then, but remember that we shared our darkest days together, and benefited from it. I could not have survived without your companionship.”

He placed a lingering kiss on her forehead, released his embrace, and left the group.

He climbed the stairs to his room feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt, but he couldn’t explain to Kate what he saw from Table Rock, until he could understand it better himself. He swore to himself he would tell her everything.

On closing his door, and subconsciously locking it, he quickly changed into dry clothes and sat at the breakfast table near the French windows that provided a magnificent view of the falls. He poured himself a sherry and, again without thinking, prepared his note paper and ink well and quill.

He was halfway through his second glass of sherry before he was able to think at all.

Mary Hogarth. When Kate married him Mary was inseparable from her older sister and moved in with the young couple. The teenage girl was full of life – spirit – and for Dickens she was an absolute delight to have in his home. She was bubbly, excitable, and for her age, highly intelligent. She inspired him in his writing and unabashedly critiqued his works – if warranted, it was gratefully accepted, and if not, it allowed him to refine his work.

He topped up his glass. This was where there was some long-standing guilt, but of a form that was highly complex. While Mary was alive he never thought deeply about his feelings for her. There were times when he felt that she was an important part of his relationship with Kate – it was impossible to conceive of Kate without Mary, and his feelings, his (dare he say it?) desires, could not separate the two. After she died – that awful year when it was clear her heart was weak and she slowly weakened and then passed quietly – Dickens fell into a profound depressed state. The Pickwick Papers was left half written for over a year, and all he could do was exist at the most basic of levels. Many people thought he was finished. What they did not know, nor Kate, was that he was also struggling with his feelings for the dead girl. It was shame. He could not – even now – disentangle all the wonderful and pleasurable feelings he had of Mary and find whether one or two of these threads were unwholesome, unnatural, sinful. It ate at his soul like cancer for those three years, and remnants of the disease still existed. But this did not mean he had no love for Kate – far from it – it was profound and universal. Ironically, this added to his guilt. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he had to be in his room alone.

Then his thoughts turned to the apparition.

He was on his fourth sherry.

He tried to recall what the Falls had actually stirred in him prior to his vision of Mary, using his keen writer’s insight. The immensity of the Falls was there to behold and could not be ignored. It made him feel small and insignificant in this world, where, if he threw himself into the churning ice, water and rock he could imagine himself being distended, spread out into the universe – no pain, agony and terror – just emersion into oblivion. He laughed. As insignificant as man was in the presence of Niagara Falls, the thoughts it produced were profound and cosmic. Instead of making man trivial it made him master.

His line of thinking arrived at a deeper conclusion as to what caused him to be so moved by the Falls. He was not awed or terrified by Niagara – he was actually lulled into a sense of contentment. Peace of mind; tranquillity. He was near his Creator. Dickens articulated his thoughts by toasting the Falls and God at the same time, raising his glass. “You have instilled comfort in eternal rest.”

“I am glad,” came a young and familiar voice from behind him.

Dickens turned rapidly, spilling some of his sherry over his notepaper. Before him was Mary, at the tender age of when she died. Instead of dark recesses for eyes and a year’s worth of pain and suffering etched into a sallow face, she was vibrant again; colour in her clear and smooth skin; life in her eyes. He fell to the floor on his knees. “Is it really you?”

She wore a white dress that was one of his favourites, and she had no jewellery on her except for a simple silver chain around her neck and caressing her small, milk-white breasts. She smiled and stepped toward the incredulous writer, stopping about three feet from him.

He rose to his feet and found it difficult to believe how real she looked. There was no wispy apparition before him; he could actually smell her so wonderfully familiar lavender scent. “Why, why are you here?”

“I want you to be happy. I want to ease your suffering.” She was still smiling, but the look in her eyes had a depth to them that revealed some solemn purpose.

“I am a writer. We always suffer.” Dickens felt like an idiot the moment he uttered his words.

Mary’s eyelashes fluttered. “You have a choice on that matter. Perhaps I can help.” She moved closer to him and, to Dickens’ complete surprise, she placed her lips on his and kissed him long and passionately.

Her hands drew him closer to her, and he also tightly held her warm, soft body. Then he realised something was wrong. It was not the fact that Mary was so agonisingly substantial, and tasted and smelled so real, but that his passion was not there, or at least did not match hers.

He gently pushed her back and she continued to smile, with a virginal innocence that contrasted with the full blooded passion she had exhibited only moments before.

“What is wrong, Charles?”

“I, I cannot do this.”

“Why?” she asked.

“It is not right. I am married and you are my sister-in-law.”

Her smile disappeared. “You are correct, Charles, but there is more that has come out of this test. What did you feel?”

He thought quickly and delved into his own soul. “When I… kissed you, held you, it did not seem right. There was no love, not the way I make love with Kate.”

The smile returned to Mary’s face. “There. You have it. Your love for me when I was alive was not for a man for a woman, it was for our profound friendship… the three of us together. It is that simple. After I died you were grieved and it grew into something larger, more complicated. Distorted. You caused yourself to believe that your feelings were more than what they were.” She stepped back a few feet. “You need to understand that you need not suffer now. You should cherish the memories of our time together. I am at peace – I am resting in eternity. I am happy.”

Tears started to run down Dickens’ cheeks. “I am so glad you are happy. But the injustice, the loss…”

Mary placed her right index finger to her lips. “I am happy…” And then she faded away.

Charles Dickens, a few weeks after his thirtieth birthday, turned again to the view of the Falls. He looked to the remnants of sherry in his cut crystal glass and wondered if he had imagined it all, if the alcohol had addled his brain. He didn’t care. The short visit to Table Rock had allowed him to rediscover peace and contentment.

He got to his feet and slipped on his winter coat. I cannot wait to tell Kate that she has been here.
 

Author notes

This is set in a scene that is factual, and several phrases are taken from Dickens’ published letters. The only liberty I took, apart from the psychological (and parapsychological) assumptions, is that Dickens did not visit Table Rock in winter.

Short Story: My Animus

I am eating my own soul with hatred. I am curled up, gnawing at my knees with loathing. I despise the world and nothing would please me more than seeing it destroyed.

I do not know how long I have been imprisoned in this watery world. I am blind and immobilised; I remember nothing of how I got here. I dimly recall fighting the righteous in the fields and being vanquished, and my spirit soared the ether for two ages as humans counted years. I burned in hell-fire for thrice that period, punished for crimes against humanity. Now I have my new prison – this confining space, where my mind is addled; where all I have is my animus.

Why is the water so warm? Is it close to where I suffered the agonies of the fire? Perhaps. Why am I alive, given that I am immersed in this viscous liquid? I cannot be sure, but I feel that I am being nourished in some way. I have wondered about many things, and never get any answers. This is part of the torture, the punishment.

I’m special, anointed, superior. That was why I was persecuted and banished from the world. Death is not a finality for me, and I know I will return. One day. Oh they will suffer. They will grovel before me and pray to be my slaves.

The water has its own special sound. It is like the wind rustling in the trees, or waves breaking on the shores. It has a rhythm to it, like a heartbeat, and it seduces me with feelings of comfort and security. It lies. How can it give the impression of wholesomeness when it knows that I am confined in this agonising eternity? Another, more cruel dimension to the torment.

Wait! Something is happening! The rhythm is picking up pace and I feel pressure about me. Is this it? Is this the time I will be freed and finally fulfil my destiny?

The water, it is receding. Rapidly. I feel like I am being crushed, and yet I am being liberated. Freedom!

Chaotic, churning confusion. I am constricted and I feel that my life-system is shutting down. I feel something grasp my head with a titanic grip, and now I am washed in a cold blast of air! Light penetrates my eyelids and I force my eyes open, as I am choking – dying from lack of air. My back is slammed and I vomit the remains of the liquid that was in my lungs. I see nothing but indistinct images around me as I gulp for air. I cry. I cannot help it!

Laid on some bed I see blurry human figures, masked, stare at me. I continue to cry. I try to move my body and all I can do is wave my arms and legs uselessly. I have no control. I catch a glimpse of a golden cross around one neck.

My torture continues.

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.