Writing Tips: Character as Voice

Posted on by June 29, 2017  

 

Last week we talked about using image to present your characters. This week I want to discuss a second way of character presentation: voice. In the same manner that you tell from a couple of words over the telephone who you’re speaking to, your readers should be able to recognize a character from her/his voice. All characters should have their own way of talking marked by difference in diction (word choice), rhythm, and style. In addition to differentiating between characters, the words a character uses and the manner of her/his speech can reveal a lot about the person.

Blaine, who begins The Goddess’s Choice as an undersecretary in the library, reveals himself through his speech. When he is summoned by the princess, the chief librarian asks him if he has offended the princess. He replies, “I-I don’t know. I-I had no intention of doing so. I-I did see Her Highness in the clerks’ office earlier, but I did bow, and I’m sure I did it appropriately. At least, I-I think I did. I did it exactly as you said I should if I ever passed her in the halls. At least, I think I-I did.”  As you can see, he talks too fast, says too much, and stammers. With these few words, the reader sees that he is very unsure of himself. This is further emphasized when the princess makes him her secretary and asks his opinion of her plans for the king’s birthday celebration. He responds, “Well, I’m sure Your Highness knows what she’s doing, and if you like things this way, I’m sure it’s a perfectly fine way to have them. I know I have very little experience, and Your Highness must have a very good reason for having—” The princess has to cut him off to get an answer.

Even without attributions, readers would never confuse Blaine with Darhour. Darhour strikes terror into the new secretary with few words. He threatens, “I am Captain Darhour, the commander of the princess’s personal guard. Her safety is my responsibility.” Darhour speaking those few words causes Blaine to fear for his life. Darhour doesn’t need to say much to cause men to “piss in their pants.”

The villain of the piece, Argblutal, reveals his contempt for women by the words he uses to describe them. He tells Count Nola, “Everything about Her Highness is my business. I will marry her. No chit is going to keep me from the throne that should have been mine by right of blood.” And “chit” is one the nicer words he uses to describe her. His thoughts further the reader’s distaste for him. “The air of authority in her voice grated on the duke. His groin tightened as he thought about the deliciousness of teaching her a woman’s proper place. He imagined her naked and tied to his bed. Her breasts were a good deal smaller than he preferred. But as he imagined thrashing them with his cat-o-nine, no breasts had ever excited him more.”

To get a character’s voice right, you need to place yourself in the character’s mind. Inhabit the character and see what words come pouring out. Through it all, it’s important to remember your job is getting your readers to care about your characters. It’s impossible for him/her to care much if they all sound like carbon copies of each other.

Tell me what you think, or describe the way your favorite character speaks in the comments below.

Erinland Book Tour and Giveaway

Posted on by July 15, 2017 2
Erinland
by Kathryn Berryman
Genre: Epic Fantasy
Two troubled young adults find themselves key players in a deadly game
that spans the 21st century and the Viking Age.

Amy, finding it difficult to ‘fit in’, becomes increasingly obsessed
with the virtual reality game Erinland. The VR characters and the
mist of Erin begin to invade Amy’s dreams and her waking moments.
She finds herself drawn into Erinland in 9th century Ireland. Amy
becomes part of this mystical world as she joins in the struggle to
defeat the Viking raiders.
Richard has a complicated home life and feels he doesn’t belong anywhere. A
series of events finds him desperate and living on the streets, where
he finds himself dragged into 9th century Norway by a Viking warrior.
Richard finds acceptance with the Vikings and joins them on a
colonisation raid to Ireland.
Kathryn is a Sydney author whose interest in history and mythology was the
catalyst for her debut novel Erinland to become a reality.

An adventure in the modern and ancient world, where the central
characters seek acceptance and self-belief, the ‘players’ in
Erinland find themselves in very different roles from their everyday
life. Choices they make could mean the difference between life and
death, with the consequences of these decisions reaching into their
‘real’ lives.
Written in the Fantasy genre, Book I bridges the ages, drawing on
contemporary life and 9th Century history to create an authentic
experience for the reader. A visual writer, she explores the
mythologies of ancient Norway and Ireland, giving a tangible view of
everyday life and the impact of the Gods in these two
cultures.
Kathryn is married with three beautiful daughters. Amidst busy family life,
she studied at University to become a Primary school teacher. When
she is not teaching, she loves to write and dabble in other creative
pursuits such as painting and drawing. She and her husband hope to
realise their dream and move to the country one day – soon.
Follow the tour HERE
for exclusive excerpts and a giveaway!

The Chocolatier’s Wife

Posted on by July 11, 2017 10

How can you not like a novel that mixes fantasy with chocolate? Enter Cindy Lynn Speer’s strange world and enter to win a $50 Amazon gift card below.

ROMANCE, MAGIC, MYSTERY…. AND CHOCOLATE

 

A truly original, spellbinding love story, featuring vivid characters in a highly realistic historical setting.

 

When Tasmin’s bethrothed, William, is accused of murder, she gathers her wind sprites and rushes to his home town to investigate. She doesn’t have a shred of doubt about his innocence. But as she settles in his chocolate shop, she finds more in store than she bargained for. Facing suspicious townsfolk, gossiping neighbors, and William’s own family, who all resent her kind – the sorcerer folk from the North — she must also learn to tell friend from foe, and fast. For the real killer is still on the loose – and he is intent on ruining William’s family at all cost.

 

 

TMarried to her soul mate, the chocolatier William, Tasmin should not have to worry about anything at all. But when her happily ever after is interrupted by the disappearance of the town’s wise woman, she rushes in to investigate. Faced with dangers, dead bodies, and more mysterious disappearances, Tasmin and William must act fast to save their town and themselves – especially when Tasmin starts to be haunted by a most unwelcome ghost from her past…literally.

 

The Chocolatier’s Ghost is an enchanting sequel to Cindy Lynn Speer’s bestselling romantic mystery, The Chocolatier’s Wife.

 

Excerpt

Time was, in the kingdom of Berengeny, that no one picked their spouses. No one courted—not officially, at any rate—and no one married in a moment’s foolish passion. It was the charge of the town Wise Woman, who would fill her spell bowl with clear, pure water; a little salt; and the essence of roses, and rosemary, and sage. Next, she would prick the finger of the newborn child and let his or her blood drip into the potion. If a face showed in the waters, then it was known that the best possible mate (they never said true love, for that was the stuff of foolish fancy) had been born, and the Wise Woman could then tell where the future spouse lived, and arrangements were made.

For the parents of William of the House of Almsley, this process would turn out to be less than pleasant.

The first year that the baby William’s finger was pricked and nothing showed, the Wise Woman said, “Fear not, a wife is often younger than the husband.”

The second, third, and even fifth year she said much the same.

But you see, since the spell was meant to choose the best match—not the true love—of the heart the blood in the bowl belonged to, this did not mean, as years passed, that the boy was special. It meant that he would be impossible to live with.

On his seventh birthday, it seemed everyone had quite forgotten all about visiting the Wise Woman until William, who knew this of long habit to be a major part of his day–along with cake, a new toy, and a new set of clothes–tugged on his mother’s skirt and asked when they were going. She stared at him a long moment, tea cup in hand, before sighing and calling for the carriage. She didn’t even bother to change into formal clothes this time, and the Wise Woman seemed surprised to see them at all. “Well, we might as well try while you’re here,” she said, her voice obviously doubtful.

William obediently held out the ring finger on his left hand and watched as the blood dripped into the bowl. “She has dark brown eyes,” William observed, “and some hair already.” He shrugged, and looked at the two women. “I suppose she’ll do. I’m just glad ‘tis over, and that I can go on with my life.”

“For you, perhaps,” his mother said, thinking of what she would now have to accomplish.

“Do not fret, mother, I shall write a letter to the little girl. Not that she can read it, anyway.” He petted his mother’s arm. He was a sweet boy, but he was always charging forward, never worrying about feelings.

The Wise Woman rolled out an elegantly painted silk map of the kingdom and all its regions, his mother smoothed the fabric across the table, and then the Wise Woman dipped a brass weight into the bowl. Henriette, William’s mother, placed her hands on William’s shoulders as the Wise Woman held the weight, suspended, over the map.

Henriette held her breath, waiting to see where it would land. Andrew, her younger son, had his intended living just down the street, which was quite convenient. At least they knew what they were getting into immediately.

The plumb-bob made huge circles around the map, spinning and spinning as the Wise Woman recited the words over and over. It stopped, stiffly pointing toward the North.

“Tarnia? Not possible, nor even probable. You must try again!”

For once, William’s mother wasn’t being stubbornly demanding. Tarnia, a place of cruel and wild magic, was the last place from whence one would wish a bride. They did not have Wise Women there, for anyone could perform spells. The Hags of the North ate their dead and sent the harsh winter wind to ravage the crops of the people of the South. Five hundred years ago, the North and the South had fought a bitter war over a cause no one could quite remember, only that it had been a brutal thing, and that many had died, and it led to the South losing most of its magic. Though the war was long over and the two supposedly united again, memory lingered. “I have cast it twice.” The Wise Woman chewed her lower lip, but therewas naught else she could do.

“Not Tarnia, please?” Henriette, usually a rather fierce and cold woman, begged.

“I am afraid so.” The Wise Woman began cleaning up; her shoulders set a little lower. “I am sorry.”

William, staring out the window at the children playing outside, couldn’t care less. What did it matter where anyone was from? She was a baby, and babies didn’t cause that much trouble.

“Only you, William,” his mother said, shaking her head. “Why can you not do anything normal?”

This was to be the tenor of most of their conversations throughout their lives.

Author Bio

Cindy Lynn Speer has been writing since she was 13.  She has Blue Moon and Unbalanced published by Zumaya.  Her other works, including The Chocolatier’s Wife (recently out in an illustrated hardcover to celebrate its 10th anniversary) and the Chocolatier’s Ghost, as well as the short story anthology Wishes and Sorrows.  When she is not writing she is either practicing historical swordsmanship, sewing, or pretending she can garden.  She also loves road trips and seeing nature.  Her secret side hobby is to write really boring bios about herself.  You can find out more about her at www.cindylynnspeer.com, or look for her on Facebook (Cindy Lynn Speer) and Twitter (cindylynnspeer).

https://www.amazon.com/Cindy-Lynn-Speer/e/B001JOVNP2

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Guest Author, Adam Henderson

Posted on by July 15, 2017  

Welcome my guest, Adam Henderson, or the badass nameless one. No, I’m not confused the author with the character.

Adam Henderson was born in the geographically oddity that is the ‘Gateway to Death Valley’, otherwise known as Ridgecrest, CA, which is set on the right hipbone of the Mojave Desert several hours away from everything.  Sprung from a family of creative ilk, he found his desire for the wonders of writing as a high school senior and just a year later began to tackle the proverbial herd of bulls of character and world building that slowly developed into a story with all its novice luster.

Married and working as a technical writer/editor in his hometown, he enjoys a full life of serving his community, playing drums and bass, and improving his culinary skills one botched recipe at a time.  A sports and film fan, he finds inspiration everywhere, discovering it’s people that fuel his writing.

Interview

  1. What made you want to become a writer?

 

 I think I was always meant to be a storyteller.  I was not the most extroverted kid growing up and found a lot of joy in playing with action figures, creating characters and stories.  This ran its course as I grew older but still had the desire to create.  In high school, as I began to read fantasy and sci-fi novels; I found myself suddenly having ideas that I knew could become a book.

2. What are your biggest literary influences? Favorite authors and why?

My biggest influencer as a fantasy writer has to be Robert Jordan whose Wheel of Time series sucked me into a vibrant world of magic, political intrigue, and best of all fleshed out characters who irritated, intrigued, and inspired me as a reader.  Other authors who have impacted me are Patrick Rothfuss for his lyrical writing style, Brandon Sanderson for his creative magic systems, and Steven Erikson for his in-depth world building.

3. Tell us something about how you write? i.e. are you a plotter or a pantser? Do you have any weird or necessary writing habits or rituals?

I’m very much a plotter in the beginning of a project, but I leave enough open space so I can allow the characters and story to take turns and twists I did not anticipate.  It’s a long leash approach.

The only weird habit I have is when I get stuck with where the story is going, I put on a movie or show (usually something that has swords and shields in it) and I let that inspire me.  It usually always works and seems to reset my creative muscles.  I find that stepping away helps me re-center my thoughts.

4. Could you tell us a bit about your most recent book?

I’ve been working on the first book of my Ravanguard series for nearly ten years now.  It’s currently in its fifth revision effort, and after spending all this time with it, I’m still excited about the story and characters.  I’m very much a believer in writing a fantasy series that explores the identity of the characters who make up the main narrative.  Each of the three main protagonists are different, coming from different backgrounds and experiences.  They each struggle through conflicts internally and externally, having to make difficult decisions.  Sometimes, these decisions prove valuable and other times the consequences are dire.

5. What was the hardest part of writing your book?

The hardest part of writing the book for me has always been the long game.  I envisioned this as a series and a rather long one.  As I wrote over the years and began to explore the expanse of the world, I realized that it kept growing on me.  While I knew I needed to rein it in, I knew also that I needed to make the right choices about how much to reveal in the first book.  Stephen King said, “Good books don’t give up all their secrets at once.”  I believe wholeheartedly in this statement and that’s how I approach writing epic fantasy.

6. Tell us a little about your plans for the future.  Do you have any other books in the works?

If anyone wants to explore my writing style, I have an ongoing flash fiction series released on the 30th of every month and additional short stories available in my newsletters.  All of these are set in a different world rich in magic and political turmoil as part of The Shoals to the Hallowed series.

As for the Ravanguard series, I am actively working on the next books and novellas.  For a while, I didn’t know where the story was going after the events of the first book, so I just started writing forward.  This was invaluable to me because it helped me solidify the major and some minor story arcs.

Where can we find you online?

Blog: http://adamhenderson.net/blog/

Website: http://adamhenderson.net/

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/adamhenderson49/

Twitter: https://twitter.com/adamhenderson49

So Speaks the Gallows

Kerr Jaro is no longer permitted to use his name.  Saved from death by the infamous mercenary unit, the Ravanguard, he now bears the title of “Nameless”.  Friends are rare among the killers and miscreants whom he is supposed to trust and impress.  They will name him if they find him worthy.

As the Ravanguard presses into the nation of Prenia, ambition and thoughts of plunder are sabotaged by forces they cannot identify.  Unwilling to abandon their mission, Kerr must adapt as greater webs of conspiracy unfold.  To survive, he needs a name, but to earn a place within the ranks of the Ravanguard could only prolong certain death.

Excerpt

An echo of greetings met the Noose to which he gave a simple nod, planked walkway creaking under his boots.  The execution had not occurred yet.  Precedence and ceremony continued high above in the sunlight while the Ravanguard waited in the depths of the chasm.  For the Noose, he planned and considered all options of the new addition to the unit.

“Here he comes!” someone called from the front where the men who he called the Gallows waited.

The Noose looked up, seeing the falling body, not able to imagine the fear and emptiness of mind the hooded man endured.  Did his body go through some unexplainable transformation as fear ripped away at everything he was?  Some said so and there were examples of men who had taken the chasm drop and were truly disturbed.  What did a man do or think as he fell into certain death?  The Noose had never experienced it.  No…his experience had been a short drop.

Breaths held in ready throats as the man’s body dropped like a lead weight.  Every eye tracked his descent until the reinforced net anchored into the chasm wall caught him with a jerk.  The sound was like a tree breaking, cracking with a wincing intensity.  The Ravanguard’s engineers, the dredgers, had discovered upon dozens of tests the exactness of give and elasticity for the netting to catch and not break.  The Noose’s fortitude for such things of science did not root themselves deep.

A moment of stillness followed once the netting stopped its bunging.  The hooded man breathed hard before his voice came.  Gibberish—high-pitched and near wailing—broke from his dried throat.  Fear had not subsided.  It would not for some time as he tried to make sense of the sudden stop when he should have continued to fall.

The men closest to the netting reached out and took hold of the squirming man, pulling like wolves would a fresh meal.  He struggled but they were too many.  His knees struck the walkway boards hard and the hood was ripped away, revealing the pale face of a man nearly scared to death.  Dark, slightly curly hair like his father with sharp features like that of his mother, the Noose could place the man easily.  Hopefully, none of the others would for the man’s father was a bastard at heart and had plenty of enemies.  The caught man’s brown eyes squinted and searched in the dim lantern light, never settling on any one thing as the Ravanguard men crowded over him.  Their cheerful welcome was a gaggle of teasing threats and pricking sarcasm as the smell of sweat filled the already compact air within the chasm.  His uncertainty would only increase now.

The Noose’s eyes pressed firmly on the man who was no longer Kerr Jaro but a Nameless of the Ravanguard.

 

The Bull Riding Witch Arrives

Posted on by July 15, 2017  

The Bull Riding Witch

Arrives

Today

Special Release Day Price of $.99 Available Today Only

Waking up in a man’s body would ruin any princess’s morning.

Daulphina’s father, the king of Asteria, has always wanted a male heir. Unfortunately for him, Daulphina’s magic means that will never happen unless her bastard half-brother displaces her on the throne. But she’ll take on all the gods herself before she lets that happen. He isn’t nice enough to be a good king.

But apparently, the gods don’t like being challenged because she’s flung across the void and into the dumpy old trailer and chiselled body of Joshua Killenyen, a rodeo bull rider from Alabama. With nothing to eat but Frosted Flakes and no knowledge how she got there, she better find a way home before she gets her head stomped in by the bulls she must ride. Or her brother will take the throne and reduce her people to slavery. Remember, he isn’t nice.

Dragonhunters Book Tour and Giveaway

Posted on by July 10, 2017 2
Dragonhunters
by Garon Whited
Genre: Epic Fantasy
You don’t become a hero for the money. The money’s nice, sure, but you
become a hero because something inside compels you, drives you to it.
Defending people from monsters simply doesn’t pay well enough to make
it a good career move.

As for hunting dragons… well, the money is usually good, but the job
really bites.
A group of five professional heroes goes into the lair of the dragon.
Who will win?
Spoiler: The dragon.
But it turns out killing a hero sometimes does nothing more than make him
even more determined.

 

Sometimes, heroes are never more dangerous than when they’re dead!
Garon Whited was supposedly born in either 1969 or 1970; the original birth
certificate is suspiciously unavailable and other records do not
agree.
After spending some years in college playing with computers, he finally
joined a radical group of jellyfish herding nomads. Having fought
zombie dolphins, quasi-corporeal spirits, and brain-sucking mole
rats, he is uniquely qualified to write fantastic fiction. His
subsequent attempts at professional salsa repairman and ley line
salesman met with similar success. He claims to live in Texarkana, on
Earth, but people have been known to disagree.
Follow the tour HERE!

Guest Author and Superhero, Michael Blaylock

Posted on by June 27, 2017  

Mike Blaylock was the kid who wrote 10-pages papers when the assignment called for five. He fell in love with writing in high school and now creates stories with the intent of helping people experience great art and scandalous grace in order to better know the fulfilling God.

He’s a book lover, film geek, anime otaku, console gamer, and all around nerd who lives in Idaho with his equally-nerdy wife and their nerd-in-training.

 

 

Interview

  1. Tell us a little about yourself?

 

I am an analytical art geek. That means I don’t just read books, I also study and critique them. Same with movies, anime, and video games. Same with many art types, actually.

I don’t just want to experience great art, I want to break it down and peek into the nitty-gritty of what makes it, its medium, and all art great.

Oh, and I live in Idaho with my wife and toddler boy.

2. What are your biggest literary influences? Favorite authors and why?

I owe everything to Frank E. Peretti. Not only did he get me into reading at all, not only did he get me hooked on speculative fiction, but he showed me that Christian fiction could be amazing, so that when I found out how terrible a lot of Christian fiction is, I could hold on to hope that it could still be great.

Other than him, C.S. Lewis for Christian genius, Brandon Sanderson and Brent Weeks for fantasy genius, J.K. Rowling for making me feel like a kid every time, and Harper Lee/Kathryn Stockett for drawing me into their worlds.

3. Do you think people have misconceptions about the speculative fiction? Why do you think it is a worthwhile genre?

This is an interesting question to me because I’m a Christian, and many mainstream Christians don’t go for spec fic at all, unless it’s strictly allegorical. Many think it’s Biblically wrong to do so.

That’s sad to me. Spec fic can tell Godly stories in some spectacular ways. What better way to chart the spiritual world than by delving into horror or fantasy? What better way to discuss humanity than sci-fi?

And how delightful when an author can take us someplace far, far away and make us fall in love with characters and settings that couldn’t possibly exist!

4. Could you tell us a bit about your most recent book?

Ferryman is a novella that I published specifically so I could give it away for cheap or free and let readers see my style.

It follows Charlie Ferris, a man given the worst superpower ever: the ability to kill people. How on earth do you use that without turning into a villain? That’s the question he wants to answer.

It’s a superhero character piece, focusing more on what makes a person good or bad, rather than just action spectacle.

5. Of all the characters you have created, which is your favorite and why?

I keep going back to a character whose book I keep editing and editing but never publishing: Matt Owen, hero of my story Rise. He’s the most simplistic everyman and thus very human and relatable. He’s a likable guy pushed to extremes. He also has a love-hate relationship with being the hero. Matt wants to do good, but psychological scars keep him from standing up for what is right.

I think that’s what makes him relatable. We’ve all been broken some way or another, and once we’re healed, we can do what we were made to do.

6. What is the biggest surprise that you experienced after becoming a writer?

Nobody cares.

Not too sound cynical, but just creating a book isn’t enough. You need to get away from your writing and find readers. This is radical for a task-oriented introvert like me, but that’s the truth of writing. [Jamie’s note: This was my biggest surprise as well. I thought all I had to do was write a good book.]

You have to engage with real, live people (or at least online) and make them care about you and your writing before you’ll ever sell a single copy.

But don’t worry. If you do it right, it’s a LOT more fun than it sounds.

7. Tell us a little about your plans for the future.  Do you have any other books in the works?

Oh heavens, yes. “Hypocrite” is a Christian contemporary about a perfect church girl with a crush on other church girls. What does she choose? God? Instinct? Or is there more to this argument than we’re lead to believe?

“Dodecon” is a fantasy pilgrimage about twelve different races, each based on a different Zodiac sign, travelling together for a year. No evil emperor, no magic training ground, just twelve radically different people trying to embrace their differences.

Where can we find you online?

Website/Blog: https://fencingwithink.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/michaelblaylockauthor/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Fencingwithink
Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Michael-Blaylock/e/B00JF7WHQO/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1498521763&sr=8-1
Others: https://www.patreon.com/michaelablaylock

Ferryman

Some people can fly. Some can see impossible distances. Others can change their shape, shatter steel, or run at incredible speed.

Charlie Ferris can kill with a touch.

Contrary to what the superhuman government fears, Charlie has no dreams of world destruction. He aches for a way to use his powers for good. But as the immortal years pass, Charlie begins to fear that villainy is his only possible outcome.

But when an undying army appears out of nowhere, the superhuman world has no choice but to call in a professional killer. Charlie thinks he’s finally found his chance to make a good name for himself, but constant harassment and prejudice threaten to drive Charlie into a bloodless fury. After all, it would be so easy…and when the superheroes back him into a corner, Charlie is forced to ask what’s more important: a good reputation…or goodness?

Excerpt

I am on my way to kill a man, but I am not murdering him. That distinction is what keeps me from being the villain everyone already thinks I am—or at least, the villain they wait for me to become.

I am a killer, not a murderer. A murderer kills because he hates. I kill because I can. It’s the gift I was given. I didn’t choose it and I can’t return it. I’m not a killer because I kill. I kill because I am a killer, and if I’m to be accepted, I must have actions to back up my words. I must reinforce that just because I take a life, it does not make me evil.

Admittedly, it’s difficult to not cross that blurred line, especially with criminals. It’s hard not to hate a man who has murdered, corrupted, raped, or otherwise broken the law so frequently or so exquisitely that the state has decided to end their life. Thus, when the state calls me, I don’t ask what crimes the condemned has committed. I just ask for proper, public documentation to make sure nobody is trying to trick me into offing a political enemy.

People think I’m shady as it stands—at least, those who recognize me. Thankfully, I’m innocuous enough to the naked eye—just another thirty-ish white male in a country full of them. My hair is a bit wavy, but that doesn’t signal me as a killer. Its inky color might, though. And I suppose my dark, button-up shirt, black slacks, raven gloves, and shiny shoes make me look rather . . . well, grim. But this job and this life require professionalism and appropriate somberness. Glib mockery only enhances suspicion.

My shoes clap lightly on tiled floors. These back hallways are well lit, clean, and a lovely way to bypass the inmates of this maximum-security prison. I’m not scared of them. I just don’t want to run the risk of hating them.

The security guard who escorts me is armed to the throat and thankfully, silent. Some escorts like to chat me up, ask a lot of questions about what I do, or worst of all, tell me how the inmate has it coming. I prefer to remain as silent about my talents as I can, not glorify them unnecessarily. I don’t like this job per se, but I like getting paid, you know?

He opens a door with a security key and lets me inside. The room is sparsely furnished with a few cabinets, a sink, and a scrawny black man strapped to a reclining chair. He can still move his head, so he turns and looks me in the eye.

“You’re the guy?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m the guy.”

I always feel I should introduce myself, but what am I supposed to say? Hi, I’m Charlie. I’m here to kill you.

So few people here. True, we have two doctors, a state official, a chaplain, and the spectacled warden whom I have met before—this is Texas, after all—but no family or friends are here to comfort the condemned. I’ve been to plenty of executions and there’s always somebody who loves the prisoner and stays with them until the end.

Poor guy.

The warden shakes my hand first, as if to show the others it’s okay. The doctor and state official are more hesitant to touch me, even with the gloves.

I give them each a firm shake, as if to say, “I’m not here for you.”

 

If Michael has intrigued you, you can find his book here:

Daulphina tries to Drive

Posted on by June 29, 2017  

Continuing with my series of excerpts from The Bull Riding Witch, below Daulphina tries to function in a world of technology.  The Bull Riding Witch will be released on July 17 and will be only $.99 only as a release day special.

I abruptly let go of him and sniffed my underarms. I did stink. A princess couldn’t stink. It just wasn’t done. “I don’t know what to do. Joshua doesn’t have any clean clothes.”

He rolled his eyes. “Typical. Why don’t you take them over to Meemaw’s and get them washed?” he said, like I was the stupidest person he’d ever had the misfortune to meet. “If you go now, she’ll probably make you breakfast, too. She’s always feeding Joshua. Then you can head over to the library, but if you think you’re taking one of my horses after last time, you don’t have the sense God gave hamsters.”

I was too shocked to speak for a moment. “If I can’t use a horse, how I am supposed to get to Meemaw’s and this library?”

“You drive Joshua’s truck, of course.” He headed out of the trailer without waiting for me to dismiss him.

My mouth dropped open. Abandoning royal dignity, I ran after him. “I can’t work the magic of those horseless carriages!”

He heaved a great sigh. “Enough of this magic nonsense, but our vehicles are probably too primitive for the likes of you. Since you’re too high and mighty to explain your tech to me, I should just leave you to your own devices, but I happen to need Joshua to do some chores. Come on, I’ll show you how to work the truck.” He led me over to one of the carriages—a beat-up, brown one. “This is Joshua’s truck,” he said, and opened it. The floorboard was littered with trash and empty beer bottles. “You put the key in there and turn it.” He pointed to the slot beside the wheel. “Use the gear shift to put it in gear.” He pointed to a stick with a knob attached. “D for drive. R for reverse. P for Park. Push the pedal on the right to go. The one on the left to stop. Turn the wheel to change directions. That’s all there is to it. Have fun.” As my head spun with the instructions, he turned toward the barn.

“Wait a minute. Where’s the key? And how do I get to Meemaw’s and this free library?”

Uncle Gilly shrugged. “Key should be in the trailer somewhere. You’ll have to search for it.” He pulled a notepad and pencil out of his front pocket of his overalls. “I’ll draw you a map. Meemaw’s is on the way to the library. It ain’t far.” He drew a map and explained how to get there. He abruptly walked away, still seeming angry about the sock.

I turned back to the truck. Could I do it? Uncle Gilly said it wasn’t magic, but surely that was impossible. Remembering a princess is always brave, I went back into the trailer to find the key, not an easy feat considering the mess. Thinking it might make it easier to find the key, I decided to gather the laundry first.

I found a large bag. Wanting to touch Joshua’s dirty clothes as little as possible, I found a pair of work gloves and gathered the clothes up from between the various messes. They smelled like he let something die and crawl in among them. I picked up one pair of pants that had been on top of a plate covered with food remains. Nasty, huge, black cockroaches scurried in all directions. I jumped back and let out a muffled scream. Dear Cailleach, get me out of this place. I stood still for several moments, but nothing else happened. I shook myself and continued stuffing the clothes into the bag. I found a set of three keys on the bedside table under a dirty pair of boxer shorts.

Picking up the boxer shorts, I uncovered a picture of some sort. It depicted Joshua, a few years younger than he was now, with an older woman. Momma, I thought, and tears came to my eyes. Good gods, Joshua missed his mother as much as I missed mine. But how was it that I felt his emotions? I felt like collapsing on the bed in sobs, but of course, as a princess, I couldn’t do that.

I rigorously repressed the emotions that weren’t mine. I looked at the picture more closely and noticed something odd. It didn’t appear to be painted. How had it come to be?

Shaking my head, I set the picture down and lugged the laundry bag out to the back of  Joshua’s truck, which had some kind of shell over it. I put the bag in back and opened the front door warily. Moving carriages without horses seemed far too advanced of magic to handle with a simple key. But if Joshua had, surely I, crown princess of Asteria, could.

I sat in front of the wheel. I prayed to Cernuous, god of life, that I could work the carriage and get to Meemaw’s house without killing myself or anyone else. I focused my will, braced myself for the pain, and tried to put one of the keys in the slot. It wouldn’t fit. I tried the second key. It went in, but no matter how hard I concentrated it wouldn’t turn, so I tried the third key. As soon as I turned it, before I’d even focused my will, the truck roared to life. I screamed, but not because it hurt. In fact, there wasn’t even the smallest amount of pain. Could Uncle Gilly be right? Was I in a world without magic?

I stared at the carriage’s controls and tried to remember everything Uncle Gilly had said. I grabbed hold of the gear shift and moved it to D for drive. I pressed my foot on the go pedal, and the truck jumped forward. I panicked and slammed my foot on the stop pedal. The key had allowed me to work the magic, but could I control it? All my life I had heard stories of apprentices trying spells too advanced for them. The results were always disastrous and usually ended up with the death of the apprentice.

But what choice did I have? Shaking, I tried pushing the go pedal more gently. The truck crept forward. Slowly, the truck moved onto the road that led to Meemaw’s house. I hadn’t gone far when another carriage zoomed up behind me and sounded a truly awful horn. I shrieked, veered off the road and into a fence post before I thought to slam on the stop pedal. The operator of the other carriage, leaned out his window, shouted something I couldn’t understand, and put up the middle finger of his hand. Before I thought about it, I returned the gesture. It felt familiar, like one I’d made thousands of times before. Good gods, was Joshua in here with me? No, he was in my body. If he was here, surely, things would make more sense.

I sat there for a while trying to control my heartbeat and breathing, and more carriages zoomed past on the road behind me. By Cailleach, how could you control something moving so fast? I wanted to get out of Joshua’s truck and never touch it again, but if I did that, how would I find my way back to Asteria? It seemed absurd to be struggling on my own. In my world, I was almost never alone. I had a host of servants, advisors, and hanger-ons buzzing around me. I had but to snap my fingers, and Duke Tearlach would be waiting on me hand and foot, and he wasn’t the only one. But here, who could I rely on besides myself? It was situations like this my father must have had in mind when he told me a princess was always brave.

I could do it. I would make it to Meemaw’s. I waited until there were no carriages on the road behind me, then I tried R and the go pedal again. The carriage eased backwards. When I got on the road, I moved the gear shift to D and pressed a little harder on the go pedal. The carriage leapt forward, zooming at impossible speed. Still, carriages continued to close rapidly on me and sound their horns. But I managed to keep control of the truck and continue down the road.

Before I reached Meemaw’s, I stopped shaking. Something about operating the carriage felt familiar, like I’d done it before, although that was absurd. Still, I kept the speed as slow as I dared. I stopped the truck in front of Meemaw’s and moved the gear stick to P. Good gods, it hadn’t hurt in the slightest. What was this technology Uncle Gilly spoke of? It seemed much better than magic. I lugged the bag out of the truck, approached Meemaw’s front door, and knocked.

The Witch and the Crackpot

Posted on by June 29, 2017  

Continuing with my series of excerpts from The Bull Riding Witch, below is Daulphina’s first meeting with Uncle Gilly, local crackpot and the only one who will believe her that she isn’t really the man whose body she wears.  The Bull Riding Witch will be released on July 17 and will be only $.99 only as a release day special.

 

Uncle Gilly ran up to me. “Whisper Willow gots colic. Go and walk her. I’ll call the vet.”

Surely Jocelyn could have better handled the problem than I. My training was incomplete. Still, Jocelyn was gone, and I could cure a colicky horse. I didn’t have any herbs or a place to make a potion, so I’d have to use a poppet even though that hurt a hell of a lot more. Uncle Gilly headed for the farmhouse, and I headed to the barn.

Unlike the stench of Joshua’s trailer, the barn had a fresh, clean, and familiar scent of straw. There were stalls for about a dozen horses and a similar number of cows. Tied to a post in the grooming area was a bay mare. The horse was rolling her eyes, snorting and groaning. I looked around, but I couldn’t see materials for making poppets. I thought of my sock. I quickly took off one boot and removed the sock. Dear gods, it stank! I carefully approached the suffering mare; a colicky horse doesn’t pay much attention to its surroundings and can step on you without even realizing you’re there. I plucked two hairs out of her mane, stood back, and used the hairs to tie the sock up into the semblance of a horse.

I looked around for something to cut myself with. In the tack room, I found a very long knife, almost a sword, hanging on the wall. I grabbed it, brought into the main barn, and carefully made a cut a on my left thumb. At least, I meant to do it carefully, but the knife was so gods-cursed big that I slipped and cut a nearly half inch gash. I dripped, or rather gushed, blood onto the sock. One drop should have been enough, but I was bleeding everywhere.

I sucked on my bleeding thumb for a second and then ignored it and breathed on the sock horse. I held the image in my mind of it being the living horse. A sting shot through my hand as the magic gathered. I ignore the pain, breathed again, and focused my will. It felt like a bright light was exploding inside me, and my head exploded with it. I breathed a third time, and a hard lump coalesced in the sock horse’s abdomen, right where the horse’s intestines must have been blocked. I just avoided screaming at the pain in my own abdomen. Good gods, I hated poppets. I used the large knife and cut a hole in the poppet where the horse’s anus should be. With one bleeding and one nonbleeding hand, I gently massaged the lump toward the hole. The pain dulled to several levels below excruciating.

The mare reared and whinnied, and I had to jump back or risk getting crushed. Soaking the poppet in blood, I continued massaging the lump further toward the hole, and the horse fidgeted and snorted. I gritted my teeth against the pain and squeezed and squeezed, the lump getting slowly closer to the hole. It would only move a miniscule distance with each squeeze because that was as fast as the blockage could move in the mare’s intestines.

Uncle Gilly came back and stooped over me. “What in God’s name are you playing with a bloody sock for?”

I thought it would have been obvious. “It’s a poppet.” When he looked at me blankly, I add, “For magic.”

“Magic,” he snorted and pointed at the sock. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

I gaped at him, stunned that anyone could deny the obvious. “There most certainly is.”

Uncle Gilly laughed. “That’s what the aliens want you to think.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about, but at the moment I needed to concentrate on the spell. I ignored him and continued squeezing the lump farther toward the hole.

Uncle Gilly picked up the large knife. “What’s all this blood on my machete?”

I guessed that was what the knife was called. “Be quiet. This hurts, you know.”

He gave a loud humph, but didn’t say anything else until I finally squeezed a lump of who-knows-what out of the sock, and the mare let out an immense fart and pooped out a huge pile of . . . you know. I sat down hard on the wooden barn floor, as the pain drained out of me and near euphoria took its place. Magic might hurt, but the aftereffects were almost always worth it.

Uncle Gilly stared at me open-mouthed. “What kind of alien technology is this?” He took the sock from my hand and picked up the lump that I squeezed out of it and sniffed it. “Where’d someone like you get this? You haven’t been abducted lately, have you?”

I wasn’t sure what all this talk of aliens was about, but evidently he’d never seen magic like this before. Considering how badly telling the truth had gone with Jocelyn, I hesitated. But I didn’t know what else to say. “I’m not Joshua.”

Uncle Gilly squatted down near me. “Then who are you?”

“I’m Daulphina, the crown princess of Asteria.”

Uncle Gilly rubbed his chin. “Asteria? Is that in the Andromeda Galaxy or farther out in the Sunflower?”

Confused and still bleeding, I shook my head. “Galaxy?”

“Yeah, you know, what planet are you from? Is Asteria anywhere near Zenon?”

“I’m not from a different planet. Asteria is a parallel realm, at least I think it is.”

“Parallel realm?” he scoffed. “And people think I’m crazy when I tell them about the aliens from Zenon who abducted me.” He picked up the machete and pointed it at me. “You just don’t want to admit that aliens have replaced Joshua with you.”

“They did?” I wondered if Uncle Gilly knew something I didn’t.

“How else could it happen?” He squinted his eyes at me. “Although I don’t know why they’d bother with a loser like Joshua. It’s usually important people they mess with, like world leaders and talk show hosts.”

“It is?”

He nodded knowingly. “Of course. Our last two presidents have been aliens.” He leaned closer and whispered as if he didn’t want these aliens to hear. “I’m pretty sure Oprah Winfrey is, too.”

I was sure I’d heard the name before, but I wasn’t sure where. Then, I remembered. “Meemaw was talking about Oprah.”

Uncle Gilly nodded. “She always does. Oprah creates mind slaves of people if they watch her too often. Her slaves even read the books she tells them to, if you can imagine that.”  He drew back and raised the machete. “But you already know all about that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know anything.” I looked away. I could feel tears forming in the corners of my eyes, and I didn’t want him to see them because, of course, princesses don’t cry.

Uncle Gilly hesitated, then patted me on the shoulder and sounded more sympathetic. “It wasn’t your choice to come here, was it?”

I shook my head. “Somebody did this to me.”

“And they didn’t give you any instructions?”

“None. I don’t understand this place.”

“What you going to do about it?” he asked.

Furiously, I wiped at my eyes with my left hand. “I have no idea. I don’t even know where to begin looking for an answer.”

Uncle Gilly scratched his head; then he smiled. “The library, of course. Aliens have been trying to control information by making everything digital, but the library in town is holding out.”

I didn’t know what he meant about making things digital, but could a library really hold the answers I needed? “Where is this library?”

“In downtown Hamilton, of course.”

“Would they allow me to use it?” I looked down at myself. Who would allow a peasant as I seemed to be to touch his precious books?

Uncle Gilly laughed. “It’s a free public library. Anybody can use it.”

I gaped at him. “Anyone?” Somehow a free library seemed more bizarre than a horseless carriage. Books were expensive. The librarian in my father’s palace got possessive when I even wanted to look at a book, and he had to be threatened with dismissal before he would allow me to take one out of the library. In fact, my father was the only one the librarian didn’t give a hard time.

“Sure, anyone.” Uncle Gilly straightened as if that settled matters and walked out.

“Wait,” I said. I needed Uncle Gilly to tell me more. Maybe he didn’t believe in magic and parallel realms, but he at least seemed to know something. Still, he was gone. I leaned back against the barn wall, damning whoever had done this to me. I wanted to blame my bastard brother or my stepmother, but my bastard brother was even more poorly trained than I was, and my stepmother didn’t have any magic at all. Could they have paid a witch to do this to me?