Introduction 359

“Call me Crazy!” I smiled,

spitting out a new label

for the next introduction

in a room filled with names

I’d never know.

You grim ginned back at me.

Tension lines draw just as tight

into the cut of your jaw,

and mind working out how to swallow dive

through the conference room window

five ‘networks’ away.

“Call me Stark Raving,” you said

hand still in mine

this time reluctant to hear that bell.


If anyone wants to give me some feedback I would love to hear it. Does it make sense? Is the length alright? Is the rhythm complete tosh? Anything people! Anything please! *Vanishes off into her own insanity.*

Darkened Daughter Extract – Rickets Den

You did not got to the Purple Pig to drink. You went there for whores and information.

Before the new King’s reign Molly’s tavern had been one of the most successful in Dondara. Now it was nothing more than a crooked sign and a few worm eaten tables crammed into the darkness.

“Are you sure we’ve got the right place?” Mole kept close as his Captain hurried down the city streets towards Rickets Den. Behind them the stone houses of the wealthy seemed to glow softly in the moonlight, oil lamps dotted along the cobbled streets to ward off the shadows.  Rickets Den on the other hand was a mass of shadows, curling and twisting around the wooden buildings which tumbled into one another and disappeared into the depths of the old mining pits. Mole wasn’t a brave man. He was really quite timid by all accounts with a thin reedy voice and a thick, short stature that left many confusing him with a child. Danny found him useful for sneaking into tight spaces but it took some encouragement to get Mole to agree.

“Just stay behind me and keep you voice down,” Danny warned. “We’ll be fine.”

Mole nodded and picked up his pace, determined not to be left behind. If he’d dared he would have caught hold of the tails of Danny’s coat, but he doubted the pirate would appreciate it so he kept his hands where they were. Quickly the cobbled street ran out and instead they were picking their way across mud slick boarding. Mole tried to swallow the bad feeling bubbling up in his throat as he heard his footsteps echoing beneath him. When he was much younger he’d asked his father how deep the old mining pits in Dondara were,

“Deep,” his father said, and left it at that.

Danny led them further into the wooden city, dropping them further into it’s depths ladder by ladder until Mole lost count in the gloom and found himself stood outside a lopsided shack with no windows. Rickets Den was a feat of engineering. It had started when the poor began building their homes near the edges of the open mine, steadily moving closer and closer until their houses jutted out over the edge. It continued that way until eventually half the city seemed to hang in the air above the endless pit, each building pinned in place by timbers, completely interconnected. Mole wondered what would happen if just one beam snapped. Perhaps the whole thing would crumble.

“Stay alert,” Danny warned, fist raised above the door closest. “This may not go as smoothly as I hope.”

Turning away from Mole Danny rapped on the door three times and then retracted his hand quickly, his fingers wrapping around the handle of his sword as he waited for a response. For a long moment there was nothing but silence and the creak of wood as the whole place heaved and sighed around them.

“No one home?” suggested Mole.

“So it would seem.” 

“So we can leave then?”

Danny shook his head and took three steps back, something of a luxury since most of the streets in Rickets Den were barely wide enough to walk down.

“Here,” he said, shrugging off his coat and handing it to Mole. “I need you to hold this.” 

He had known he…

He had known her for all of three days. Still, she had saved his life and when they came to drag her to the pyre he’d fought for her, killed for her, earned the hangman’s noose and died for her. So why had he woken cold and alone, clawing at the ceiling of his coffin and trying to scream for help.

The finalised opening for Henry Granger. The deadline for the complete draft is August 31st 2014.

Working Out The Kinks

She wasn’t supposed to save him, she was supposed to strike the final blow and end his suffering. That was the task dealt to her by the Valkyries and that was the task she had every intention of carrying out.

Until she saw his face.

Unmarried and without family, Eveline’s mother was labelled a whore when the village learnt of the pregnancy. Considered witches by many, Eveline and her mother keep to their woodland cottage, selling tinctures and salves to those who dare to venture close enough.

That is until the autumn of 1066 when William, Duke of Normandy lands of English shores to take the Crown.

When Eveline sleeps she sees the battle to come. She knows that the English King will fall and the Norman army will march on towards London where William will take his throne. The death of another King is not what wakes her screaming though.

The remains of the Battle of Hastings will bring about Eveline’s greatest folly, a folly that she will spend lifetimes trying to fix.

 


Do tell me what you think. As the title suggests, I’m still trying to work out the kinks in this story and a change of title looks like it may be needed since Henry Granger is no longer the main character. Oh well. We will see where this leads us. I’m hoping it will be in the direction of a finished draft.

At Sea

I will stand at the edge of the docks,

With neon green hair

And a fist-full of jokes,

So that my features are always alight with laughter.

I will pass hand over hand,

Strain my shoulders

And throw my back into pulling

you

to me.

Do not compare me to a summer’s day,

Or the fragility of spring blossom,

I will not wither if you snatch me from my roots

I can set down new ones…

I can wrap myself as ivy strands,

Plug the cracks in you

And hide each flaw

So they are mine alone to admire.

I will stand at the edge of the docks,

With neon green hair

And a fist-full of jokes,

So that my features are always alight with laughter.

Hold out my fingers for you to grip,

And not complain

When my arms are filled with souvenirs

To which each will be labeled a memory

That is mine to hear

But never truly know.