The Witch’s House

 

Tender steps. Hand loosely than harshly grasping the rail. Splinters entering the softness of the cold palms. Cold with sweat. Cold with the stickiness so common in fear. Eliot is afraid and that feeling is making his insides freeze. They cheated him into this, his friends, hiding behind the trees, feet rustling in the fallen leaves, no footprints just imprints, the heaviness of their bodies leaving a mark they were there before they run off leaving him with the shortness of their laughter whispery and frail, reverberating in the October chilliness. They called him a faggot, a pussy, a piece of good-for-nothing shit when he didn’t want to go into the Witch’s House, barking the word on repeat.

So Eliot went, not wanting to be anything, anyone but himself. He didn’t want to be scared of their mockery. And as he went up the steps, she came out after hearing the creaks and pops and breathing of the house. With her came the sort of sound wind makes through abandonment, through foreign cracks, alien and old with time and poised with things – words and noises, music bumping on and off, voices and wet eyes watching. With truths kept secret and identities hidden underneath layers of skin that gets pulled and teased and worn until it rips open and the truth oozes out. Like the wind slipping through, a whistle at a time.

‘Do you know what she does, the Witch?’ they asked him when they were all playfully pursuing paths in the forest. ‘She takes your skin away, peeling it with her claws and she wraps it around herself like a cloth. She wears you and you see and hear and feel everything she does. The Witch is fat with the skins of children.’

Standing before Eliot, she was pregnant with the promise of their words. She was layered, folds of smooth skin, colorless and colorful overlapping in the form of shirts and skirts but leaving her naked all the same. There was however one lie to their story and he saw it as she bend over, faceless yet seeing. He wouldn’t see, nor hear nor feel anything she did with his skin after she took it. He would be just another corpse, neatly hidden somewhere. The empty eye sockets, red around the rims of their flesh stared at Eliot emptily devoid of that essence remaining in them that his friends spoke off through puffs of smoke from that shared packet of cigarettes and splashes of stolen beer.

However them having run off meant they would never see or hear the Witch leading him inside a damp and dark room, floor littered with syringes, the pungent smell of piss soaking the walls, the corners. In there she would unfold her face and allow a glimpse at her eyes merging that in-between, outwordly feeling Eliot had standing on her doorstep. She would look at him as her teeth emerge and she lowers her mouth onto his pinky finger, delicately separating skin and meat from the bone. Eliot would watch the Witch chew the soft redness and churn the skin, stretching it with her tongue, modeling it to her own being.

Then she would leave him there, a boy with a skeleton pinky finger trembling in his own pooling piss and she would rustle the leaves with her draping skin to find the friends which left him at her doorstep and ran off with their flesh pink from the October cold.

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She of the Glades

a.k.a

‘Hold your body down’

The smell of ropes soaks into my fingertips; in the back, the wispy smoke of that shared cigarette lingers, the ghosts of deceased words shared between us persistent within the unfurling folds of grey and milky. My sunglasses reflect what’s left of you but it’s quickly wrapped, a tight concealment brought into the confines of the trunk.

A sun sets, but it is not the one I wanted and not the one you saw; auburn and bloodshot spill across the sky dipping into the outstretched body of the Glades; a watery field on fire.

I drive towards that forlorn watery front, a swamp system spawning black mosquitos and hungry eyes. No airboats sail today, it’s bad weather down here, tropical and what not; there will be wake and there’s things down below the still murky green that don’t like to be disturbed. My shirt glues to my restless body, sweat creating creases in the fabric drenching them with my own stench covering that of your quick deterioration in the heat. Blood, urine and you permeating my close proximity air fill my nostrils, a delirium of memories. The coffee mug leaving a crescent stain on the newspaper right over the ads – a waitress wanted, 7 bucks an hour; a counselor needed in an orphanage, at least a two year experience in the field. The low buzz of the washing machine from the other room. The smell of detergent sharp on the tongue and eyes. The shuffle of clothes being folded. You, humming along with the radio, stopping when I come in.

I unfurl the beige tarpaulin hiding the red rusted airboat, leather seats grey and brown with time, sun and use. Paddle and legwork push us into the sleeve, the rope dropping from my fingers, me letting go of whatever remains on the shore, forever.

The propeller drills repetition into my brain, but it’s a soothing sound because I dislike quiet. You were always quiet with me. Silent stares, muffled touches, unspoken actions. The only time you weren’t mute at me was at your mother’s funeral.

‘Thaddeus’, you said, ‘I don’t want none of this when I go. It’s too fucking glorifying.’

We’re trespassing now going opposite to the tourist routs where it’s common feeding Cheetos to baby gators and taking photos of their fast blinking reptilian orange, faking indifference but secretly wishing you to decide swimming is not prohibited. We pass abandonment, a village echoing with the calls of a dead language, a totem pole faded with time watching over the waters, a black eagle head with spread wooden wings in rusty red stares with missing eyes.

The trees, tall skeleton branches soaking feet into the swamp body connect above my head, interlocking, clasping one another. The dome is complete and it forms a tunnel of darkness spilling into an inviting light. I rev the boat, growing impatient and tired, the heat sticking to my body, humidity dangerously high. But my boat goes nowhere near the light – I dream of it, I can reach it back later when I drop you off where you belong.

I take a narrow passage and slow down through. Unmarked gator territory comes ahead, the glades moving with the sway of their heavy bodies, indistinguishable green on green. I catch their eyes however, yellow and glowing above the water. They follow us as we slug through, impatient, a gentle rock of their tails transferring to my boat, tilting it.

I shift the stick and urge the propeller to prowl faster, creating a wake small enough to push the hunger away from their eyes and bellies. In the stillness that follows I hug your body close, faceless remembering you without seeing. I give you to their open maws and you sink quickly between their fighting masculinity.

I am done. You are placed. Caught in the narrowness I can’t turn back, my palms sweaty and calloused. There’s a hoot whistling through the village, the clack of alligator teeth swaying from necklaces tied on dried, sunburned necks. A pouch spills tiny sharp biters, rattling on the wooden pier, currency for the dead. I look below and see you dancing their dance, a share of power transferring within the heat of their beating drums, hardened feet thumping the ground. A large one breaks the water, his head smashing against the boat.  

Your presence encourages them; they smell me too, the dead on me, the flesh spoiling in the sun coated in salty sweat and they want none to waste; they want the whole of me, to devour to tear apart. Now there are four of them, oily and long, chameleon like appearing, rocking the side of the airboat. I swat with the paddle, connecting plastic to bone, and a mouth snaps open quick and deadly tearing the paddle away from my hands. I am defenseless against the onslaught, bodies in multitude slamming against the dented. It capsizes and I fall where they are, where you are, the drums and them in a frenzy escalating to a screech. It stops. I watch.

They’ve went for you first, easier, quicker. The fabric of the canvas has torn open and limbs are poking through. I forgot you were wearing that dress. You didn’t even try it on in the store, you knew it would fit you the way it did. Funny how you never wore it for me. It matched your eyes. Now its paler, colors washed away and again it matches the rot in your eyes. Your body swims towards me, the matted hair pulled down heavy with the thick water. Your arm outstretches, ‘Thaddeus’, you call me without moving your lips, ‘Come swim with me’.

You watch me as I try to break the water, vault myself back into the boat. An alligator is upon me pulling me back in, my arm inside its mouth. It gnaws where the bone turns, the joint fragile under its pressure. I feel the tissue break, the skin raw over torn meat. The muscle slides free off the bone of my left forearm and an abrupt, wild snap detaches it free. I don’t scream but merely gasp and swamp water washes over my teeth. I no longer seek rescue within the boat; I watch as the blood, darker in these sunless waters float towards you, your lips blue and bloated sucking it in a spiral.

Another hungry servant plunges itself towards me, right humerus tearing free, ragdoll like. You grow impatient, you want more. Teeth sink into my right calf loosening another limb; teeth bite down through my left kneecap exploding it with a violent pull. Mutilated I sink further while you drink the rest of me, they feeding on the flesh, you on the essence.

Color and vigor attach to your skin. Your eyes blink; a motion registered and carried through your entire system. I remember your eyes closing in pacific self-prayer when you pulled on that smoke I forbid you to have; a small exhale rising and falling your chest to meet the onslaught of what I said.

I die at the bottom of the marsh with that thought of the last time you and me were both alive, the Glades taking me in as they’ve taken others during the centuries, their bones crushed to dust by the propellers of airboats jumping the waters above. I know others will follow me, jealous and angry and lonely and loving and you’ll sink them all when the drums start playing ghost-like through the village. You will feed and provide for the deal your dead soul did, dancing the gator dance respectfully.

I take one last look at you floating above me, your skin translucent. A smile is spreading across your lips as I become motionless food. I don’t think I ever saw that smile before.

 

The L/Wake

The first of our team we sent down the stream into the lake was Arthur. He’d died just before the turn of the shifts and McKenna had found him half sunken in a radioactive pocket a 100 feet from the claw cyclotron and the furnace. The feed showed us he’d stupidly crossed the threshold marked by the red indicators but there had been a low rolling mist so his visuals were probably obscured. He always complained he was sweating too much inside his suit when near the furnace. We were extracting Astatine in those days.

I am reminded of this because now, seven years later I am standing by a different lake in spring, some immeasurable hours before a person I know or knew is to be lowered into the ground. It seems foreign to me this ritual of returning to soil. What they return has not been given by the earth but nonetheless they ground a vessel empty of what was vital, they anchor it so it would remain there as a return point for them in years to come. There is a hint of love in that, a melancholic one. Later, when I stand beside the casket set deep within the grasp of wet and wormy dirt, I might admire the boundaries the earth creates around it, because I know it will be there forever and I know that each time I venture to the cemetery and search for its marker, the grey gravestone, I would produce a set of memories. They would be different each time and I would be sad or happy thinking back to them. I would speak as if to the rotting skeleton hidden underneath the heaviness of unspoiled earth an in my mind it would speak to me and I would see the person it once was. It’s almost a luxury now that I think about it.

On another mission years before the Astatine one a colleague had been struck by a metal tube cracking his visor. In his confusion he’d detached himself from the line and had floated into deep space within a hands reach of his anchored partner. There are many ways to describe a body floating slowly, unreachably away, arms and legs flailing, the lack of oxygen after the backup compartment has been emptied coloring his cheeks purple and blue. He disappears fast, the rotation of his body engulfed by distance and darkness. It’s happens in quiet. Within moments there is no marker that he’d ever been present with us. No grave to return to, to mourn and talk to.

There are swans in this lake. I don’t know if they come because of the quiet or the ludicrous amount of bread crumbs the keeper feeds them from a plastic bag. We are an ordinary occurrence to him fumbling with words of condolences and thin alcohol glasses held between slippery fingers. The house behind me is unsteady with grieving voices, the occasional hoarse laughter. You can hear the tears in the dialogues, a common tongue with different nuances to it. There are trays neatly arranged with food almost like a cocktail party. Everyone takes small bites from the small pieces chewing through grief or sheer uncertainty as to what else to do. A wake is a time when people form a bond through the sharing of stories. I’ve heard most of them that they were willing to share. The stories are all the best ones and they gathered together faces that would intentionally avoid one another. The body rests in the middle of all, oblivious. It’s quiet within it.

“Soren, come inside you’ll freeze out here. It’s bollocks weather.”

Greggory, my brother in his thin rental suit, is shivering by the door of the house, cheeks red from the brush with the wind. When I returned home, I had a difficult time remembering how to accept the wind against my skin. On Epos the wind is almost non-existent, a planet that was initially audible with barely a whisper.

 When we pulled Arthur out we had to decontaminate the body if we were to bring it home with us. A stage of necrosis had begun on his lower torso and after twelve hours muscles in the lax body had become animated. There were frowns all around, a shared unfamiliarity with the side effects at play. The reaction reminded me of the work of some endoparasite sparking extra neurotransmitters in its host. I wonder of the creatures co-existing with poisonous gases, living in the deep dark of the pockets.

“What about the lake?” Alexandria asked when we gathered huffing and puffing in the heavy red hazmat suits.

“What about it?” McKenna mumbled. He’d been staring at the chamber where Arthur’s spasmodic body lay on the med tray. We had quarantined that section of the base in the first hours.

“We could put the body there.”

It was my suggestion picking up on Alexandria’s unspoken wish. The lake was like a biodegrading organism. The substance in it wasn’t water, it was heavier, the color of molten silver and the first truly alien material we encountered on Epos. We’d taken probes to distill but the samples evaporated too fast, a process of a hybrid hard and liquid state to gas in the matter of minutes. It existed solely as one. I knew it would chew right through Arthur’s suit down to the bones leaving no skeleton. It had done that to our equipment when we first tried dipping a camera. It’s only honest to admit that our tech was far too primitive for what was on Epos. Aside from our digging and extracting mission we didn’t tamper with anything else.

“What bullshit are we going to sell to the Mother Base? Because you know they’d be sticking their noses in this.” Janeck was Arthur’s bunk buddy. “They’ll ask about reason of death. They’d want it entered in the system and the body shipped back with the first batch.”

I knew what to tell them, what to lie. The return of the body was going to kickstart an investigation into the nature of the parasite and our work was going to be hindered, the company hiring us was going to lose millions of credits and we our jobs unless another contractor took us in risking we were carriers of some virus out of deep space. The Mother Base was going to send Specialists and they were going to close down Epos marking it a red zone. Quarantine. But after they saw the lake for what it was, I knew they would try to drain it. So I lied.

Later, the supervisor of the second extraction team on the other side of Epos, Piermont contacted me. One of his crew had suffocated in his suit after failing to secure his gear. After leaving the body in the med bay it too had reanimated to an extent correlating to Arthur’s case. Fewer hours though. Six or seven to the twelve we had with Arthur. I remember asking whether they had a lake on their side.

“A big silvery one, yeah. Nero nearly lost his fingers trying to stir it, the damned fool. I don’t think it’s actually a lake, more like a spill from something.”

“Put the body there, suit and all.”

It was that simple. Like we had sent Arthur down the thin sleeve of the silver river and watched the lake rise up to catch him and drag him down into a grave of sorts, below that reflectionless liquid to be anchored in a way. In a way through this returned to origins belonging to something else, a ritual mimicking that which I’m attending now. Funerals don’t differ much from one another as long as there is a place. It made Epos that, a waypoint to return to like a person returns home and goes to visit those who are no longer there.

I place my hand around Greg’s shoulder and let him take me back inside.

Inside the cave lived a Fox – Chapter 4, Part 2

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

foxo2n4

Their eagerness to know more transfused into Neave. She allowed herself a deeper breath, eyes not meeting eyes, hers into the distant where the memory existed.

“The man who lived in that house over there told it to me.” Neave pointed at the smallest of the three houses, a green door marking it. “When I asked why he would want to hurt a hungry fox he asked me ‘what do you think the fox eats, little girl?’ and I said ‘chickens of course what else’.” Neave reached for Ambrose’s cigarette, an old habit calling back, and took a drag that jimmied open her throat clogged with difficult memories. He received it back with a twinkle in his eye.

“That man was not nice, I recall that. He laughed at me but when I tried to run away he grabbed my arm and took me inside his house. ‘Do you want to know the truth about your precious fox?’ he asked. His breath stank of alcohol and milk, his hands of gunpowder and dirt. But I wanted to know. I wanted to.”

She looked at them, Ambrose eager to hear, Sierra eager to see.

“He told me a long time ago just after the first houses were built near the river ill luck befell the people and the village. It desolated most of it and the elder stricken with grief, took a rope and headed to the oak tree to hang himself. When he got there a man wearing a fox skin was sitting under it roasting a chicken leg on a tiny fire. He talked the elder out of suicide and shared his chicken with him while the elder told him of their predicament. After hearing all, the stranger offered a solution. He told the elder that if they dined him with the finest meal tonight, tomorrow the sick would be healed and the crops would be rich again and if they gave him one girl after her first blood every autumn the village would flourish and expand and fill with the riches of the earth. They would be kings among the hills.”

“The elder agreed and in the morning when he returned to the village what the stranger had promised had come true. Come autumn the man in the fox skin came for the first girl just as he’d promised he would. The villagers were angry with the elder and how he’d hidden the truth from them. Dealing with demons and spirits…they called him a witch and butchered him. The demon took his girls despite everything, sneaking in the night soft as a whisper, quiet as a fox.” Neave inclined her head towards the green door of the small house. “I was so little, couldn’t be more than six. After I heard the story I wanted to cry but the man just laughed. ‘It’ll happen to you too! The man in the fox skin will come to take you and make you his whore you little bitch.’ I snuck past him and didn’t leave our house for days.”

“What a fucking weirdo. I’m so sorry, Neave. That must have been horrible,” Sierra sighed.

“Did it come? Did he come for you?”

Neave watched Ambrose, his unblinking stare piercing.

Sierra’s eyes widened. “Ambrose! Don’t be an asshole!”

She wanted to tell him, she wanted to be sure. The mark of something held in her hand returned and she flexed her digits tickling at her palm and the pressure there. Her mouth was dry, the red dirt carried in the wind crunching beneath her teeth.

A distant almost indistinguishable cry pierced her ears.

“Did you hear that?” Sierra asked and she swiftly ran down the stone steps and back to the yard where it was darker. The narrow light from her phone’s flashlight provided indication as to where she was.

“Inside the cave lived a Fox,” Neave whispered staring at the jagged rock.

 “Why isn’t it marked on the map, the cave?” Ambrose asked.

“It’s so people don’t go there.” Neave said listening to the cry. It was a woman crying, a child screaming, a person wailing in agony. It was a horrible sound and it chased away all other noise present in the vanishing daylight – the sound of night approaching through the trees making them sway as it came.

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Ambrose joined Sierra adding to the stretch of yellow glow. He clutched his hunting rifle and aimed it at the approaching darkness.

Chapter 5

Portland sunsets and a Brass Automaton: An Interview with D. Paul Angel

d_paulangelIn the breaking days of a new indie novella blending Snow White with The Terminator and placing them in a steampunk world, I talked to one of its authors about what it takes to write, about trials and life and dreams, about books and authors that inspire, about his amazing photography skills, about the future and what excitement lies there and of course about Brass Automaton, including a neat little sneak peek behind the scenes! Paul offers very healthy thoughts about the self-publishing scene and delivers some fantastic links to things he loves and respects, so I urge you to check them on the way to knowing who D. Paul Angel is and why you should be on the lookout for his name.

Tell me about your journey in becoming a writer. Was there a particular moment or event that turned you to writing? What was the first story you published online about?

I have enjoyed writing since I was in elementary school.  I loved coming up with stories and letting my imagination run wild.  What I did not like, was having to go back through and correct my work.  So as I was going through the editing, I would cut significant portions of the story during the revisions just to avoid having to copy it over again.  I should add that this was well before personal computers, so everything was written in longhand, with the rough draft in pencil and the final in pen.

We would also have to draw a picture to go with our story, which I also enjoyed, but I would be far too ambitious in my drawing so I would have to rush to finish that too, because by this time all my friends would already be outside playing.  Priorities!  It’s interesting looking back and realizing that I still enjoy the initial flurry of writing significantly more than the tedious work of revising.  (I’m sure I’m totally alone in that too!)  And, more importantly, that my biggest weakness continues to be follow through.  I’m getting there, but I’m still learning the discipline required for the revising (and revising and revising) needed to continue improving.

Which brings us to the first story I ever posted online: Dagger of Delphi It is about the daughter of an oppressive King who is deeply affected by the suffering of her people, and must ultimately choose whether or not to take the throne herself.  Or something like that.  Truth be told I winced reading it, and I’m not wholly sure I even understand what my intentions were.  That being said, I posted it 11 years ago now, and I have grown substantially as both a writer and a person since then.

How do you go about your writing? Do you have a specific place? 

I have desk in my room where I now do most of my writing.  I have had mixed success over the years writing on the couch with my laptop.  It works pretty well for editing, especially with Netflix, but it can be distracting writing first drafts.  So I’m steadily learning how to set aside time every day to write, and make use of the writing space that I have.  It is, again, part of the growing process.

That being said I do some of my best writing in coffee shops, pubs, and Thai restaurants.  I invested in a cheap Chromebook, and it has been great for this- just pure word to page.  There is something to be said for being alone amongst people, and letting the myriad of conversations and crowd’s energy blend into a gentle hum of background noise.  Since I live in Portland, I’m blessed by a stupidly huge number of amazing coffee shops and pubs.  There’s just something about the ritual of writing while enjoying a drink that’s inspiring.  Thai also has a certain magic to it which I discovered quite by accident over lunch.  The heat in the peppers made me eat it slow, and it ended up creating a rhythm between the writing and the eating.  So now I mix in a couple Thai restaurants amongst the pubs and coffee shops.

Outside of writing who is D. Paul Angel? I know you do a lot of photography aside from writing, so is there a particular mood you like to capture and set with your photos? 

As with most of the other writers I’ve been fortunate enough to meet online, I have a dayjob that pays the bills and takes up most of my time.  I’ve been in the legal field as a paralegal for 15 years now.  My specialty is supporting trials and I have gotten pretty good at it.  That’s the good news.  The bad news is that trials tend to be all consuming in both time and energy.  Trials can last anywhere from a couple days to several weeks, and the prepping takes even longer.  So when I am working on a large case my ability to write is hugely diminished.  That being said, while trials are exhausting, and mentally draining, they’re still rewarding over all.

Because of the work I do, I have always been vague about my professional career, but I’ve been happy to share most of my creative side online.  The writing is a huge part of that, with my photography being the other significant part of my repertoire.  With my photos I find myself drawn to capturing transitions, textures, light, and scale.  I’ve come to find that there is a lot of beauty throughout the world, even in the most familiar of places and things.  I have uploaded quite a few of my shots to Flickr, and I have been posting a lot on Instagram  too.  Flickr is all the shots from my DSLR, (a Canon T3 for the camera nerds in the audience) so they are higher quality and “bigger” scenes.  My Instagram shots are captured with my phone, so they are “smaller” scenes, and are definitely more found shots, as opposed to the shots on Flickr which I’ve sought out.

In 2016 I made the jump to selling my photos as a member of the Three Rivers Artist Guild in Oregon City, just outside of Portland, Oregon.  While I only had a modicum of commercial success, I learned quite a bit in the process.  I certainly would have liked to have sold more, but my sales did ultimately cover my costs of printing and such.  I even turned a bit of a profit, though only just enough to buy a large coffee, instead of a small.  I’ll sell in the gallery again this year too, and will start selling cards in addition to prints.

Finally, while I don’t have one definitively favorite photo, almost all of my favorite photos are either on my prints page, or my cards page.

Tell me about Brass Automaton. It looks really amazing and that cover art is just fantastic. I read the final, complete version in a heartbeat and I loved it. How did that start and where is it today? 

Brass Automaton was a fantastic experience.  I met Mark through #FridayFlash posts a few years back. He wrote a stream of consciousness story called Beginnings , which he wasn’t sure what to do with.  I volunteered to write the sequel, Overboard, and then he and others picked it up and it became the Beginnings Project.  I wasn’t able to contribute anymore to that story, but we stayed friends via blog posts and Twitter.  Then out of the blue he emailed me about a story he had just written called Brass Automaton.  He had rolled a pair of dice against a table of stories to determine which pair he would do a mashup of.  The luck of the dice gave him Snow White and Terminator, which I found both hilarious and awesome.  So when he asked if I’d be interesting in co-authoring it with him and I jumped at it.

clockwork-apple-new-flattened

“This story happened when His Majesty was still a young man, a huntsman to be precise. It is the tale of a clockwork machine from the future, with a mission to terminate His Majesty to prevent him from meeting his future queen.” Jarvis paused for effect. “Then, she was known only as Snow White.” – Overview for Brass Automaton

We started with us alternating a couple chapters each, but we deliberately had very little communication between postings.  It quickly turned into the writing equivalent of, “Hold my beer and watch this!”  We tried to one up each other with each chapter, but more in terms of showing off than writing the other into corners.  Ultimately, it was all about trying to make it as good as possible, and pushing each other to get there.  At the time I was never expecting we would publish it, (or that anyone would enjoy it so much!) so I wrote with absolute abandon.  It was incredibly fun to write and I’m looking forward to starting on the sequel in the Spring.  This time, however, we’re going to collaborate more and make the chapters flow together more smoothly.

The cover art was all Mark.  He’s got some mad Photoshop skills and put the whole thing together.  It turned out beautifully and I have had a lot of people tell me how much they like it.  (I know Mark is already thinking about the sequel’s cover too!)

How did the experience of collaborating with another writer feel? 

Collaborating with Mark was great.  He’s very easy going but a driven writer, which I needed.  I tend to write in fits and spurts, and have struggled with getting word to page on a daily, consistent basis.  Mark was a huge encouragement, and having him drop his chapters, so rapidly meant I couldn’t procrastinate on mine.  Beyond just originating the story, this project wouldn’t have happened without him, let alone getting it published.

Was it a challenge to create the Brass Automaton universe? Were there any bumps on the road, did you have a lot of different opinions as to how to build up the world and the characters?

The biggest bumps in the road for us came from external sources.  Work and life take a toll when writing isn’t your main support, and we were both hit with extra busy times outside of writing.  We had actually written through about 2/3 of it when we hit our respective walls, and nothing more was done on it for some months.  Then Mark got over his wall, and was inspired again.  I was knee deep in trials at the time, so when he asked if I was cool with him finishing Brass Automaton I didn’t hesitate giving him carte blanche to finish.

The closest thing to a conflict we had was after I finished my second set of chapters.  I thought it was a great ending point, so wrote what I thought was an excellent setup for Mark’s ultimate finish.  I emailed him and told him what I was doing and he did the electronic equivalent of laughing before turning my “climax” into a battle creating far more story to explore.

Which was your favorite character to write in Brass Automaton?

My favorite characters were the Dwarfs.  I got a text from a good friend about their names along the lines of “King Odc? Pypha?  Really!?”  He laughed though when I explained that I hadn’t expected to be published when I wrote it, so I just used anagrams for the Dwarves names. I did the same thing with other names too, like Tenycks for Skynet, or Rennoc Woods which is Conner backwards.  Mark, of course, just took it in stride and ran with it.

My favorite character ended up being Poedy (Dopey of course!).  He had fulfilled the role of comedy relief quite well, and then I gave him a uniquely grim backstory, which also explained his lack of beard.  The chapter where this all comes to a head is my favorite in the book, but I’m deeply biased since it’s one of my best pieces of writing so far.

What do you think a story like Brass Automaton brings to the world of self-publishing today? It’s quite unique, a very rich mixture of fables, time travel and an industrial revolution, plus it manages to create a very feministic atmosphere in an era where it did not exist, so I’m curious how do you think it places in the world of fiction today.

I often read Whatever which is the personal blog of John Scalzi,  a moderately successful SciFi author.  And by “moderate” I mean standard bearer of the industry!  He knows the publishing industry better than anyone else I regularly read, and his first book, Old Man’s War, was originally self-published too.  The biggest thing I have taken away from his insights is how there is far, far more I don’t know about both self publishing and traditional publishing than I do know.

I think Brass Automaton especially is too unique to ever be picked up by traditional publishers, but it’s still a great story that self-publishing has allowed us to share. 

So what I offer here is based on my own, admittedly limited experiences, and I’m sure Dunning-Kruger will be watching me closely.

Twilight and 50 Shades of Grey (the latter of which started life as fan fiction of the former) are both, for lack of a better word, awful.  They are also awfully successful, which reinforces that quality is not necessarily an indicator of success, though I’m talking about their literary quality more so than their technical quality.  In other words, I’m sure they were correctly formatted, typo free, etc., even though their content was lacking (IMNSHO…).  But they obviously resonated with a large audience and were hugely successful from a financial perspective, so when I look at traditional publishing I see that not all variables are equal, nor are they dependent.

A brilliant story with fresh ideas and amazing characters that’s submitted with typos, randomly mixed fonts, and inconsistent formatting isn’t going to make it far enough along to be read to see the gem within the rough rock.  On the flip side, a submission that is technically flawless is likely to pass onto the next step, even if it is more mediocre than not.  Personally I’d think the first example is far easier to work with than the second, but typos have been the bane of my writing since forever, so I may biased.  (Fun fact: Spellcheck’s biggest influence on me has been to make ever newer and more creative spelling errors.)

Ultimately though, traditional publishing is a business which drives financial concerns to take precedence over creative quality.  This is true throughout the entertainment spectrum, which is why we have Transformers movie ever third summer even though its budget could pay for 10+ original, creatively stunning smaller movies- because ultimately far more people will pay to see Transformers than they would to see our 10 odd theoretically awesome movies- combined.  Traditional publishing, as far as I have seen, is no different.

Self-publishing though is an entirely different animal.  There are a lot of people who were rejected by traditional publishers, for very good reasons, who are now flooding Amazon with their works, making it increasingly difficult to find good works amongst the crap.  There are also “books” on the marketplace which are literally gibberish or collections of wikipedia pages as a means of gaming Amazon’s payment schedules.  Needless to say, this makes for a lot more noise than signal.

The reward of self-publishing though is that signal.  It gives a voice and allows an audience to works that would never be seen otherwise.  I think Brass Automaton especially is too unique to ever be picked up by traditional publishers, but it’s still a great story that self-publishing has allowed us to share.  One of the websites I frequent is fark.com, and they have a weekly thread for writers.  They put together an anthology called Heart of Farkness which I helped a teeny, tiny bit on.  The stories vary between great and amazing, and its another example of being able to share stories with the world that would otherwise go unread.

For all the troubles in the world, we live in a Golden Age of arts.  We have the ability to share books, photos, music, movies, and more across the entire world.  You and I live over 6 thousand miles away and yet we have been sharing and enjoying each others works for years now.  That isn’t just unprecedented in human history, it’s truly beautiful.  If ever there was a mechanism for peace and understanding amongst so many diverse cultures it’s this sharing of our artistic souls.  That’s a bit too optimistic, perhaps, but I have seen in my own life that Love beats Hate, and being able to share our own loves makes the world that much better.

What is the Emoji Raiting Guide?

One of the things that I have wanted to do with my blog is give my thoughts on movies, TV shows, and other things that catch my interest.  I started with the old, traditional star rating from 0-4 stars.  I know most ratings are now from 1-5 stars, but there are some efforts out there for which even a single star is too much!  As I started working with it though, I found that the number of stars wasn’t really indicative of my thoughts.  Zero stars are easy.  Same with four, but what differentiates a one from a two, or a two from a three?  Instead I came up with my own emoji ratings.

This way I could break things up into what I think are more helpful categories.  It helps differentiate between something you’ll be happy to see versus something that you should absolutely see.  On the lowest end it also helps distinguish between the bad, and the so bad its awfulness angers my blood and makes baby Jesus cry.  Where it really helps though is in the middle ground.  Those things which are flawed, but still worthwhile, versus those things which are basically more flaw than not.  It also allows me to differentiate why something is bad, helping to explain whether it just failed completely, or if it was bad because of poor decisions.

I’m always on the hunt for fresh titles and so are many of the people who come across this blog. What book recommendations do you have for us? 

My current read is The Golden Ratio: The Story of Phi, the World’s Most Amazing Number by Mario Livio.  (It’s a loaner from @ganymeder, another friend from the #FridayFlash world and twitterverse, and yet another reminder of the amazing connections our world now offers.)  The books traces the history of phi, one of those magical irrational numbers like pi, only it is seen far more in patterns.  It’s been a great read so far, and I’ve been really enjoying nerding out on it.

I tend to oscillate between fiction and non-fiction reading, with the bulk of my reading being done on the bus to and from work.  I just finished a re-read of Harry Potter, which reminded me once again  that J.K. Rowling is truly a God amongst mortals.  After I finish The Golden Ratio I’m going to read Ian Doescher’s William Shakespeare’s Star Wars trilogy.  It’s basically the Star Wars movies written as Elizabethian plays, and I’m really looking forward to it.  When I’m done I’m going to share them with a theater friend of mine to see if they want to try and and produce them.

In addition to all this, I want to start making a concerted effort to read more self-published books, and in particular read more works from women and minorities.  I had never thought about how white male centric almost all of our popular culture is because, well, I’m a white male.  I have never lacked for representation, and I have now come to see how vitally important it is.  (And another way to bring our cultures together too!)  There were three things that really brought this to life for me, with the first being the work and studying my ex-wife (and still dear friend) was doing on social justice issues.  It has really opened my eyes to so many of the inequalities that I had previously been so blissfully unaware of.

Then, with these thoughts percolating there was a post on Scalzi’s Whatever blog about reading only women and minority authors for a year.  In thinking on it I realized just how white, male centric my reading had been.  It was driven home even more I had a story idea that I was thinking of writing as an Epic Poem.  To stay true to the form I wanted to write a prologue as a sonnet asking my muses for guidance.  In a clever twist I decided to have my muses be the authors who had most influenced my own writing.  As I began compiling the list, I realized they were all white males.  While there’s no disputing that Asimov, Adams, Heinlein, Voltaire, and so on were deeply talented and influential, the Venn Diagram of their worldviews is basically a circle.  So, I’m (finally) learning how reading authors from with diverse backgrounds, and significantly different knowledge and experiences than me, can greatly help to expand my horizons.

While we’re on the subject of books which book and why is your all-time favorite? 

As for ye olde “book on a desert island” question.  My all time favorite book series is Douglas AdamsThe Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy.  It is insightful, funny, and uniquely imaginative.  We lost a rare gift with Adams’ passing all too soon, but his works have influenced me far more than anyone else.  To tie this all together, I’d share one of my favorite insights of Adams’, from Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency, since it is such a fantastic metaphor for privilege.  It’s one of the opening scenes in which the Electric Monk is on a horse lost in his own world of thoughts, while the horse is only thinking about the Monk, setting up a line about the difference in thoughts between when you are being sat upon. And not.

Are there any new projects you’re working on right now or looking forward to?

Always!  I have far more ideas than I do time or, realistically, ability right now.  I’ve already talked with Mark about the sequel to Brass Automaton and we’ve agreed to start writing this March, and we’re going to forego the oneupmanship in favor of stronger collaboration.  We’ll still alternate a pair of chapters at a time, but we’re going to work out the major plot points ahead of time and talk about things as we go so we to make the chapters flow better on top of everything else.

I’m also working on my own SciFi adventure novella. It desperately needs some rewriting, but I think its story is both unique and intriguing (though I may be biased).  Ultimately I think I’ll be able to forge a larger story from it that would span 4 novellas altogether (give or take).  But, I have to take one step at a time and get this one finished first.

I also have a humorous short story I’ve been working on that was originally submitted, and rightly rejected, from the 2016 Heart of Farkness anthology.  I’ve improved it considerably since then and it’s just about done.

I’ve also been doing some beta-reading and editing work of late too.  It’s amazing how much easier it is to see what needs attention, and how to fix it, in other people’s works than it is in your own!  One of the books I edited is going to be published this summer.  It’s a history Boeing’s 737, written by a friend of mine who flies them for Southwest Airlines.  It was challenging, but a lot of fun, and I’m looking forward to reading the finished book.

Down the road I have a couple ideas that I think would make great Graphic Novels.  The first is a humorous SciFi story idea which is the one I was originally thinking of writing as an Epic Poem.  I really do think it will do better in a graphic format.  It’s open ended and is driven by a cast of diverse, quirky characters who must save the world by going from quest to quest to quest.  It also makes use of the venerable Greek Chorus structure as an added bonus (thought they’ll simultaneously be affecting the story and breaking the Fourth Wall).

The other story idea is closed, and far more serious in nature.  It’s all the more important now too in light of how fake news stories affected voters in our last election here in the US (and Brexit too apparently).  It explores that our reality is necessarily framed by what we are told, and that what we grow up with is “normal,” regardless of the reality.  It’s also SciFi in nature and revolves around a “Millenial Ship,” on a thousand year journey to a new planet.  While there really isn’t a shortage of Colony Ship stories, my vision is rather darker, and more unique than those I’ve read.

Further down the line, much further, I have an idea for a very complex novel, which I don’t quite have the technical skills to pull off yet.  I’m roughly outlining it as inspiration strikes, but definitely need more writing experience before I can pull it off the way I feel it needs to be told.

Outside of fiction I have been working on a tabletop wargame.  It is meant to be super easy to play for people with little to no gaming experience.  It uses a chess set for the pieces, construction paper for the terrain, and dice.  A lot of dice!  It’s called DieLuck’s Chess and true to its name relies upon extensive dice rolls.  I’ve completed the second draft of the rules and am working on finalizing it so I can send it out to playtesters.

Finally, perhaps even more far afield from the normal, I’m writing, for lack of a better descriptor, a framework for religion, spirituality, and/or philosophy.  I have always been fascinated by religions, spirituality, philosophies, and the universality of all cultures that there is something beyond our mortal realm.  So I’m trying to articulate a framework for people to think about life, and its decisions, amongst the myriad of our emotions and experiences.  The idea is for it to work for anyone, regardless of their own personal beliefs, or lack thereof, in a higher power.

You were and still are a part of the #fridayflash community. What’s the first thing any aspiring writer should know about flash fiction writing?

That it is awesome and amazing and why aren’t you already doing it?  It is a fantastic tool in honing your writing skills.  Constraining yourself to a wholly self-contained story in a 1,000 words or less is far more challenging than I originally thought.  So many times I’ve written out what I thought was a simple, straightforward story only to look down and find that I’m less than halfway through and already over 1,000 words.  It really teaches you what words are truly invaluable, and what needs to be cut- no matter how great a line it is.

It is also an rewarding way to explore different genres, practice dialogue, or any other technique you want to hone.  In my #FridayFlash’s I’ve written SciFi, Fantasy, Humor, Horror, Mystery, Satire, and I’m sure others which I’m now forgetting too.  I’ve also used it to practice writing with sparse descriptions, as well as utilizing it to explore the possibilities afforded by more complex sentences, more vibrantly colored adjectives, and an aggrandizingly exaggerated vocabulary.

The other great thing is the community.  While I haven’t post a #FridayFlash in awhile, unfortunately, it truly is a great way to get feedback on your works.  It will also help you learn how to give positive, usable feedback to others.  I’ve met a lot of great people over the years through reading other people’s posts and getting thoughts on my own.  Almost every person I’ve met in this community  has been both encouraging and helpful, with people tailoring their critiques to the writer’s skill level.  Indeed, most of them I still keep in touch with via twitter, and it’s inspiring to read how they’re all doing with their own writing.

You can find Paul at these links:

dpaulangel.com 

Twitter

Amazon – Brass Automaton

Instagram

Flickr

Inside the cave lived a Fox – Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

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Neave woke in bed in the spare room of the cottage. Mud and anxiety washed away, she had surrendered to a motionless sleep lulled away by the low kept voices of Ambrose and Sierra and the still lingering scent of the opiate candle. The morning was a different shade but Neave was still clutched in the remembrance of yesterday.

She rolled on her side, fingers woved into the blanket, pulling hard to simulate possession. She curled her body into a fetal position escaping for new seconds into darkness behind closed eyes. Beneath the cover she felt naked, exposed, only a skin thin shroud of a memory covering her, the house, Enok, the blurred faces she called family. And nothing more of her present self, of who she was. All memories were fragments from the past, just nostalgia in heaps, nothing useful, only bittersweet. A fickle horror swirled like smoke from a burning cigarette but she blew on it disconnecting its chances of encompassing her to suffocate in its blue haze.

Despite it all her memory loss had boundaries now, a beginning to be placed with precision and an intermission- now, to be played out in order to restore the middle and provide the ending. Her want to go home was still present, but returning would also mean living with the missing and Neave couldn’t bear to be her own stranger. She opened weary eyes to the dull silhouettes in the room. The voices in the other room had escalated to fully developed sentences, rising in volume and urgency. Neave left the bed and received the cool morning air against her bare skin.

She found Ambrose and Sierra in the small kitchen. The devious grin that had played on his lips hours ago was replaced by a youthful smirk.  There was a sudden gentleness lurking in his features and Neave found herself reaching for the coffee mug he offered, a symbol of an act of complete normality she welcomed.

“We know where to go,” he said pointing towards the backpacks on the sofa. Next to them rested against the leather seat was a hunting rifle.

“I don’t know why he needs this,” Sierra joined taking a long sip from her cup.

“In case. Just in case.”

“There is something wild to shoot? How about you leave the shooting to me?” Sierra waved an instant camera at him and slipped it in her backpack.

Neave left the coffee untouched. “I don’t understand. What do you mean you know where to go?”

“It was something you said that gave me an idea. Fair fact, it’s a long shot but I suspect a plausible one. On the way here you mentioned that story, “Inside the cave lived a Fox”. You said it was like local lore, so we did some digging and sure enough there is a similar folklore tale originating in Yarlford, one of the villages up in Mt. Wrell. We figured it would be best to start there.”

Neave folded her arms searching through her brain for the village, a place she had known, had visited. Yarlford, hundreds of years old withstanding the wheels of time, the changing currents. It surfaced with semi-vivid imagery, echoes more than voices, passing weak odors instead of pungent smells. It hovered ghostlike but the more she focused on it, the more the link strengthened returning her to a world less distorted and more memory like. It settled right there in her childhood, a pieced of her mind untouched by her amnesia. Neave could feel Ambrose watching her closely, leaning into the same want to construct a world that was not tainted, that could be reached and anchored.

“I remember spending my summer vacations there but…. Could I have gone there?” And was I alone if I did, Neave wondered.

Sierra took Neave by her hand and pulled her towards the door. Her lips hovered close to Neave’s ear, the breath ticklish on her skin when she whispered. “I think it’s worth the try. Are you ready, Neave? You will rediscover yourself today.”

*      *      *

Yarlford was far. Neave remembered trekking up to it from the train station in Tallbridge. It would take half the hours of daylight to cross the invasive river, hoping from boulder to boulder, to climb over fallen trees shattered by lightning and find the right herd path beside game trails leading into deep woods. A bullet had whistled above her head once, the hunter hiding in silence behind his scope. She had to crisscross over hills and valleys overgrown with grass, remaining at all times above a quaint quiet world populated by distant yowls of cattle. By the time she would reach the house the sky would be turning indigo.

Ambrose took the wheel leading them out of the dirt road and on to a new one miles away that climbed them in her periphery of civilization’s reach to a domain where the wind rustled through the tall grass. Sierra rolled down the backseat window. Her hair scattered, toyed with by the currents.

“It really is a moaning mountain,” she noted. They crawled, tires fighting against the still wet unevenness of the red dirt road threatening to become a landslide and throw them in a ditch of splintered trees soaking in mire ponds filled with rocks. Sierra took photos and wrote down with a blue marker on the white space of the Polaroid her thoughts.

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Neave could see she was enthralled by the endless valleys and jutting peaks colored in pale blues.

A map was spread on the dashboard but Neave’s uneducated eyes couldn’t see where they were or would go. Ambrose tapped a finger at a junction. “That would be somewhere at the foot of the village. We’ll leave the car there and continue on foot.”

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Outside of the car the steep trail that opened on the side of the road snaked its way past the first houses, caved in under time and nature’s pressure. Neave knew them to be sanctuaries of snakes, tongue-splitting venomous reptiles hiding inside their man-made shrines.

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“These were abandoned a long time ago,” Ambrose spoke squinting to look inside an empty window.

“When I was a child people would still search for buried gold coins in them. One man was bitten twice by snakes.”

“Did he die?” Sierra snapped her photo pausing only to scribble, the marker leaving a squeaky noise.

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“I think so.”

“But did he find gold coins? A pot of gold coins perhaps?” Ambrose caught up with her lighting a cigar. The smoke he blew caught her in a sweetened haze.

Neave pictured two gold coins dug from underneath dusty floorboards crawling with the slimy bodies of smooth green and yellow snakes, placed over her eyes, a cold payment for greed, mistrust and cruelty.

“I don’t think there were ever any.”

Coming up the uneven trail outside the density of trees and nodding houses, Neave’s heart skipped and she rushed ahead. She slipped over exposed rocks white as bone to climb the path to open ground. The sight of a crownless oak spreading dried branches like a scarecrow to touch no sky, made her smile.

“I remember this tree. Lightning struck it and it never grew afterwards.” The snap of the camera behind her sealed the moment. Ambrose gave her his leading stride offering open palmed the discovery.

“We’re here,” Neave told them.

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Chapter 4

Inside the cave lived a Fox – Chapter 2

Chapter 1

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The road took a swerve and the car eased into a stretch illuminated only by the headlights. Pine trees white against the colorless background buckled under a high wind and she could just catch their crowns so high above. The world wasn’t clearing and she felt trapped on this narrow road, in this car going somewhere that meant nothing to her. She was going in the wrong way regardless of the promise.

Her body shifted away from him patiently pulling on his thin cigar providing the same scent she had breathed with familiarity on his coat. Her heated temple rested against the cool glass of window. Her head was static, memories heavily faded. Lolling with the motion of the car she thought her fingers someone else’s. She opened and closed her palm, flexing her digits. There was a sense of something amiss, something that had been there in her hand but was now gone taking away with itself her feel, her touch. Her skin hurt and she rubbed a thumb against it feeling nothing.

Soon he chose to break the silence “I’m Ambrose by the way in case you fear riding with nameless strangers. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you that before. It seems stupid now, but…”

She could feel his eyes on her back, waiting, wanting to ask more, to know. “Neave. My name is Neave.”

“Are your folks Irish?”

Neave shifted again so she could face him.

“I think they just liked the name. It isn’t spelled like you would if it was Irish. What about you, were your parents religious? Were you named like after Saint Ambrose?”

He laughed and his laughter was even hoarser than his voice. “No, they were not that religious. I like to think Ambrose Bierce served for inspiration. My mother…she was a scholar. She taught Latin and Greek almost her entire life. That and maybe she thought the name sounded posh.”

Ambrose cleared his throat, his grin waning away. His lips became thin, the lines around them more pronounced now that the dimples of his smile were gone. His eyes under a furrowed brow returned to the road.

Neave disregarded her own half-smile and returned her attention to the dial. Time had scarcely passed since they had left the near accident. “Where are we?”

 “Just outside of Tallbridge. See there? That’s Wrell mountain. People sometimes call it “the moaning mountain” because of how the wind whistles through the valleys.”

Neave inched in her seat, inclining her head to catch the slowly rising hills in the distance. There was not a flicker of light there and the mountain looked wild and undisturbed, but she knew of villages hidden within its folds.

 “Inside the cave lived a Fox.”

Ambrose looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s an old story my grandmother used to tell. Local folklore I think. I remember it originated in a village somewhere high in the mountain.”

Ambrose steered the car left leaving the main road. The tires hit gravel and they started to climb a narrow dirt road between the trees. “What is it about?”

Neave shook her head. “Not sure. It was a really long time ago when I first heard it. I think it made me both scared and sad.” Her skin goosed up when she thought long and hard about it. It too was amiss, not fully formed, partial. Memories of the past were easier to access and process. The now was a blur haunted by them and not all were happy memories.

 “Here’s the house.”

The headlights broke through the dark revealing a small cottage visibly a faded white, a side of it overgrown with ivy, red and brown and orange, an Autumn coat. It had been here for a long time and Neave could sense the coziness it provided along with seclusion. She followed Ambrose through the dark alley, tiny sharp rocks sticking in her soles, and past the makeshift swing still wet with tiny droplets. The light and warmth seeping from inside the house came with a voice.

“Where the hell have you been? I tried calling but you’ve left your phone and…”

Neave shut the door behind her awkwardly stepping inside and facing the petite woman with her arms akimbo.

“Who’s this?”

“Sierra this is Neave. I nearly ran her over on the farm road.”

Sierra’s face changed. She took hold of Neave and led her further into the living room sitting her down on the coach by the fireplace.

“What were you doing at this hour in the fields?”

Neave took the warmth of the fire for a second to defrost her thoughts.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

Ambrose sitting across from her shook his head in dismay. “You never said…I assumed…”

“You never asked.”  She still wore his coat and it was enough but Ambrose was pale, wet strands of hair falling in his dark eyes.

Sierra reached over to the cabinet placed between the couch and the armchair and produced a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of red wine. She poured a healthy dose for Neave, none for herself and for Ambrose filled an elegant glass with the wine.

The alcohol burned her throat, not a sensation Neave was used to. It loosened her and the fire, the stillness of everything around her, the disappearing numbness from fingers and limbs altogether softened her. She glanced at the phone hanging on the wall, a landline most definitely dead and then at their phones on display on the table. There was no one to call however. Relationships were strained, a thread of her memory knew that.

“Do you want to?” Ambrose asked, his voice gentle.

“I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Sierra probed.

“Nothing. I find only nothingness and the more I try to remember the more distant I feel.”

Sierra found her hand, warm against her still cold one. “Think hard. Last image, last sound.” Ambrose lighted a candle and placed it on the table in front of Neave. The scent filled her nostrils, sweet and heavy. She inserted it into herself within seconds, deep breaths to calm herself bringing more of the opium scent into her body and mind.

Neave closed her eyes following Sierra’s voice to continue breathing deep. She could hear a door getting closed, the rattle of a key chain, the muffled barks of a dog behind that door.

“It’s my house in Lowview.” It was her hand closing the door, turning the key. “I’m at the door and Enok is barking.”

“How does your door look? Describe it to me.” Sierra said.

“It’s just a normal door. White but the paint around the handle is peeling and you can see the original green underneath it. It has scratch marks from Enok, deep into the wood.”

“Is there a date somewhere?”

A car had unlocked behind her and the key was in her hand. She was walking towards it, climbing in it, starting it. The dial caught her attention. “October 16th,” she whispered.

The scent was removed from her and replaced by that of burning wood and sharp whiskey.

“There is your start. But you’re still missing three days and they seem gone for good.” Sierra blew the candle free of its dancing flame.

Neave shook her head feeling lonely without Enok. How could she forget about Enok?

‘The way I see it you have two choices,” Ambrose said rubbing his greying goatee. “You could go home tomorrow, forget all about this and return to normal. Call it an episode.” He swirled the dark red wine in its thin glass. “Or you could try to discover where you went and what you did during those three days.”

“I told you, I want to go home.” She spoke with urgency, one that threatened to tumble-down what little defence she had left.

He cocked his head to one side. “But aren’t you curious?”

Neave remembered the thing that was amiss, her fingers closing in on thin air hoping to grab something that wasn’t there but had been.

Ambrose stood up and circled around the couch she was sitting in. His hand fell heavy on her shoulder, the squeeze a new seal.

“Tomorrow we’ll find out what happened. You have my word.”

Chapter 3