The Dark Fantastic

I know folks are getting tired of this drama. Shit, I’m tired of this drama, but I have no intention of giving up the fight. That’s exactly what Damnation Books wants. They want me to get tired and give in, let them have their way despite contract violations and an unwillingness to deal fairly with me. Here is yet another example of their stubbornness, proving once more that Damnation Books isn’t in this fight for money they’ve fairly earned. It’s all about pride and being spiteful, punishing an author they are unhappy with.

What’s a vampire to do when he’s afraid of the dark and passes out at the sight of blood?

These are but two of the problems that face thirteen year old Rupert Bartholomew Cooke. After growing up in England’s Foster Care System, Rupert is at last adopted. Then what should be the happiest moment of his life turns into the most terrifying day imaginable. His adopter, the same man whose bite turned Rupert into a vampire, is none other than the infamous Jack the Ripper.

To make matters worse, Rupert is left to watch over Jack’s mansion, under which is buried a portal that leads to the Source of all magic. Untrained and coping with the stresses of his new and terrible existence, Rupert is forced to defend the Source against Jack’s enemies, the necromancer Mobius and his secret accomplice.

With his newfound friends, Lorelei the thrall, Alistair the diminutive werewolf, and Horatio the gruff housekeeper, Rupert must battle Mobius and preserve the fragile truce between the Vampire Nation and the Legions of the Dead; all without giving Jack a reason to kill him when he returns home.

Like Harry Potter? Goosebumps? Have kids who like an exciting romp with the undead? Well, here you go. Inheritance is only 99 cents for a limited time.

Read the first chapter here.

Neverland’s Library anthology could still use your help meeting its funding goals with only ten days left. With authors like Tad Williams, Mark Lawrence, William Meikle, Miles Cameron, R.S. Belcher, Jeffrey J. Mariotte and Marcy Rockwell, Peter Rawlik, Marie Brennan, Jeff Salyards, Kenny Soward, AND little ol’ me, you can’t go wrong.

Hey Authors! Need quality editing or covers for your books without breaking the bank? Check out J.M. Martin at Nine Worlds Media. Joe designed my latest cover, Inheritance, as well as Kenny Soward’s Rough Magic and Writing Fantasy Heroes through Rogue Blades Entertainment.

NineWorlds Media was devised in 2013 by author and editor J.M. Martin, who has been working professionally in publishing for over twenty years. His vision for NineWorlds is to offer editorial, layout, and cover design services geared towards publishers with one eye fixed particularly on the independent (i.e., self publishing) market.

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• writing (specializing in creative writing)
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Inheritance, part one of the Heir to the Blood Throne duology for younger readers (aged 8 and up) is available now! (Amazon)

Chapter One - In The Dark of Night

Rupert’s heart leapt into his throat as the pitch sky above the Whitcomb Orphanage roared to life. A brilliant flash of light pierced the cracks between the boarded windows, setting the shadows to dance. Shook loose from the rafters by the thunder’s percussion, dust floated daintily through the charged air.

Rupert pulled his blanket tight, curling up behind its tattered patchwork of faded colors. He clutched to a handful of yellowed paper scraps and watched the motes of dust as the lightning’s glimmer faded. Only the dim flicker of the nearby oil lantern kept the blackness from overwhelming him. Headmaster Dobbs would beat him soundly if he knew it was being used, but that rarely kept Rupert from doing so. He cast a glance about the communal room to see if his fellow orphans had been disturbed by the storm. A few twitched and muttered in their sleep, but none of them woke.

He sighed with a mix of relief and disappointment. Certain the rest of the boys would tell Dobbs about the lantern–earning an extra portion of dinner while Rupert starved–he found himself wishing he weren’t quite so alone. There was no one to turn to. Despite having spent his entire life at Whitcomb, he had made no allies within its walls.

Rupert knew nothing of family or friends. Abandoned at birth, he knew only of the hard floor upon which he slept, the moldering bread and bitter gruel that turned his stomach daily, and the constant feeling he didn’t belong. Driven by more than just survival, Rupert strove to better himself. The thought of pandering or breaking his back in the black shafts of the mines set his heart to fluttering.

Having taught himself to read at an early age, every free moment was spent camped out near where the street vendors hawked the London Times. He devoured each and every scrap of writing he could get his hands on, every discarded piece a treasure. This trait had not endeared him to the Whitcomb boys. They knew an orphan’s place. Rupert would be no exception to the rule, if they could help it.

Though the others did their best to grind him down, they could do nothing to extinguish his optimism. It came in the form of the weathered remnants of newspapers the wind had blown into the alley behind the orphanage and trapped against the crumbling brick wall. Rupert gathered them every opportunity he got.

Within their words, he found hope.

On lonely nights like tonight, when the storms rattled the heavens and the encroaching darkness begged him to douse the lantern’s flame and let it come close, he pulled the scraps from the pocket of his stained breeches. He found strength in their frayed words. Beneath the flickering light, he recited the articles over and over, his voice little more than a breathy whisper.

In an attempt to ease the burden on the overcrowded foster care system–England’s throwaway children–the London Times posted a series of articles featuring orphans from across the city. Every few weeks, both the honored child, and the orphanage they sheltered at, would receive well-meaning couples and well-to-do philanthropists looking to adopt. Though Whitcomb had hosted many such visitors over the past year since the articles began circulation, Rupert had yet to be selected. He still held out hope his time would come. It had happened to others, so why not to him? Warmed by the thought, he clutched his stained treasures in shaky hands as the night wore down, and he as well.

With a wide yawn, he folded the papers with reverential care and returned them to his pocket just as his heavy-lidded eyes threatened to close. Resolved to sleep at last, the drumming rhythm of the rain on the roof slowing to a gentle pitter-patter, he curled up beneath his blanket and gave in to his tiredness. And just as the gentle tingles of sleep lapped at the edge of his consciousness, he remembered the lantern.

Stifling an irritated groan, he forced himself from beneath his covers. On his feet, his legs uncooperative, he reached for the lantern. As he grabbed it, he spotted a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye.

Rupert groaned. One of the other boys must have caught him with the lamp and was sneaking off to inform Dobbs. He spun around to stop the boy, no longer willing to accept the consequences he so casually dismissed just moments earlier.

Thoughts of punishment, however, became the least of his concerns. It wasn’t an orphan lurking in the dark, but something else; something unexpected.

A shadowy figure peered at him. Without a sound, it moved forward amidst a swelling wash of obsidian. The room became dimmer by degrees as the pulsing blackness devoured the weak glow of the lantern. Before the darkness swallowed everything, Rupert caught a glimpse of its source.

Inside the inky cloud stood a tall man dressed in immaculate finery: flared black pants with calf-high leather boots, a black vest with matching jacket finished off by a regal top hat. However, it wasn’t the clothes that caught Rupert’s attention, but the pale grinning face.

The man’s features were sharp, almost hawk-like. The long mane of silvery hair that flowed from beneath the hat, and splayed across his shoulders, offset his hairless, youthful face. His narrow eyes, their color a malevolent red, burned deep inside their sockets, visible just below the rounded brim. Thin lips curled into a grin, revealing elongated eyeteeth whose sharp points glistened in the unnatural darkness.

The man took another step forward and the light dimmed a bit more, stealing the vestiges of Rupert’s courage. He opened his mouth to scream. The man raised a bony finger to his lips and gestured for silence. Much to his surprise, and even more to his dismay, Rupert was compelled to comply. His scream died a silent death in his throat. He tried once more to cry out, but found his voice would not obey. His stomach twisted into a hard knot of despair.

The dark man laughed, like a choir of devils loosed from the depths of Hell. Rupert prayed the sound would wake the other orphans, but the man’s voice seemed to reach only his ears. His heart rumbled as he watched the stranger came even closer, his gait graceful, refined; threatening. More afraid than he ever remembered, a feat unto itself, Rupert darted for the door. The intruder simply smiled.

“Sit,” the man’s voice flowed from his pale lips like velvet. “Be calm.” Once more, his words drifted through the air like feathers, brushing Rupert’s ears alone.

He did as he was told and dropped onto his bedding without hesitation. An overwhelming sense of serenity washed over him, and for the first time in his life he found himself unafraid. It was a strange yet delightful feeling, yet some inner voice screamed at him to defy the order, to keep running. Rupert sat in silence, the voice fading. He stared up at the approaching stranger and awaited his next utterance. He did not have long to wait.

“A fellow creature of the night, how fortuitous is this?” The man’s smile widened. “We have crossed paths at a most opportune time.”

Rupert nodded, a model of unflinching agreement despite the strangeness of it all.

The dark man chuckled as if he had expected no less, before turning serious again. “I’m sorry I cannot be more polite and offer you my name, but these are trying times and one can never be too careful.” He bowed deep, his hand resting on the brim of his hat to keep it steady on his head. All the while, his ruby gaze remained locked on Rupert. “We are, however, well met, my young friend.”

Again, Rupert nodded, unable to do anything else.

“But enough with such mundane pleasantries, I’m in a bit of a rush this fine morning.” The man moved alongside Rupert and placed a waxen hand upon his shoulder. The grip, like a steel vise, belied the delicate appearance of the long, unblemished fingers. “Please, turn your head to the left.”

Rupert did as he was asked and the intruder pulled back the collar of his dirty nightshirt. A moment later, Rupert felt a sudden, sharp pain at the base of his neck as the dark man bit down. His skin burned with searing agony. Rupert’s thoughts cleared, his fear screaming back, but he was unable to move. He could do nothing to stop the assault.

He endured the torment in forced silence while the man gorged on his blood. Quiet slurps gave his efforts away. Rupert felt the oozing warmth as it was drawn from the artery in his neck, the dull throb of the suction. His strength waned with every morbid gulp. Sight became blurry and he felt faint. Then, just when he believed he could stand it no longer, the dark man pulled away with a satisfied sigh. He turned Rupert’s head about, their faces aligning.

Rupert saw his attacker in the fluttering lamplight, lips red with blood. That was all it took. Rupert’s vision narrowed, his thoughts slipping into in a murky quagmire. His eyes rolled back into his head and the world went black.

Today I welcome author William Conde to The Dark Fantastic. Here he is discussing every writer’s fear: Blank Page Syndrome. Take it away, William.

When the illustrious Mr. Marquitz asked me to write a blog entry for him, my initial glee at the idea of doing something fun gave way to an old and familiar foe. Those of us who write may well know this enemy at the gates, this albatross dangling about the necks of we compositional ancient mariners. To some degree I confess I procrastinated what I am doing right now, right this moment–in my chronological perspective, of course–which is to say, composing this entry.

Yes, the insidious enemy is indeed that one which all of us must encounter if we write enough, and that is the Blank Page Syndrome. Once upon a time, surfaces only became canvases for tales if we sat down and made them so–from hides, from reeds, and so on. Writing was a luxury, something carefully planned and frequently preserved. Slates were used to take notes, but not to record legends. True tales needed inscriptions, paints, more permanent legacy-leavers.

And then those Germans of yore invited the printing press, and the whole world became a place for the abundant dissemination of text. The world exploded in words! Where once villages had heralds to share news, pamphlets and newspapers became a denser, less laryngitis-ridden means of getting the news out, of letting the consumer pore over it, and indeed, of making it possible for anybody to preserve a bit of history in the making.

Not too long ago, though leaps and bounds past the news, composing even digital text was a chore, utilizing screens in unsavory background colors, with primitive formatting options that could nonetheless make ancient processors groan and wheeze. Writing again felt like something one only did with a purpose in mind, in part because going back and changing it later could be a migraine-inducing task.

But now, with our quad-core processors and solid-state hard drives and the power of the Internet a mere pocket-reach away, blank pages are everywhere. Hold Ctrl+N on your processor of choice, and watch as they multiply before your very eyes! They may even conquer your computer’s resources! (This may actually be a bad idea.)

It is not the proliferation of blank pages that creates Blank Page Syndrome, however; it is, in fact, the infinite possibility a blank page represents. If you’ve never experienced it, bring up a blank page, and think of all the things you could possibly place upon it. Really sit and contemplate that for a bit. Experiencing a bit of cosmic horror yet? No? Now think of all the time you have to actually put all of those things on pages, and how many you actually might. Still with us? Good. You’re doing it right.

To truly stand up to Blank Page Syndrome is the task of every writer. We cannot always write with a solid plan in our heads, with everything laid out before us, and the mere chore of putting it all to print awaiting execution, like a flagstone path we must meander down, one point at a time. Writer’s block often comes in the form of Blank Page Syndrome, even when pages are not well and truly blank–because there are so many things one could do, so many avenues one could explore, with a story in progress. It is like a fractal tree, reaching off and branching infinitely, though in most stories, we cannot walk both roads and remain one writer still. (Time-shenanigans stories may be an exception to this, but only somewhat.)

Tucked away in Blank Page Syndrome is similarly a token of fear–fear that we may not do justice to that with which we un-blank a page. “What if the story’s no good? What if I spend all that time on it and it and it’s still awful?” It is as though some part of us fears that giving a nefarious and omnipresent foe a sound defeat is somehow pointless if the defeat is not clean and expert. Were this a war of flesh and blood, would such qualms exist?

So it is that we come to how to truly face down Blank Page Syndrome–and that is to write. It doesn’t matter if what you write starts out terrible–that’s why we have editing! Though blank pages spring up everywhere in the digital age, so, too, has editing become much less toilsome than it would have been in the era of ink. Cut and paste that paragraph! Apply formatting with ease! Insert or overwrite, however you fancy! Justify and indent without getting your hands dirty!

Not sure how to overcome the inertia of not-writing? While this entry was never intended to become a plug, consider National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org). This quasi-annual exercise in literary abandon requires its participants to write like the wind, churning out 50,000 words in 30 days. Nobody has to read the results–though of course that’s still an option–meaning that the point of the exercise is to learn how to let the writing flow, to write even when nothing comes to mind, and to truly live a story in the making. I can attest that it’s done wonders for my typing speed, and has made me a much more capable vanquisher of blank pages.

Atop that, be sure to read! Just as a mechanic may learn something useful even while working on something that isn’t a car, any immersion in the world of literature helps prime the mind for active participation. Reading brings new ideas burbling up in the mind, helping authors-to-be contemplate tales they might someday write. Turns of phrase and understanding of structure can be borrowed and reused as framework, allowing authors to then revise and build upon what they’ve seen to make something entirely new.

Ultimately, though, the truest antidote to Blank Page Syndrome is what many would call optimism–but which is, truly, realism–in removing the “I can’ts” and replacing them with “I can.” Anyone can write! Not everyone can write well, right now, true, but anyone can write! In words attributed to a famous animator, “everybody has 10,000 bad drawings in them, which have to be gotten out before the good ones can really start.” The same is true of writing: nobody is born a talented writer, but in the process of practice and diligence, anybody can become a capable one. It simply requires sitting down and doing it!

Now, friends, I hope you’ll join me in tackling the worldwide issue that is Blank Page Syndrome. Each of us may only be one writer, but an army of writers can truly lay waste to an impressive force of whitespace. Let us plaster the world with prose! (You count, too, poets!) Let us show the world that no matter what Hollywood dumps on a screen somewhere, original ideas with fresh presentation are still out there!

Once that’s accomplished, we can sit back and watch editors’ heads explode as they try to decide what to do with all of it. What do those guys even do, anyway? Let’s find out, shall we?

Things are falling into place for Inheritance, the first part of the Heir to the Blood Throne duology*. Looks like it will be out as early as next week. Here’s the final cover.

What’s a vampire to do when he’s afraid of the dark and passes out at the sight of blood?

These are but two of the problems that face thirteen year old Rupert Bartholomew Cooke. After growing up in England’s Foster Care System, Rupert is at last adopted. Then what should be the happiest moment of his life turns into the most terrifying day imaginable. His adopter, the same man whose bite turned Rupert into a vampire, is none other than the infamous Jack the Ripper.

To make matters worse, Rupert is left to watch over Jack’s mansion, under which is buried a portal that leads to the Source of all magic. Untrained and coping with the stresses of his new and terrible existence, Rupert is forced to defend the Source against Jack’s enemies, the necromancer Mobius and his secret accomplice.

With his newfound friends, Lorelei the thrall, Alistair the diminutive werewolf, and Horatio the gruff housekeeper, Rupert must battle Mobius and preserve the fragile truce between the Vampire Nation and the Legions of the Dead; all without giving Jack a reason to kill him when he returns home.

*For readers aged 8 and up

(Cover design by J.M. Martin at Nine Worlds Media)

Today I welcome the lovely and talented Fiona Dodwell to The Dark Fantastic. She discusses her latest novel, The Shift. Take it away, Fiona.

The Monster Within

When I wrote my novel, The Shift, during the summer of 2012, I was surprised at the story that had taken shape before me. I have to admit, it is quite different from my previous novels. Of course it is a horror story –which, I hope, delivers a good scare- but there seemed to be a bigger monster lurking between the lines I had written. The monster that lives within us.

When Michael White, my central character, takes on a care job in a secluded and beautiful location, it isn’t long before he starts to believe there is something sinister going on. Scared not just by the eerie building in which he finds himself working, Michael also battles against the unusual behaviour from the clients he is paid to take care of. Is there more to them – and the care home – than meets the eye?

Baffled, and believing that he is being haunted, Michael begins a journey to find answers that leave him tormented and bewildered. Still, The Shift is more than a ghost story. What I found truly compelling about the story was the truth that seemed to make itself clear whilst I was writing: often, our biggest enemy, and our biggest monsters, live within our head.

Michael White has a lot of monsters. His loneliness, his long bout of unemployment, his depression, his recent divorce, all leave within him a darkness that evades his every day life. I am sure that anyone who has gone through a marriage break-up, or depression, can relate to the shadows that seem to dampen the colours of every-day life.

It is something that really marked itself in the story for me. The Shift is not only about the reality of every day shifts in a care home, it is also about the mental shift a person makes when they are battling against the demons within. Sometimes true horror isn’t built into the world around us – often, it is living with ourselves.

It wasn’t something planned, or intended, but I feel The Shift presents a psychological mirror of darkness as well as a supernatural one.

If you do read the story and want to let me know what you think, please pop over and leave a comment on my website: www.fionasfiction.wordpress.com

The Shift is available now as Ebook- paperback version goes on sale next week

Please visit the publishers website, Double Dragon: The Shift

AUTHOR BIO

Fiona Dodwell lives with her husband in Devon. She is passionate about horror in both film and literature, and has had three books published. The Banishing and Obsessed were released in 2011, and her third novel, published this week, is The Shift, which has been released with Double Dragon Publishing. She works part-time in health and social care, and has studied psychology, drama and theology.

It’s my great pleasure to welcome fellow author and friend, Karina Fabian to The Dark Fantastic as part of her Greater Treasures blog tour. Listen close while she runs through Vern’s (the dragon) Most Annoying Virgin Archetypes:

Vern’s Top Five Most Annoying Virgin Archetypes:

1.  The Blubberer:  It’s not the tears, it’s the snot.

2.  Manhunter:  Yes, virgins have actually tried to become my prey in hopes that some iron-clad knight on an overmuscled white charger would come to their rescue.

Sometimes, it’s Daddy’s idea.  Now, look:  I don’t mind being part of the scam, but if you want me to get poked at by some testosterone-pumped suitor, you’d better have a plan, a timetable, and a nice fat cow waiting for me after the nuptials.  And I don’t want to hear any whining, “Is he here yet?”

3.  Daddy’s “Little Princess”:  It’s amazing how many fathers spoiled their daughters when they were cute and curly-haired, but when the brats grow into teens with a sense of entitlement, they want me to take care of their problem.

4.  Joan D’Arc:  She’s in a class all by herself.  No one’s bossier than a woman on a mission from God—unless she’s also French.

4.  Dragon “Enthusiast”:  I run into more of these on the Mundane world, actually.  Ladies, regardless of whatever “sparkly vampire” fiction knock-off you’ve read, Faerie dragons androgynous.  Ie, sexless.  Seriously. Not. Interested.

Greater Treasures by Karina Fabian: Part of the DragonEye series of novels and stories.

Being a private detective in the border town of the Faerie and Mundane worlds isn’t easy, even for a dragon like Vern.   Still, finding the wayward brother of a teary damsel in distress shouldn’t have gotten so dangerous.  When his partner, Sister Grace, gets poisoned by a dart meant for him, Vern offers to find an artifact in exchange for a cure.  However, this is no ordinary trinket—with a little magic power, it could control all of mankind.  Can Vern find the artifact, and will he sacrifice the fate of two worlds for the life of his best friend?

Pick up a copy on Kindle or paperback, today!

Pages: 130

ISBN-13: 978-1484848296

ISBN-10: 1484848292

ASIN B00CEH934G