How to Destroy the Prince of Darkness (Moments of Oops, Aargh, and Possible Conversion)

Before we enter the latest saga, a quick heads up on the Allegories of the Tarot project. My gorgeous Moon teaser card is up there, and will be up here, just as soon as I can get the file to save. Me and tech, folks. It's like putting a chicken on roller skates. We've hit the $2250 mark, which is amazing. Thanks to everybody who's spread the word, donated, or simply encouraged us. It's been a hell of a ride, with more to go.

Anyway, returning to our previously scheduled programming, I present the following guide :

1) Climb onto crowded tube car for trip home after long,looooong, day. It works better if your nerves are already frayed. It makes the shrieking more effective.

2) Feel something with eight legs scuttle over your throat. It helps to be severely arachnaphobic for this part.

3) Bitch-slap yourself, hard enough that other passengers turn to stare at you. (Do NOT miss this step. It is crucial.)

4) Hold your hand out to your fellow passengers, with shaking fingers lightly smeared with ex-arachnid, and screech "SATAN!".

5) In the sudden, stunned silence that descends over the car, think about what you just said, and realise there is no conceivable way of explaining you meant spider, and you really aren't dangerous, and can the guy with the briefcase edging carefully away from you be any more obvious? Really?

6) Wait out the ride to the next stop in an ever-widening space, which is actually quite pleasant. Usually at this point you're wedged under someone else's armpit, with a baby stroller trying to climb your leg.

7) Watch about 80% of your fellow passengers dog-pile out of the carriage at the next station, and stand staring at you from the platform.

8) At this point you actually have a seat. (To be honest, you have most of the tube carriage to yourself.) Waving at the people who got off as the tube pulls out is an optional extra, but shouldn't be dismissed for the sheer enjoyment factor.

9) Spend the rest of the trip thinking the little bugger that started all the trouble has revived and is now zombie-spider, because it feels like you have legs all over your throat, even places it didn't touch. As a result, you end up frantically patting yourself every 8 seconds or so. The remaining passengers get off at the next stop.

10) Realise that this being London, there is a very good chance that someone in that carriage believes you really DID just kill Satan. At this point, it would help if you actually believed he existed, but hey. Slaying the Prince of Darkness got you a seat on the tube. You can't really top that.


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You can catch up with my fictional worlds on kindle at  Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk. So far, nobody has been attacked by any spiders in them, but we do have lots of violence, snark, magic, and strange events.

Character Interview : Jadah, from the Crescent series

Jadah was introduced to the world as the ill-fated younger cousin of Amber in WolfSong. Known for her sharp tongue and off-beat sense of humour, being dead hasn't stopped her following Amber and the squad around the Crescent and beyond.  

                                              *************************

Q: Thanks for agreeing to the interview. Tell us a bit about yourself?

A: You do know I'm dead, right? Life-challenged? I suppose you could call me an ex-hawk.

Q: The life-challenged thing has been mentioned, yes. What are the hawks? Can you give us some background?

A: Hawks are one of the three main races in the Crescent, the country I'm from. The other two are humans and the Clans - the werewolves. There are others, like the fey, but they tend to keep to themselves.

Q: There are exceptions, though? Brin, for instance.

A: The fey king, yah. He has a thing for Amber. I hope it passes soon, but I think he's well and truly smitten.

Q: You sound concerned. Is that a bad thing? I'd think Amber deserves a bit of happiness, to be honest.

A: He's an immortal royal who loves politics. Amber is a half-blood hawk who thinks with her sword first, and has all the tact of a drunken buffalo. There is no way this will end well, for either of them, and she knows it. Why do you think she left the Crescent so fast? Happiness would be nice, but I'm not sure Amber would know what to do with it.

Q: Why are there mixed squads on the borders and not the internal Crescent, where your squad is from?

A: The short answer is: because people can be bastards.

Q: A little more detail would be nice…

A: That entails a bit of a history lesson, then. Hawks were on the Crescent for a very long time. Then the wolf folk came, followed closely by humans. Best I can tell they were fleeing a war of some sort - you want Garliaan for the historical stuff - and they entered the Crescent as refugees.  The folk that settled on the borders mixed well and thoroughly with the hawks and the werewolves both. The ones that had a problem with the species difference headed for the interior, hoping to find their own place. The result is a bunch that don't play well with others, and there's a lot of resentment of the hawks because of certain laws. The little things, like mandatory education and women having the same status as men. There's a certain kind of person that doesn't like that.

Q: Wouldn't it be easier to just leave those communities alone?

A: Our country, our rules. And here's the thing: thoughts like that spread. It's like a disease, and it doesn't take much for them to catch hold. Even some hawks fall to it, and that is intolerable. Our job is to hold the Crescent safe, and you can't do that if you hate your charges.

Q: So the squads are the Crescent police?

A: More like a combination between your police and army. We ride the borders as well as internally, and if it comes to a war, we're the ones on the front lines. And most of your police don't use magic.

Q: None of our police use magic. They use technology and forensics.

A: You keep telling yourself that, if it makes you sleep better. We have science, and scientists. Magic and science are pretty compatible, when you use them the right way. Stating something doesn't exist because you don't believe in it makes no sense at all.

Q: But you have the Shrike cult, which doesn't believe in it either. They've caused a lot of trouble on the Crescent in the past.

A: There's a difference in not believing in something, and loathing it. And the Shrike cult is still causing trouble; that won't stop.

Q: How come you came back as ghost?

A: Because it was better than coming back as a garden slug? Because I needed a hobby? Pick one.

Q: In WolfSong, you said you were sent.

A: I was. Look, I can't go into too much detail about who runs the afterlife. But  I'm back for a reason, because if something isn't done, there won't be any more hawks. I can't stop geology, and you know what is going to happen to the Crescent. But I can help try to save my species, and to do that, I need to be with my squad. To be specific, I need to be with Amber.

Q: So whoever's in the charge of the afterlife wants to save the hawks? Does Amber know this?

A: Would you want the entire species camping out on your doorstep at once? There are some things my cousin doesn't need to know just yet. Confusing someone who likes to solve problems with a sharp blade is not a good thing.

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You can catch up with Jadah in WolfSong and Blood Moon Dance, both available on kindle at  Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk

                                                

New WolfSong cover, Blood Moon Dance goes live, & Allegories of the Tarot updates.

The new WolfSong cover is done, and I think it complements Blood Moon dance quite well. I'm liking this theme, and I already know what the Raven's cover will look like, so I may work on that a bit this long weekend.

You can grab your copy here on the Amazon.com site, and here from the UK site. NB - there are no changes to the book itself; this is purely a cover change, so don't panic.



Blood Moon Dance has gone live today. It clocked in at around 17.4K, so it's a nice little chunk of story - something to get your teeth into, but not over-long. Jadah seems to have developed a streak of snark a mile-long, and she uses it a lot. She's becoming one of my favourite characters to write. I have a great deal of fun with that ghost, and she kindly gave me a character interview that'll be posted over the next couple of days.

It's a re-working of the Little Red Riding Hood fable, Crescent style, which means that everything gets turned upside down, and inside out. As usual, lots of blood, gore, and sharp pointy objects abound.

You can grab your copy from the Amazon.com site here, or the UK version over here. This one comes with a  strong language and scenes of violence warning, which is pretty par for the course in Amber's world.

Seriously folks - these are not really grandma-friendly or kid friendly books. If you like horror and dark fantasy, you'll be fine. If you don't want characters saying anything stronger than "poot" when things go pear-shaped, you may be in for a shock. 

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With 30 days of fundraising left, Allegories of the Tarot is going strong. The goodies up for grabs on the Indiegogo page are really impressive, and there's a very special perk coming up. The kind that makes you go Oooh! Shiny! and stroke your p.c. screen in inappropriate ways (although that may just be me). 
Being invited to write for the anthology was the reason I ended up with Blood Moon Dance, so it's really, really cool to see it doing well and getting the support it already has. I can't wait to read the rest of those stories.

Cover Art Reveal & Give Away- Blood Moon Dance

Blood Moon Dance will be released next week. Here's a sneak peek at the cover art for you.

The WolfSong cover will be re-designed on a similar theme; although I love the old cover, I'd like to see if a new, simpler version has an impact. 

If you'd like an ARC copy of Blood Moon Dance, I have 10 e-book versions to give away - let me know in the comments. 

Blood Moon follows straight on from WolfSong, but can also be read as a stand alone; it features Amber and Jadah investigating a serial killer mystery in a village close to the border of the Crescent.

Strange Day of the Week - Moments of aargh!(again)

Anyone reading this blog regularly know that strange things tend to happen to me. Occasionally they involve pigeons. Every so often I have a day where so many moments of WTF occur, my brain shuts down trying to process it. For your reading pleasure, I present : Thursday. (Note - although weird stuff happened during the day, it was mainly job related, so not included. Although threatening to head-butt your PC screen gets you very disapproving looks from IT.)

Moment 1 :

Reaching the train station, looking down, and realising I'm wearing my new slippers. These aren't the type of slippers that can pass as shoes if you squint either; they have fluff. And ears. Go home to change into actual boots, and realise that I can now feel every stone, slimy puddle, and bit of nastiness that doubles as a London pavement, even in this little outpost of the city. The slippers are unsalvageable.

Moment 2 :

Get home from work, and can't get my key to turn in the front door. This door has been a pain since we moved into the flat; the wood swells and warps every time it rains and I've had a few moments of struggling to get it open. Choice: call a locksmith (mucho, mucho money would go winging it's way out of my bank account. I can see the wingbeats when I think about it) or call Mandy and Tim. Tim is a big lad - I'm five three by the skin of my teeth, and the top of my head doesn't quite reach his chest. Mandy send Tim thundering down the road to my place, and I spend the time waiting visualising what sort of superhero cape he'd wear.

Tim crosses the road, rolling his shoulders in anticipation; I need in that door. My bladder is singing Ave Maria, my feet hurt, and my Nando's is staring up at me. Either we get that key turned or the door is saying fare-thee-well to this world. Tim shoves the door a few times. He doesn't want to kick it in and turns sad, puppy dog eyes on me. Then he reaches through the letterbox, pulls the door in, and turns the key in one easy motion, opening the door. I feel remarkable stupid at this point in time. My bladder thinks he's a god.

Moment 3 :

I climb into bed at the end of a long day and hear a ping. Followed by a clunk. Then another ping. When I turn on the light and look under the bed, there are a couple of bolts lying on the floor. My bed base appears to be dismantling itself. As I watch, another washer answers the call of gravity and drops, missing my nose by an inch. The bolt that follows doesn't miss at all. At which point I utter a phrase that would have my mother reaching for the soap. I picture myself trying to fix it, and decide that if the bloody thing does collapse, it's not that far to the floor anyway. I put a plaster on my nose and get back into bed. Every couple of hours I wake up to a creak-ping-clunk noise, although the bed is still standing in the morning.

My theory? Thursday was the day this week that the Universe made itself some popcorn and settled in to watch me, while pointing and laughing. The Nando's was pretty good, though.

Blood Moon Dance - sneak peek

Blood Moon Dance is a short novella set in the WolfSong universe.  It follows the events in WolfSong, and concerns Amber and Jadah getting caught up in a little bit of murder and intrigue in a village on their way out of the Crescent. 

It should be up on Amazon over the next couple of weeks, but in the meantime, here's an excerpt to whet your appetite.

The usual caveats apply - things may change on the final edit, and strong language is definitely involved. The scene below is from the second chapter, where Amber gets to meet a family of werewolves. Tension and hi-jinks commence.

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“Welcome to my house, hawk,” Grandmother said. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Amber perched casually on the edge of a stool with her back against a wall. “You have a lovely home,” she said.

“Thank you. Although I regret that our hospitality has been somewhat lacking so far.”

“May I speak plainly?” Amber asked, and watched the woman’s eyes veil.

“You may.” The werewolf jerked her head at Kier, who stepped back out into the passage.

Amber leaned forward and folded her hands over the top of her knee. “I don’t harm children. I don’t kill unless it’s necessary, and I especially don’t kill people just because they’re afraid of me. But I’m guessing you knew that already.”

Grandmother said nothing.

“Are we doing with the tests?” Amber asked quietly. “You sent your lad to ask for aid, so you knew cursed well what I am. I’m not interested in a pissing match with an alpha.”

Grandmother blinked.

“So tell me, before we move onto other things, why you put a child with a bow that’s too big and heavy for her into your pantry, with her sire in a room I was about to walk through, and told her how big and bad and scary I am?” She felt her hair lift and stir and didn’t fight it. Some of the stories were true, and she was annoyed right now. Not truly angry, or there would have been blood on the floor right now, but she was hot and sweaty and tired, and she had no interest in proving herself here. She’d done her time on the battlefield.

Grandmother sighed. “There is a story that we heard, here on the edge of the Crescent. It tells of a hawk who slew her mate because he was infected with the wolf virus.” She watched Amber carefully. “Then there is a second story. It tells of a hawk who welcomed a wolf into her squad, and fought by his side when his own kind disowned him. And both these stories have been added to recently, and the bards have mentioned that the hawk now travels through the world.”

“The world is a great deal bigger than the Crescent,” Amber told her.  “And the average bard is so full of shit they squeak turning corners.”

The werewolf watched her with those half-closed eyes and waited. Amber sighed, and felt her hair subside.

“Why a spatula?” she asked.

“What?”

“Why a spatula? Sam was in a kitchen full of knives, heavy pots, and a bunch of other stuff. Why was he holding a spatula? Tell me, and I’ll tell you which version of the tale is true.”

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For a bit of background, although I've been working on the full-length follow-up to WolfSong, this little story was originally triggered by the anthology theme I was invited to submit to. (Check it out here on Indiegogo - we have funky videos and everything.) I ended up writing the first draft on my phone on the way to and from work (free word apps; gotta love 'em) and then of course, it ended up being way, waaaay too long. But I liked it, and it just kept going, so it's ended up hitting novella status instead of the 3K mark. I can live with that - and there are worse ways to spend the daily commute in London.

How to get stuck in your washing machine : A guide for the beginner

About thirty minutes before I was due to leave the house for a visit to Tim and Mandy (my guest stars from the day at the funfair a couple of posts back), I went to haul a load of washing out of the machine.
 I'd climbed out of the bath, thrown a long button down shirt on so's not to flash the guys working in the garage at the back, and realised that I needed to hang the stuff up otherwise it would reek by the time I got in.

To put things into perspective, there's a running joke about the washing machine at my house being possessed. It has moments, like trundling halfway across the kitchen floor during the spin cycle, or rocking gently from side to side, when I wonder if that's really a joke.

I got most of the load out. Stuck my hand in for last little bundle of socks and realised I couldn't pull it back out.

One of the buttons on my shirt sleeve was just the right size to fit into those funny little circles punched in the drum of the machine, and it was wedged very firmly in.

I wiggled. I waggled. I manually rotated the drum, which was a mistake. Fifteen minutes later I was lying on the floor, staring glumly at the ceiling with my cuff still attached firmly to the washing machine, and very happy that I hadn't actually dislocated my shoulder when the drum moved.   

Thankfully the shirt is loose-fitting, so at this point I gave up and wriggled out of it, then ended up squatting on the floor like a morose chimp plucking at the sleeve still stuck to the machine. Due to the layout of the kitchen, even duck-walking would have shown the mechanics a few things they don't normally see while working on a faulty battery, and army crawling would probably have given them the ultimate come-to-Jesus moment, so that was out.

I had to get the shirt out. Of course, since I was no longer attached to the bloody thing, it popped out without a problem, so I shrugged back into it, sulked back to my room, and texted Mandy to say I was running late due to an argument with the washing machine. (I have no idea what she said out loud when she saw that text, but I'm pretty sure she was giggling.)

The evening was great - Tim is the burger king, and I got devils food cake, and we watched Cockneys vs Zombies, which is one of the best giggles I've had in a while. I knocked over my first drink, quite an achievement since it was in a cup holder built into the arm of the chair I was in, and fell over my own two feet when I attempted the couch.

Then I got home, and part of the ceiling grew eight legs and dropped onto my shoulder. Being arachnaphobic, my first response was to punch my own shoulder repeatedly, so I now have a sore hand, a sore shoulder, and no clue where the Spawn of Satan actually went to.

I'm never bored. I'd like to try it sometime, preferably in a non-painful, spider-free environment.

Meet the fifth Horseman, Sniffles

It's been a long week. It started with a tech malfunction at work, where our internal computers went to the great big server in the sky until BT came out the following day and replaced the cable (it wasn't me this time, at least. IT guys said so) and continued with the tube hiccuping yesterday resulting in an hour and half journey into the office. 

Today was spent playing catch-up, and dealing with the Spreadsheet of Doom, and by the time I left I had low blood sugar from not eating and was feeling mildly homicidal.

I change onto the overland train at Walthamstow to get to my little village just outside of London proper, and at this time in the evening it's usually quiet. The sardine rush has ended, people are more relaxed, and you can even get a seat.

Tonight was, er, special. Tonight, I am convinced I had the lesser known 5th horseman of the apocalypse in the seat behind me.

Usually I write on the way in and out - I've got a great free little app on my phone, and I plug in my music, flick the screen on, and spend around thirty minutes happily jabbing at the on-screen keyboard. Tonight I was too mentally stunned to do much more than haul my kindle out and get stuck into the latest book (Annetta Ribken's The Fantasy. I love that woman's writing. Wish there was more of it.) and hope I wouldn't fall asleep on the train. Snoring in public gets humiliating, ya know?

Half a page in, the saddest noise in the world rises from the seat behind me.

"Ooooaaaahh."

Followed by one of the most horrifying sounds found on London transport:

*hack.hackhackhack.SNIFF.HACKSNIFF*

Then back to the zombie moment of the day.

"Oooooaaahoooo -*sniff* awk."

I found my earphones. Started off with The Killers.

Over the music, I could still hear it. 

*HACK*sniff* "OOOOaaaauggh!"

Moving the selection onto Queens of the Stone Age didn't help. The banshee wailing behind me grew louder. The guy standing against the door turned around. We looked at each and shrugged.

"AAAAOOOOOOOOawk." pause. *sniffsniff*

With five minutes to go I switched to Rammstein. That stuff is good for squalling babies and toddlers up to around 120 decibels.

"OOOOOOOAAAAAAOOOO. AWK. HACKHACKSNIFFHACK OOOOOOO!"

Any woman that can out-sniff, out-moan, and out-cough Rammstein deserves respect, and a very wide berth.

I lunged for the train door as soon as it opened and fled into open air.

Behind me, the wailing noise of the undercover horseman, the one that left before they got their big break, turned in the other direction and thankfully, started to wane.

"OOOOOaaaaaooooooaao!"

Thoughts for the week - equal marriage/relationship rights

1) If you are spending all of your time worrying about what consenting adults do in the bedroom, it says a great deal more about you and your private fantasies than the group you are fixated on. Get over it, or download better porn.

2) Marriage is a governmental institution. You change your name, bank accounts and legal documents for tax and information purposes. Weddings are conducted by churches. The arguments by elements of both groups against equal rights for everybody are remarkably similar to arguments posed against equal rights for people who had a darker skin tone several years ago. Hopefully in ten years time it will be considered as unacceptable as overt racism is today. 

3) BTW, church groups - you do realise you make a large percentage of your income overcharging people to hold weddings under your roof, right? You might want to think about the economic benefits you're currently trying to hit on the head with a shovel. There's a whole bunch of stuff in the bible conservatives keep waving around about not mixing fabrics, or eating certain things, or not being tattooed, and not coveting spouses or material goods - let me know how all of that's working out for you. The Sodom and Gomorrah argument falls flat on its face when you read that properly and realise that issue wasn't against gay sex, it was against the rules of hospitality. (Also, I have a few issues with someone happily offering over his daughters to get raped instead. Not exactly a fan, here.)

4) The whole unnatural argument doesn't work if you wear clothes, cook your food, and don't live in either a cave or a tree. None of those are exactly natural for a bipedal mammal. Same sex intercourse, on the other hand, occurs across a variety of species.

5) If you equate homosexuality with child abuse, see point one. Also, get a good psychiatrist.

6) If you use a position of power or a platform to abuse people because of their sexual orientation, skin colour, or religious beliefs, you are a bully. You are also seeking attention in the form of headlines and you-tube clips. Media fame is fleeting, and to keep its attention you have to come up with more and more outrageous, inflammatory statements. When the flames die down, you are left in cold ashes and bitterness, and all the hurt you caused is left for future generations to point at in horror. What you do will be taught in history books as an example of hate and misery, and at the end of it you will still be that sad, lonely little person who bullied someone else to hide their personal shame and misery.

7) If you want to change the world, stop hating. Stop fearing those different to you. We don 't hold parades for people who caused lasting harm fifty years after they've left this world. We remember the words and the actions of people who inspired us, those that stood up in the face of injustice and told it "This has to stop." Courage is found in people who stand up. Cowardice is usually found in fear of change, fear of difference. Which one do you want to be remembered for?

Shooting Tigers, and other Things to Do at A Funfair

Since my birthday next week hits in the middle of the work-day, today was declared my official "Not Birthday." Stacey and I met up with friends, Tim and Mandy, and we hit the spring fair on in town this weekend. (It may be the shortest fair visit in history, but we'll get to that shortly).

It started innocently enough. We wandered in, Mandy and I both bouncing around like puppies. I love fairs, mainly because I'm an adrenaline junkie. Fast rides are designed for people like me, and they push all my happy buttons.

The first stall we stopped was the shooting stall. Tim showed off with the rifle, and won a stuffed teddy, promptly allocated to the cat. The stall also had crossbows, and a woman running the stall who may be suicidal; she had no compunction about stepping out in front of three of us (myself, Tim and Stacey) all happily plugging away at the targets.

Since Stacey came within about a split second of shooting Suicidal Stall Lady in the butt at least once, this was not a good thing.

I needed help pulling the string back. I have no idea what the pound pull on those things were, but I eventually swopped withTim since his was easier. Being a Walking Dead fan, I kept thinking we needed a squirrel. Between that, Suicidal Stall Lady, and the variety of stuffed animals above and in between the targets, my aim was terrifying. I shot a stuffed tiger. Twice. In the same ear. I never came close to hitting the bulls eye.

Then we ended up at the tilting cups, which marked the beginning of the end.

Tim and Mandy shared a car, and Stacey and I the one just in front. It started off sweetly enough. Tim, who tops out at around 6ft7" squished Mandy into the corner on the first turn.
Our car swung genteelly around the loop on a gale of laughter, and I turned around to find a kid of about ten tugging on the back of it to spin it again. 

Turned out, the kid (obviously part of the ride team) and the older guy running it, ran from car to car and spun each of them as hard as they could for the entire ride. I don't think I've ever seen that before.

The ride lasted a decent amount of time, and I was relaxing nicely. Yes, high speeds and whirly motions relax me. No idea why, but I just find it soothing. About half way into the ride, we realised that the laughter and delight from the car behind us had dried up. On a swing around, we caught a glimpse of Tim and Mandy, slightly green around the edges, car handle clutched in a four-handed death grip. As our cup tilted away again, I saw the ride guy, grinning his head off, tugging on the back of their car.

"Oh, shame," Stacey said.
Behind us, Tim made a noise that sounded remarkably like a baby goat saying fare-thee-well to its mommy, and Mandy whimpered.
"That's not good," I said back.
Tim screamed like a little girl. 

At some point one of the ride guys exerted himself a little too much, and farted. We spent the next rotation trying not to breath, and laughing so hard we were crying.

Shortly afterwards, Stacey and I tumbled out of the car and off the platform, still giggling. After a few minutes, the sorriest looking pair of fun-fair zombies I've ever seen lurched off behind us. 
They were green. They walked very slowly, and very carefully, and went straight past us, picked their way delicately past the guy ropes of the nearest stall and found themselves on a grassy verge.
At which point they both promptly bowed in unison at the waist, and rendered their tribute unto the God of Nausea. Repeatedly. 

After several tributes, they came shambling back to us. I may have seen sorrier sights, but not by much, and it usually involved a wet cat. And yes, I have to confess that I laughed like hell. (Sorry, guys. I still love you.)

Apart from something called a Disco Tunnel (which was very strange, and resulted in me face-planting almost immediately in the first of two gigantic rotating barrels, and spending the rest of the ride on my back, practising pin-up girl poses against the side), that was the end of our fun-fair outing.

It was the shortest time I think I've ever spent in one. It was also one of the most entertaining.

I brought my two (still whimpering) friends back to my place and fed them burgers, and we're heading out to their spot for my birthday dinner. 

I haven't laughed so much in a long, long time - which proves that even short events are great when you have great people around you.

Allegories of the Tarot - New Project on Indiegogo

Last week I got an invite to submit to an anthology by the editor, the amazing Annetta Ribken. (If you write, and you need an editor, go have a look at that link. If you don't, check it out anyway; the lady is all kinds of awesome, and the excerpt of Athena's Promise, Annetta's book, is worth the visit alone.) Now Annetta and I have tortured each other on Facebook for several months; we share a similar warped sense of humour, and it's been a blast, so when the invite came through I said YAY as fast as my fingers could type. 

Then I did a happy dance, and then I checked out the other authors contributing and made a very loud squeaky noise. This bunch are good, folks. As in pure talent and awesomeness - it's going to be one hell of a ride.

The concept really appeals on every level - each author has a card from the major arcana of the tarot assigned to them, and we each write a story associated with this. It looks like we have just about every genre in the mix, from romance to fantasy to horror, and the main requirements are a quality read. Even better, the plan is for both a print version and an e-book, so nobody gets left out. 

Here's the line-up for you:

The Fool-- Peter Giglio
The Magician--Lon Prater
The High Priestess--Billie Sue Mosiman
The Empress--Spike Marlowe
The Emperor--Kris Austen Radcliffe
The Hierophant--Jessica McHugh
The Lovers--Eden Baylee
The Chariot--Annetta Ribken
Strength--Rochelle Maya Callen
The Hermit--Red Tash
The Wheel of Fortune--Joseph Paul Haines
Justice--Catie Rhodes
The Hanged Man--Matthew Bryan
Death--Timothy Smith
Temperance--Anne Chaconas
The Devil--Patti Larsen
The Tower--Jordan L. Hawk
The Star--Samantha Henderson
The Moon--Janet Sked (ME!)
The Sun--Tristan J. Tarwater
Judgment--Jennifer Wingard
The World--Laura Eno

Annetta has gone all out and put the project up on Indiegogo to raise funds for the production of the book, with awesome contributors perks, including an edit package from Annetta for your manuscript. As of writing this, we're up to $890 already - a massive thanks to everyone who's contributed, or just passed on the word. We're all getting clobbered by the economy - every time I check my bank balance, it giggles weakly and flips me the bird - but spreading the word will help us so much.

As a side-effect of the invite, I've got a novella set in the WolfSong world almost ready for publishing (it was intended for the anthology, but that world writes long. Between Amber and Jadah, I should have known better than to hope for a 3K short.) and just going through the final touches and edits. 

I'm also working on a short (please, please, let this be a short) that I think will fit in nicely to the anthology. It's completely out of my comfort zone, which is a good thing; last time somebody did this to me I ended up trying the comedy style that ended up as the Blue Moon Detectives, so it can only be good.

A quick look at Oestre/Easter/Happy Chocolate Day

Okay, technically speaking, the pagan celebration of Oestre (also known as Ostara/Eostre) happened a little over a week ago, on the spring equinox. If you're in the Northern hemisphere, the whole spring thing was probably easy to miss, since it may have happened according to our calendars, but the weather is sulking. I'm pretty sure I got snowed on that day, as well.

It's already pretty well known that most of the Christian calendar was linked early onto Pagan festivals and celebrations. This was pretty smart marketing by the early Church, who found that people might listen to the teachings (especially if the alternative was becoming a crispy critter or repeated cold water dunkings) but, they were still pretty much into the celebratory side of paganism. It was a lot easier to declare certain days Christian, since banning them just led to the early version of illegal street parties, and have people sitting in church instead of being out in the fields and streets having a good time.

When it came to Oestre, or Easter, it really was a pretty good time. There's a reason for all the bunnies and eggs floating around right now; the festival is a celebration of life and fertility, and both rabbits (which are also linked to the moon traditionally, and therefore a symbol of the goddess) and eggs are pretty blatant symbols of both. There were a lot of new babies pitching up nine months down the line after this festival.

Pagan Oestre rituals celebrate life, the renewal of the earth, and a general love of games and benign mischief - like Easter egg hunts. Very early rituals included leaving painted eggs on graves as a symbol of renewal and the cycle of life.

Where did the chocolate come in? According to the Cadbury's site these were first made in Europe in the early 19th century. (Just so you know, that link tortures chocolate lovers by stating the first eggs were solid chocolate. Any one who remembers the horror of discovering those shells were hollow as a child will be shaking their fist at their PC screen.) In the 17th and 18th century, kids were getting egg shaped toys. Personally, I'm pretty happy with the chocolate replacement.

Moments of Aargh (part 782) or How to Kill a Mouse (PC, go away PETA))

I haven't had a serious "tech hates me" moment for a while. This week has made up for it in a serious of short, sharp electro-static shocks on everything. 

And by everything, I mean EVERYTHING.

It's a standing joke on our team that I can't touch my manager's desk (laminate; no metal surfaces) without having my fingertips fried, but this week stepped it up a notch.

So far, the tally is:

Elevator door x 1
iphone x 1
PC Monitor x 2
Kitchen sink tap x 5 (I now tap the counter before I touch the nozzle of doom in the office kitchen)
Lavatory flush handle x 1 (Seriously, universe? That one wasn't funny)
Desk surface x 2
Colleagues x 2
Mouse x 1. But that was the really impressive one.

I came back from lunch, sat down, and grabbed my mouse - and promptly yelped loud enough to have heads turning from across the office. The team mate standing next to me had wide eyes, she'd heard the discharge. And my mouse was dead.

I unplugged it. Plugged it in again. No little red light. No movement on screen.

Me: *Assorted naughty words*
Team mate: Are you serious? You just electrocuted your mouse? (Technically, the mouse tried to electrocute me. Karma hurts like that.)

Eventually I found an unused port and tried the mouse on that side, and it worked. The port it was plugged into initially appears to have gone the way of the dodo. 

I'm not sure if it's more or less impressive that a static shock fried the port itself, and left the mouse working. Judging by the looks on the IT guys faces, (weary resignation from the ones that know my effect on tech, stunned horror on the new boy who hasn't had to deal with any Janet-caused issues yet) I'm going for more.**

Twenty minutes later, my team mate had his PC freeze on him. I wiggled my fingers at his screen and said: "Work. Or I'll touch you." 
At which point it promptly started the page scrolling once more. Since I was kidding around, and didn't actually expect the Voice Of Doom to work, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. (Team mate laughed so hard he nearly choked.)
This does, however, bear out my theory that yes, tech is sentient. And it bloody hates me.

**I've also been banned from touching anything expensive and electrical, and threatened with Dire Consequences if I touch personal electronics. At this point, I can't blame them. 

Once upon a Time (Rant Alert - on rape)

Once upon a time, a man wearing an expensive watch, drove his fancy car into town and bought himself a fine meal. In the restaurant, his expensive watch and tailored clothing caught the attention of another man, who followed him back to his home. The other man was jealous, and angry, and hated the man for having money and wealth and showing it off, and resolved to teach the rich man a lesson. So he broke into the rich man's home while he slept, stole his watch and clothes, beat him, and drove off in his car.

When the rich man went to the police, they asked him why he'd worn the clothes and the watch, and why he'd driven his car, and eaten his meal in front of his attacker.

In court, the attacker wept. 

"I couldn't help it," he said. "He was dressed like he wanted me to do it. He's rich. Everyone knows they want it, no matter what they say."

And the judge and the jury looked at the rich man, who now walked with a cane because of his beating, and hardly slept at all because the sound of the wind scuttling over his window made him fearful,  and shook their heads in disapproval. 
The media made much of the fact that he'd worn a fancy suit, and a fancy watch, and that the man who attacked him was now in trouble because the rich man had provoked him.

When the not guilty verdict came in, the attacker turned triumphantly in court and smiled at the rich man, and he limped alone out of the court room, knowing that the next time he heard scuttling over his window, his attacker would be in his home again.

He was right.


                                                  ******************************
That little story doesn't make much sense, does it? In our world, if you beat and steal from someone and say you did because they were rich, because you couldn't help it, the judge and jury will probably slam you into prison so fast you'll bounce. At the very least, you'll end up with court mandated psych sessions along with your sentence.

How about this one:

Once upon a time, a woman got dressed up and went into town and went dancing. She felt pretty, and her dress was nice, and she had a lovely time. In the club, her laughter and dancing and pretty blue dress  caught the attention of a man, who followed her back to her home. The man was jealous, and angry, and hated the woman for having the confidence to go out by herself, to look pretty and show it off, and resolved to teach the woman a lesson. So he broke into the woman's home while she slept, ripped up the pretty blue dress, beat her, raped her, and left.

When the woman went to the police, they asked her why she'd worn those clothes and how much make-up she'd had on, and why she'd danced and laughed front of her attacker.

In court, the attacker wept. 

"I couldn't help it," he said. "She was dressed like she wanted me to do it. She's a woman. Everyone knows they want it, no matter what they say."

And the judge and the jury looked at the woman, who now walked with a cane because of her beating, and hardly slept at all because the sound of the wind scuttling over her window made her fearful,  and shook their heads in disapproval. 

The media made much of the fact that she'd worn a pretty dress and make-up, and danced alone, and that the man who attacked her was now in trouble because the woman had provoked him.

When the not guilty verdict came in, the attacker turned triumphantly in court and smiled at the woman, and she limped alone out of the court room, knowing that the next time she heard scuttling over her window, her attacker would be in her home again.

She was right.

                                                        **************************
Think I'm exaggerating? Have a look at the media coverage of the Steubenville rape. A lot of the mainstream media made much of the fact that two "promising young men had their lives destroyed," a phrase which hopefully made a number of people throw up. 

Have a look at the media coverage on almost any rape case. Unless the victim is left fighting for his or her life, the victim is inevitably put on trial. (yes, male rape victims happen. This isn't about sex, something the media and defence lawyers choose to ignore.)

I've never heard of burglary victims having to defend against character assassination on the witness stand. 

I've never seen coverage of a vehicle hi-jacking explaining just why the owner chose to drive that oh-so-sexy mint-green BMW.

"I couldn't help myself" and "They asked for it" is not an excuse in any other crime.

Teaching women that they are responsible for attacks on them is a double-insult; it implies that women are stupid and irresponsible, the ultimate evil that renders "good men" insane - and it reduces men to the level of rabid jackals. 

Bull shit.

Rape is about power. The only thing it has in common with sex and sexual attraction are the body parts involved. I(t's been used as a weapon both domestically and in war for centuries, and if anyone thinks a male soldier is saved from rape because of his gender, I've got a lovely little palace in London I could sell you.)

We need to educate both men and women. Men to understand that when someone says "She asked for it," they've just been insulted on every level. They've been told that because they are male they are unable to control themselves, they are unable to say no, and they are easily manipulated. They've just been reduced to walking, talking life-support systems for an erect penis with no conscience.

Women need to understand that they are not responsible for someone else's actions. They need to be told that the automatic response to penetration is lubrication, and that this is something they have no control over, because it's a bodily function, kinda like breathing. They need to know they have a right to exist and live side by side with the males of the species without being blamed for have ovaries and a pair of breasts. They need to know that most men are not rape-happy cavemen, waiting for the chance to pounce. 

Both men and women need to learn that neither gender is dirty, or shameful, or looking to hurt you, but when someone is raped it hurts all of us. It reduces us to throwing stones at a victim, or picking sides when there is no side to be picked.

A crime was committed. Making the victim pay is senseless.