Month: July 2024

Conversations

In conversation with… Ricky Ray

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We had the pleasure of coming across Fly on The Wall Press, a pioneering force based in Manchester, during a book fair, and we found their ethos particularly intriguing and innovative. In fact, they curates and publishes unparalleled political fiction, evocative poetry, and genre-defying anthologies addressing urgent global concerns, and they do their job so well that they won Small Press of the Year, British Book Award 2024 (North).
One of their authors, Ricky Ray, winner of the 2023 Aryamati Poetry Prize (collection), agreed to answer some questions about his latest book, The Soul We Share.

Hi Ricky! Pleasure to have you here! Let’s start with your book. What is it about?

In visceral, vulnerable poetry, I soften the ache of living in a disabled body with the joy of ‘being lived’ by the places I call home. As you accompany me and my soul dog, Addie, through scenic woodlands, cities and swamps, the lines between humans, animals and nature begin to blur and move in concert. We encounter an existence lived not ‘upon / but as one’ with the Earth — a union of man, dog and
planet, which reveals that soul isn’t merely an energetic trace we possess: it’s an animacy deeply shared.

Why should a reader pick your book instead of someone else?

I think Maura says it best: “These moving, well-made poems follow the author’s meditative engagement with a beloved companion dog but also with creatures of other kinds and most particularly with the earth itself. These are poems of true immersion in the belief of the earth as Gaia, whilst at the same time making known and felt the author’s painful and disabling condition, his everyday life and his hopes for the future. Unlike any other collection I have come across, these poems are remarkable in their success in showing the reader both a deeply personal and a universal story.”
—Dr. Maura Dooley, citation for the Aryamati Prize

Who is Ricky Ray?

Ricky Ray is a poet, essayist and eco-mystic who lives with his wife and the ghost of his old brown dog in the old green hills of New England. He is the author of four books of poetry, including The Soul We Share, winner of The Aryamati Prize, and The Sound of the Earth Singing to Herself, a finalist for The Laurel Prize. He was educated at Columbia University and the Bennington Writing Seminars, and has received the Liam Rector fellowship and the Zoeglossia fellowship. He lectures on poetry, animism and integral ecology, and he serves on the advisory board of the Program for the Evolution of Spirituality at Harvard.

Why choose poetry over fiction?

I’m not sure one ever makes such a choice. Perhaps I’m wrong. We do, on occasion, create and undergo the experience of choice, while essentially being driven by processes and compulsions we can’t detect or fathom. The tug of poetry or the tug of story can simply be the tendency of one’s character, or the way one’s being flows, given the landscape at hand.
In any case, it wasn’t — and isn’t — a choice for me, for many reasons. I remember a fictionist in my MFA program (which I undertook after being a poet for 20 years), who said she felt like poetry was an entirely different art, a different language, by which she meant it wasn’t something she could write. That’s how fiction feels for me. Invented character, plot, dialogue, dramatic tension, the chords of it sustained for
hundreds of pages — my god, I don’t have the faintest clue. Maybe one day I’ll find myself writing fiction — I’d welcome the occurrence — but the merest semblance of ability or inclination hasn’t shown itself yet.
I was strictly a poet for a long time — decades. Eventually I learned the poetry of non-fiction, but both poetry and non-fiction, inasmuch as they actually are distinct modes, seem to mutually draw from the energy and being of the immanent world, and by and large to attend there. They do, like fiction, draw from imagination, yes, and dwell in the dark of inwardly manifested possibilities, and walk across the page as living mystery, but they seem to me to keep the felt, physical, outer soul in focus, even while
attending to the inner. That’s how poetic perception, sensation and participation in creation works for me.
Fiction seems to excel at invention, at gathering the whole glowing tapestry of knowledge and sensation into the mind, and reweaving it into the glorious world of the possible, the worlds beneath the world, and to walk so deeply there that the storied world steps out of imagination and begins to take up residence in the flesh, to live through the actions of those fuelled by the stories, thereby integrating into our little corner of the cosmos. It’s another kind of magic, and it’s marvelous.
Then again, I wonder about our insistence on genre. There’s narrative poetry. Lyric essay. Poetic autobiographic fiction. Song in all of them and all of them in song. Are they siblings or species? Are they faces of the invisible continuity to which we all belong? I think, now, of someone who feels the poetry of the day in their bones, and witnesses some phenomenal event that simply must be relayed, but relayed with embellishment, the fictionalisation of the poetic moment of memoir making it that much more alluring and special. And I wish I could hear that story, all day long.

Do you consider yourself a poet or a writer? And why so?

Both. The word poetry has Greek roots that roughly translate to “make” or “create.” A poet is a maker. To me, poetry is therefore also a condition of being. A poetry that begins long before words, but which uses words to deepen and further the soul. I consider Mother Earth to be a maker, a poetic being, a trait she inherited from her mother, Grandmother Universe, and a trait she confers upon us as movements within
her. I don’t compose poetry alone. We compose it together. Or more accurately, I participate in their poetries with both my life and my lines. This could also mean that a fiction writer — a highly skilled maker — is a poet, too. A poet who happens to make stories. While other poets make chairs, or clothes, or feelings.
I’m also a writer because I utilise the act of writing in my creative practices. Nowadays we call anyone who publishes a piece or a book a writer, but many such people never actually write a word. They type it, they speak it into devices, they dictate to others who type, but they shun the pen. They’re beautiful storytellers, beautiful poets, but writers? Let’s see. The word write comes from a lineage of understanding that means to score, to scratch, to tear, to leave a mark. If no mark is left, if nothing is scratched or torn, is it writing? On the other hand, if a screen is marked, if the mind is marked and scratched by words, and if the itch of that scratch leads to the words being shared, even if only by the tongue, isn’t that a kind of writing, too?

What is the most challenging part of your work/writing process?

Trying to listen to the music in the air. To put my ear to the lips of the Earth and hear her. To feel the rhythms in my blood, the trees, the land, and understand the integration of my own heartbeat in their measures. To let the warmths and shivers that pass between all forms of being play across the strings of my senses without turning away. To let them sink in. Become me. Offer a song to my voice. To weave all this into quickly dissolving snatches of feeling and hold the feelings present long enough to transmute them into words.

What’s more important for you: form or content?

If there’s a form, is there not content? If there’s content, doesn’t it have a form? I think we’re talking about two ways of experiencing the same presence. A difference in the way we look. A difference in how and where perception lands. Is it body or soul or the realisation that both are both which entices lover to lover at night?
In practical terms, I think it’s a difference in approach, which is largely a matter of disposition. When we climb a mountain, do we stick to the trail, bushwhack, or a little of both? Is the path we take, marked or not, understood to be as much a path as any other in a given climb? When we regard a statue or painting, do we focus on the overall transmission of feeling, then admire the details, or start with the curves and
colours and lines, then open up to the full transmission of what the composition conveys?
Some poets naturally attend to shape first, then discover what that shape contains. Others are drawn to the movement of the words, and discover what shape they make. Many poets do both, depending on the orientation of their intuition at the start. In either case, once you’re in the thick of composition, I find the light flickers back and forth hundreds of minute, barely perceptible times.

What is, in your opinion, the biggest myth about poetry?

That there are hidden meanings and they must be discerned in order for the poem to be understood. And, equally important, that there are no more meanings and a poem has been fully apprehended.
Many of my poems are acts of symbolism as much as they’re transmutations of feeling, but in the sense that they are felt at all, then they have been understood. That understanding may not register in the mind. It may be akin to the body’s awareness that there is a corner ahead, and an alleyway down that corner, but even so, the poem has been given space to reside, and from that space the ability to grow.

do you think poetry is still as relevant in the 21st century as it was, for example, in the 19th century?

I can hardly fathom a measurement of relevance when applied to an ancient and worldwide phenomenon that ultimately transcends cultures and species. I’m a poet of hearing, of feeling. Dogs are magnificent poets of smell. But my core response is that I believe song is the bedrock of what we typically call poetry.
Not just lyrics, but the feelings that create the lyrics, that create the music, that create the connections we feel under song’s spell. Poetry is at work in all of it, and thus, its relevance is as important and ever-present as the desire to feel, to speak, to sing — to be felt, heard, received.

What is the approach to poetry for contemporary readers? Reading poetry can be more challenging than approaching the latest commercial paperback, but it seems like poetry still has a wide grip. What are your thoughts about it?

I think it’s less a matter of being more challenging than a matter of getting used to a different type of energy. A matter of exercising a relatively unused muscle. The mind works through pattern, familiarity and repetition, just as the body does. Both are congregations of muscle working and growing, evolving and devolving in concert. The way into the poetry is the way into any interest: look, listen, feel, and let the arrow of one’s attention land. Keep attending. Each repetition will lead to a familiarity, a kind of kinship between reader and arrangement of words. And with enough familiarity —once the sense of kinship comes to mind as much as the interest did — then we enter the valley of care. I wouldn’t say poetry is by nature challenging. There are very straightforward, brilliant poets. But it may be strange. New. A way into the movement could be reading the lyrics of one’s favourite songs. Or finding the sentences in
one’s favorite prose that seem to elevate above the others and practically hover on the page. Then, try reading poems in the digital space and in books. And eventually, try feeling the unspoken poems in the air. My wife says it’s like looking at a painting. Only a little may get through. But that little is the beginning of everything. The painting is different every time we approach it. We are different constellations of human in each approach. There are glances that reveal next to nothing, and glances that reveal a feeling so sizzling we part ways transformed. Glances that leave us lonely. Glances that remind us we cannot be alone — although we can feel alone — for we share this planet’s soul.

Even by just reading his words, one is mesmerised by the lyricism that comes across them, and even more intrigued to grab his latest work and immerse themselves in its magic. Grab your copy here and let us know what have been your thought about it.

self-published

The Arrival

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A Fast-Paced, Engaging Adventure Novel by Kieran Fanning

The Arrival. Kieran Fanning, 2024.

The Arrival by Kieran Fanning is a fast-paced, engaging adventure which asks us to consider some interesting theological questions, not least – if the second coming of Jesus were to happen, would anyone believe it?

Sarah is a teenager who would rather be spending time with her friends at the cinema than with her out-of-touch archaeologist father, but when she is sent to visit him and he takes her to a tunnel drilling site which has revealed a remarkable new discovery, she is pulled into a mystery that she becomes desperate to solve. Declan, a local boy who lives in the village next to the site, is lonely and struggling for friends. When he is dared to steal a hard hat from the tunnel site he then find himself mixed up in the strange series of events that begin to unfurl as this new discovery takes on a life of it’s own and becomes something entirely new.

The story moves along at a great pace, and pulls you in from the outset. From the moment the strange archaeological find is discovered, the story twists and turns in a very engaging way. The characters are all well-drawn; the way that Fanning pulls together and intertwines Sarah and Declan’s threads is very adept. I found Sarah and Declan to both be relatable and believable, and I was invested in their stories as they go on their incredible journeys that lead to the dramatic conclusion. There are elements of the spiritual, the supernatural, and the theological in the story and these work well within the context of the story. Fanning’s writing is tight and well-constructed, and respects its readers by embedding intelligent themes and ideas.

Ultimately, the book leaves us with more questions than answers, and, I must admit, at the end I was hoping for a little more by way of explanation for all the different elements of the puzzle. But, without giving too much away, there is clearly room for a sequel, and so perhaps that is where we will find these answers.

Overall, I really enjoyed this book and the questions that it asks of its readers. A mystery that offers a fast-paced, flowing narrative, and keeps you hooked til the end, this story is highly recommended.

‘The Arrival’ is available for purchase at: https://amzn.to/4bOXJzE

/Review By Robin Stevens/

Blog

Two Years of Not for Vanity

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The Story So Far (A Second Time Around) According To Its Co-Founder

Ella Piazzi & Alex Mingoni, Founders of Not for Vanity.

22nd July 2022.
Sitting at a tiny, rectangular table in the (unusually) scorching heat of a London afternoon, Ella and I were cogitating the possible consequences of pressing the ‘Publish’ button and get our newly created website to go live.
After months of brainstorming to find our niche, a suitable name and building our branding from scratch, while both considering quitting our jobs and move on to something different (which we actually did that summer), we felt our prospects were dire, to be honest.

We couldn’t have been more wrong. Pressing that ‘Publish’ button catapulted us into a brand new dimension, surrounded by writers, readers and fellow creatives (and exactly where we wanted to be). We soon found out we didn’t know as much as we thought about the world of self-publishing and authorship more generally, and the learning curve was steep, in a world where the chances of attracting attention online and sparking a meaningful dialogue are getting slimmer. But guess what?! It was 100% worth it!

While we are still relatively small, we are proud to say we have managed to build a network of authors and readers that are willing to work with us to prove that self-publishing is not an act of vanity (yes, that’s where our name comes from), but a publishing model that sits alongside traditional publishing as equally ‘legitimate’.

In time, we have also expanded our working relationships to include small, indie publishers who somehow face similar visibility challenges for their authors, with the ultimate goal to build an even bigger community and provide our readers with a wider choice of reading materials, carefully curated by us.

But enough of us bragging, this is our story so far… we do love a stat!

80 Book Reviews: 68 self-published books; 12 books by small, indie publishers;

55 Flash-Promos: short-form interviews with both up-and-coming and established authors presenting their latest creative endeavours;

16 Interviews delving into the meaning of authorship by focusing on real-life creative experiences;

10 Original Short Stories: written exclusively for Not for Vanity, storytelling at its finest;

A total of 161 authors (and books) featured.

50 Blog Posts: delving deeper into the world of writing as well as informing our readers on what we’ve been up to;

3 Digital Partnerships: we’ve been supporting three unique digital ventures (1) Mr. Mike’s podcast and Youtube channel, with his thought provoking, yet very very funny #wronganswersonly feature; (2) TheBookFather (aka Jason Atkinson) and his engaging read alouds on Twitch, showcasing books by both new and experienced authors; (3) Your Paper Quest, the first UK book-of-the-month subscription box focused on self-published and small indie published authors, now available in the US too!

2 Guest Book Reviewers: needless to say we couldn’t have done it without the contribution and ongoing support of published authors and reviewers extraordinaire Robin Stevens and Hayley Price.

As far as our future plans are concerned, we still have lots of ideas we’d like to implement, even though there aren’t enough hours in a day to see them all come to fruition immediately, but rest assured… our commitment to supporting the indie publishing industry is unwavering, as is our willingness to make a difference to as many authors as possible by bringing their work to the public’s attention.

Interested in being part of our journey? Do get in touch today at: info@notforvanity.com

self-published

So… What Happened Here?

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A Brand New Novel From the Author of the ‘King of Gravesend’ Series

So… what happened here?, Peter Draper, 2024

When we thought that Ro and Angel could finally have some well deserved downtime, a mysterious accident upturns their conviction.
The story begins in the UK, with William Mitchell, who has been killed in his cell, and his cellmate, Uwak DeLeon, who is found dead too. How could this be related to Ro and Angel’s life in the Philippines? It will take some time, but it will get clear.
At the moment of the prison accident, Ro and Angel are busy with some old friends, the Kurti family, who has just landed from Albania. Their daughter, Besi, is undergoing surgery in the Philippines so, after the initial happiness of being reunited and having a nice holiday ahead of them, there is the more pressant issue of logistic to tackle: the hospital check-in and the pre-op checks.
In the meantime, in the UK, Rosie Go, daughter of Dennis Go, a rich Taiwanese business man involved in human trafficking, slavery, gambling and drugs, is landing at Heathrow Airport. With the death of DeLeon, the UK side of the business is now exposed and requires immediate action. But what looks like an easy job for Rosie, turns out to be a bigger and more dangerous headache than what it looked like and Rosie’s head is on the line, literally. How will she get herself out of this mess, and how are Ro and Angel involved in all this?
It’s always a pleasure to meet Ro&co. again! Book after book, Draper managed to create and polish these characters to the point that they all pop out the pages, seeming so real that you feel part of the story too. Despite their bizarre adventures, they never lose their edge nor their sharp sense of humour. Dialogues are impeccable, vivid and realistic, never dull and with a nice flow. The plot is always well crafted, balanced between the two storylines (the good ones on one side and the bad ones on the other), giving both of them the right visibility, moving both of them forward at the same pace and never revealing too much or not enough of either side.
Reading one of Draper’s book is always a pleasure, it’s like going back home after a long journey: you know you won’t stay for long, but the pleasure you get is enough to last you until next time.
We don’t know anything about his future intentions (at the present moment), but it’s not the first time that he surprises us with the news a new book not long before it’s release!

indie

A Looking-Glass World

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A Novel By Feng Jicai (Translated by Olivia Milburn)

A looking-glass world, Sinoist Books, 2021

1900, China. The Qing Dynasty is still in power, but not for long, and China is subject to foreign domination, both from Western Countries, Christian Missions and the Japanese. It’s not an easy time for Chinese people, especially those who are simple farmers and fishermen. But it’s not any easier for the wealthier part of society either.
The story is set in Tianjin, a small town south of Beijing, where commerce was good and the population lived well and in peace, the nearby Foreign Concession letting citizens carry on with their lives.
During these really unsettling times, the Ouyang family is gong through a revolution of its own: Old Master Ouyang, owner of two large and prosperous paper shops in Tianjin, has retired following an accident that has left him walking with a cane. While he remains the owner of the two shops on paper, each will be looked after by one of his two sons, who will manage the day-to-day. Ouyang Zun, the older brother, is responsible for the overall business, while Ouyang Jue does his best to be useful and take practical decisions for his shop, such as how much paper to buy or making sure the books are balanced correctly. He is not a bad person, or a lazy one, but he has always focused on his calligraphy and poetry studies, rather than business and commerce, and this, despite all his efforts, doesn’t play in his favour.
Both brothers are married, but none of them had children, and while Ouyang Zun’s marriage is not very happy, Ouyang Jue has a wonderful wife he can converse with about poetry and books and art. One day, however, Ouyang Jue meets Xénia, the daughter of a French commander at the local Foreign Concession. He is asked to escort the young, exotic lady around the city and show her interesting spots and marvels of the local territory. Since they don’t speak each other’s language, they are accompanied by Mr Ma, a common acquaintance who doubles as translator. Soon, they will no longer need Mr Ma to accompany them in their explorations, and the language barrier won’t be a problem anymore.
After a flourishing and exciting beginning, their clandestine love-story will soon raise suspects, and will be made even more complicated by the political climate around them. The Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists, also known as Boxers, since many of its members had practiced martial arts (at the time known as ‘Chinese boxing’), are gathering to fight against the foreign powers occupying their country, and Ouyang Jue and Xénia will get caught in the middle of a battle bigger than the two of them and their love.

In this modern take on Romeo and Juliet, we come across many layers: the Colonial era – and the subsequent battles for independence – forbidden romance, the dissolution of a family and its fortunes, patriotic spirit, the loss of love and mental sanity. It’s a compact book, but packed full of events and plot twists. I deeply appreciated how history-rich it is, events told with simplicity yet extreme accuracy, and the narrative is superb, also credit to what I think it’s an outstanding translation.
This book was an amazing discovery, and I thoroughly recommend it, especially if historical fiction and Oriental literature are your thing. I also suggest you purchase the hard copy if you can, as the physical book itself is a joy for the eyes.

About the Author: Feng Jicai is a contemporary author, artist and cultural scholar who rose to prominence as a pioneer of Chinas Scar Literature movement that emerged after the Cultural Revolution.

About the Translator: Olivia Milburn is professor of Chinese language and literature at Seoul National University. She has authored several books on Chinese history and co-translated two spy novels by Mai Jia.

To buy a hard copy of the book, please visit Sinoist Books.

short stories

Crossroads (part three)

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Jen and Dynnah’s adventures continue in this third part. Read part one here and part two here.

A shower of stones and small rocks clattered down the nearby cliff face, and Jen woke
with a start. Dynnah slept on beside her; the woman could sleep through anything, it seemed. Rather than disturb Dynnah, Jen raised her head, looked around. What had persuaded the rocks and stones to abandon their previous perch in search of lower ground, Jen didn’t know. She saw nothing to alarm her, heard nothing but the song of a nearby bird as it greeted the new day.
The shadow of a nearby outcrop of rock lay across her and Dynnah like a blanket that
brought them no warmth. The inadequate horse blanket remained their only covering at night, too small for two, not very warm, and smelly from their sweat as well as the horse it covered through the day. While she waited for Dynnah to wake, Jen watched the furthest edge of the shadow crawl backward toward them, as though it wished to scoop them up and carry them back to the sun that had birthed it. It slid over them, sensuous and cold, and soft warmth followed it like a fire that chases away the cold and damp.
More small stones rattled down the cliff face, along with a larger piece of stone that
bounced from the ground and rolled to a stop an arm’s length from Dynnah, who stirred and groaned, sleepy and resentful. Jen scanned the cliff but still saw nothing to indicate how the stones had been dislodged. With the threat of the Burgher’s men and their companions from Werllan, who had followed them from Crossroads, uppermost in her mind, Jen decided they should move on. Dynnah appeared to have gone back to sleep, but Jen shook her, hissing at her to wake up.
“Dynnah, rouse yourself.”
The sleepy woman waved an angry arm in the air and tried to swat Jen’s hand away
but failed to connect with any meaningful force. Jen hissed at her again, an urgent whisper she hoped would not frighten her lover as she woke.
“Come on, Dynnah. It’s time we moved on. Those men might still be behind us. We can’t risk them catching us.”
“Go away, you evil monster.”
Monsters. Yet another thing to fear. Rumours said the Others made their home in the
Cordon, and Jen feared them even more than Vanster’s men and the strangers who rode with them.
“All right. I’ll leave you here and ride on alone. After all, it’s not as if the Cordon is
rumoured to be alive with Others or—”
Dynnah sprang up and glared at Jen.
“You are not the sweet stable girl you pretend to be, you know that? You have a wicked streak in you wider than these wretched hills.”
Jen fought to keep a smile from her face.
“I’m sorry, Dynnah, but I heard something just now, while you were asleep. Stones fell down that cliff” — she pointed to the cliff face in question — “and woke me. I don’t know what loosened them, and I don’t want to wait around long enough to find out.”
Concern widened Dynnah’s eyes.
“Could it be those men?”
Although Jen was younger than Dynnah by three years, Jen always felt as though she
was senior, the one who stayed calm, took decisions when things were difficult. Dynnah became frightened at the slightest thing, it seemed, and Jen saw fear try to take the older woman now, spirit her away into the worst imaginings of her mind, where her fates would be the worst of all possible outcomes.
“I doubt it, Dynnah. It’s nothing more than an animal looking for some breakfast, I’m sure.”
“Others?”
Jen’s attempt at reassurance had missed the mark as Dynnah’s thoughts jumped past all the cute animals her mind might have conjured up and landed instead on the
most bothersome threat of all – the Others.
Jen freed the suppressed smile and held out a hand. After all, it had been her who first mentioned the Others, and how she regretted it now.
“We’re safe, Dynnah. Safe, but hungry. While that little creature eats its breakfast, we have nothing at all to eat, and I’m starved. Let’s get on our way down the hill. I think I can smell some bacon sizzling in a pan, even from all the way up here.”
Dynnah nodded.
“I am hungry. I can’t deny it.”
“Come on, then. Let’s saddle up and ride on.”
As Jen pulled herself up onto Gilpin’s back, her mind turned again to Dynnah’s fears,
worries, insecurities. Whatever had driven those men from Werllan to seek out Dynnah in Crossroads had placed the two women in a precarious position. Their future looked bleak, they had neither food nor water, and with Dynnah’s tendency to worry, Jen wondered how the older woman would cope with the life that stared her in the face.
Gilpin plodded along in his own dependable way as Jen’s mind rambled through the
events of two days ago. Dynnah did not suit the life that lay ahead of her —uncertainty, no reliable source of the comforts she had grown used to, probable hardship — but she had not balked at the desperate ride from Crossroads, or at the continuation of the journey down the slopes of the Cordon to the unknown land below. Why? A woman who had lived all her life in the comfort provided by wealthy parents, followed by a wealthy husband, but now took to the road without even a change of clothes and with no surety of any outcome. Something drove her to flee, and Jen did not trust the answer that Dynnah had given her. She must have some inkling of why the Werllan men sought her.
Jen shook her head, angry at herself. Throughout her childhood, her parents had
taught her never to judge anything by how it looked, not to jump to conclusions without any substantial information, yet here she was, filled with terrible thoughts about a woman who had brought her so much joy over the last months. Dynnah’s past was hers, and Jen had no claim on it and no right to know anything Dynnah chose not to reveal.
Gilpin slipped, and Jen’s attention sprang back to her surroundings. The hill had
become steeper, and she hadn’t noticed, so mired had she become in her thoughts. The stony ground beneath Gilpin’s hoofs, combined with the steepness, did not look the best way forward for a rider with Dynnah’s brief experience. Jen cast about for a safer route, but before she could find one, the worst outcome, worse than any even Dynnah might have imagined, arrived like the last act of a stage play, a tragedy with an unbearable final scene. Dynnah’s horse slipped, and the older woman lacked the instincts to counter the unexpected pitch forward.
As Jen snapped her head round at the sound of the loose stones that tumbled down the hill, and her horse snorted in alarm, Dynnah’s body hurtled forward, struck the neck of her mount, then fell sideways. She crashed to the stony ground and rolled down the hill like a ball released by a child. Her arms and legs flailed around, and she screamed. Her luck had held, and her feet had come out of the stirrups, or she might have broken a leg. With a despondent cry, Jen dismounted, and Gilpin skittered, unnerved by the other horse’s fear, no doubt.
Dynnah came to an abrupt stop against a bleak bush that somehow scrabbled a life out of the stony hillside. Jen scrambled down toward her, slipping and sliding and falling herself on the treacherous stones that worked to upend her. As she neared Dynnah, she heard soft sobs, and she heaved a breath of relief. Dynnah had survived the fall; but at what cost?
Jen crouched beside the older woman.
“Are you hurt?” Jen’s heart pounded in her breast as concern and anxiety threatened to overwhelm her. She reached out toward Dynnah, who lay on her side, legs bent, arms splayed, her head beneath the sparse foliage of the bush. With gentle pressure, Jen pushed on Dynnah’s shoulder, and the older woman rolled onto her back, her face screwed in agony, tears spilling from her eyes. Jen’s heart fluttered. “Dynnah. Are you hurt?”
Dynnah said nothing, but she nodded her head and laid an arm across her eyes. Jen
swept her eyes over the fallen woman. Blood stained the lower right leg of her trousers, which were scuffed, torn and dusty. Both elbows had nasty grazes and blood seeped from a rip in her shirt near her left shoulder. Her face wore several scratches, but nothing that seemed too serious.
Jen reached down to Dynnah’s right ankle and pulled her trousers up her leg. Blood
poured from a deep cut, about as long as Jen’s palm was wide. It would need to be sewn shut and covered, but they had nothing suitable for either task, unless they tore strips from their shirts. Dynnah’s shirt had already ripped in so many places, a few more tears could make little difference, so Jen tore an entire sleeve from it, then tore it in half lengthwise. She used one half to fashion a crude bandage around the wound and tied the other below Dynnah’s knee to slow the flow of blood. She had seen enough cuts on horses to know she needed to reduce the blood that seeped from the cut, or Dynnah might die from loss of blood.
Jen looked around. Both horses had scrambled higher up the hill and stood on flatter
ground where they grazed as though the sky hadn’t crashed down onto them, as it had on Jen and Dynnah. She turned back to Dynnah.
“Can you make it up the hill to the horses if I help you?”
They needed to get off the Cordon with greater urgency and find help for Dynnah before the blood that ran from her cuts weakened her and she could go no further.
Dynnah’s face, white with pain, shock, and fear, frightened Jen, but the older woman
grimaced, clenched her teeth, and answered, “I’ll try.” With Jen’s help, she managed to stand, the injured leg bent backward. She kept her eyes closed and made small moans as Jen tugged one of Dynnah’s arms around her shoulders. The risk of another fall was extreme, but they needed to reach the horses and ride down the Cordon in search of help.
Step by painful step, they groaned and screamed their way up the stony hillside. A
stone moved beneath Jen’s foot, and she fell. Dynnah landed on top of her and knocked all the breath from her body. Her ankle burned with agony, but she could move it, so she guessed she hadn’t broken it. Tears in her eyes, she crawled out from beneath Dynnah and helped the older woman to her feet again as she gulped air into her tortured lungs. Voices in her head yelled at her to give up, leave Dynnah here, and ride off. “Go for help. She’ll still be here when you get back,” they said, but she refused to listen to their deception. By the time she found help and came back, she felt certain Dynnah would be dead. They both had to ride together. She sought to reassure Dynnah, who panted from the exertion and grew heavier with every step as her strength failed.
“Not far now.”
Teeth clenched, sweat soaked through her clothes, her hair, Jen only half believed the words herself.
“You seem in need of help.”
The man’s voice startled Jen, and she looked up in search of whomever had spoken. Her chin sank to her chest, and the last embers of hope died inside her, extinguished by the wave of disappointment that washed over her at the sight of the faces that peered down at them. The two Werllan men stood there, together with Pieter and three more of Vanster’s men. Stillen was conspicuous by his absence. That didn’t matter; the men had pursued them and had caught them. Behind them, their horses stood together, their reins all in the hand of one of Vanster’s men, Symon. She recognised three of the horses. One belonged to the Werllan men, the one she had left behind, while another two had been stabled with her by locals who didn’t ride often.
Jen knew Symon, but not well. He stared at her, emotionless when she raised her head, and she sought Pieter’s eyes. He had a bruise on his temple, and had every right to be furious at her, but among the six men, some semblance of sympathy shone from his eyes alone.
“We have rope.” One of the Werllan men appeared to fancy himself the leader, and he continued to talk while the other men stood silent and watched. “We can throw some down to you and pull you up. Your friend looks hurt.”
Jen glanced behind her, down the hillside. Could they escape if they turned and ran?
Perhaps, except Dynnah wouldn’t be able to run. She hung from Jen’s shoulder, a battered, dejected figure. If abject misery could walk, it would be Dynnah at this moment.
Pieter’s voice dragged her attention back up the hill.
“Jen, let us help you. The Hummock woman needs assistance. We’ll head back to Bellindu and get her a healer.”
Pieter had been born in Crossroads, but he referred to it as Bellindu. Not many who
had been born in the town while it was called Crossroads used any other name for it, but Pieter had. Perhaps because he worked for the Burgher. Who knew? Who cared? They were cornered, and all their attempts to escape had failed. Jen felt hollow, as though her insides had been pulled out and discarded. She stared upward at Pieter.
“What happens to her after we get back to Crossroads?”
The Werllan man replied.
“We will take her back to Werllan, where she will be questioned about the money.”
He had mentioned money in such a casual way, as though he had assumed Jen would
know what he meant. She wouldn’t reveal that she had no idea what money he had referred to — not yet anyway.
“And then?”
Jen tried to keep the conversation alive while she pondered their situation in case she had missed something that might rescue them from their plight.
To her surprise, Dynnah answered, her voice weak, so quiet that the men might not
have heard what she said.
“Jen, by the Twain, let it drop. They have us. What they will do to us is beyond our power to control.”
Jen nodded, habit rather than any reaction to Dynnah’s words. Her mind whirled as
she tried to make sense of their situation from what she had pieced together of Dynnah’s life before Hummock. The widow of a wealthy banker, by her account, with enough money to buy the old house. Could her late husband’s money be what the Werllan man had meant? Jen could see no reason why they should claim money left to Dynnah by her deceased husband. That made no sense, but what did? They found themselves in a farcical situation, Dynnah injured, their horses above them and with six men in the way, six men they had run away from two days ago. They had eaten nothing in that time, drunk nothing. Jen felt weak, light-headed from hunger, her throat and mouth as dry as a cured animal skin, desperate for even a drop of water. Dynnah struggled to move at all and might collapse and die at any moment. She looked at Pieter, ignored the Werllan man.
“Do you have water?”
“We do. Let us throw you a rope.”
Jen could run, but Dynnah could not. For now, their best hope lay in surrender. Who
knew what would happen next?
“Throw it down.”
She gave up, devoid of any idea and anxious to get care for Dynnah.
Another of Vanster’s men, Brynn, fussed in the pack on the back of one of their horses
and came out with a length of rope.
“Here you are, Jen.”
He threw it down the hill toward her.
She bent to pick it up, then stopped, crouched with one hand on the rope, the other on Dynnah’s thigh to steady her as she swayed next to her. Why did they have rope? It seemed an unlikely item to carry in pursuit of two women. Did they plan to hang Dynnah, and perhaps Jen as well? She looked up at Brynn, and he gave her a smile, full of reassurance and good intentions. He had been a weak boy when he was young, often bullied by other boys from the town. Jen had stood up for him more than once and been punched in the stomach on his behalf more than once, too.
She couldn’t believe Pieter or Brynn would let them hang her. That made no sense. She knew them all, had known them since they were all snot-nosed, dirty-face kids playing in the fields around Crossroads, stealing fruit from local farmers’ trees, summer days spent swimming in the brook that ran past the southern edge of town. Jen picked the rope up and tied it around Dynnah’s waist, then threw the older woman’s arm across her shoulder again.
“Pull us up.”
She clutched the rope with her free hand, and Brynn and Pieter hauled on the rope while the Werllan men stood and watched, smug, satisfied grins on their faces. The rope helped, and they reached the small ledge where the men had gathered without further incident. Jen and Pieter lowered Dynnah to the ground, and Brynn fetched more cloths. He tore the sleeve of Dynnah’s shirt away and sucked his breath across his teeth as he looked at the deep cut. He poured some water on it, washed some of the fresher blood away, then folded a cloth, placed it over the wound, and tied it in place with another length of cloth. Jen gave him a grateful smile, relieved their intentions seemed helpful, as they had said.
That proved to be an illusion, swept away without delay by the Werllan man who had
been the only one to speak so far.
“Hang this one, bring the other.”
He had pointed to Jen. They intended to kill her? How had she been so stupid when she trusted them?
Pieter stood and stared at the man.
“What? That’s not what Burgher Vanster agreed to.”
The stranger huffed a dismissive breath.
“I don’t care what he agreed to. We only want the Alston woman. This one is baggage, and we don’t need her.”
Jen couldn’t understand anything he said. What was ‘the Alston woman?’ How could
Pieter and the other three let these two strangers kill her, born in Crossroads, their friend for over thirty years, or at least someone they knew?
Brynn took a step toward them.
“Burgher Vanster agreed we would help you because you assured him you wouldn’t hurt them. We” — he waved his arm around at the other Vanster’s men — “aren’t going to stand around and let you harm Jen. By the Twain, I’ve known her since I could walk. She has done nothing wrong.”
The Werllan man snorted.
“She assaulted him.” He pointed to Pieter. “Another of your colleagues lies at death’s door because—”
“Stillen took a bump to the head. He’s nowhere near death’s door.” Pieter was a tall
man, and he looked threatening to Jen as he spat his words out at the stranger. “It’s like Brynn said, mister. No harm comes to either of them, not while we have any say in the matter.”
The other Werllan man, the one who hadn’t spoken yet, took a step toward Pieter and
reached into his short jacket. The first man held out an arm, and the other stopped, still with his hand inside his jacket. The first man took a deep breath, then nodded.
“So be it. We’ll take them back to your little town, turn that one over to you, and ride on with the Alston woman.”
The Vanster’s men relaxed, all the tension gone from their bodies. The Werllan man
hadn’t finished, however.
“We’ll prepare a meal, then we’ll head back.” He turned to his companion. “Against the tree, Ferkkan. Let’s make sure they don’t slip through our fingers again.”
The other nodded and picked up the discarded rope.
“Bring the women over here.”
His voice was a low growl, and since the five words were the first he had spoken, Jen had no way to know whether he always sounded so fierce.
She had been relieved when Pieter mentioned that Stillen did not seem to have
suffered too much when Gilpin had knocked him over, but the sense of dread that settled on her when the other man ordered Pieter and the others to hang her did not lift. She didn’t trust this Ferkkan, and he meant to incapacitate them somehow, it seemed. He walked over to a small tree and stood there, his toes tapping on the ground in impatience, the rope in his hands. None of the others moved, and he glowered at Brynn.
“Now, curse it.”
Pieter, Brynn, and Jerek, the fourth Vanster man, helped Dynnah and Jen to their feet and over to the tree.
Ferkkan ordered them both to sit with their backs to the tree, then looped the rope around the trunk, across their chests, and under their armpits, tied it tight.
Jerek broke his silence.
“Is that necessary? The Werllan woman can’t even walk.”
“If I say it’s necessary, it’s necessary.”
Ferkkan stomped away, and Pieter gave Jen an apologetic shrug.
Jen turned to Dynnah.
“How are you?”
“In agony, but never mind that. I’ve landed you in trouble, Jen. I’m sorry.”
Jen pondered everything she had heard; the parts she had understood and the large
portions she hadn’t.
“What did he mean about the money?”
“Something to do with Galt, my husband, I imagine.”
Jen could not see any connection between these violent men and Dynnah’s late husband.
“I don’t understand.”
“I imagine Galt owed them some money, and they believe I should pay it to them.”
Pieter interrupted their conversation. He brought over a small metal container and
handed it to Jen.
“Water. Take a drink. I’ll bring you some food soon.”
Jen smiled her gratitude at Pieter and handed the container to Dynnah.
“Drink.”
Dynnah tipped the container back and swallowed, then wiped her lips with a contented sigh.
“That feels good.” Jen accepted the container and raised it to her lips. The water slid down her parched throat and tasted like the sweetest nectar to her at that moment. She sighed from the relief it brought to her throat as she returned it to Pieter.“Thank you.” She smiled at him again, as the feel of the liquid in her mouth lingered in her memory. “Can you spare some for Gilpin?”
He nodded, distracted, as though he hadn’t decided about her horse but didn’t want to argue about it. Jen didn’t ask for water for Dynnah’s horse. It belonged to the Werllan men, and no doubt they would take care of it now they had reclaimed it.
Pieter wandered back to the knot of men, who had dried meat and bread in their
hands. Jen stared in longing at the food and hoped Pieter would make good on his offer to bring some over for the two women. The men spoke to one another in hushed voices, but it seemed obvious that their conversation had become heated. Perhaps the Werllan men had suggested they should kill Jen again.
She could not affect that debate, so she focused on Dynnah.
“How is your leg?”
“Painful. Why did you lead us down that slope? It was too stony.”
Jen’s head fell forward. She had been distracted by her thoughts; she hadn’t noticed
the change in terrain. She held herself to blame for Dynnah’s injury, and for everything that had happened to them over the last two days. Panic had claimed her when Pieter came to the stable, and now they found themselves in danger, far from Crossroads and with only Pieter and the other Burgher’s men to protect them.
Before she could form any response to Dynnah’s question, Ferkkan pushed Brynn and
turned his gaze toward Jen and Dynnah. He reached into his jacket, and to Jen’s horror, he produced a short knife. Pieter grabbed at his arm, but Ferkkan pulled it away, and the other Werllan man grabbed at Pieter. Things had taken an unhappy turn, it appeared.
Ferkkan stomped over to the tree as the four Crossroads men followed him and yelled at him to leave the women unharmed. The other Werllan man positioned himself between Ferkkan and the Crossroads men to prevent them from stopping his companion. Ferkkan loomed over the women, but he stared at Dynnah as he spoke. “Where is all the money?”
His voice carried as much menace as his body, his face twisted in fury, and he pointed the knife at the older woman.
Dynnah stared up at him, her face white, her eyes wide with fear.
“What money?”
He snarled, a contemptuous sound, more animal than human.
“Don’t play games with me, Dynnah Alston. You know what I mean.” His hand flicked forward, as fast as the crack of a whip, and his knife nicked Dynnah’s cheek. A line of blood seeped from the cut, and Dynnah cried out in pain. Jen could not believe how fast he had moved. He had cut her in the blink of an eye, a small amount of blood on the blade of his knife as he made short, stabbing motions toward her. “Tell me where it is, or I’ll kill your little playmate.” He turned his evil glare on Jen, and the Crossroads men cried out and reached for him.
A familiar smell crept into Jen’s nostril, and she stared at the sky, dejected. She was
about to die. Either Ferkkan would kill her, or the creatures that brought the smell would. The powerful, pungent aroma could not be mistaken for anything else, and Jen had smelled it several times in her life. Others.
Ferkkan’s words faded from her mind, and beyond the group of men, she saw the
reddish-brown hide of the first creature appear over the slight rise beyond the horses, which whinnied and jostled each other, nervous. Two of the Crossroads men also turned to look behind them. Perhaps they also caught the scent of the Others. The two Werllan men continued to scream at Dynnah. City dwellers; never seen or smelled one of the Others, Jen guessed. Their doom had arrived, but they did not yet know it.
More of the Others appeared. A large one led the force of at least ten, and it moved
faster than Jen would have expected. The ones she had seen had been slow, clumsy almost, but this one covered the ground at great pace. As it pushed Brynn to one side and reached for Ferkkan, Jen screamed and tugged at the rope that secured her to the tree. Blind panic seized her, and she pushed with her feet as she tried to cower away from the horde of Others who smashed into the six men, snarling, growling, biting, rending. She heard Dynnah’s screams, but they struggled to register through Jen’s terror as she watched the biggest Other pull at Ferkkan. It took the arm that held his knife between the long claws of its — what? Arms? Legs? With one powerful jerk, it ripped Ferkkan’s arm from his shoulder and threw it away down the slope Dynnah had tumbled down earlier.
Jen could not distinguish Ferkkan’s howl of agony from the cries of the other men or
the terrible, ear-splitting roars of the Others as the six men were pulled to pieces by the creatures. Blood splattered everywhere, into Jen’s face, into her mouth. She spat it out and tried to squirm around the tree. Maybe they would forget her if they couldn’t see her. Their stench overpowered her. She had never been this close to them before, and they stank. She felt bile rise in her throat, hot and stinging.
The massacre and dismemberment lasted no more than heartbeats. All six men lay dead, torn to pieces by the strength of their foes. Some of the Others chewed on hands, legs, innards, and Jen lost her fight with her nausea, vomited all over herself. At least four large Others loomed over the two women. Dynnah had fallen silent, eyes wide, unblinking, face as white as a sheet, her hands raised before her, palms toward the Others.
At that, a high-pitched growl came from one of the Others who stood a short distance
behind the rest, and the entire horde turned to look at the one who had growled. The one at the rear made some further growls; Jen presumed it spoke their language. Smaller than most of the horde, it nevertheless radiated danger, menace. It fixed its eyes on Dynnah and walked forward.
One of the bigger ones nipped at the shorter creature with its huge mouth, filled with
large, yellowed teeth, but the smaller one smacked at the other’s snout with the back of a paw, and the big creature took a step backward. The smaller Other stood before Dynnah, then knocked her arms away as it had done with its bigger companion’s snout. It fell forward onto all fours and thrust its snout forward.
Dynnah and Jen both screamed at the same instant, but their fears were not realised.
The creature sniffed at the cut on Dynnah’s cheek, licked some of her blood from her, then moved its large head down her body as it sniffed time and again. It smelled at her scent, that was obvious, but to what purpose, Jen could not decide. It thrust its snout between Dynnah’s legs and sniffed again as Dynnah tried to wriggle away from it.
It snapped its head up, and its cold, black eyes fixed on Jen. Its gaze travelled down
her body, then it shuffled nearer and thrust its snout between Jen’s legs. It sniffed and moved its head, and the tip of its snout rubbed against Jen’s sex, the sides of its head against her thighs. She wore thick trousers, as usual, designed for more comfort while she rode horses.
The creature pulled its head from Jen’s groin and rose again to stand on two legs. It
faced the horde and emitted some low growls. Some of the others responded with growls of their own, and at one point, the largest one pointed at Dynnah.
As the growls continued, some sort of debate, Jen presumed, she reached for Dynnah’s hand. Dynnah had not moved since the Other had switched its attention from her to Jen. She clutched the older woman’s hand in her own and squeezed, a feeble attempt to reassure Dynnah, who didn’t turn her head to look at her.
After some time, the growls died down, and the largest creature reached out and pulled at the rope that bound the two women to the tree. It snapped like an old twig beneath Jen’s foot in the depths of winter, but she could not move — terror froze her in place. Her mind screamed at her to get up, run as fast as possible to the horses. The Others feared horses, she would be safe among the mounts. To her dismay, she realised she had thought only of her own escape. Dynnah had not entered her mind.
The big creature reached out for Dynnah and hoisted her onto its shoulder with no
effort. Dynnah’s head hung down its back, and she vomited. The creature did not seem to notice, but it turned and, to Jen’s horror, moved off, accompanied by two more.
“Stop.”
Jen’s futile cry did nothing. The Other did not turn to look at her as it bore
Dynnah away to whatever it intended to do to her. Jen had never felt so hopeless, so
powerless in her life. Had she condemned Dynnah to a terrible death at the hands of these creatures when she threw the grooming brush at Pieter? At the thought of Pieter, she vomited again as guilt and remorse flooded her. The Crossroads men had suffered the same fate as the two from Werllan, though the Burgher’s men had not deserved it.
Another large creature reached for her, hoisted her onto its shoulder like the largest
one had with Dynnah. With her head against its back, its smell almost made her faint, and she understood why Dynnah had been sick. The creature stank, and its skin was covered in short, wiry bristle-like hair. She had not realised that before, but then again, she had never been carried away like a sack of potatoes by the Others before.
The small creature who had sniffed her emitted a short growl, and the horde moved
off. Jen bounced about as the creature shambled along, one paw clamped into the small of her back to hold her in place. Her mind raced through horrible outcomes—she saw herself torn apart like the men had been or eaten alive by those terrifying mouths full of bone-crushing teeth. She wept, but the Others maintained their pace.
Jen’s despair crushed her; her heart hurt from the agony of her fate, and that of Dynnah, carried off by the three creatures who had taken her the Twain knew where. Sad, she whispered, “I’m so sorry Dynnah.” She closed her eyes, resigned to her hopelessness, and the creatures moved on in eery silence.

self-published

Coup de Coeur

teamnfv

A queer, historical fantasy, romance book set in an alternative 1899 NYC

Coup de Coeur, Halli Starling Books, 2024

Calix Addington is left holding a book bought by his playboy-esque friend, Lawton, at a book auction. Lawton falls foul of some seedy characters and hands the book off to Calix as they flee.
The book is set in New York City in 1899, and Calix goes on to form a magical triumvirate with previously estranged couple Ethaniel and Aubrey as they attempt to unravel what the magical book portends.
This book was well outside my usual genres, and I found its whimsy something of a struggle. Starling didn’t draw me into the characters’ arcs, perhaps because of the nature of the book, a hybrid historical fantasy with gay male characters. Of the three main characters, I found Ethaniel the most likeable, while Calix and Aubrey both had annoying personas. Calix was too naïve and trusting, while I never quite understood Aubrey’s life.
The magic throughout the book had no form, purpose, or provenance. It was ethereal,
something to do with patterns in cloth perhaps, but with no raison d’etre. It existed because it existed, and I finished the book with no clear idea how it worked or why it needed to be in world.
Similarly, the romance that develops between the three main characters felt contrived, haphazard, and somewhat strange. I accept that the way it developed might be normal in gay male circles, and I imagine it will appeal to lovers of the “why choose” trope, perhaps.
Starling must be an educated person, because the book left me floundering many times for the meanings of some of the words, and I’m fairly intelligent. Thank goodness for Kindle’s lookup feature, although even that didn’t know what “effulgent” meant, and I had to Google it. At times, the prose felt too clever for its own good, but there’s no doubt that Starling has a way with words. Most of the time, the writing felt of a superior quality to the run-of-the-mill fare that exists everywhere, although that was occasionally turned on its head by clumsy phrases such as “whom before,” coupled with a few typos that stood out more because of the high quality of the writing.
The book ends on a blatant cliffhanger with a note that it will continue in Book 2. For lovers of eclectic, intellectual gay magical fiction, this might be worth a look. In the end, it was too far out of my comfort zone to say I enjoyed it, but the writing is of a high standard for the most part, and that might be enough to make it more enjoyable to readers more comfortable with the genre.

‘Coup du coeur’ is available for purchase at: https://bit.ly/3L7mIDn.

(Review by Hayley Price)