Published today...

 DARK PARIS...

I am very pleased to announce that the anthology, DARK PARIS, is published today.  This is the 4th book in the DARK series of anthologies published by Darkstroke Books.  Proceeds from all the books in this series go to various charities.

My story in this collection is very different from my usual style.  It was inspired by a pair of ravens.  I was camped in a small town in Nievre and the campsite was between a river and a canal.  From my pitch I could look out over the river to the opposite bank which had a narrow track and lots of trees.  On my first morning there I was awoken by the harsh stabbing calls of the ravens.  Later that morning I watched as they scavanged together amongst the fallen leaves and debris along the bank of the river.

Over the next week I got to know their routine and in the early evenings I would watch them watching me as they perched on a couple of mooring bollards set at the side of a small jetty.  They seemed to be waiting for the sun to indicate it was time for them to roost.

On the Sunday morning it was the sound of distant shot-guns that disturbed me at around dawn.  I didn't see the ravens at all that day.  In the evening, just before the sun set only one returned.  He, or she settled on the mooring bollard and watched me for a moment or two.  There was a single call from the bird, which was left unanswered before he/she retreated to their usual perch in the canopy overhead.

I left the following day, I had to in order to get back to the port for the ferry.  The sound of the desolation in that creature's final call remained with me.  I knew there was a story there somewhere, I just didn't know what it was until now.

I am very privileged to have a story in this anthology.  There are some wonderful authors who have contriubuted and the foreword is by fellow Darkstroke author, Kate Braithwaite.

You can read about the companion DARK LONDON anthology Here

You can get DARK PARIS Here

Just because it's Twixmas, Jacob has a second adventure...

The Long Gallery, Hardwick Hall

Jacob Takes a Stand

“I’m bored,” said Jacob levitating just a few centimetres above the floor of the long gallery. “I’ve done all mi training and mi work experience like and I still can’t go ’aunting until next year. It’s not fair.” He plopped onto the ground and sat up.

“Well, go on strike then,” said Wayne, who had recently completed his course of tuition with the Association of Ghostly Haunting, Apparitional and Spectral Training.

Jacob frowned. “Strike? Wot’s the point of that if you’re only allowed to ’aunt on one night a year?”

“So, go on strike on your haunting night, then.”

Jacob wasn’t listening. A strange rustling in the chimney breast and a fall of soot onto the hearth had captured his attention. Jacob grabbed the poker from the nearby set of fire-irons. Holding the black implement tightly in both hands, he stood ready to pounce.

A large red sack dropped onto the hearth amidst a cloud of ash and soot. In the next moment, a large, red-suited figure dropped with some weight into the grate. Jacob raised his weapon, and before the wearer of the suit could turn around, the poker had landed square on the red-capped head.

“Gotcha!”

“Oh my God, you’ve just killed Santa,” wailed Wayne.

“Who?”

“Santa. You’ve just murdered Santa Claus. That means all the living kids aren’t going to get any presents this year.”

Jacob dropped the poker and rolled his shoulders. “Wot do you mean presents? Nobody breaks into an ‘ouse and brings presents, Wayne. Robbers break in and take stuff. Look around yer. There’s a right load of valuable stuff ’ere in this ’all.”

Wayne jumped down from the oversized chair he’d been using as a climbing frame. “He’s wearing a bright red suit, dumbo.” Hands-on his hips, Wayne pulled out his tongue.

Jacob looked from his friend and colleague down to the prone figure on the hearth and back again.

“S’pose you’ve got a point there. It wouldn’t make much sense to go burglering dressed like that.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

Jacob scratched his head. “Shove ’im back up the chimney?”

“But what about the presents? It’s Christmas Eve. He’s got to deliver all the presents.”

Jacob recognised the jutting bottom lip and the look on Wayne’s face. He knew the youngster would have tears streaming down his face in a few more moments.

“Alright. But wot’s all this presents lark?”Jacob slumped down on the floor and started pulling the parcels out of the sack.

Wayne ran across and slapped Jacob’s hand away. “Stop it. They’re for the living children. If Santa doesn’t wake up and take them to every kid, then tomorrow there’ll be wars and riots and stuff, and we’ll be for it.”

“Is that right?” Jacob had a nucleus of an idea. “Is that right,” he said to himself as the nucleus divided and grew into a plan of action. He grabbed the poker.

“Wayne, sit on ’im and keep ’im down. I’m going to use this, ’ere.. er wots ’is name?”

“Santa Claus,” said Wayne as he settled himself down for a sit-in on the middle of Santa’s back.

“Righto.” Jacob had a wide grin on his face. “’Ere take this.” Jacob handed Wayne the small iron shovel. “Any nonsense from Santa, threaten ’im and keep ’im down. We’re fighting for our right to ’aunt.”

With the poker resting against his shoulder, Jacob began marching the length of the hearth.

“We demand our right to ’aunt. We want to ’aunt,” he chanted as he paced backwards and forwards.

“It’s our human rights,” shouted Wayne.

“Wots them then?”

“Dunno. It’s what mum and dad used to shout when they took me out protesting.”

Jacob nodded. “We demand our ’uman rights. We demand the right to ’aunt. We demand our ’uman rights—”

“ENOUGH!” roared Big Lizzie as she stepped out of the frame of her portrait and stormed—

“And YOU. Yes, I’m talking to YOU with that alphabet thing in front of you. Address me by my proper title.”

“ENOUGH!” roared Big Lizzie Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the First as she stepped out of the frame of her portrait and stormed the length of the long gallery.

Jacob froze as the disembodied head of Mrs Anne Tudor appeared from a corner of the room.

“It’s alright, your majesty. I will deal with this.”

The queen remained where she was, her left foot tapping out her impatience.

“Jacob, neither you nor Wayne have any human rights,” said Mrs Tudor. “You lost yours four hundred years ago when you died, Jacob. Wayne, you lost your human rights in 1964 when the accident happened. So, what is this all about?”

Jacob dropped the poker and stood to attention. “We’re protesting, Mrs Tudor, because we want to do more ’aunting, and if our demands are not met, the old bloke in the red suit gets an even bigger ’eadache.”

“Jacob, show some respect. Santa Claus is very important to the living, and we ghosts are tolerant of that.”

Jacob thought for a moment. “So, if we let ’im go, does that mean we can have more ’aunting?”

“No, Jacob. You will still only be able to haunt on the anniversary of your death. That is all.”

Portrait of Elizabeth I, Hardwick Hall

“For goodness sake, pull yourself together, woman and stop all this namby-pambyism,” said her majesty. “Rescind their certificates of competency and have done with it.”

“That’s not how we do things here, your majesty,” said Mrs Tudor as the rest of her body manifested itself. “We explain and encourage rather than order and direct,” she continued as she fixed her head on her shoulders.

“Stuff and nonsense,” harrumphed her majesty. “Get rid of them and YOU, yes YOU with the alphabet, any more of this rubbish, and I’ll put you in the tower.” With that, the queen turned on her heel and marched back to her painting.

Santa Claus groaned. “Help him up, boys,” said Mrs Tudor.

Santa shook his head, dusted off his hat and secured it on his head. He looked around.

“Hmm, the new sat nav isn’t working as well, I thought,” he said. He shouldered his sack of presents. “I think I’m a little behind, so I’ll be on my way.”

“But wot about presents for us?” asked Jacob. “I ain’t never ’ad a present before.”

The old man smiled and sprinkled some magic dust. “Perhaps even your wish might come true, Jacob.” With a wink at Mrs Tudor, Santa was gone.

This story first appeared on the UK Crime Book Club Facebook page on December 21st.

Just because it's Twixmas, come and meet Jacob...

Hardwick Hall

 Jacob’s Learning Curve

“It weren’t my fault,” snapped Jacob. His jaw was set as tightly as his arms were crossed against his chest.

Mrs Tudor smiled. “Take a seat, Jacob,” she said indicating the chair on the other side of her desk. The boy plonked himself down, his face a picture of frustration and streaked with recently dried tears. “Now, tell me exactly what happened.”

“I got to the ’all and went up to the long gallery like wot I was told to. I went straight frough the door and there were all these toffs there. It woz a party. I ducked and dived me way frough but as I passed the fireplace one of the dogs caught a whiff ov mi and started growlin’. I just kept going but the dog follered and the servant wiv a big platter of food didn’t see ’im and tripped and there woz this right big clatter and…”

Mrs Tudor had her hand held up waiting patiently for Jacob to stop. “Thank you”, she said as he finally paused for breath. “I’d like to go through things in a little more detail if you don’t mind.”

“Righto Miss.”

“Let’s start at the beginning you were—”

“In the long gallery like wot—”

“Jacob!” Mrs Tudor clenched her fist around the long string of pearls resting against the bodice of her ornate dress. “I will ask the questions, you just need to provide a short and succinct answer. Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Yes, Mrs Tudor.”

Jacob shuffled in his chair and nodded.

“Now, you were at Hardwick Hall yesterday. Why was that?”

“Well, it woz part of mi training. Frankie said I’d got to do work experience like, and that meant visiting places and doing stuff.”

“Frankie?”  Mrs Tudor adopted her sternest of looks.

“Sorry Miss… I mean Mrs Tudor. And it’s Sir Francis.”

“Better. So was this your first instance of a visit?”

“Yes, Mrs Tudor.”

“I see. As it would appear it did not go well, we need to find some positives, Jacob, otherwise, you risk failing the whole training module.”

Jacob frowned.  “Right.”

Mrs Tudor reached for her calendar. “Why did you visit yesterday in particular?”

“Frankie, sorry, err Sir Francis told me to.”

Mrs Tudor checked the calendar against the notes in Jacobs training record. “No.” She said. “Sir Francis told you to visit next Tuesday.”

Jacob shrugged. “This Tuesday, next Tuesday, wots the difference Miss?”

“A whole week,” said Mrs Tudor, her left eyebrow raised to such an extent it almost reached the edge of her gabled headdress. “This Tuesday was the AGHAST organisation's annual dinner and awards ceremony. Next Tuesday was when you should have paid your visit. It would have been the four hundredth anniversary of your death, Jacob. But we’ll put that little faux pas to one side for the moment.  Now,” she continued. “You arrived at the hall and went straight to the Long Gallery?”

“Yes, Mrs Tudor.”

“Did anyone see you as you walked through the mansion?”

Jacob shook his head. “Don’t think so.”

“Thinking isn’t enough, Jacob. You need to be certain.”

“Right, Mrs Tudor.”

“The door to the gallery. Was it open or closed when you got there?”

“Closed.”

“But you went through without any difficulty?”

“Yeah. Easy peasy Mrs T.” Jacob had a wide grin on his face. “Sir Frank told me his trick for getting it right first time every time. And I did.”

Mrs Tudor smiled. “Well, that’s a positive then.” She dipped her quill into the ink in preparation for adding a note to Jacob’s training record. Lifting her head from her work she looked straight at the young trainee. “You said one of the dogs caught a whiff of you?”

“Yes, Mrs T.”

“Jacob, here at AGHAST Incorporated we always address our seniors as Mr, Mrs, Mistress, Master or by their appropriate title. Am I making things clear?”

“Yes, Mrs Tudor.”

“Good.”

Jacob sat up straight and lowered his eyes. The change in his demeanour brought a slight smile to Mrs Tudor’s face. She didn’t really mind his use of the nickname. She’d known for centuries that it was widely employed throughout the organisation out of her earshot. But, there were standards to be adhered to. Manners to be respected and an orderly approach to training and induction to be maintained. These had been the principles that had gained Anne Tudor the most senior post as Head of Training and Resources.

She consulted her notes. “You were instructed to walk the full length of the gallery, to climb on the rocking horse and to set it in motion. If a dog caught a whiff of you then you must have manifested too early, Jacob. Is that what really happened?”

“’Course not Mrs Tudor.” Jacob set his shoulders back. “I know what I’m doing.”

Anne Tudor widened her eyes and stared at the trainee for a moment. She turned to the next page in the training plan. “Did you actually make it to the rocking horse?”

Jacob looked down. “No, Mrs Tudor,” he whispered.

“What was that Jacob?”

“No, I didn’t. Wiv all the palaver and the five bird roast all over the floor I legged it. Did smell good, though, that roast.”

Mrs Tudor pursed her lips as she shot Jacob her most penetrating look. “I see,” she said rubbing the back of her neck. It had been a stressful period at the training organisation, with one difficult interview after another. For reasons she couldn’t yet fathom there had been a number of trainees who had had to repeat modules and there had been a marked increase in incidents of insubordination, insolence and disrespect within the training rooms. Mrs Tudor had been thinking for a while that it was either down to the new intake of recruits being mostly children and young adults or perhaps the new master, Sir Francis Drake himself.  She let out a sigh and fingered her pearls.

“’Ave I passed Mrs Tudor?”

“I’m afraid not Jacob.  There are too many infringements.”

Jacob’s bottom lip began to quiver. “Are you sure Miss?”

Anne Tudor winced at yet another infringement. She pointed to the large portrait of the organisation’s founder that hung on the wall behind her desk.

“Our motto, Jacob, what does it say?”

Jacob looked at the picture and frowned. “I can’t read Mrs Tudor but it’s something about guide and accury… um or somefing.”

Mrs Tudor glanced at the Latin words displayed on an ornate scroll below the coat of arms for AGHAST.

“Accuracy is our watchword,” she recited. “And relevance is our guide. You visited on the wrong date, Jacob. This Tuesday you were neither relevant nor accurate. Next Tuesday you would have been.” She paused.

The Long Gallery, Hardwick Hall

Tears began to stream down Jacob’s face. Not again, she thought. Deciding enough was enough she got up from her chair and came round towards the boy. Regretting her harshness, she perched on the corner of the desk. Her tiredness got the better of her and, placing her hands under chin, she carefully lifted off her head and placed it beside her.

Jacobs’s eyes stretched. “Cor blimey, Miss can you teach me ’ow to do that?”

Mrs Tudor sighed. “Jacob, sweetie,” she said as she rolled her shoulders in an effort to soothe the ache that had been there for far too long. “Let’s chat as friends for a moment. You’re a very clever boy with a great future as an apparition within this organisation. But you must learn to walk before you can run. Patience is a requirement. At this Association of Ghostly Haunting, Apparitional and Spectral Training we pride ourselves on our accuracy and efficiency when it comes to frightening the living. In joining our group you automatically sign up to those rigours.”

Jacob snuffled. Mrs Tudor felt in the sleeve of her dress for a handkerchief and passed across a small white embroidered square. “Wipe your eyes and smarten yourself up,” she said. “You will have to repeat the last module but that doesn’t mean that we can’t begin the next one a little earlier than usual.”

Jacob strenuously blew his nose. “Fanks, Mrs Tudor,” he said handing back the sodden piece of cotton.

“Keep it.” Mrs Tudor stood and tucked her head under her left arm. “Come with me, I have some outstanding business at Hever Castle tonight.  It was an old stomping ground of mine when I was young,” she said as she swept out of her office. Jacob followed in silent awe.

This story first appeared on the UK Crime Book Club Facebook page on October 25th as part of the #ScaryShorts writing event.

Look out for another adventure for Jacob on December 29th...

Merry Christmas...

 

It's the time of year when I, and the blog, take a break.  It is also my favourite time of year and there is only one place to be - home.

I've yet to put up my tree and get the house looking festive.  But all of that will happen in the next couple of days.  My Christmas cards are all done and posted and I'm looking forward to putting my feet up for a couple of weeks or so.

I'd like to thank every one of you for reading my blog - I hope it has informed, entertained and perhaps raised a smile or two along the way.

I'd also like to pass on my heartfelt thanks to all readers.  In  the same way that actors need an audience, writers need readers.  Without the first, the second would not exist!  Readers, thank you for being there, for reading or borrowing my books, for taking your precious time to review my books.  Your thoughts, comments, and questions are always, always greatly appreciated.

Lastly, if you celebrate Christmas, please have a happy one and if not then I would like send you and yours my very best wishes.

Merry Christmas

I will be back here on January 4th to let you know what will be coming up in the New Year.  Between then and now... well, look out for something special here on the blog at Twixmas...

Friend and author Val Penny makes a welcome return...

... to the blog today.  Val, hello and long-time, no-see!

VP  Thank you for hosting me on your blog today. It is always a pleasure to visit.

AW Great to see you here and what have you got for us today?

VP  I write crime thrillers and started writing in this genre because that is what I enjoy reading. I firmly believe that to be a good author, you must first be an avid reader and it is due to my love of reading and story-telling that I began to write novels.

Hunter’s Rules is the sixth book in my Edinburgh Crime Mysteries series and there are many more to come!  Although the books form a series, each works as a standalone novel, so readers can join the stories at any point.

The books are set in the beautiful city of Edinburgh which is the capital of Scotland.  I chose it because it is a relatively small city and people from different walks of life and backgrounds are known to each other.  That allows me to have some fun with my characters and storylines.

I am particularly proud of this book because, although the story is complete within itself, the concept follows on from a short story that I contributed to a charity anthology, Dark Scotland. The story, which is again a standalone piece, is the prequel to the novel.  I hope those who read both will enjoy the conceit and those who read either will be absorbed by them.

AW I loved that story in Dark Scotland.  I shall look forward to reading Hunter's latest case.

about the author… This is the sixth book in The Edinburgh Crime Mysteries series of novels.  Val Penny’s other crime novels, Hunter's Chase Hunter's Revenge, Hunter's Force Hunter’s Blood and Hunter’s Secret form the rest of this bestselling series set in Edinburgh, Scotland, published by darkstroke.

You can also start at the beginning of The Jane Renwick Thrillers with The First Cut.

Her first non-fiction book Let’s Get Published is also available now and she has most recently contributed her short story, Cats and Dogs to the charity anthology, Dark Scotland.

Val is an American author living in SW Scotland with her husband and their cat.

about the book… A bloody scene brings Hunter and Meera’s romantic plans to an abrupt
end.

A young woman was attacked in a hotel lift.  She has life changing injuries, but she is alive.  Hunter notes that her wounds are like those inflicted on two women who previously died. 

Can Meera keep the injured woman alive long enough for her to identify her assailant?  Is the same person responsible for all three crimes?  When Hunter is identified as a suspect in the crime, can he establish his innocence and lead his team to solve the crime and keep Edinburgh safe?

You can follow Val on her Website,  Facebook,  Twitter and on Goodreads or  Bookbub 

You can get all the books in the series, Dark Scotland and Val's non-fiction on Amazon

Friend and author, Karen Moore makes a welcome return...

...to the blog this week.  Hi, Karen and thanks for making time to be here, and we're talking about the importance of setting today.  Tell me, what's your take on this...

KM  Read any novel and you can’t fail to be struck by its setting – when and where the action takes place - and the key role it plays in the overall story.  In some novels, the setting is bold, clamouring for attention, a character in its own right, while in others it may be meek, a mere backdrop to the action.

Writers know that creating the right setting is vital for the mood and atmosphere of the story, taking readers where they want them to go and making them experience the appropriate feelings along the way.  The right setting adds another dimension and helps to carry and support the plot. It also influences and reflects the behaviour, reactions, and emotions of the characters.

Picking a familiar setting can create an instant bond with readers, while opting for a more exotic one adds colour and heightens the reader’s sense of escapism.  My personal preference as a reader is to go for the latter as I love being immersed in new surroundings.

As a writer I have gone for the unfamiliar, the bold option, in my two thrillers, Torn and Release, selecting the contrasting land and seascapes of Sicily and Wales to provide a vivid and dramatic setting against which the story develops and unfolds.  Both areas are rich in culture and history relevant to the themes explored in the books, as well as being breathtakingly beautiful.  Both places fascinate and intrigue me and were wonderful to write about.

My latest novel, Release, opens in a serene setting: a family barbecue on a beautiful summer’s day in Wales.  That serenity is shattered by the devastating news that Hanna’s estranged mafioso husband has been released early from a Sicilian prison.  She fears he may come after her and her young daughter, Eva. The revelation leaves her with a dilemma: she has been invited to Sicily to attend her best friend’s wedding, but can she really take the risk?

But even staying at home in North Wales may not be safe.  As the lines between Sicily and North Wales blur, Hanna uncovers a criminal operation that leads her to fear for Eva’s life all over again.  Caught up in a web of intrigue and fear, how far will Hanna go to protect the ones she loves?

In North Wales, the setting shifts from mountain to coast, from Snowdonia to Anglesey, takes in a short trip over to Dublin in Ireland, then shifts to Sicily, from idyllic boutique hotel out in the countryside to the streets of Palermo, before moving to the coastal town of Cefalù, and from there up into the Madonian Mountains.

Coastal town of Cefalù

Even the weather plays a role, fluctuating from hot to cold, extreme heat to storms and floods, from tranquil to menacing in line with the plot.

All this with a sprinkling of local cuisine, a prominent feature of both books.  One reader even told me that she now drinks a certain type of Sicilian white wine after reading about it in my first book, Torn.

I’m currently writing the third book in the series.  Although some of the main characters remain, the setting shifts away from Sicily to Rome and Calabria.  And what about future books, will they continue to be set in Italy?  That depends very much on the storyline and finding the most suitable location for it.

Wherever it is, it will have to be a place I find evocative and fascinating.  For me, the writing journey is just as important as the finished product.  Writers spend so much time and effort on their books, it’s vital that it’s a labour of love.  If writers love their books, there’s a good chance that their readers will too.

about the author... Karen is passionate about all things noir – crime, mystery, thrillers – and writes in that genre.

She has been writing all her life, mostly for work purposes, and is now delighted to be able to spend more time developing her own creative work.

Karen worked as a tour guide across Europe, North America and Canada, followed by a career in PR and marketing.  She has lived in France and Italy and is now based in Cheshire, England.

Her debut novel, Torn, is a dark tale of intrigue and betrayal set in Sicily and North Wales.  Her second novel, Release, has recently been published.  Release is the sequel to Torn but is a stand-alone novel in its own right.  Karen is now working on a third novel in the series.

You can get the books on Amazon and you can follow Karen on Facebook and on Twitter 

 

Friend and author, Allan Hudson returns to the blog this week...

...to tell the story behind his story in the Autumn Paths anthology.  Hi, Allan, and thanks for taking some time out to be here today...

When the idea for an anthology was first discussed with my co-authors, it was an exciting time for me.  Not having been involved in an anthology prior to Autumn Paths, I regarded it as a highlight to my writing projects.  To be able to rub shoulders with authors I admire and have read is a feeling which is difficult to describe.  To be involved in this collection is pure joy.

Once the theme was decided upon, I wondered how I could contribute.  Where would Autumn Paths take me?  Would my story be up to the caliber of my fellow authors?  Ideas drifted through my mind.  It kept getting stuck on the main character (MC) of my Drake Alexander Adventures.  How could I introduce Drake in a fun way to a different audience?  Anyone who may have read the novels would know Drake Alexander is a former NCO in the Canadian Armed Forces. Looking back over the stories, I never told the readers why he chose to become a soldier.  You’ve seen cartoons where the Light Bulb of an idea appears over their head, well, that is what happened to me.  I would contribute a story to the anthology of when my MC was a boy, when he had the magical moment of deciding he would become a soldier.

What fun it has been to create a cast of eleven years olds up to mischief.  The title of my story is Warriors and Trickery.  One of the eleven-year-olds falls naturally into the role of being the ‘leader’.  Imagine, if you will, hanging with a bunch of your friends on a Saturday in the fall.  The trees are full of color, the sun is shining and a path to adventure awaits you.  They are not all boys, one of their best friends is a girl who loves escapades.  You’re only eleven and full of curiosity.  Lots of time on your hands.  You have the toy gun one of your friends carved out of wood stuck in your waistband.  You’re not interested in boring stuff, but, when one of your buddies suggest soldiers and war games, all kinds of images will fill your head.  Your imagination runs wild.  Camo uniforms, walkie talkies, guns and other weapons, maybe tanks.  Knowing you shouldn’t be doing what the rest of your gang is considering, the temptation is too great and you tag along.

I hope Warriors and Trickery will take you back to when you were a pre-teen. Maybe share a few chuckles with their antics.  It is the most fun I’ve had writing any story.  I hope you’ll enjoy it.

about the book... Nine writers - Seasonal Collective - from both sides of the Atlantic, including best-selling and award-winning authors, have created this miscellany of stories.

These tales of family, mystery, intrigue, adventure, and suspense will take you across continents, through time and space in this world and others.  With a linking theme of autumn, discover new landscapes, encounter new and intriguing characters, uncover secrets and lies, and witness the resolution of old enmities.

Take the first step on this roller-coaster of an emotional journey, and you won't be disappointed.

You can get the book Here

You can read more about the anthology Here  and  Here  And you can follow Allan on his blog the South Branch Scribbler

In the New Year, there will be more visits from other writers who also have stories in the anthology.  

The next visitor will be Pierre Arseneault in February and you can read his post here Here  I hope you will join us then...