October 17, 2014

#FridayFlash – Life Song

Sheet music by Egilshay and poppies by Anyone71. Edits by me.

A young man sits opposite Poppy on the train, a large folder open on his lap. Poppy tries hard not to stare at him but his old-fashioned three-piece pinstripe suit keeps catching her eye. A poppy rests in his buttonhole, even though it is far from Remembrance Day, and a bowler hat sits on the empty seat beside him. He looks up at her once, and the pale skin around his wide grey eyes crinkles as he smiles.

Poppy blushes and forces her gaze away from his open, handsome face, with its neat pencil moustache and cheekbones she could ski down. She glances at the open folder as the young man looks away from her. His eyes skate across the pages, reading sheet music as one might read a book.

Without really wanting to, Poppy starts following the lines of crotchets and quavers, forming each note in her mind before bouncing to the next. She frowns more than once as it is not an easy tune, but soon she realises that it’s actually some kind of symphony. Her pianist’s eye takes over and she hums the melody, although she can hear the strings and the woodwind in her mind. It’s a strange piece, somehow both melancholy and triumphant at once, and when the young man turns the page, she recognises the music. It’s music that she has been hearing all her life, in the back of her head – it is the music of her life. This sheet music displays her, in all her glory, in staves and quavers.

The young man puts his bowler hat on, closes the folder, and stands up as the train pulls into the next station.

“That’s my music!” she blurts.

“It is, my dear. But do not worry yourself, there are still three whole movements left yet. And they’re very long movements,” he replies.

He winks, and slips out of the open doors, taking her music with him. She tries to watch him go but he’s swallowed up by the throng on the platform.

The doors close, the train lurches onward, and Poppy sits back in her seat, humming the song of her life.

October 14, 2014

Inktober continues!

Last week I posted my Inktober sketches so far, so I figured I’d do another compilation of the work I’ve been doing since then!

Day 8 – Plague Doctor

Day 9 – Dice

Day 10 – Lipstick

Day 11 – Fairytale in a Box

Day 12 – Pumpkin

Day 13 – Catwoman quote

Day 14 – Buttons

There’s some fantastic work being done for Inktober this year, so check out the hashtag on Twitter to see some more of it!

October 10, 2014

#FridayFlash – Stolen Memories

Image by Tizwas01, edits by me.

This is the final part in a three-part serial, following Other Ways In and Lifting Enchantments. Fitzwilliam has sneaked into the Underground City from his privileged life in the City Above, and became enchanted by a Siren. The spell was lifted by a trio of housewives, and now he tries to find his way out.

Fitzwilliam couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being followed. He looked over his shoulder as he picked his way along Green Dragon Close, and peered down the alley as he turned onto the main street, but there was no one there.

No one I can see, at any rate.

He’d heard the stories of the Underground City, of mysterious figures that lurked in the darkness, jumping from shadow to shadow. Occasionally tales abounded in the City Above of Shadowkin caught stealing in the dead of night, but the harsh punishments meted out to anyone from the Underground City usually deterred all but the most determined of opportunists.

If only Penelope hadn’t backed out. She wouldn’t have been any better at spotting a Shadowkin than he was, but at least she would be company. He considered turning back and asking the housewives for advice, after all, they’d been the friendliest inhabitants he’d encountered so far. Of course that meant going back past whatever was behind him.

Maybe I’m being paranoid.

Something had clearly befallen him to lead him down a narrow close in an unfamiliar place, and while he wasn’t sure what, Fitzwilliam suspected an enchantment of some kind. If he was right, then he had every reason to be suspicious – hardly a sign of paranoia.

Fitzwilliam headed back to the shop that would take him back up to the City Above. A string of lanterns hung above the street, casting their sickly glow across the bustle below, and Fitzwilliam kept to the centre of the street where the light was strongest. Shadows pooled against buildings between gas lamps, outside their circles of flickering light. He eyed the puddles of darkness, and hurried onwards.

A gaggle of housewives poured out of a small shop to Fitzwilliam’s right. By the lank cloth in the grubby window, he guessed it was a haberdashery of some kind. They were laden with baskets and boxes, and ignored the people hurrying to and fro as they careered across the street. Fitzwilliam tried to slow down, to give them room, but they jostled him to one side, and he stumbled into one of the shadows.

The arm wrapped around his neck before he could cry out. Pressure on his throat, gentle but firm, kept him quiet. Another arm snaked downwards and he felt the tip of something pressed against his stomach. By the thickness of the metal, and the bluntness of the blade, Fitzwilliam judged it to be a Novocastrian slake, a dagger designed for causing as much damage as possible.

“I’m going to move my arm off your throat, but if you so much as whimper, this goes in your gut, see?” The voice in his ear was female, which surprised him. It was deep yet husky, as though it were made of cobwebs and darkness.

Fitzwilliam nodded and the arm loosened around his neck, although the slake remained pressed against his stomach. At that angle, she could have his intestines out before he could blink. He tried to think of defensive tactics, or counter-moves, but blind fear robbed him of his training.

“Whatever you want, you may take,” whispered Fitzwilliam. He stopped himself from adding some form of insult.

“That was my intention, you dolt,” she replied.

“I have a bag of coinage. It’s for the City Above so it will do you little good, but you may take it all the same,” he said. He fished the bag out of his coat, and held it out to her. She remained behind him, but he guessed that she was taller than his own six feet.

“This is pretty leatherwork. Keep the coins, but I will keep the purse.” She dumped the money back into his pockets.

“Is that all?” Fitzwilliam couldn’t believe such good fortune. The purse was a present from a distant relative on his father’s side. He’d never really liked it, which was why he used it on his illicit excursions, in case something like this took place.

“Not all. I want a memory.”

“A memory?”

“Yes, a memory, not an echo.” The Shadowkin jabbed at his stomach with the slake to make her point.

“Which memory do you want? I have more than one I’d be happy to part with.”

“I don’t want memories of your disgraces, dog. Hold still.”

The sensation was incredibly unpleasant, as something cold penetrated the back of his head, as if she’d dipped her own ethereal hand into his skull. His memories swirled in a monochromatic haze, colliding into one another in a confused montage that unspooled before his mind’s eye. Fitzwilliam clutched at his head, clawing at his scalp in an effort to stop the maddening procession of images.

“Ah, this is what I want.” The coldness disappeared from the back of his head, and Fitzwilliam slumped against the wall. He didn’t notice the removal of the slake from his gut, or the exit by the Shadowkin. His vision darkened, and he spiraled into oblivion.

* * *

He came to in a dark room, the only source of light pointing to a staircase that led up into the gloom. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he knew he wanted to go home. He scrambled up the stairs, and stumbled through a maze of corridors until he found a door that led into the street. He burst out into a familiar quiet street at the edge of the City Above, with the pink fingers of dawn beginning to grasp the edges of the sky. Fitzwilliam saluted the growing sunrise as he ran through the streets towards the Military Academy.

It was only when he let himself into the side gate and sneaked past the guards that he realised he couldn’t remember the layout of the building, or even where his room was. The memory was gone.

If you’ve enjoyed this serial, then why not try my novella, The Necromancer’s Apprentice, set in the dual world of the Cities Above and Below? Find it on Goodreads, Amazon, Smashwords and Kobo!

October 7, 2014

Inktober so far

As I described last Wednesday, I’m taking part in Inktober, an art challenge to produce a work in ink every day of October. I’m not exactly Picasso but I’ve been enjoying it, and I wanted to collect what I’ve done since last week.

Day Two – Puppy

Day Three – Mystery Man

Day Four – Squirrel

Day Five – Penguin

Day Six – Typography

Day Seven – Song Lyric Quote

So far, I think I’m most proud of my puppy, but I was pleased with my mystery man since I didn’t use any photo or image reference!

Have you been doing Inktober?

October 5, 2014

Night Will Fall: The importance of documentary

As a Film Studies academic, I often feel called upon to defend the study of something as seemingly frivolous as cinema. People hear I’m doing a PhD, and eagerly enquire as to the topic. The moment I say “Film Studies” I see the same disappointed expression, and hear the same “Oh. Well as long as you enjoy it, I suppose”. Film Studies is somehow seen as not a ‘real’ subject, lacking in practical application and therefore the refuge for students who weren’t clever enough for maths or science.

So it is somewhat vindicating for me when a film comes along that outright proves the importance of the moving image to society as a whole, and it’s even more valuable to that society when the film in question is as powerful as Night Will Fall, directed by André Singer. By turns horrifying and mesmerising, this documentary is thought-provoking but sensitive, and ever the objective tale.

In 1945, the Allies discovered the horrible reality of the Second World War in the form of the concentration camps. The possibility that such sights could be denied as wartime propaganda was a real one, yet soldiers were armed with a weapon perhaps more powerful than the machine gun; the movie camera. They filmed everything they could to provide damning evidence of what had been going on, and producer Sydney Bernstein decided to turn the footage into a documentary, the German Concentration Camps Factual Survey. With input from none other than Alfred Hitchcock, and footage from British, American, and Soviet soldiers, the documentary “would prove one day that this actually happened” – Bernstein. While the footage was used as evidence in the war crimes trials that followed the war, the documentary never saw the light of day due to the political manoeuvres of post-war Europe. The uncompleted edited footage, director’s notes and completed scripts were labelled, filed away, and forgotten about.

Until now. The Imperial War Museum have used the package to complete Bernstein’s film, which will screen at the London Film Festival. In the meantime, Night Will Fall intersperses interviews with surviving cameramen and editors, shot footage from the camps, and clips from the documentary to tell the story of its making. This is not an easy film to watch. As a horror specialist I’ve seen some incredibly gory films, but no matter how many internal organs are spattered on the floor, I know that the actors will get up and go home at the end of the day. There was no such release for the victims of the death camps, and it is difficult to connect the emaciated, lifeless forms on screen with a conception of your fellow man. The footage is not entirely new to us, having appeared in one form or another over the years, but one can only imagine the horror of seeing these sights in person back in 1945, the movie camera the only intermediary between the soldier and these visions of hell.

Yet there are touches of hope. Survivors of the camps add their stories. The Russians explained their use of the camera pan to sidestep accusations that footage had been faked. The original documentary included footage of the healing process, and for the first time I really thought about what actually happened to the survivors after the liberation of the camps. A handwritten sign proclaiming a warehouse of clothes to be ‘Harrods’ brought humanity back into an inhuman sphere.

We need the hope as well as the horror to remind us that humanity is capable of both extremes, particularly in such a war-torn and bloodsoaked era as ours. If the Great War was intended to be the war to end all wars, yet less than thirty years later humans could commit such atrocities against their fellow man, then we’ll need an awful lot more hope in the twenty-first century.

October 3, 2014

#FridayFlash – Lifting Enchantments

This story follows on from last week’s tale, Other Ways In. Fitzwilliam has sneaked into the Underground City, and is pursuing a Siren for what he believes will be a pleasurable encounter.

Fitzwilliam followed the Siren at a distance. Unwelcoming gazes tracked his progress, and he did his best to ignore the discomfort that his presence provoked among the locals. Seeing the filth and hearing the noise of the Underground City, he couldn’t be surprised that its inhabitants would be ill disposed towards a newcomer, so clearly belonging to the City Above. Every time his doubts clouded his mind, and he considered turning back, the Siren would toss him another provoking glance, and he continued on his way.

Urchins ran up to him, threadbare caps held out for alms, but Fitzwilliam had little in the way of currency in his pockets. He pulled the buttons from the sleeves of his coat and passed them around the sweet-faced young boys.

“We’re grateful, sir, but me ma won’t want me comin’ home with buttons,” said one scamp, covered in soot, his eyes pale in the smudges covering his face.

“They’re solid copper, my boy.”

The urchins cheered, and ran away down the lane, hollering about the “dashing gent from Above.” Fitzwilliam frowned – his presence had drawn enough attention as it was. Soon he’d be mobbed by these people, and they’d strip him naked to sell his fine clothing.

He looked ahead to the Siren, and again she flashed a come-hither smile. Instead of plunging along the lane, she took a turning to the right, and disappeared from view. Fitzwilliam followed. A grimy sign on the side of the tenement building proclaimed this to be Green Dragon Close, and it was close by name and close by nature, barely wide enough for two men to pass shoulder to shoulder. Still, it was quieter, and reasonably clean, compared to the main street.

The Siren skipped ahead, ignoring the dark looks of the housewives exchanging gossip in doorways. Her kind clearly weren’t any more welcome down here than they were above. In many ways, they were worth less than the Night Ladies.

“If yer don’t mind me sayin’, sir, you can do better than ‘er sort,” said a blonde housewife as he passed.

“I thank you for your interest, my good lady,” replied Fitzwilliam.

“I’d run on back to your own City, if I were you,” said another, a homely woman with auburn hair. He prepared an angry retort until he caught sight of her expression. She bore him no ill will, or even reproach. She genuinely worried for his welfare.

A third housewife peered into his face and frowned.

“He’s been enchanted, probably by that minx. Where’s your Jyximus, Mae? He could sort this one out.”

“He’s still at the House. I don’t know when that Eufame woman will let him have a holiday,” replied the auburn-haired housewife.

“That Eufame woman?” Fitzwilliam gasped. He’d never heard the necromancer general spoken of in such a flippant tone in the City Above. Perhaps her stern reputation had not stretched so far below, but clearly her son was Miss Delsenza’s new apprentice, hired to assist with the Coronation Parade. This was an interesting development.

“Hang on, I don’t think we need Jyx now. Look at his face, his eyes are all clear now,” said the third housewife.

“Yeah, I reckon ‘e should be good to go now,” said the blonde.

Feeling as though a cloud had lifted from his head, Fitzwilliam backed away from the women. He didn’t have a single idea why he was talking to three housewives in an Underground City close, or why he’d come down this street in the first place.

“Who are you? Why am I here?” he asked.

“Yer got lost, sir, and yer came down ‘ere to ask fer directions.” All three housewives smiled.

“Oh. Directions to where?”

“The way out. You’ve seen a lot of the Underground City, but I reckon it’d be best if you went on home.”

“You want to go back down this close, and turn left. Keep going along the main street until you see a house with three golden balls hanging outside.”

Fitzwilliam recognised the description of the house he needed to find to get back up the staircase to the City Above. He didn’t remember getting lost, and he certainly couldn’t remember asking for directions – no member of the Military Academy would ever stoop so low. Still, they were pleasant enough women, for housewives, and perhaps they had a point. He could return home, and procure a map of the Underground City, as well as appropriate garb, for another visit.

Fitzwilliam removed the decorative buckle from his belt and handed it to the housewives. He bowed deeply, thanked them for their time and assistance, and headed back along the close towards the noise of the street beyond.

The Siren lurked in the shadows further down the close, and scowled at the housewives for their interference. A figure moved in the gloom beside her.

“He will not follow me again. Their chattering has seen to that. You will have to work your own wiles,” said the Siren.

The figure nodded, and moved away down the close, skipping from shadow to shadow. It passed the housewives unseen, and followed Fitzwilliam into the street.

Continues next week!

Main image was originally by Debsch, but I’ve edited it to turn a daytime street in Luxembourg into an underground scene!

October 1, 2014

Taking Part in Inktober

My good friend Monica Marier is taking part in Inktober, and as I want to expand my own creative practice, I thought I’d take part as well! It’ll be nice to see if I can cultivate a new drawing habit. Here is the original text from Jake Parker;

31 Days 31 Drawings
Every October, artists all over the world take on the InkTober drawing challenge by doing one ink drawing a day the entire month. I created InkTober in 2009 as a challenge to improve my inking skills and develop positive drawing habits. It has since grown into a worldwide endeavor with thousands of artists taking on the challenge every year.

Anyone can do InkTober, just pick up a pen and start drawing.

InkTober rules:
1) Make a drawing in ink (you can do a pencil under-drawing if you want).

2) Post it on your blog (or tumblr, instagram, twitter, facebook, flickr, Pinterest or just pin it on your wall.)

3) Hashtag it with #inktober

4) Repeat

Note: you can do it daily, or go the half-marathon route and post every other day, or just do the 5K and post once a week. What ever you decide, just be consistent with it. INKtober is about growing and improving and forming positive habits, so the more you’re consistent the better.

That’s it! Now go make something beautiful. — reblogged from http://mrjakeparker.com/inktober

There are different types of pens to use and whatnot but I’m doing this for the fact I need to get back into drawing anyway, so to hell with special rules!

Here’s my first one, although I’ll only post a few days’ worth from now on. This wasn’t strictly a drawing as I dropped ink onto a page and blew it around with a straw, but never mind!

tree1What do you think?

 

September 30, 2014

How to find inspiration in a graveyard

You may have seen the links on social media to a new anthology, Suspended in Dusk, published by Books of the Dead. I’ve got a short story in the collection, called A Woman of Disrepute, which is a gothic piece steeped in the fog and darkness of Victorian London. Because it has origins in historical fact, I wanted to talk a bit today about where the story came from.

‘Found’ by Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1854)

I’ve long been fascinated by the representation of the woman in Victorian painting, portrayed as she is as one of two binary opposites; she’s either the Angel of the Hearth, or the fallen woman. As far as Victorian social etiquette went, a woman either ran the household and provided emotional and domestic support to her husband, or she tended to his ‘other’ needs and suffered as a result. Suicide among prostitutes was not uncommon, with many paintings depicting these ladies of the night either on Blackfriars Bridge contemplating their fate, or in the water. This image by Dante Gabriel Rossetti pictures a young man who has brought a young lamb to market, only to find his childhood sweetheart plying her own trade in the city. He’s found her on the bridge, the implication being that she wants to throw herself off it.

Enter the protagonist of my story, Edward Bonneville. He’s a writer, but he learns of the plight of these women when an artist friend creates a painting to depict this particular state of affairs. It’s unlikely that he knew nothing of such things, but he’s the kind of guy who thinks that only writers can tell the truth. He sets off to a less salubrious club to interview some of the ladies with looser morals to see if he can write some sort of expose about the treatment they suffer. Instead, he discovers something a lot darker that is stalking the streets of Southwark, a sort of ‘urban legend’ among the girls who is the real reason why so many prostitutes turn up dead. The story is set in the early 1890s, so naturally considerations around Jack the Ripper would have also been prevalent at the time, although these deaths are attributed to suicide, not murder.

Looking through the bars into Cross Bones in August 2014

Southwark is a key location in the story. In the twelfth century, prostitution was actually legal here, with the prostitutes paying taxes to the Bishop of Winchester, based at the Palace of Winchester in Southwark. The ladies became known as the Bishop of Winchester’s geese, and when they died, they were buried in unconsecrated ground. There are historical links with a “Single Women’s Graveyard” named in a 1598 survey and Cross Bones graveyard, a patch of ground not far from Borough Market. It was closed in 1853, and was sold as a building site in 1883, but the land was disturbed in the 1990s during construction of the Jubilee Line on the London Underground. I looked it up online on www.old-maps.co.uk, and in 1882, the location is shown as being a builder’s yard, although it is at least credited as being the site of the ‘Cross Bones Burying Ground’ by 1895. According to its website, there is also a legend that the site was a plague pit during the 1665 Great Plague but given the widespread nature of the plague, it would hardly be surprising.

I’ve created a further character, in the figure of the first Goose buried in the ground, known as ‘Mother Goose’, who becomes the monster of the story, but I suppose the main inspiration was Cross Bones itself. You can still visit Cross Bones today, located on Redcross Way, but you can’t get any further than the gates.

They’re adorned with ribbons and other tributes to the graveyard’s inhabitants, as well as a bronze plaque to “the outcast dead”. There are rituals and community events held at the cemetery to honour those buried there, although 146 skeletons were removed by archaeologists. The Friends of Cross Bones are campaigning for the area to be opened as a community garden/heritage site.

Even though you can only peer through the gates, you can’t help but feel some sort of sorrow on behalf of those interred there. I suppose, in a way, that I’ve continued Edward Bonneville’s intention to tell the story of these poor women, albeit a story soaked in supernatural shadows…

If this has piqued your interest, you can find more details at Goodreads, or pick up a copy of Suspended in Dusk from Amazon and Smashwords – print copies will be coming soon! The anthology also contains stories by Ramsey Campbell, John Everson, Rayne Hall, Shane McKenzie, Angela Slatter, Alan Baxter, S.G Larner, Wendy Hammer, Sarah Read, Karen Runge, Toby Bennett, Benjamin Knox, Brett Rex Bruton, Tom Dullemond, Armand Rosamilia, Chris Limb, Anna Reith, and J.C. Michael, and features an introduction by Jack Ketcham!

September 26, 2014

#FridayFlash – Other Ways In

This week’s Friday flash returns to the world of The Necromancer’s Apprentice for this standalone tale!

Fitzwilliam Curtis edged along the vast wall that marked the boundary of the City Above. Penelope Vanbrugh followed, her rosebud mouth twisted into a pout as she tried to keep her dress away from the stonework.

“Are you sure this is worth it?” she asked. Fitzwilliam sighed and shot her his patented ‘Do I really need to answer that?’ expression, complete with errant lock of hair falling artfully over one eye.

“All of the most interesting people have excursions into the Underground City,” he replied.

He’d explained it to her at least three times over tea the night before. Life in the City Above was so boring, an endless round of lectures at the Military Academy in the Palace Barracks and parties with the City’s Elite to make connections that might help him secure a commission in the Militia. Even sneaking away to the Artist’s Quarter for midnight meetings with the Night Ladies had done little to spice up his existence. Surely the labyrinthine expanse of the Underground City, where magick was openly allowed, would offer something more exciting.

“We can’t use Lockervar’s Gate. We don’t have our Seals.” Penelope pointed to the vast gate set into the wall some seventy yards away.

“We don’t need to. There are other ways below, you know. Ones that aren’t watched.”

The buildings lining the narrow thoroughfare alongside the wall were haphazard in their construction, telling of the confusion and haste that accompanied the raising of the City Above. Lead-lined windows were set into whitewashed walls between exposed beams grown black with time. Upper storeys hung over the street, leaning towards the wall like drunken uncles at family occasions. Fitzwilliam led her to a door not far from the mighty Gate. He knocked three times on the door and rattled the doorknob.

A hatch slid open, and a wizened face peered out. Fitzwilliam smiled, the very picture of charm. The face, presumably belonging to a woman, nodded, and the hatch slid closed again. A moment later, the door opened, and she ushered them inside.

“We require passage, my good lady!”

“I know. Yer mate told me yer was comin’.”

Fitzwilliam noticed Penelope’s confused expression and motioned that he would explain later. He handed a purse of coins to the old woman, who led them deeper into the building. The tiny passageway was barely wide enough for Fitzwilliam and Penelope to walk normally, and they followed her around its kinks and sharp turns to a final room, lit by crackling green light contained in lanterns. Fitzwilliam noticed the newel post across the room, and the staircase that descended into darkness below.

“Down there.”

The old woman turned and left them. Penelope approached the staircase as a nervous rabbit might approach a fox that may, or may not, be dead.

“We go down there? It looks awfully rickety.”

“Indeed we do, Pen. Then when we want to come back, we repeat this process with our good lady’s sister below.”

“Exactly who is this ‘mate’ of yours that she mentioned?”

“Well he’s not exactly a mate. More a friend of a friend. Passing acquaintance, really. Godby knows him – that’s how I found out about this method of passage.”

“Have you ever actually met this acquaintance?” Penelope raised a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Well no, but Godby has. He acted as go-between.”

“Fitzwilliam Corby Curtis, this is by far one of your stupidest ideas yet. I’m not going down there into goodness knows what on the say-so of someone you haven’t even met.”

Fitzwilliam scowled. He should have guessed that Penelope would attempt to thwart his attempts at excitement. She was probably afraid that there would be some sort of incident, and it might tarnish her reputation. He snorted.

“Very well, Miss Vanbrugh. If those are your feelings, then I invite you to remain here, in the space between the Cities. I shall inform you of my adventures when I return.”

Without waiting for her reply, he stormed across the room and ran down the steps, taking them two at a time. She squeaked a protest but no footsteps followed him down the staircase. Silly girl. He should have brought Carmilla Whittaker. Her uncle was Dean of the Academy, and she was used to dangerous situations whenever they had a family get-together.

A dim green glow lit the room, and another wizened old woman stood beside a doorway. She beckoned to Fitzwilliam. He followed her, and she led him out of the room. Another long and twisting passageway took them into a bigger room, the mirror of the building back in the City Above.

“Welcome to the Underground City, boy.” The woman’s voice reminded Fitzwilliam of carriage wheels on gravel.

“My thanks, my dear lady.”

“When yer done, knock three times on t’door and rattle t’doorknob, ‘n I’ll let yer in.”

Fitzwilliam bowed, and opened the front door. The street outside was a cacophony of shouts from passing traders, and a Siren practised scales outside a house a few doors down. Gas lamps threw sputtering light into the street below, which was less of a street and more of an open gutter, and crumbling tenements soared into the gloom above. Fitzwilliam stared – he’d never been in a city without a sky before. People hurried to and fro, and he was stunned by the noise and smells. The City Above did not smell so…ripe.

There was a push in the small of the back and he stumbled forwards into the street. The door slammed shut behind him, and he struggled to straighten his jacket, suddenly wishing he’d procured clothing from the Artist’s Quarter that might better fit in with the drab outfits of the locals.

The Siren caught his eye and smiled. Fitzwilliam took in her curves and mass of shining red hair, and decided to follow when she turned and sashayed away along the street.

A shadow detached itself from the darkness below the eaves of the house, and crept along the street behind him.

To be continued next week, with Lifting Enchantments!

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, there are other tales of the Underground City here, or you can read The Necromancer’s Apprentice, in which an apprentice magickian intends to impress an imposing necromancer, but instead raises a bloodthirsty mummy horde. Find it on Goodreads, or check it out on Amazon, Kobo, and Smashwords.

September 23, 2014

Craftblogclub Winter Challenge

I’ve done a few of the #Craftblogclub challenges since the Twitter chat started a little over a year ago, and the current challenge is to create something that is winter themed. Now, for a frosty soul like myself, you’d think that would be easy. Should I knit or crochet something? Make some wintry jewellery? Produce some wintry calligraphy?

Well I actually ended up doing something by accident. I’m working on a unit with the students at the moment which is Visual Recording in Art and Design, and they have to produce an illustration of the local area. We’re doing primary drawings around town this afternoon, but on Wednesday afternoon they’ll be drawing from photographs, and it was while I was preparing for this session that I ended up with my response to the winter challenge!

This is the photograph that I decided to use – I took it in January 2013 in Jesmond Dene, when I decided that scampering through the snow to take photos was a productive use of a Sunday.

And this is my illustration! I decided to only do a section of the bridge, and I decided to have another go with charcoal, something I haven’t used since A Level Art! I hope I’ve managed to capture the snow okay.

What do you think?