Write Wordmonkey, Write!

Time marches ever on and as the due date for my thesis submission (not-so-affectionately known as T-day) approaches, my mind is starting to turn to what might come after. And as usual get closer and closer to not being a student any more, I've realised that I don't really want a proper grown up job; increasingly I want to make a living from my writing somehow and as a result I've been reading lots of advice about writing. Particularly advice about having a successful fiction writing career.

I'm quite fond of reading Chuck Wendig's writing advice, mostly due to his irreverent and (often sweary) style, but I've also been devouring books by Rachel Aaron, Kristine Kathryn Rusch and Dean Wesley Smith as well as listening to podcasts like Writing Excuses and I Should Be Writing. There's a hell of a lot of advice out there for a budding fiction writer, almost too much I've come to realise. It makes sense to a degree, the fiction publishing business is in flux and there are a lot of new things to learn about having a successful career in a world with lots of options for traditional, small press and self publishing.

But as far as advice on the actual writing part is concerned I sometimes feel that there's a lot of over-thinking going on. I mean yeah, who am i to be judging these professional writers on the advice they're giving? Surely they know what they're talking about more than I do? Well I might not be making any money from my writing and the only place I've been published is on my blog, but I like to think I know a thing or two about writing despite a pretty busy life. I mean, I've somehow managed to rack up a word count in the region of 60,000 words so far this year while I've been writing up my thesis. And those are just the words I've been keeping track of. And I've managed to do that by following three simple steps:

1) Make yourself sit down and write (preferably every day) with a few distractions as possible.
2) Keep track of how much you're writing and when.
3) When you finish one piece move on the next as quickly as possible. Always be writing.

Seems simple doesn't it? And it is really, but it is also incredibly difficult. Number one in particular is a real belly ache at times when there's work and cleaning and food to cook and videogames to play and a billion other things demanding your attention.

And then there's the beast called writer's block to consider. The best way I've found to beat writer's block is to just sit down and make yourself write something, anything. Whether that's a stream of consciousness whinge about the fact you can't think of anything to write, just make yourself sit there and tap out some words. More often than not it'll get the ball rolling.

I'm also a big fan of word sprints as a method of getting stuff onto the page. 15 minute chunks seem to work best for me, and I can get 500-600 words written in that time, which I don't is too shabby.

Point number two has helped me more than I thought it would. At the moment I'm tracking word count and the date, along with a monthly total and a daily average. You could even track where and what time of day you're writing, or divided it up into genre or fiction and non fiction. Whatever is most useful for you. The point is if you known the number of words you've committed to paper (or screen) you have something definitive, something tangible. And watching that number go up is incredibly satisfying. Had a relatively unproductive week or month? Push yourself to get a higher number next time. A little bit of competition with yourself never hurt, just remember to be kind to yourself if your number goes down one week. Life is allowed to get in the way sometimes, the trick is to pick yourself back up again and try again.

Which leads quite nicely to number three; start a new piece as soon as you can after finishing your current piece. It can be tempting to sit back and revel in the victory of having finished a story or poem or article, whether it's a 100 word drabble or an epic novel. Very tempting, but you have to get back on the house and keep going. Writers write. Yes there's editing and proofreading and a million other things to do, especially if you're submitting something for publication, but that shouldn't get in the way of writing something new.

Just finished writing a 40,000 word novella and suffering a little from writing fatigue? Write something short and sweet to change it up. Found something in your craft that needs work? Write a coupled of short pieces focussing on that aspect to practice. But you need to move on and start writing again, even before you edit something you just finished. Always. Be. Writing.

Three simple rules. Not that hard on the face of it, but they definitely require a little self discipline. That's up to you. Follow these steps and you should seen your productivity increase. Once you're writing on a regular basis you can worry about other stuff. But whatever happens keep writing. And if you need a few more rules I've found Heinlein's rules to be useful too. But keep it simple. Maybe set yourself a word count. 500 words a day is eminently doable, and kept up over the course of a year adds up to enough words for two novels. Wouldn't that be cool? That's what I'm aiming for.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have writing--I mean thesis to do.

Top 10 SF Stories by Women

Over on the old Twitters, @BellJarred for recommendation for short stories by women. As I've spent this year trying to read more scifi/fantasy (or speculative fiction if you're feeling all fancy) by women AND trying to read more short stories in general this lay within my general realm of expertise. I might have gotten a little bit excited and accidentally compiled a list of my current top ten short stories by women.  And because I have a blog doohicky and also to keep them all in one place, I'm posting the list here. Story time!

CaptainRaz's Current Top Ten SF Stories by Women (in no particular order)

Sinner, Baker, Fabulist, Priest; Red Mask, Black Mask, Gentleman, Beast by Eugie Foster

This Nebula Award winning novelette by the sadly late Eugie Foster is difficult to describe.  It's about a future in which the masks we wear every day are literal and they change a person's lives and identity. No one is allowed to know who is really underneath the mask, though of course there are those who want to. This story is breathtaking and it's hard to put into words why I love it so much. It's the only story on my list I couldn't find on the web for free. It's only 99p though and well worth it. Just put it in your face holes.


Selkie Stories Are For Losers by Sofia Samatar

I listened to the audio version of this over on Escape Pod and loved it. It's a beautiful story that weaves folk tales with the modern day, and it kept me guessing right until the end. One of those where the SF elements are downplayed, but no less powerful for it. So far it's the only story I've read by Sofia Samatar, but I intend to change that.


Boojum by Elizabeth Bear and Sarah Monette

I read this in The Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women (a number of the stories on this list are also in that) and it was one of my favourites in the anthology. A story about a living ship and her crew—which I always love—with a surprisingly Lovecraftian ending. I remember basically forcing my spousal unit to read this because I loved it so much.


Spider the Artist by Nnedi Okorafor

Nnedi Okorafor is a writer about who I've heard good things about but not read very much. This story though. This story. Zombies and robots and a woman trying to escape an abusive household. This story packs such a punch and somehow left me grinning despite the subject matter.


The Narcomancer by N.K. Jemisin

Oh man how much do I love N.K. Jemisin. Well, I devoured her Inheritance Trilogy (which weighs in at approximately 1500 pages) in about three days, utterly wrecking my sleep cycle resulting in me emotionally tweeting Susan at 3am. That's how much I love N.K. Jemisin. The Narcomancer is actually the first thing I read by her, and is a lead in to her Dreamblood duology, which I desperately want to read. Set in Gujaareh, where peace is the only law, we follow a priest tasked with bringing down the Narcomancer of the title (sleep wizard–I could use one of those) in order to save a village. Only there are complications (aren't there always). Read. It. And also the Inheritance trilogy as well.


Effigy Nights by Yoon Ha Lee

(See edit)

Yoon Ha Lee is another writer I've been flailing about a lot this year. I bought her his anthology, Conservation of Shadows, on the back of another short story (Combustion Hour) and this ended up being my favourite. Lee's strength is in the interplay of her his words; I just love the way she he puts them together. I can flail for hours over the second line in this story. The second line! The story is about books, and is haunting and moving. I don't want to say any more. Read this story, then Combustion Hour, then buy her his anthology. You won't regret it.


Astrophilia by Carrie Vaughn

Another entry from the Mammoth Book of SF Stories by Women from the author of some of my favourite werewolf stories. No werewolves in this one though. Set after some cataclysm in which the human race has lost almost everything, this story is about one woman's search for knowledge and her struggle to fit in, with a little bit of romance as well.


The Cartographer Wasps and the Anarchist Bees by E. Lily Yu

This is one of those stories I wish I'd written. It is so, so good. Look at that title. Just look at it. Map-making wasps, bees rising up to overthrow their oppressors. Go. Read.


Goodnight Stars by Annie Bellet

This is an interesting one, having been caught up in the Hugos shenanigans this year (which I stayed the fuck away from thankfully), but I didn't hold that against it. From the middle book in John Joseph Adams' Apocalypse Triptych, this story is set smack bang in the middle of the end of the world. It's small scale, focussing in on a few people amid all the tragedy. It's a great story and made me want to get all three books in the triptych.


The God of Au by Ann Leckie

I am a massive fan of Leckie's Imperial Radch Trilogy, the first of which, Ancillary Justice, won literally all the awards. The second, Ancillary Sword, is even better and I am looking forward to the third even though it comes out about three days after my thesis is due in. 'The God of Au' is very different from the space opera setting of the Imperial Radch. Set mostly on the island of Au, this is a story about gods and promises and patience. It's the story that made me want to read Leckie's novels in the first place. I promise you this isn't the last on the list because it's less good than the others. It really isn't.


So there we go. Ten(ish) story recs, most of them free, and a few bonus novels to boot. Go, get thee to a book store (and also the internet, which I guess you're already on if–never mind.)

Have stories. Go read.



Edit: Since I wrote this post I found out that Yoon Ha Lee is in fact a trans man and not a woman. I'm electing to keep the entry up there because a) his stories are bloody amazing and I love them and b) there are also not enough SFF stories by trans folk that get showcased.

But so I am fulfilling my promise of having 10 SF stories by women here is one further recommendation:

The Lady Astronaut of Mars by Mary Robinette Kowal

This story won the Hugo for Best Novelette in 2014 and can see why. It's good. Very good. The story centres around an ageing astronaut longing for one last adventure. It's poignant and bitter sweet and made me cry my eyes out. You will not regret reading this, I promise.

National Flash Fiction Day

Late last night I learned that National Flash Fiction day was a thing, and that it was to happen on June 27th this year. I checked my calendar and realised that was today. I'm a pretty big fan of flash fiction so I wanted to do something for it. So I spoke to my friend Jay for a word count and a prompt and they delivered. I had 500 words to write about an "opportunity I decided to miss".

Challenge Accepted!

The resulting piece actually fills out some back story for a character in a film I helped make called Codex Noctumbra. You probably don't have to watch the film for it to make sense, but it would certainly be nice if you did. It definitely leaves things open for the story to continue, so watch this space.



Codex Redux

Susan flopped down on the bed beside me, a mischievous grin on her face.

My reaction was immediate and instinctive “No.”

She pouted. “But Trish,” she said stretching the vowel out into a whine. “You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

“Your ideas always end up with me getting in trouble. The answer is no.”

She lay on the bed in silence for a few minutes, no doubt planning her next attack run on my sensibilities. I battened down the hatches and raised my shields.

“You’re my favourite twin…”

“I’m your only twin. That’s how it generally works.”

The pout deepened. “Fine. Don’t come with me. But I’m gonna have a great time without you. This guy Adam is showing us all sorts of wicked occult stuff…”

“Come on Susie, you know I’m not into that stuff. Besides, isn’t it kinda dangerous?”

“Not when you know what you’re doing.” Haughtiness and condescension dripped from her voice. I’d fucked up, and now she was pissed. “And Adam knows what he’s doing. He’s done this stuff before.”

I sighed. She’d made up her mind, there would be no stopping her now. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. Do you want to come with me? It would be good to have someone there that I know. Please?”

She looked so earnest, completely abandoning the serious goth she tried to be most of the time. I was tempted.

“I’m fine, thank you. You be careful though.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, nothing will go wrong.”

***

Everything had gone wrong. When the police started talking about chunks I had to leave the room to throw up and I couldn’t make myself go back in, not even to support mum. I sat in the hallway shaking and sobbing, calling out for my baby sister.

I later learned that she was one of the lucky (ha!) ones. She hadn’t been reduced to her constituent parts like some of the others. Susan died almost instantly after some sort of barb pierced her brain. There shouldn’t have been much pain. Somehow that wasn’t much comfort.

The police had no idea what had happened. The best theory they could come up with was a mysterious axe murderer but there was little to no evidence of that. Whoever—or whatever—had killed my sister and her friends had left almost to trace behind. I thought the police were wrong.

I struggled with the guilt for a long time. I should have gone with her, but then I’d probably be dead too, and mum would be all alone. Just another mysterious death in an unsolved case. As much as it hurts to live on without the other half of me, I’m glad I stayed home.

I never believed in the occult nonsense Susan was into. Not until she died. I think they summoned something that night, something that was stronger than they were and it tore them apart for their arrogance.

One day, I’m going to find whatever did this, and kill it.

Lets go Camping: NaNoWriMo April 2015

I have never been particularly known for being a sensible person. Case in point: I decided to do a PhD despite several people helpfully pointing out that PhDs are terrible and difficult and will eat your soul before you are done. I did it anyway and, lo and behold, it has been occasionally awful, definitely difficult and has probably consumed some vital part of my soul.

So, yeah. Not really a sensible person.

Which is probably why I ended up doing Camp NaNo this April. In the fourth year of my PhD. While writing my thesis. Told you I was a sensible person.

Camp NaNo is a lot like its bigger, better known sibling. You have a word count, and thirty days to hit it. There's a lot of advice and tips and support along the way, but ultimately its up to you. The main difference being that for Camp NaNo, you choose your word count. Anything from 10,000 to 999,999 words is accepted. (Though seriously, who the fuck decides that trying to write a million words in a month is a good idea?)

I've had a couple of novella length fanfic ideas in my brain for a while, and thought that April was a reasonable (ish) time to attempt a large, non-thesis writing project. So I set myself a target of 30,000 words—1000 words a day is pretty reasonable—and away I went. And as you can see by the shiny badge on the left right hand side of this post, I made it. I wrote 30k words in thirty days (26 actually, but close enough), making this the second longest fiction project I've ever written, by quite a large margin.

But I'm a scientist. It wasn't enough that I get a badge declaring my success, oh no. I had to graph it.

Because science!

Figure 1: It's definitely science if you make a graph out of it.

The black line up there on (lets call it figure 1, because dammit writing my thesis is getting to me) is the 1000 words a day mark, which is what I had to average to succeed. You can see by figure 1 that I started off well, sagged in the middle, had an impressive burst of productivity as I approached the word count goal (and the climax of the story) and then kind of went "ah, fuck it" after I'd won. Only once did I not make par, and I'm pretty sure that day was my first roller derby session, after which I was pretty justifiably knackered.

Figure 2: MOAR GRAPHS = MOAR SCIENCE!

I like this graph, even though it shows 90% of the same information as figure 1, because it helped me keep track of how many words I had left to slog through. Which at times was a critical piece of information, let me tell you. It also makes it obvious that I passed the halfway mark on day 15, exactly on schedule, and then accelerated to the finish. The last couple of chapters simply flew out of my fingers, let me tell you.

These graphs are a little misleading, because they make it look like I wrote nice and steadily throughout the month. Let me tell you now that getting off to a good start really made a difference. I ended up a couple of days ahead pretty quickly, meaning I had to write less to stay on target. So, how many days out of the thirty did I write 1000 words or more?

Figure 3: This many.

Eighteen out of the thirty days did I manage to hit my daily target. Most of the time when I hit the target I exceeded it by quite a way. Those days when I didn't hit the target? Those were basically how many words I needed to maintain par. And then there's day 22, where I somehow managed to knock it out of the park. I wrote 2222 words that day, and that was the beginning of the end. I knew I'd won at that point. I kinda feel justified in taking a few days off at the end, especially since on top of all this writing I was doing my regular work, writing my thesis and falling over a lot on skates. Go me.

The story is currently at 31,210 words and is not quite finished. There's just the epilogue to finish, but I'm happy to leave it for a little while. I did it; I succeeded at a NaNo, which I've been wanting to do since forever, and I proved to myself that I can fit a decent amount of writing into an already hectic schedule. This story isn't quite finished, and already my brain is bursting with new ideas for stories.

This was mostly about proving something to myself; that I can write, and I can write fairly consistently. Thesis writing isn't forever, and though I don't know what's going to happen afterwards, I do know that I want to write, no matter what my day job. This has helped show me that in the long term, writing on top of a day job is something I can do.

In the short term, it was a lot of fun and I am super proud of myself. I am also super proud of the spousal unit, who did this camp NaNo along with me and wrote his first feature length script. Like any NaNo project, its not polished (goodness knows my novella needs work) but there are some real laugh out moments in that script. And it was good to have someone else along for the ride.

Sadly, I probably won't be able to do camp NaNo again in July, nor the main NaNoWriMo in November. I expect to be flailing about impending viva for the duration of November. But NaNo is definitely something I plan to do again in the future.

Just have to get this pesky thesis out of the way first.

Flash Fiction Challenge: They're Coming

In the absence of the Pictonaut challenge I have slightly latched onto Chuck Wendig's flash fiction challenges to keep me churning out fiction on a semi regular basis. I have loads of his prompts saved waiting for me to do something exciting with them. Which I will. Oh such plans I have.

In the meantime he put up a challenge to write a drabble of exactly 100 words.

I adore drabbles. I love the challenge of telling a story (or a snapshot of a story) in exactly 100 words. I'm afraid I'm a drabble purist; very exact on the word count.

I can do this, I thought.

So I did. And here it is. Exactly 100 words of science-fictiony type goodness. You're welcome.

They're Coming

The message read simply: they’re coming.

We’d always known they would; it was a matter of when, not if. We were a threat to them, and they would come for us sooner or later and that time seemed to be now.

Fortunately, the moment had been prepared for.

I scooped my daughter up in my arms and headed for the transport. I had to get her off planet; she, and a small number of other children were humanity’s only hope for survival.

“Where we going daddy?” Molly asked, frightened.

“On a little trip, sweetheart. Somewhere we’ll be safe.”

I hope.

On the third anniversary of Jamibu's death

I have no words.

I'm a writer; words are my thing. And yet this date always seems to rob me of my ability to string them together properly.

I can't believe its been three years today.

I still remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when I got the news. I honestly don't think I will ever forget the feeling of cold dread that washed over me.

Today isn't the only day of the year when my thoughts turn to you, Jamibu, but its the only date they do so without fail. My thoughts are also with your family.

I love you Jamibu. I will always love you, and I will always miss you.

Rest in peace.

Jamibu and I

Final Pictonaut: The Lord of the Underworld and Shadowmist

Well my friends, we have come to the end of an era. My good friend the Rogue Verbumancer has decided to bring his Pictonaut Challenge to an end after 42 glorious months of wordascopes. I will not say do not weep, for not all tears are an evil, but I do have a distinct case of the sads. Perhaps I could have managed more wordascopes, but now we will ever know. I hope that after a few months to recuperate our good friend Sir Glempius will be back with another challenge to pry some fiction out of us every month.

Since this is the final chance to get in a Pictonaut, I wanted to do a little something special. Not only did I manage to double my usual word count, I actually wrote two pieces. I will be over in the corner feeling a little smug if you need me.

The first peice, The Lord of the Underworld, was inspired partly by this post over at terribleminds about how there aren't enough female characters who are assholes. This is my contribution to the asshole lady genre of fiction. The second piece, Shadowmist, is heavily inspired by all of the Yoon Ha Lee short stories I've been reading lately. If you've not read Conservation of Shadows yet, I highly recommend it. I'm not certain I've done justice to the sheer poetry of her words, but I'm pleased with it nonetheless.

Farewell, Pictonaut challenge. You've been a good egg.

The Lord of the Underworld

The wind was hot and foetid about her nostrils as she stood at the prow of the boat. It didn’t bother her because she honestly hadn’t expected anything else. This was the river to the underworld after all. Most people feared to travel this waterway; would do anything to delay this passage. But not Kerys.

There was no reason for her to fear either her destination nor the journey. This was how it was always going to end for her: she was always going to end up in hell. And though she had arrived a few years before she’d expected to she wasn’t afraid. This was where she belonged; with the stench of sulphur and the screams of tortured souls.

Kerys was not what you would call a nice person. In fact, she was about as far from being nice as it was possible to be. In her too-short life she had done things few would dare to. She was a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel and a thief. But above all else, Kerys was a murderer. More than a murderer, an assassin. You wanted someone dead? Kerys would take care of it… for a price. Some people did it just for the money—the cash certainly didn’t hurt—but Kerys did it for the love of killing. There was a hot in it for her that she couldn’t find anywhere else.

For her, murder was an art and she had strived to elevate it to its highest form. It wasn’t enough for Kerys that she simply get the job done, no. She revelled in finding the most brutal and sadistic ways of ending a person’s life. She purposely took jobs that came with special requests and certain conditions to fulfil. Even on simpler jobs she loved to exercise her creative side. One of her personal favourite jobs was the time she pumped a target full of anticoagulants and let them bleed out through a tiny cut on their finger. They had screamed for days. Flaying someone alive was always fun, and had become something of a speciality for Kerys. The longer the pain lasted the target the happier she would be.

For her victims these moments were terrifying and painful but for Kerys they were happy memories. So no, there was no doubt that she would end up in hell some day.

It made her smile to reminisce about her past killings; she wondered how many souls now resided here because of her. How many angry spirits would be thirsting for revenge? She’d have to watch herself, be careful, but she knew she could handle herself. She reached into a pocket and took out a slightly bent cigar, bit the end off and spat the remains into the ghostly river. The spirits that resided there were vocal in their displeasure but she ignored them, lighting her cigar on a passing sulphurous plume.

There was nothing to do now but wait. She would meet her destiny soon enough.

After what felt like an age the hull of the boat finally made contact with something solid. They had arrived. Kerys stepped onto the stone wharf with the air of someone about to do something enjoyable rather than that of a person about to meet the lord of the underworld. The ferryman looked at her expectantly as she disembarked, no doubt expecting some sort of compensation. Unfortunately for him, Kerys had neglected to save a penny for the ferryman, nor had they agreed a price upon embarkation. Kerys stubbed out her cigar on his outstretched palm, spat on the ground and walked off.

The palace of the lord of the underworld was an impressive structure. Kerys decided she actually quite liked the décor, which mostly consisted of piles of human skulls. It was very her. She already felt right at home. The steps leading up to from the docks were unnecessarily long, and flanked by some sort of gargoyle-cum-dragon things. It was difficult to tell with all the acid erosion and the crusted on blood. The gates of the palace were flanked by skeleton guards. Kerys marched passed them with no problems; they didn’t even try to stop her. In fact, she managed to march right up to the throne room completely unchallenged. Obviously she was expected.

The lord of the underworld lounged idly on his throne, the master of all he surveyed. She had his full attention from the moment she strode in to the throne room, which was hardly surprising; it was a rather dramatic entrance, walking into the halls of the lord of the underworld without so much as a by-your-leave. He stood to greet her, a genial yet somehow sinister smile on his face.

“Ah, Kerys my dear. I’ve been expecting you,” he said, his tone more suitable for welcoming one to a dinner party rather than eternal damnation in the darkest pits of hell. “I must admit though,” he continued, “I had anticipated you might wait until you were dead before gracing my halls with your admittedly lovely presence. Call me old-fashioned, but it is rather traditional.”

Kerys shrugged. “What can I say? I’ve never been very good at doing as I’m told.”

“Indeed,” said the lord of the dead, his lips twitching with amusement. “Now, my dear, what can I do for you? You wouldn’t have come all this way still wearing your delightful corporeal form unless you wanted something from me. So, what is it that brings you to me before your appointed time?”

“I heard there might be an opening for queen of the underworld,” said Kerys with false nonchalance.

He raised an elegant eyebrow. “Did you now?”

“I did. And if I’m honest it was about time she left you. She was never happy down here, even us mortals know that. You need someone who complements your talents, who can appreciate you for you.”

“And that person would be your fine self, would it my dear?”

She shrugged non-committally. “I think you could do worse. And you have to admit I am delightfully awful; just your type.”

He smirked evilly. “You are quite right my dear, I grant you that. And you have sent me so many of my favourite souls to torture. Not to mention the fact you came all this way in your mortal form to make this proposition. How could I possibly refuse such an offer from such a delectably wicked woman as you?”

“So you accept my proposal? I am to take my place as your queen, where, if we’re both honest, I have always belonged.”

“I will make you my queen, yes, and you will rule the underworld by my side. And, oh! such a queen you will be.”

“I’m so glad we agree.”

“You understand, of course, that as a god these things are a little more informal than you might be used to my dear. There will be no signing of contracts, none of that ceremonial nonsense you mortals seem so fond of.”

“I think I can manage to trust the word of a god. Besides, I intend to seal this particular deal the old fashioned way.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her quizzically. Kerys said nothing in response. Instead she sashayed over, grabbed the front of his robes and yanked him to her, kissing him hard. Their teeth clashed and she tasted blood from a bitten lip—she didn’t know whose–but that only heightened her pleasure. Her hand slid down to grab at his groin. He was already hard; it was no surprise that a god would have exquisite control over every part of his anatomy, but she allowed herself to believe it was due entirely to how much he wanted her.

“Shall we take this elsewhere?” she asked, finally releasing him. “Or do you actually like the idea of fucking in your throne room?”

“Perhaps another time,” he said with a smirk across his blood stained lips. He clapped his hands and suddenly they were in a sumptuously laid out bedroom. “Now we have enough privacy to do whatever we want to each other.”

“And you brought all my favourite toys as well,” she said casting her gaze over the racks filled with sharp implements almost certainly intended for torture. “How thoughtful”

“Only the best for my queen,” he said, only a trace of mockery in his voice. “Now, should we get down to business?”

Kerys picked up a rather vicious looking knife. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Morning found them sprawled across each other, on the bed completely naked and covered in an assortment of cuts and bruises. The room was an absolute mess; all the equipment that had been so neatly laid out the previous night was now scattered across the bed, the floor and any other surface in the room. Feathers from the now ruined bed stuck to pools of blood and other bodily fluids. Despite the fact the room looked like the scene of a particularly brutal murder, the bed's occupants looked peaceful and extremely pleased with themselves.

“Good morning,” Kerys purred when her partner’s eyes finally fluttered open. “Would you care for round two, my lord?”

His lips twitched with amusement and anticipation. “Rounds two, three, four and five I should think. I have nothing pressing planned for the day and it has been a while since I have had this much fun with such a capable partner.”

“I live to serve,” she purred sarcastically, moving to straddle his hips. He groaned appreciatively as she sank down onto him. “But it’s my turn to play with the knives,” she said.

“Whatever you want my dear.”

She picked up the wickedly sharp knife and used it to tease his skin as she fucked him. No part of him was safe from her sharp little toy; she gently drew it across his nipples, his stomach and his arm and each time was rewarded as blood welled up in the knifes’ wake. Within minutes he was covered in fresh cuts and was gaspingly close to climax. Her hand was around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to be pleasurable. He shuddered as she drew the orgasm from him and just as he reached his peak she slipped the knife between his ribs.

Ecstasy turned to surprise on his face as she jerked the knife violently upwards towards his heart. He struggled to breathe, caught in the the throes of both climax and death. He scrabbled at the hand around his throat, which was suddenly squeezing far too hard. It was quite something to witness a god being genuinely terrified. Kerys plunged the knife deeper as she entertained herself with puns on le petit mort. As the life drained out of him he managed to gasp a single word: why?

“Because I can,” said Kerys as she watched him go limp.

Once she was sure he was dead she swung herself off him and went in search of a cigar among the clothes she’d abandoned the previous night. She reclined in a sumptuous leather chair and smoked her cigar as she watched his body cool and the blood congeal. Only when she was finished with her smoke did she pick up one of the weapons they hadn’t used the previous night—an axe— and returned to the bed.

Her newly ex-lover looked almost peaceful in death. If it wasn’t for the pool of blood next to his chest and the hand shaped bruises around his throat he could almost have been sleeping. Turns out you can kill a god if you catch them sufficiently off guard, Kerys thought to herself. She roughly grabbed a handful of hair and with one decisive swoop of the axe, cut the lord of the underworld’s head clean off.

Neither the servants nor the guards made any move to stop her as she strode through the palace naked, an axe in one hand and the head of a god dripping gore in the other. Eventually she made her way through the labyrinthine corridors to the entrance by the docks where she’d arrived the previous day. Without saying a word she confiscated one of the skeleton’s spears and wedged it in a crack in the stone before firmly placing the lord of the underworld’s head on the spear. Much better, she thought. A fresh skull on a spear was exactly what had been missing from the décor.

Her task complete and the head now serving as both warning and notice of change in management, Kerys returned to the throne room. Still naked apart from the blood spatter, she ascend the steps she took the throne for herself. The stone was cold against her skin, but it felt right; she immediately made herself comfortable and commanded one of the servants to bring her wine, food and a cigar. They bowed low and immediately went to do her bidding. At least there was an upside to gods tending to things the old-fashioned way: there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the throne was hers by right of conquest.

She broke her fast eagerly, all that sex and murder had really worked up her appetite. Fruit and wine had never tasted as good as they did sat on that throne having conquered the underworld. As she lit the cigar her new servant had brought her she thought that this truly was where she belonged; not just in hell, but ruling it. Alone.

There would be chaos among the gods after this, of that she had no doubt. Kerys like chaos. She thrived on it. And there wasn’t a goddamned thing anyone could do to get her off this throne short of killing her, and she was prepared for that. She would not prove such an easy target as her predecessor. In the meantime, she had an eternity of torturing the souls of the damned to get on with. There might even be a few old friends she could look up, who would no doubt be ecstatic to learn that she was now in charge of them. Forever.

Kerys took a long drag on her cigar and leaned back on her throne, smiling. The old place already felt like home.

Shadowmist


Shadows wrap around you like fog, concealing you from sight. The oarsman are the best money can buy, and the boat darts forward with each stroke, silent as the grave. There are none who will see your coming this night. This is for the best; you have important business in the city and cannot afford the distraction of dealing with the lookouts. Out of the misty shadows lurch the strange shapes of houses the city's inhabitants build for themselves. In this area—the slums—the are mostly cobbled together out of odd assortments of detritus. It gives an unearthly aura to the already strange landscape.

At last you reach your destination, the only sound the oarsmen make on the entire journey a quiet shurshing sound as they reverse stroke, and the gentle thud of the boat striking the dock. You alight—with thanks—and carry on your journey. The oarsmen reverse stroke once more and disappear into the congealing dark; you only paid for a one way journey.

Forging forward though the shadow-mist filled streets you pull your cloak tighter around you: there is a chill in the air that seems to nip at your very bones. But the chill you feel could just be the darkness growing in your soul. The streets are deserted, the population having wisely decided to remain indoors and avoid this unearthly fog. It feels as if the city is holding its breath. The city has been holding its breath for far too long now, awaiting the full onslaught of the shadows.

Nights like this are meant for dark deeds, and misfortune will often find you if you bear ill will or no. You press on.

The shadowmists are less dense in the upper circle of the city; the Potentate had the court mages cast spells of protection around the upper circle. You can still make out the faint glow of the magical wards on the walls of the buildings. Paper shapes, intricately folded, hang in many of the windows—charms of protection. In your mind they resemble eyes, watching your every movement. You draw your hood further over your face and hurry along.

That the wards are still intact warms your heart, temporarily driving out the misty chill. You know they cannot hold out much longer; the darkness cannot be stopped by ancient symbols and folded paper. You have often wondered over the past few years if the darkness can be stopped at all. You've tried again and again to find a way to combat it, but all attempts have failed. Tonight's business is the city's last chance to survive the onslaught. One way or another, for good or for ill, the stalemate will be broken this night.

The cold in your bones grows worse as you approach the palace.

There are guards at the gates of the palace, dog tired and wary of anything coming out of the shadows. For a moment there is panic in their eyes as you approach but you are waved through the moment you are recognised. Your hands start shaking as you cross the threshold into the palace proper. The more you try to suppress it the worse it gets, so you focus your efforts on ignoring it. You have limited success.

Even at this late hour Potentate is still awake and working in the palace auditorium. Sat on his throne of jade and carved bone he looks every inch the god the people of the city believe him to be. As you enter the auditorium he gets to his feet, unfolding himself like a paper crane. He's been waiting for you.

“You've returned,” says the Potentate, visibly relieved. “I half suspected you might not. Tell me: were you successful?” There is no allowance for gentle words in times like these.

You shake your head sadly. “I could not convince the necromage to recall the shadow mists. I am sorry; I failed you.”

“You have not failed, old friend. We both knew this was a possibility when we decided on this course of action. Nevertheless, we had to make the attempt.”

The shaking in your hands grows worse then, and the Potentate finally notices it.

“Ah. I see,” he says sadly. “This too was a possibility we considered.”

“I'm sorry. I tried to resist but the necromage is too strong.” The shaking drives you to your knees and your bones feel like ice: you half expect them to shatter upon impact with the marble floor. “I can't fight it any more.”

“Then don't. Let go my friend, and be at peace. Know that I do not blame you for this, and I accept my defeat with grace.” The Potentate stretches out his hands, raising his face to the sky as though ascending to glory. On your knees before him you feel as though he truly is a god and you are worshipper. It would be better than the truth; better than what is about to happen.

There are tears in your eyes, and not just from the effort off suppressing the shaking. You take a deep, fortifying breath and relax.

The shaking stops abruptly as the thing that has been growing inside you finally escapes. Corruption flows from your hands, a black malevolent shadow. It coalesces into a vaguely humanoid shape, roiling with hatred and fury, like a demon made of tar. It strikes the Potentate in the chest, knocking him to the ground writhing in pain. You try to scramble to your feet, but the emergence of the corruption has taken the wind out of you. All you can do is lie there helplessly as your Potentate scream as his skin boils away.

When your liege lies dead on the floor the shadow withdraws, re-coalescing in the shape of the necromage. He steps over the body and glances in your direction, an amused look on his face.

“Cut the head off the snake,” he said drawing a knife from his robe. “And the body dies with it.” He plunges the knife into your stomach, causing you to retch with pain.


As your vision grows dark, the last thing you see is the necromage ascending to the bone and jade throne. The stalemate is ended, the shadowmists will disperse, and all it cost in the end were the lives of two men.