Scath Oran Blog Tour: The Banshee

Today, the blog is a stop on the Scath Oran book tour and I have a guest post by author Stacy Overby on one of my favourite subjects, the Banshee. I also have a look at Stacy's new poetry book, Scath Oran, so enjoy.

The Banshee

Banshees. They’re the quintessential mythical creature when it comes to creepiness and death. Many movies and stories include them, but what—beyond their shriek—do the stories tell about banshees? That question drew me to explore the myths surrounding banshees when writing Scath Oran.

Banshee Origins

The origins of the banshee are somewhat clouded, but one drew my attention. It is said that the banshees came from women who died during childbirth. These women-turned-banshees roamed, portending death, until they reached what would have been the end of their natural life. None of the myths talked about what happened from there, but the implication is that they passed into their version of Heaven or paradise. Other legends talk about banshees being created from women who were murdered. It seems that, regardless of the method, legends say banshees are created from women who meet tragic ends.

With this origin myth, the banshees would presumably appear as young women. While that was sometimes the case, it did not always hold true. This is one place where the Celtic belief in Maiden, Mother, Crone shows up. Just as often as the banshee appeared young, she also would appear as an older woman to an old “hag”. Another image from Scotland painted of the banshee was a woman washing bloodied clothes at the ford in a river. The one who saw her there washing the bloodied clothes would soon die.

The Banshee Cry

The keening and wailing of the banshee is perhaps the most classic aspect of the banshee, and the one most often thought of when the banshee are mentioned. Most legends agree that this cry is about warning someone of impending doom. Some legends say the banshee only cry at the death of a true blood Milesian Irish. Others talk about the number of banshee keening signified the greatness or holiness of the person who died.

Scholars believe the wailing of the banshee stems from a different Irish tradition. At funerals, the Irish would hire keeners to wail laments at a death. The better the keener, the more in demand she was. With this association with death and funerals, it is easy to see how this tradition crossed the line to become something more in legends.

The Fairy Connection

Another interesting aspect of banshees is that some Irish believed the banshee was a fairy woman who would bear the news of a loved one’s death. This held true even when the person died far from home and family. Thus, the banshee would be the herald bearing the news of the death before any human messenger could bring the sad tidings.

Also Known As

The banshee had multiple other names as well. She could be known as the bean chaointe, or keening woman. Bean nighe, or other variants, meaning little washerwoman or washer at the ford, is a Scottish variation to the banshee myth. The hag of the mist was yet another variation of the banshee stemming from Welsh legends. Which name was used depended on the region in which the story originated.

Other Facts

The intentions, and dangerousness, of the banshee also varied depending on the legend being studied. Some banshees were said to be closely tied to their families and their cries were sorrowful laments of the loss to the family. Other banshee legends talked of angry and vengeful female spirits who frightened and tormented those who heard her cries. A few even speak of the banshees causing the deaths they sang of, rather than just reporting them.

One of the most intriguing pieces of information on the banshee I found was about the beliefs in banshee. For many centuries, not believing in banshee was blasphemous in the British Isles—Ireland in specific. While this has waned in modern times, there are still those who believe in the existence of banshees as something more than myth and legend.

So, there you have it, a brief history of the banshees. They are featured several times in Scath Oran, including a story about how one banshee came to be. Scath Oran is available on Amazon and Draft2Digital. You can find me at www.thisisnothitchhikersguide.com.

Scath Oran: poetry from the Otherworld by Stacy Overby 

The Wee Folk. The Fae. Fairies.

Whatever you may call them, they have whispered secrets in this collection of poetry plucked from the halls of Tír na nÓg. But, be forewarned, not all is as it seems on a journey through the shining realm. Come, take a step into the fairy ring as songs of the Fae drift on the damp night air. 

Scath Oran: poetry from the Otherworld

releases September 22nd, 2018 and is available at

Amazon

Draft2Digital






For more stops on the tour check out the list: Scath Oran Blog Tour

Book Spotlight: Call of Hywilkin

Today I'm spotlight a book series, Keepers of the Wellsprings by Missy Sheldrake, and the new release of the fourth book in the series, Call of Hywilkin. I have an excerpt, free book offers, and more. Enjoy...  

Call of Hywilkin

A fallen prince, vanished. A ransom on His Majesty’s Elite demanded by shaky allies. A kingdom teetering on the brink of darkness. 

Azi and Rian find themselves on an urgent quest to Hywilkin, a harsh land of ice and snow reigned by heartless men with no trust in kindness or beauty, and a cruel intolerance for magic of any kind. 

Lurking in the far corners of the world, the Sorcerers of Dusk threaten their quest, weaving darkness into their hearts and minds. In Brindelier, they lure Tib into their dangerous plots as he investigates the conspiring shadows of the city. 

Appealing to a Keeper of a Wellspring for an offering is no easy feat—especially in Hywilkin, where access to the abandoned magical Source remains forbidden. The Champions of Light must prevail, or Brindelier’s All-Source and all of the Known Lands will fall forever into the grips of Sorcery.

Call of Hywilkin, and the Keepers of the Wellsprings series, is available on Amazon

And today, March 3rd, books 1-3 in the series will be available for free!

Keepers of the Wellsprings Series:

Call of Kythshire (Book One)

https://amzn.com/B00UVLQWGY

Call of Sunteri (Book Two)

https://amzn.com/B0187IG3HK

Call of Brindelier (Book Three)

https://amzn.com/B01FM8XR7W

Call of Hywilkin (Book Four)

https://amzn.com/B06WGNWLH9

Snowberry Blossom (Perma-free holiday short story)

https://amzn.com/B0196P041O

An excerpt from Call of Hywilkin

In this excerpt from Call of Hywilkin, Azi is not too pleased to be woken up by Flitt…

 

“Aaaaaziiiiiiii,” Flitt sings my name just above a whisper. Before I can do it on my own, her tiny hands push one of my eyelids open. I try to squint and blink as she grins at me, her nose nearly touching my eyeball. Her sparkling skin assaults my vision in the darkness of Rian’s room and makes my open eye water.

Careful not to wake Rian, I extract my hand from his and nudge Flitt away.

“What?” I push to her, yawning and nuzzling back into my pillow. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, so what are you doing in here?” she asks. The light behind my eyelids fades slightly and I feel her settle on my shoulder. Even in my mind, I can hear the hint of disgust in her tone. Without thinking, I push myself away from Rian in the bed so we’re no longer touching. Flitt and I hold our breath as he stretches and turns so his back is to us and he’s facing the wall.

“That’s better,” she pushes.

“I was sleeping, Flitt,” I complain with a soft groan. My head aches. I consider ignoring her and snuggling up to him again to try and go back to sleep, but now that she’s here, that’s pointless. When Flitt wants something, it’s best to just let her do what she’s going to do.

“I want to talk to you. Come with me!” she says, tugging my hair.

“Where?—”

She doesn’t let me finish. I feel myself falling away from the bed and the warmth of Rian lying beside me, and I squeeze my eyes closed as she pulls me through the Half-Realm.  We land on a soft bed of moss and I curl into it, knowing without looking that she’s brought me to her grotto in Kythshire. The trickle of the little waterfall and the chimes tinkling in the willows have a dream-like quality to them, making it easy to pretend I’m still sleeping in Rian’s room with his arms snug around me.

“Wake up!” she chirps, darting around me. “Come on!”

“Why?” I groan again and sit up with a scowl. “What’s going on?”

“I missed you, that’s all,” she twirls prettily in front of me and flutters her wings, and I blink rapidly to adjust to her brightness.

“Wh—?”

“Ah, ah! My turn for a question!” she giggles.

“Nooo,” I fall back into the moss and cross my arms over my head to shield my eyes. “Not that.”

“Come on!” She lands on my elbows and I bat her away. “Azi!”

I yawn.

“Azi!”

“So ask it, then!” I growl into the crook of my elbow.

Now a word from the author about her series...

The Keepers of the Wellsprings Series

When I started writing this series, I really wanted to tell a story that was rich with fantasy, but not overly dark or mired with war and violence. I wanted to show the light side of fantasy: the cheerful, magical, uplifting side which I always drink up whenever it emerges in a story, and which always seems to be so fleeting in fantasy tales. I wanted to tell a story that would capture the hearts of young and old alike. Don’t get me wrong, my books aren’t void of conflict and evil. They tell of uncomfortable moments. There is violence and wickedness, but it’s those moments in my stories which are the fleeting ones. In the pages of my books, you will find fairies, Mages, Paladins, Elves, Dreamwalkers, Princes and Princesses, and even dragons. You’ll travel through a world rich with magic and wonder.

In Call of Kythshire, you’ll learn all about Cerion, a seaside kingdom which has celebrated peace for over a century. You’ll meet His Majesty’s Elite, a guild that is the right hand adventuring team of King Tirnon Plethore, and you’ll join Azi Hammerfel, a young squire who has grown up within the guild’s halls, through disappointments and triumphs. By her side is Rian, her childhood friend, an Apprentice of the Mage Academy. You’ll meet Flit, a fairy from Kythshire, who is as tricky as any fairy you might imagine, but has a depth of character and a sense of purpose uncommon for a typical fairy. You’ll see her world unfold, and feel the evil threat of Sorcery that looms, waiting to destroy it. You’ll learn a little about the Wellsprings, but not too much, for their existence and workings are a well-protected secret. (Click here to read an excerpt from Call of Kythshire.)

In Call of Sunteri, you’ll meet the strong-willed slave boy, Tib, who makes his first appearance as he escapes from the grips of Sorcery in the desert continent of Sunteri. He has help crossing the vast oceans to reach Cerion, but he doesn’t realize it at first. A mysterious being speaks to his mind, controlling his thoughts and making suggestions to ensure his own survival. In the meantime, Azi has been given the task of escorting the Prince of Cerion and his wife-with-child to the lakeside Kordelya Castle as the prince faces suspicion and ridicule after the events of Call of Kythshire. But a darker force emerges from the Dreaming, whose wicked intent is to use any means necessary to escape its prison and claim the magic of the Wellsprings for his own. In this book, you’ll see the devastating effects of the overuse of magic, and what it does to the Wellsprings and the creatures who thrive around them. (Click here to read an excerpt from Call of Sunteri.)

In Call of Brindelier, a dark force looms, more powerful and destructive than any threat Azi and her guild have yet faced. You’ll follow Celli, a scrappy street fighter, as she is enticed into the grips of a powerful Sorcerer. You’ll watch Tib come into his own as he sneaks through the streets of Cerion, uncovering the darkness while also working on a mysterious project. You’ll follow Azi on a quest set by Princess Margary to find proof of Brindelier, a city in the clouds which is the key to all of the Wellsprings in the Known Lands. But Margy is not the only one interested in Brindelier. A dark force has been gathering, poised to claim it for their own. Control over the Wellsprings hangs in the balance. (Click here to read an excerpt from Call of Brindelier.)

This series is appropriate for all ages, but I recommend 13 and up due to some violent themes. There is no sex, swearing, or excessively graphic violence in the Keepers of the Wellsprings. Throughout the series, you’ll encounter daring sword fights, violent magical moments, and a few quick deaths.

About the Author:

Missy Sheldrake is an author/illustrator who has been conjuring images of fairies in one form or another since she was very young. The wind in the trees and the rich scent of forest earth are her most treasured sources of inspiration, and on most mornings you will find her wandering the wooded paths, dreaming of the next adventure she hopes to put to the page.

Missy was born in Connecticut and attended Western Connecticut State University, where she earned a Bachelor of Science in Art with a concentration in painting and illustration. Even then, in her free time, she was writing. She moved to Northern Virginia several years ago and lives there now, on the outskirts of Washington D.C., with her true love and their son. She published her first novel, Call of Kythshire, in March of 2015 and intends to keep writing as long as the fairies allow it.

For more on Missy Sheldrake and her books, check out these sites:

Website  Blog  Amazon Author Page  Facebook  Instagram  Twitter  Goodreads  Pinterest

Drabble Wednesday: Changelings

Today on Drabble Wednesday come read of oddities, things out of place, and not quite right…

The Tree of Life

The emerald leaves of the deciduous tree fluttered in the breeze wafting off the lake. It appeared fresh and vibrant as the first day of spring, though all around bare branched fauna shed their leaves, shadowing the ground in a red and orange shroud.

A strange site to behold indeed, yet the tree existed, lush and green throughout winter and spring and all seasons in-between. Perpetual mist caressed it bark, fed from the lake or perhaps something more unearthly. And its branches were ripe with crimson fruit, sweet and waiting to be eaten.

The perfect temptation for all unwary fools.

~*~

Emissary

The tiny creature in the crib breathed the sweetest rhythm, a soft inhale to exhale. Its chest rose and fell in time with its heart, life expelled and renewed. Pale rose pinked its cheeks, lending a cherub look, enhanced by a perfection nose and chin. Velvet fuzz of chestnut hue and curls adorned its small head.

The loving family doted on the new addition, marvelling at its disposition, for it rarely cried or fussed. They showed it off proudly and all visitors cooed, declaring it the loveliest baby ever.

And it was, save for one small thing.

It wasn’t human.

~*~

Pages

Voices leaked from between the bindings, and the smell of ancient ink and old leather. Garbled whispers wafted from the paper and hide, and sometimes screams. Its gilt—along the spine and leaf edge—glowed in unearthly tones, shifting with the tide of the air. The manuscript stood an enigma, a macabre mystery upon the dusty shelves of the library archives. It nestled in a nook, flanked by unused tomes and folios, avoided by all.

Yes, no one ever touched the book.

For the last sorry soul to lay hands on it died a madman, babbling of demons and devils.

© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved

Halloween Week: The Wee Folk

Sometimes all you need is a little help...

The Wee Folk

Momma always placed a saucer of milk on the back porch every evening just before dusk.

“For the Wee Folk. You never know what lurks in the gloaming,” she said, “Best to leave an offering.” Then she’d smile and add, “’Sides, you never know when an offering will come in handy.”

I never failed to see her leave that saucer, even though it irritated my Daddy until the day he died. Once or twice she left other offerings out there too; don’t know if my Daddy ever knew about those. The way things turned out in the end, maybe he should have. He might’ve done things different.

And if he’d done things different, maybe I would’ve too. Maybe I wouldn’t have married Harry. Maybe if I had a better role model than a drunken good-for-nothing who beat on his wife, I might’ve aimed higher. But I didn’t, and I ended up with a part-time mechanic with a temper for a husband. I also ended up on the wrong end of his fists when he was drunk. Which happened fairly often. They do say girls marry men like their daddies. I sure did.

For a while I just took it. Kept my mouth shut, and pretended everything was fine. Daddy was still alive then, so going home wouldn’t have been better. And Harry wasn’t quite as bad as Daddy. He usually just gave me a few smacks and then stopped. Daddy used to beat Momma black and blue.

After Daddy died, I thought about leaving Harry and going home, but I waited too long. Momma put the house up for sale and hightailed it out of town. Came to me, suitcase in hand, kissed me on the cheek, and said goodbye. I haven’t seen her since. I thought I’d hate her for that, but I didn’t. I knew why she left, and I didn’t blame her.

‘Sides, by then I had met Sam.

He sidled into town one day, and got a job at the factory where I worked. Not in the same department as me, but we saw each other in the lunch room, and out back when we sneaked a smoke or two. We were both trying to quit, and failing miserably.

It didn’t take long before it went from friendly chat, to up close and personal smooching, and then quickies after work in his truck. It went on months, and maybe it was wrong to be cheating, but for the first time in forever I was happy. And hey, Harry didn’t have a clue.

Of course, that didn’t last. Things had to go and get more complicated.

It was in the back of the truck, just after, well you know. I’d pulled my clothes back on and was fixing to leave. And then Sam said it.

“I love you.”

I stared for a minute, and forgot to breathe. Before I could think, the answering words tumbled out.

“I love you, too.”

There, it was all out, and no taking it back. I didn’t leave the truck. I stayed and we talked. We made decisions. And then I went back home. To Harry.

I told Sam I’d leave my husband, but that I needed to tell him in person. But I was afraid, you see. Of what Harry would do. Truth was, my mind tumbled in on itself, and I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to be with Sam, but Harry… no telling how he would react. He might come after us, do something terrible.

It was about then I started wishing Harry would die.

Maybe that’s why I got that revolver out of the drawer. For protection. Maybe I figured it would scare him, when I told him I was leaving.

It didn’t.

I stared him down, gun behind my back. Looked at his sneering face, and said, “I’m leaving you, Harry.”

He laughed, and backhanded me across the cheek. I fell. He stood over me. “You ain’t ever getting rid of me, bitch.”

Something in me snapped. I brandished the gun. He lunged, grabbed the weapon. Next thing I knew the gun went off and Harry was bleeding out over the hardwood floor.

“Help—help me.” He reached his hand towards me, but I backed away and scrambled to my feet.

I stood there, and watched him die.

Then I realized what happened.

Harry was dead, and I killed him.

Panic started creping in about then. Folks might believe I had no choice, knowing Harry’s temper, but some people knew about me and Sam. They might think I did it on purpose.

Maybe I did. I sure as hell wanted him dead. Maybe part of me provoked him, gave myself the excuse. And if I don’t know for sure, will other people believe I didn’t murder him?

I stared out the window, feeling lost and scared. The sun was starting to turn the sky all shades of pretty. Then it hit me. The Wee Folk.

Heck, it worked for Momma when she killed Daddy, maybe it’ll work for me.

Yeah, I didn’t mention that, did I? Murdering kind of runs in our family.

I dragged Harry’s body out to our back porch and covered it with a blanket. Took me a few minutes and I worked up a sweat. Then I went to the kitchen and poured a saucer of milk. I put that on the porch next to Harry’s head.

I fidgeted for a minute, shuffling my feet and clearing my throat. I felt a bit odd, but it was worth a shot. “I’d appreciate it, if you’d take this offering. I know it’s been a while, and I ain’t been good to you like Momma, but I need your help. I know what you did for Momma, helping her and others fix their problems, and I’m asking the same.  I promise, if you fix this for me, I’ll keep leaving things on the porch for you.”

I stared at the darkening woods. The leaves rustled, and I swear I heard whispering. I took a breath, let it out, and went inside to clean up the rest of the mess I’d made.

~*~

The next morning I stood for the longest time at the back door, afraid to go on the porch. What if they didn’t take him? What if Harry was still there? How would I explain what I’d done?

I could always tell them I left Harry for the wee folk. Go with an insanity defense.

I finally turned the knob and opened the door.

No Harry. The body was gone. Not even any blood.

The saucer was there though, empty. Not a drop of milk left. I picked it up.

Then I sighed, a rush of relief flooding though me, and closed the door.

On the way to the kitchen, I began thinking of ways to explain Harry not being here anymore. Figured I best plead ignorance. That he took off after a fight and never came back. Might pack a few of Harry’s things and leave them out on the porch tonight. Might help with the story, if it looks like Harry took his stuff with him. Good thing his truck got repossessed last week.

All I got to do is keep it simple. It ain’t like anybody’s ever going to find that body. The wee folk don’t ever give back what’s been offered.

My momma taught me that.

I put the saucer in the sink, staring at the woods through the window. I never liked to think on some of what Momma did when I was growing up, but I guess it sunk in anyway. I guess her and me are the more alike than I figured. You see, Daddy weren’t her first offering, and, well, I don’t think Harry’s going to be my last…

There’s a few more people in town I wouldn’t mind seeing dead.

Like Momma said, you never know when an offering will come in handy.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved

And so ends today's Halloween fun.
Tomorrow I have even more horror fiction for your reading pleasure.

And remember, for a Halloween treat, both books in my Killers and Demons series

are free until midnight October 31^st on Smashwords. 

Check them out here:

Killers and Demons

Killers and Demons II: They Return

Drabble Wednesday: The Glade

Today on Drabble Wednesday, it’s something a bit different. Three separate stories (the last story is longer than 100 words, but I didn't want it shortened, so I left it) all based on the same picture, the one posted below. I hope you enjoy…

After the Night

The early morning light washed away the night shadows and all trace of the visitors. A low, audible vibration, almost melancholic, settled in the air. The sound prevented any silence, dangling gravely in the air.

They knew. They knew what happened in the night.

A mellow breeze blew through the feathery branches and ruffled the grass. Particles stirred, movement, silver reflections in the daylight. A small noise, much like the sound of weeping, came from the trees.

The hoary dust scattered, floated into sunbeams and dispersed, carried away by the wind.

Lost forever.

Those desiccated remains of the murdered fairy.

Misery

She stood outside the circle of burgeoning sunlight. She felt braver in the shadows; the sombre darkness matched her cold grief. Dew dampened her slippers, wet the edge of her dressing gown, but she didn’t care.

She stared at the tree, so strong, so beautiful. She fought the urge to scratch its bark with her fingernails, to find an axe and chop it down. It wasn’t the tree’s fault.

It was his. His for being lost and weak, for… no it wasn’t his fault either. He wanted the pain to stop. She understood now.

That’s why she brought the gun.

Memory

The tire swing used to hang from that branch.

The old man shuffled forward, leaning on his cane, the woolen throw on his shoulder flapping a bit. He stepped cautiously, shading his eyes from the sun and taking care not to slip in the damp grass.

It wouldn’t do to break a hip at my age.

He stopped by the tree and leaned to catch his breath, looking out at the glade.

That’s where Mary Louise skinned her knee. Maybe I shouldn’t pulled her pigtail. She got me back though. Jumping out from those bushes.

Slowly he spread out the throw and lowered himself to sit and rest. He closed his eyes.

I’ll just take a nap until the family shows up for the picnic.

The Return of Drabble Wednesday

After being preempted by National Poetry Month in April, Drabble Wednesday is back! And I've dug into the vault for four humorous stories- two strange ghost tales, and two adventures of Oscar the private detective fairy.  Enjoy.

Ghostsville

Welcome to Ghostsville.

Just in time for Halloween, this real life haunted theme park opens to the public.

For the first time in recorded history, actual spirits have been captured and are now housed for your amusement.

Come and thrill at the wonder of the ghost of Anne Boleyn.  She gives new meaning to the phrase “talking head”!  Shake in fright as the spectre of Lizzie Borden tells what really happened to her parents!

We have phantoms for all ages, for great family chills or dark terror for those horror fans!

Ghostsville, where everyone is dying to be.

Take the Deal

I stood in my new home, smiling and passing out cookies to the neighbours. Thanks to Itty-Bitty Realtors I owned a pale pink painted house overlooking the bay. I didn’t care that the house looked strange, tall and upright, with a door overhang resembling a duck bill, or that it came with an unexpected feature, namely the ghost of the former owner. Ralph was nice actually, and helpful; he’s the one that baked the cookies. His presence also knocked the price down by half and this place sure beats living in a double-wide trailer in the middle of a swamp.

Yummy

“It is I, Orville the Enchanted Hamster!”

I looked up from my beer to see a furry rodent wearing an odd hat standing on the table. “Good for you. I’m Oscar the Fairy. We’re introduced, now buzz off.”

“So rude my friend. Do not be that way. Not when I am here to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime. For only $49.95 you can have a front row seat to the greatest –”

I twitched in my seat, as the annoying hamster disappeared into the maw of Felix the Enchanted Cat. “I love a good sales rodent,” he purred.

It’s No Joke

A priest, a rabbi and a lady snake charmer walk into a bar. Sounds like the first line to bad joke, but there was nothing funny about this trio. And they were looking for me, with a vengeance.

Who am I? I’m Oscar, supernatural fairy by nature and private investigator by trade, and I made one heck of a mess for those three. Didn't mean to, a spell went awry and they got caught in the crossfire. And accidentally doing a mind-switch between a priest, a rabbi and a lady snake charmer can cause some problems, let me tell you.

#CoffinHop Day 6: Beyond the Gloaming

For today I have a creepy little tale of the Faerie…

Beyond the Gloaming

Bran trudged wearily along the mountain path, tired, but determined. He needed to reach the hollow before dusk, or wait another year. He glanced at the ever sinking sun; his time grew short.

“A strange journey you're on, young man. Best think twice before continuing.”

Bran stopped, his path now blocked by a stooped old hag of a woman, dressed in a grey cloak and an odd looking four cornered hat. She smiled at him, an unsettling grin that made him shiver.

“Who are you and where did you come from?”

“Never you mind the answer to either question, young man. Just listen, and if you have the sense, heed my advice.” She took a step closer to him. “What you seek is not what you will find. What you had is lost, swallowed whole. Do not meddle in affairs of the Seelie Court.”

Bran balled his hands into fists, her words sparking his anger. “I will not be dissuaded. They stole from me. I will have what is mine.”

“You cannot steal what was freely given, young man, but no matter. I see you are unwavering. Be on your way.” The old woman stepped aside and allowed Bran to pass, casting parting words as he left her behind. “Don't drink their wine.”

~*~

Bran entered the hollow—a clearing nestled in the forest—with the first touch of dusk, and left the safety of the woodland path. In the gloaming he waited for them.

As silhouettes cast against the fading sunlight they appeared, one by one, laughing, shimmering, the host of Faerie, come to play in the world of mortals. Shadows danced around them, scattering light and air, the trees whispered names in the old tongue, and the sky turned cold.

“Who have we here, come to call this night, on the Seelie Court?” A tall Fae, with pale, blond hair and a crown upon his head stepped towards Bran. “Come human, state your business.”

Bran swallowed, both spit and fear. “I am Bran. I've come to retrieve what’s mine.”

The Faerie smiled. “You have spirit little human, but have a care. You address a Prince of the Faerie. And it sounds much as if you accuse the Court of thievery.”

Bran summoned his courage. He would not fail now. “I do accuse you. You stole my wife, Eva. Spirited her away with you a year ago, from this very glade. I’ve waited long enough, return her to me.”

“Ah. That puts a different spin on the matter that does.” The Prince snickered. “A husband come to fetch a wife.” He spun about to address his subjects. “Do we have a wife for him?”The Faerie Host laughed, an indifferent, harsh noise.

The Prince swiveled back to face Bran. “A brave soul you may be, but a foolish one. You can’t have her back, not as the woman you knew. She belongs to us now. See for yourself.”

With a wave of the prince’s hand, the Host parted to reveal the figure of a woman. She shimmered, a vision of beauty, her skin, pale, shining, nearly translucent, and her fair hair glowed in ethereal grace. But her eyes held a vacant, pensive stare, as if she gazed at something just beyond the edges of the world, and her smile held no kindness, only dissipation. In her hands she held a golden goblet.

Bran stared. “Eva?”

The woman gazed at him. “Yes. That’s my name. At least I think it used to be, perhaps not anymore.” She laughed, a mad, echoing sound. “Do I know you?”

“Eva, it’s Bran. Your husband.” He reached out his hand to her.

“Oh, I don't have a husband. I had one once, but I misplaced him. I don't mind though, because I’ll have a new one. Soon. Not yet, but soon.” She took a few steps forward. “Would you like to be my new husband? Join me. Have a drink.” She held out the goblet.

Bran felt a hand on his shoulder and the cold breath of Faerie in his ear. “You want to be with your love? Join with us, taste of our wine. You can leave this world and be with her in ours. Take the cup and drink.”

Bran reached out his hand, his fingers brushing against the gold. It would be so easy.

“No.” He let his hand fall. “I won’t. She’s mine, not yours.” He grabbed Eva by the wrist, turned and ran, pulling her along in his wake. The goblet dropped, spilling the wine.

He sprinted for the clearing edge, dragging Eva behind him. He raced for the woodland path, beyond their circle of power, but never reached it. The Faerie blocked his course, surrounded Bran, captured him, and snatched Eva from his grasp.

He stretched out his hands, as they pulled them apart, trying to hold on to her, to touch her. “No, stop it, let her go. Give her back to me.”

The Faerie Prince stepped between them. “You had your chance. You refused us, human. Now you lose the game and pay the forfeit.” He smiled. “But I'm not heartless. One last look, perhaps.”

The prince turned and took Eva’s hand, drawing her forward. “Do you have anything to say to our erstwhile guest, my dear?”

“Am I supposed to say kind words? I don't have any.” Eva smiled.

“Eva, please. Remember me, I'm your husband.” He struggled to break free of his captors.

“No. No husband tonight. You didn't join us. A shame, you seemed nice until you tried to run.” She turned to the prince. “Can I play with him instead?”

“Of course you can, my dear.” The prince clapped his hands. “Did you hear? Eva wants to play. Form a circle.”

Suddenly Bran was free. He watched the faerie as they moved silently, toward the edge of the glade. He stood alone with Eva, encircled by Faerie.

“What’s going on?”

Eva laughed. “They're making certain you can’t escape.” From a sheath attached to her belt, she drew a silver dagger.

Bran backed away a few steps. “Eva. What are you doing?”

She smiled. “It’s time for fun. It’s time to play. It’s time for you to bleed.” She laughed, with the Seelie Court echoing the sound.

~*~

The old hag of a woman hobbled into glade with the first rays of the morning sun. She shuffled to Bran’s corpse where it sprawled on the trampled grass. She chuckled as she took her knife from her belt and opened her bag made of hide. Then she knelt down beside the body.

“Told you she was lost, and not to meddle. Though I suppose, it was bad advice to tell you not to drink the wine. Teach you to listen to strangers.” She chuckled again.

“Leastwise you won’t go to waste.” With her blade, she cut open his stomach and torso. “Your body parts will make powerful spells, they will.” The old woman hacked out his organs and tucked the fresh meat into her sack. The last thing she did was scoop out his eyeballs. Then she closed her sack and rose.

Outside the glade the old woman could sense the animals. They were hungry. “I’m done. Come and finish the rest.” She turned and walked away, leaving Bran’s remains for carrion.

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#CoffinHop Day 5: Finding the Unicorn

Another story for today, this time a tale that didn't make the cut for Fairy Tale Fusion (mostly because I forgot to include it):

Finding the Unicorn

On a windy evening in October, Sammy the Troll stomped into the Monster’s Bar and Grill, with a scowl on his face and anger in his heart (or at least that tiny shrivelled mass of muscle he called a heart). He scanned the twisted and misshapen faces in the bar, looking for the particular mug of Oscar the Fairy. Oscar was an investigator, of the private variety, and the toughest, meanest fairy this side of the Seelie Court. He was exactly who Sammy needed.

Sammy pushed across the crowded bar, knocking over a few tables and a hoard of pixies that stood in his path. Upon reaching Oscar he demanded, “I want you to get my unicorn back!”

Oscar slowly sipped his whiskey before replying. “Details, you pug ugly. What happened to the unicorn?”

“Emily the Ogre took him when she left me. The stupid beast took him for spite and I want him back.”

“Oh yeah, I heard you and Miss Nasty Ogre checked into splitsville. Tough break, her taking your precious unicorn, but it seems to me this is a domestic thing. I don't do domestic.”

“I'll triple your normal fee.”

Oscar whistled softly. “Okay, for triple, I'll do domestic. You care how I get the unicorn back?”

“Nope, do what you got to do. I just want my baby back.”

Oscar smiled. He figured he'd get free rein. Everybody in the Worlds knew how Sammy felt about the unicorn. “If I get my money up front, you can have your unicorn back by midnight.”

“Done.” Sammy slammed a thick wad of cash onto the table.

Oscar smiled wider and picked up the money. “See you later tonight, pug ugly.”

A few spells later and Oscar stood face to face with Emily inside her lair. She had planted herself between him and the unicorn. “Hand him over, sweets, and nobody gets hurt.”

“Try and take him, fairy, and I'll rip off your wings.”

“Don't say I didn't warn you, sweets.”

Oscar opened his hand and showed her the dust. She screamed, but it was too late. He tossed the fairy powder into her face, she went “poof” and shrank down to the size of a pixie. A very angry, yelling, pixie-sized ogre. Oscar bent down, scooped her into a sack on his belt and then retrieved the unicorn. He gave it a squeeze.

He shook his head in disbelief. “All this fuss over a plush toy.”

Still muttering about the foibles of trolls and ogres, Oscar headed to his client’s den and returned the unicorn to Sammy who was all smiles.

“My baby snookums is back.” Sammy hugged his toy. “Now get lost, fairy. I need my rest. I haven't had a good night’s sleep since my baby got stolen.”

Oscar watched Sammy snuggle into his bed of leaves still clutching his precious toy, and as he left, he could hear the sound of the troll’s snores. Oscar went back to his house, counted his cash and put an ad up on the internet: For Sale, One Angry Shrunken Ogre. Needs a Good Home.

Thanks for reading. Anyone who leaves a comment today gets a chance to win an e-copy of my book, Gothic Cavalcade (via Smashwords).

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Author Maggie Secara Talks Fantasy

Today's a blog swap for me as I guest over on Maggie Secara's blog (kicking off the Killers and Demons blog tour), and she enchants my readers here, with her insightful words about writing fantasy:

The Fantasy You Know

One of the first things you’re told when you set out to be writer of any sort is to “write what you know.” I’ve taught this maxim myself in workshops any number of times not as a mindless cliché but because really: what else is there to do? Not everyone agrees, of course. New writers especially tend to say “But I don’t know anything!”
 Of course you do. Have you ever been in love? Have you ever had parents who didn’t approve of the choices you made? Have you ever interacted with other people at all? Everything you’ve learned about people—or rainstorms, music, or car repair—from every experience you’ve had or shared with friends is part of what you know. If you listen to the way people speak, and hear the differences as well as similarities; if you notice the twist of your Aunt Mary’s hand when she makes a point, or the wheeze in your best friend’s Grandpa’s honky laugh; all those things are part of what you know. They all go into your writer’s kit, available whenever you need them.

I’ve also heard some people exclaim that it’s the worst advice they were ever given. They don’t want to be limited to what they know, they say! “I have an imagination! I can imagine more than I can ever experience!” Apparently they think they have been advised to write only about events in which they literally participated. Nonsense. They’ve invented a limit where none is intended.

My first novel, Molly September, is a pirate story, though it does have a touch of fantasy here and there. It takes place in 1672. Much of it takes place aboard the privateer, Jealous Mary. The rest is set in Port Royal, Jamaica, or on Tortuga. Right here, there’s a potential problem. It may be obvious that I’m not 350 years old, and thus have no direct experience of the 17th century. I’ve never been a pirate (other than being a Jimmy Buffet fan) or lived at sea. I’ve never even been to Jamaica! So how is that writing what I know?

Okay, I have to admit, my original inspiration for this novel was a handful of Errol Flynn movies (it began way before Johnny Depp put on the Jack Sparrow rig) and a National Geographic feature about Port Royal. I didn’t actually know a whole lot else about pirates and privateers besides what I knew from the movies. So I set out to learn. I read Capt. Johnson’s accounts, Esquemelling’s diary, and the Time-Life Seafarers series. I looked at tourist vacation photos and antique maps. Studied hurricane reports, and the diagrams of the fore-and-aft rigging. Poured over every pirate website historical and fanciful that anyone ever put on the web, found more maps, more details. And even though I hadn’t memorized all that wonderful stuff, I had learned a lot about that world and filed away a lot more. It became—along with falling in love, defying parents, and learning to sing—part of what I know.

Well, fine, you cry. That’s all very well for historical fiction. At least Drake, Morgan, and Blackbeard actually existed. What’s that got to do with writing fantasy? What is there to study? There are no histories or reliable photos. Faery isn’t a real place. (“Isn’t it?” my Oberon would say. “I’m sure you know best.”)

In the last couple of years, my principal project has been a fantasy series called The Bells of Elfland. I’ve never met a fae, that I’m aware of, or sung my way through the veils that part our worlds, any more than I’ve sailed a pirate ship. How can I write about such things, complete with my own notions of the nature and location of Faery, and still be writing what I know?

The realm of Faery exists as an element of folklore almost everywhere on Earth. Are the faeries nature spirits, or the diminished gods of various regions driven underground by a new religion? Are they the fancies of an idle brain or the delusions of ignorant country folk teased up by Victorian folklorists? Maybe. Still, Tolkien and Shakespeare wrote about them. Were they deluded, ignorant, or mad? Or were writing what they knew?

J.R.R. Tolkien (1892–1973) invented one of the most completely realized fantasy world ever imagined in print, but he didn’t do it from scratch. What fed his imagination was a long career studying the oldest forms of English literature, including the traditions of Norse and Anglo-Saxon cultures with their tales of rings, heroes, dwarves, and elves. William Shakespeare (1564–1616) put Oberon in A Midsummer Night’s Dream drawing on the legends and beliefs of the country people he grew up among, descended from the same Anglo-Saxon folk whose languages Tolkien would study centuries later. (He apparently made Titania up, or at least invented the name, as it doesn’t appear anywhere before then.) Fantasists with attachments to other parts of the world use the folklore of those cultures, too.

Writers read. We have to read. Not just fantasy and science fiction—everything. Neil Gaiman, Terry Pratchett, Mercedes Lackey, Patricia McKillip: all of your favorite fantasists are part of the great continuum of folk tale and fairy story. That’s where the histories and maps of Faery and every other fantasy world are. No reliable pictures? Spend time with Brian Froud, Alan Lee, Charles Vess, and the classic fairy illustrators like Arthur Rakham, Edmond Dulac, Warwick Goble. Each of them has a vision. Each of them has heard the bells of Elfland. They’re in the kit, too.

The more you go to the sources, and to the folklore of other cultures as well, the more you learn. The more you learn, the more you’ll have in that kit that your imagination calls on, no matter the genre. And you’ll be writing what you know.

Maggie Secara is a technical writer by trade, which just proves that you can make a living with a Masters in English. Maggie started writing poetry at the tender age of 8, but began her story-telling adventures sometime in junior high school with a Robin Hood saga she promises never to reveal. She has published a bit of poetry here and there, and her first novel, Molly September, debuted in the spring of 2011. She is also the author of A Compendium of Common Knowledge 1558-1603, a handbook of Elizabethan life for actors, writers, and re-enactors. Based on her website at elizabethan.org, it was finally released in book form in 2008. Maggie and her very understanding husband, known fondly to her Facebook fans as JimDear, live with their cats in cozy suburban splendor in North Hollywood, California.

Find Maggie at maggiros.blogspot.com or join her Facebook fan page, Maggie Secara’s Writing.