Happy Saturday! I didn’t have an author snippet sent to me for today so I thought I’d share the first six lines from the novella I’m working on right now. It’s called Jack and Marjory and it gives space for two of my bigender characters to tell something of their own side-adventure (which played a massive part in the history of Ire in a behind the scenes sort of way.) If you want some background, check out the Introduction page above 🙂 To see all the other fabulous rainbow snippets for this week check out the rainbow snippets facebook page
IS THIS WHERE WE END… ?
“ of laughter and soft lies, no safety or surprise, I’ll never look into your eyes…”
Yeovil skyway station, vomiting bile onto the porcelain of a public Crapper with a full hip flask boasting a lethal dose of Matcha and no hope in Hull.
Is this where we end? I s’pose it must be.
The door of the next cubicle swings open and through the blur of caffeine withdrawl we clock a deek at him – a Plain As Henry well dressed body, an everyday sort of beast, someone unremarkable with an enviably dull and happy existence, who pays his sugar tax and sticks to his government standard issue cup of dandelion root coffee and his tinned tomato soup, his peaceful caffeine, sugar, magic free existence… is this a moral tale? P’rhaps it is, but we don’t think it was ever meant to be. We, certainly, didn’t plan it that way.
The door swings shut on just another dreary tea sot dead in a pool of their own vomit … yep, sounds plausible alright.
But we wasn’t always like this you know…
Jack and Marjory:
Being an entertaining and informative piece of travel writing by a couple of rogues on the run as they attempt to avoid the machinations of wizards, monarchs and a ruthless band of beatnik poets, deflect a civil war and deliver a priceless, historical tea set before the owner finds himself at the gallows.
rainbow flower image courtesy of mariah22 at http://www.freeimages.com
book cover image by Renphoto
Good evening and welcome to my awe-inspiring aethenaeum of praiseworthy pamphlets…or as some ridiculous personages have dubbed it – my lovely library.
I am the ghost known as Perilous Wight and here in the bowels of the city of Lancaster, in the disused tunnels of an underground train system that never was, I have made it my mission to collect every book that our self-proclaimed ‘supreme ruler f the universe’ and his mincing minions have banned from the bookshelves of the new world.
But this is not a public thoroughfare! If you have wandered in here on the ill-advice of that incorrigible octopus and its unnerving Gentleman Friend, let me advise you not to be so easily lured into a parlour by strange creatures promising cake. Well, you will find nothing sweet and alluring down here; here there is only the dark and the damp, the flickering of candlelight and the ceaseless toil of a man who did not re-animate from the dead to be pestered by people wanting bedtime stories!
But wait…what’s that you have tucked away under your arm there? A bottle of Bruadar malt whisky liqueur eh? Oh…. well, yes perhaps it is about time I put my feet up for a while, pipe and slippers and a little drop of something, the day has, after all been a long one. And I suppose I could read a very little something,
like this perhaps… I have been tirelessly working over the summer, interviewing, stalking … I mean studying… the Hex Slingers of Lancaster, compiling an anthropological study of the lives of those who use magic illegally in the curated back-alley fight clubs – why and how have they come to their present situation? What are their stories? Well, here at least, is one of them…
TALES OF STEAMPUNK’D LANCASTER
SERIES 1: TALES OF THE HEX SLINGERS
TALE THE THIRD: by PENNY BLAKE
We wasn’t always called Jack and Marjory. But then again we didn’t always live in Lancaster. We didn’t always own these boots. We didn’t always work for Kitty Flynn.
Kitty’s coffee house, The Angel, is always full, always bustling, always respectable and everything above board.
They serve government standard issue coffee – the lifeblood of the workforce and the would-be well-to-do alike.
Chicory, acorn, dandelion … the great copper pots of brown liquid sit simmering in the seventeen fire places all day long and Kitty’s daughters run to and fro serving it out in pewter tumblers on silver trays.
The rules are framed in mahogany on the white washed wall: no foul language, no char-latin, no anti-royalist, anti-religious or anticlimactical notions, no games of chance, no business dealings, no magic.
Yes indeed, The Angel is a perfectly respectable place. It must be. The patrons run the great societal gamut from the lowliest mill worker, to dockers, street traders and Sho’vani barge folk; from town Tinkers like The Time Keeper and The Spoon Smiths, to landlords like Montmorency and Clitheroe, even true aristocrats like Lord Ashton and Lady Grace and wizards like that so-called ‘Dr. Smith’…
The Angel is always full, never a spare room in the place. Kitty rents rooms alright but you’d be damned if you could ever get one. Very particular is Kitty Flynn about who she’ll let a room to and once she gets a tenant in, they tend to stay for a very long time.
We, certainly, intend to stay for a very long time.
Because once you’re in, like us, there’s only one way out – and it ain’t pretty. No, indeed, it really ain’t.
There are seventeen chimney’s in The Angel. Seventeen chimneys and each has an inglenook bookcase.
On a certain evening, at a certain time, after the doors are locked and barred and only a few select patrons are still at table – presumably having booked lodgings for the night and enjoying a late supper – Jack and Marjory might suddenly take into our heads the fancy of reading a particular book titled The Winchester Mystery which is located on the seventh shelf of the bookcase in the seventh chimney.
It is a favourite of almost every patron and tenant and no one bats an eyelid as the whisper of well oiled cogs heralds the opening of a hidden door and we slip through, and down into an entirely different world below.
Here the air is tight, charged with electricity, close with the heat of many bodies and breaths and damp with sweat and mildew. Arachnid threads of green sphagnum and lichen trace along the limestone walls and arched tunnel ceilings and our footsteps echo among the cheers and jeers, shrieks of pain and laughter and flesh hitting stone.
There are rats down here, snails, reptiles, cats and dust but we don’t need them. When you work for Kitty Flynn, you keep things pure. Just the magic, that’s what Kitty wants. That’s what Kitty gets.
Kitty’s house is always full. All the tenants fight down here. It’s how we earn our keep, of course, and more than that as you can see ; no Hex Slingers in Lancaster are togged out finer than us who board at The Angel, well and truly minted is what we are because Kitty looks after her own…
But you knew that already, right? That’s why you came, that’s why you asked if there was a room and when we saw your hands, bandaged up in strips of kid leather to hide the scars and that high collar pulled up close under your chin, when we saw the hunted look in your blood shots eyes, we knew you’d fit right in…