A Super-Swanky New Me

Med-Fina

Any of you who have read or purchased my books will know that I am published by a company called Creativia. The lovely people involved have just upgraded their website so that their authors and books are put front and centre. The result is the page that I had with them is now brand new and (as stated in the title) a Super-Swanky New Me.
Some of the publicity links I have received are now actually included on my author page with more to come. Accordingly, I would like to say a special thank you to Chris the Story Reading Ape and also Sally Cronin whose links are already being used there.
Please feel free to click HERE and have a nosey and see what you think. My book pages are clickable so you can peep at them too. I would be extremely grateful for any social media shares from those pages. These things are a great help to Indie Authors.

Thank you as always for reading
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of The Eternals Series
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Writing Practise and Forgetting Your Work


Author’s Note: When I am working on a large project, I will often practise with dummy scenes and similar passages to those I will eventually publish. I find this an ideal way to feel a story out without worrying about it effecting the eventual outcome. The problem is, as with many creatives, your mind is so full of ideas that you prioritise the important ones and forget the rest. A case in point is the following short story. I hate to waste them.
I am collating a steampunk anthology — one of my favourite genres — whose main characters shall then appear in their own books. This along with The Eternals Series, which has just been completed, have monopolised my brain (it’s not big enough to handle too much). Everything else has slipped into a hazy past. So, I thought I’d share the following story here so people can see the sorts of things that often get forgotten, bypassed or dumped without even realising they’ve disappeared. This turned up in my hunting out another story that I’ve misplaced (yes, I am that bad). I genuinely hope you enjoy it.

PS. My Advice: Take more care of your writing than I do mine.

The Tinkerer


An irreconcilable truth, yet, nevertheless a truth, we were meant to die, not last forever. Eternity was meant for gods and monsters, myths and legends, dreams and imagination, never for the ordinary and undeserving. We were supposed to live our lives, make foolish mistakes, garner regrets and memories to be passed down through the generations like water to the sea. Yes, we were meant to pool in that oceanic basin called life, but never stagnate. We were meant for better things but never on Earth.

Modifications, they called them, modular adjustments, augmentations of self. The supposition was that a world without death might become a world without fear and therefore one without any desire for war. The warring nations of our planet would come together under one banner, Victoria’s banner, and peace would settle like the first winter snows carpeting the world in gentle sleep. Peace was an enviable utopia if it were the truth, but eternal life, mortality if you will, could not have been farther from that truth. I knew for I fabricated the lie.

I was an inventor, not a scientist, nor even a man of particular cranial might. My skills, for what they were worth, were formed in those steam powered machines that encircled the globe, and in particular Great Britain because she who must be obeyed — otherwise known as Queen Victoria — commanded it. The youthful me’s methods were formed from cogs and steam under the ever watchful eyes of such engineering stalwarts as Stephenson and later Brunel. If it sounded glamorous, it wasn’t. Filth and smog and oil were my medicines, and I hated taking them. So, I diversified. I tinkered, or so my mother used to say, dabbled with things beyond my ken, things that were better left alone. I left my work and retreated to the basement of my home to be seen less than frequent but more than seldom. Frogs were my speciality, my experiments of choice, as they were plentiful in the streams and ponds abutting our village: frogs in metal frameworks; frogs with extra brains stuffed in their tiny heads; frogs made to be not-frogs. Like a mad professor from a children’s fairytale, I fiddled and jiggled with the fabric of life and never once had a clue what I tampered with.

My parents did not take well to my work, in fact, they hated it. So I took my tinkering elsewhere, left the pile of stone and ivy that constituted my family’s legacy, my home, and ran away for good. I had no desire to have scorn heaped upon me at every turn, who would? Instead, I sought the quiet surroundings of nature, rural comforts, one might have said. I found them, too. Nestled away in a small corner of Yorkshire where a good horse was a greater prize than any of those new-fangled automobiles, I settled into endless days of adjustments.

I grew so good at what I did in those formative years, in my improving, that the local farmers actively fetched their livestock to be remodelled. Can you believe it? To me! I sewed extra udders here and there, grafted a pair of extra legs to this or that animal, increased a sheep’s wool capacity to that of a seeding dandelion. All knew my work by the white clouds of precious wool which lifted from said oves with the ease of blowing seeds from the dead flowers they resembled. There was no limit to my refabrications. I even crossed a pig with a Zeppelin to make it easier to move. Not bad, eh? Not good, either! I should’ve sewn up their behinds before allowing them the freedom of the skies, tethered or otherwise. Life was good. Life was easy.

My fame grew in proportion to the experiments I perpetrated. I say perpetrated because they should never have taken place. My mother had called me evil — I was not evil, I was good — but I began to see why she’d claimed it. A Mister Samuel Rothbarton, an owner of several Bradford Mills and a small island in the Caribbean, had acquired enough of a fortune to prize me from my arboreal bordered land to one of stone and brick. He refused to die and wished for me to prevent it. “I am not a commoner and shall not die like one!” he’d proclaimed. I almost believed him, too.

I had never considered the process of immortality in my tinkerer’s remit. Honestly, I hadn’t! You must believe that. However, I must confess it appealed to my bravado, my showmanship one might have said, to see if I might have managed it. I did. It wasn’t even hard. A few organs replaced, limbs adjusted, all with gears and clockwork minutiae, more than did the trick. In fact, Mister Rothbarton became more of a grandfather clock than the actual clock I’d stolen his parts from. He did not care. The cancer that had plagued him had no hold over metal, his gout ineffectual on an articulated leg. He showered me with all the money I could ever have dreamed of and never required. But like all greedy humans, once garnered, I wished for more.

I advertised myself as a man of miracles, augmenter extraordinaire. The population at large believed me. Eventually, so did our Queen.

Her Majesty Queen Victoria regarded me through heavy-lidded eyes, old eyes, and passed me a sheet of paper that merely said, I wish to be Immortal. She did not speak, not a word, and neither did her advisors. I nodded my acquiescence and was then dismissed to a small workshop adjoining the palace stables.

Things might have gone better with Her Majesty’s alterations, much better. However, live she did and would for as long as someone oiled her. I could do little about her exterior appearance, age had withered her, but her beating heart was strong and became stronger. She took to her new form like the bitten to vampirism, ruled with vigour and a literal iron fist. She bounded about the palace on strong-sprung legs like a newly walking toddler. And for a time, her people admired her that way, accepted her for what she’d become, and she accepted them. It did not last.

Victoria first pitied those doomed to die, then grew bored, then raged in spiralling madness at those unlike her, the unaltered. In a moment of sheer frustration, she had them butchered, every last man, woman and child. Not one regular human remained. Not one! Except me, that was, for I faked my metal appendages; I had no desire to last forever.

Her Majesty never allowed me far from her side — just in case, she claimed — but after a time age told upon me. Whereas she and those she’d had me correct thrived, nature took its course on my weak body. I claimed most of it by choice: I whitened my hair because I disliked black; stooped because it made the table closer, and any number of ridiculous lies. Ridiculous or not, she and her underlings believed them. Believed them until my heart attack, that was, but not after.

Victoria had one Ignatius Bumbleswick perform the operation, my one time assistant and general dogsbody. The man who I had always considered a prying fool was in fact an absolute genius. He manipulated my tools with a skill I should never have managed. Like Constable a painting, or Shelley words, Bumbleswick tore me apart and remade me: he made me exceptional.

I did not thank him or his monarch for gifting me renewed life, how could I? I wanted to die. I wanted death more than anything for I knew God would never allow me into the realm of eternal light after what I had done, not unless I remained untainted myself. That had been my hope, anyway. They stole my one chance of a pardon with an ever-present reminder ticking in my chest.

And so I persevered through the changing dynasties of the world, through Victoria’s massacring of everyone except those she wished Bumbleswick and I to maintain. Soon, although it might have been many aeons, one loses time after the first few centuries or so, few remained in a world too spacious to appreciate its worth. We congealed around London like germs a handkerchief as the rest fell into disrepair then ruin. Or so we thought?

They came from overseas. More beasts than men, the evolved and evolving, such a crush of feathers and fur were they that most Victorians — as we still called ourselves — gawped and stared in disbelief of what we witnessed. The beasts neither gawped nor stared, they butchered.

They saved me until last. I saw all fall before me, even Queen Victoria in an explosion of oil and flame, every human I’d augmented, every soul I’d taken. When a cotton wool ball of a creature tottered over to stand before me, I realised the truth. The creatures were the descendants of those I myself had altered. The ghosts of my past had come back to haunt me, my first tinkering experiments had returned tenfold.

Even then, I might have been excused, pardoned the fate of the others. They watched me through great, big eyes with the expectancy of children unwrapping birthday gifts. However, when upon closer scrutiny I scowled upon their unkempt forms, their ugliness, half-smiles turned to full snarls. They had thought me their God, when in truth, I was the Devil. They tore me apart by talon and teeth. I was glad to go.

There was no promised light, not even a candle. I lapsed into darkness like the shutting of a coffin lid on a catatonic man. In darkness I remained, my conscience trapped to tinker in obsidian forever.

The End

As Always

Thank you for reading

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

 

Genre Writing For You

Genre Writing For You

The Joy of Words

Author’s Note: This is my latest post on Medium. Please feel free to click the link and join me there.

Today, my wife showed me a video clip of a Jack Russell terrier playing with a balloon. The little fellow jumped up and down in sheer unadulterated joy without a care for who watched, who recorded, or who would discuss his outburst. This dog reminded me of why I gave up everything to write: I had to. Just like my canine sensei who had eyes only for that orange balloon drifting through a cerulean sky, I had eyes only for telling stories. A simple reason easily forgotten.

It is easy to lose track of ourselves in a world where we now see everything, know everything — so we think — or, as so many do, follow the crowd. We lose our own identities in the fabric of life that popular thought stitches together. I liken this to Genre Writing; we are stamped with a badge that says author of Fantasy, Horror, Romance or any number of others. In times where companies like Amazon have sub-categories of sub-categories ad infinitum, this is only exacerbated. I say NO!

What can we do about it?

Well, we can buckle to pressure and repeat ourselves for the rest of our writing lives, or, and here’s the thing, we can use the skills we develop every time we tap on that keyboard or write in that pad to twist things to suit. This takes me back to that lively Jack Russell terrier.

Perspectives

Fantasy: If I’d told you I’d seen a dragon jumping up and down trying to catch a ballon, you would have thought very differently about this post — mainly that I was mad, but that’s beside the point.

Humour: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell jumping up and down in a snazzy pirate’s outfit whilst balancing a bone on his nose and trying to pop a balloon, you would have thought — Aww, little rascal! If you didn’t, what kind of monster are you?

Science Fiction: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell terrier jump up after a kid’s balloon, vanish, then reappear inside it, you’d have thought — Wow!

Horror: If I’d told you I’d seen a Jack Russell terrier jump up after a ballon that lurched instead for him and swallowed him whole, you might have felt sad or scared.

I could go on, but I think you get the gist.

Conclusion

There are many ways to write up the most mundane of events. It is up to the author to choose what words to use and how to place them to both satisfy himself and in so doing, his readers. A wordsmith should never tire of writing if they’re provided with limitless ways of doing so — YOUR WRITING IS LIMITLESS!

Like that little dog jumping on the grass with eyes only for a balloon, you, too, can play and skip and jump your way to success and be happy doing it. Stay strong. Stay creative.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (Very Soon!)

Influences 1

Author’s Note: Today, I’m introducing a new section to my blog. I’m hoping people will find it interesting to read what has and still does influence my writing, as I’m pretty sure most of it will surprise you.

A little background: I have eclectic tastes in both literature and art. I like what I like. As I’m sure you can imagine, as a writer, both mediums feature highly on my list of influences. So, I thought I’d start with somewhere that incorporates both.

Today’s influence is JAPAN.

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There’s always been something about Japan that’s stirred my soul. The country is different, elegant in a way the West is not. It’s probably no surprise then that several Japanese mediums rate right up there in my list of influences. Here are those stories, films, books etcetera that I will always be grateful for having seen or read. If any are new to you, I would recommend giving each a try.

On a side note, the characters of the Sunyin monks, the oldest holding particular significance in my books, would not have developed without my love for everything Japanese.

Film: Lost In Translation. My favourite film. If ever something was me this is. Not Japanese in the true sense of the word, but set there. A true exploration of a culture counter to our own. I love it’s understated brilliance.

Manga: If you love Japanese Graphic Novels, you’ll always love them. Ghost In The Shell, which is soon to be released as a major movie, was my introduction to such things. This was followed by Death Note a battle of wits that just keeps on going and finally Vampire Hunter D. All three were visual in both the art and the storytelling, so much so that I bought several Vampire Hunter D novels to essentially read without pictures. This leads me on nicely to my next subject.

Anime: I love Japanese animation and in particular the work of Studio Ghibli. Three of their films, even if some might claim them for children, would rate in my top ten: Spirited Away; My Neighbor Totoro; Howl’s Moving Castle (Based on the Diana Wynne Jones book of the same name). Ponyo would be up there too, but I never admit to it. The Japanese have a more subtle approach to animation than the West and their portrayal of children will always be superior in their perception and portrayal of innocence.

Art: Yoshitaka Amano. I so wish I knew if I could show his artwork here, so instead have created this link. Take a peak. Take a look. Take your time. Stunning! You won’t need me to explain why if you do.

Books: Last but not least comes the literary side. I own many translated Japanese works, but one author stands above all. Haruki Murakami is a master of his chosen art. I often think Murakami could write about the contents of a bin liner and make it a surreal masterpiece. Both Norwegian Wood and After Dark would rate in my top ten books and many more would rate not much higher still. I don’t think anyone can blur the transition of fantasy and reality like Murakami. He is unique. If I could be perceived in the future as even a quarter as good as he, I’d die happy knowing my work well done.

I hope you’ve found this interesting and that something might have caught your eye. It is a good thing to broaden one’s horizons, I think. The wider our range of input, the better the narrowed down output. At least, I hope so.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of the Eternals Series

The Eternals

Hunter Hunted

Into Eternity (SOON!)

Writing Tools for the Professional Writer

Writing Tools for the Professional Writer

Author’s Note: This is a copy of my latest post on Medium. I hope you find it useful.

In real life, I’m not a fussy man. Sure, I like what I like — who doesn’t? — but my tastes are simple. This is not the case in my literary life.

Let’s get the main issue out of the way: I hate Microsoft Word! I use it when I have to and no more. A modern writer does not need every tool in the book only a keypad and screen to see which keys they’ve tapped. A proliferation of ‘tat’ as my Grandad used to say, or, stuff for stuff’s sake, serves only one purpose and that is to delay the art of actual creation.

‘Okay!’ you shout. ‘What should I use?’

I would never tell anyone what they should or shouldn’t write with as it is so individual a choice, but I can share what I use and hope it helps you.

You will have heard of many of these and I apologise in advance that most are for the Mac or iOS as they are my working platforms.

Novels

This is a simple choice for an un-simple — can I say that? — application: Scrivener.

Scrivener is a do-all tool that can and do as little or as much as you wish it to. I use Scrivener for all long-form writing. I won’t go into details because it will bore you, but the main reasons I love it, are as follows.

  1. Scrivener handles all aspects of compiling your manuscript so you don’t have to worry about it.
  2. Scrivener is adjustable. I like to feel comfortable when I write. I like information available, index cards etcetera, but out of the way. I like a fullscreen mode, focus mode, dark backgrounds and the list goes on. I doubt there’s anything a writer could think of that Scrivener does not do.
  3. Most of all, it’s reliable and multi-platform. Plus, now that there’s an iOS and companion, although I found the sync hard to set up, the whole ensemble is complete.

Note: I would like to add that I found diving straight into Scrivener and playing around, much easier than watching the screencast, (it boggled my weak mind). Others may laugh at this, but better to be truthful.

Prowritingaid. I finish all my compositions by putting them through Prowritingaid.com. You can paste up to 3000 words into it and have the site evaluate all possible mistakes. Take the results with a pinch of salt and learn from them. This is superb and I cannot recommend it enough. I have the full unlimited version but the free one will suffice most people.

Grammarly. When I have put my work through the above site, I then do so again through Grammarly. I find Grammarly better at picking up punctuation issues than Prowritingaid but the latter better at passive voice and adverb advice. Again, Grammarly has paid and free plans so there’s no excuse for not being able to use it.

Short-form Writing

Ah, here we go. As I said at the start, I am a fussy, fussy writer. I like to write on certain coloured backgrounds particularly on small devices. The same goes for fonts and general presentation. The following accommodate my foibles.

  1. Ulysses: Available on Mac and iOS. Ulysses is the closest simple writing app to Scrivener. It uses Markdown, which I love and am using now, but allows for customisation and general simplicity of views.
  2. Byword: As above but much simpler. You don’t have the choice of customisation with Byword as some apps; you don’t need to. The company’s choice of tools is perfect for plain, non-complicated writing in any genre or style.
  3. iA Writer: As above but arguably even simpler as you get less choice with fonts. Another beautiful Markdown writer that makes the job of typing out a story a true pleasure. (This actual post is written and posted using iA Writer).

Author’s Note: All three of the writers above have free services to publish direct to various blogging platforms, (VERY USEFUL).

NB: I would like to give an honourable mention to the new Bear app (Mac and iOS). For general notes and a bit of all the above, the Bear application is stunningly beautiful. A true pleasure to use.

I would also like to mention Pixabay.com for sourcing great free images. They, too, also have an iOS app.

Most Important

You! There are no tools to replace a writer’s imagination. Let your thoughts flow and fingers type. Always write the way you want, about what you want, and others will see your heart and talent shine through. Everyone has talent. Never take no for an answer when it comes to writing. Keep going. Make it a habit. Enjoy it.

I hope you enjoyed this post and can make use of some or all of my recommendations. If nothing else, try the grammar checkers.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers

Author of The Eternals Series

Shhh, don’t tell! The conclusion to the series, Into Eternity, available very soon.

Ooh, very exciting!

Thank You

The Golden Book Awards 2017

I just wanted to say a big thank you to all of you who wished me luck or went out of their way to vote for The Eternals at The Golden Book Awards 2017.
I'm very proud to say I was one of only six books to receive both the Readers' and Judges' commendations. I have attached the badges to show you.
To go any further and try for the top prize costs, and as seen as I'm penniless, it isn't going to happen. That doesn't change how grateful I am to all of you and whoever it was that nominated me in the first place.
The Eternals has now garnered awards in both 2016 and 2017 and I can't thank you all enough.

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Thank you again
Richard

Richard M. Ankers
Author of The Eternals Series

Book 1: The Eternals
Book 2: Hunter Hunted
Book 3: Into Eternity (Available Soon)

Eternals Series Image

#VignetteSeries – Wartime Skies

Here, I was attempting to qualify the beauty of stars. Sir Belvedere Wainthrop is an ongoing character. He is a hero, but a man undervalued for all except his physical prowess. Only his best friend, Albert Chambers, sees him differently.

Night hung like a loose drape baggy around the edges. In great swathes of undulating black, a wannabe obsidian sky attempted to shake off shades of charcoal, lead and gloom, and failed spectacularly.
"Ashen," said Sir Belvedere.
"Pardon, Bells."
"Oh, nothing, just remarking on the sky, Albert."
"Did you say ashen?"
"Yes. I have seen skies like this too many times in my life, those smeared by war."
"I can only imagine."
"I wouldn't if I was you. War is a terrible thing. At times, one had only the stars to look forward to. This excuse for an evening reminds me of them."
"Then, I should suggest an alternative."
"And that is?"
Albert poured a glass of burgundy for each and held it aloft. "Drink to the dawn, Bells, for our sun is harder to banish an altogether more formidable foe."
"Even if it does take too long to rise."
"Yes, my friend, even then."

2017 Writing Goals

I read an interesting article by some wiseacre who suggested making a list of all your writing hopes and aspirations for the forthcoming year. Now I’m a writeaholic, but after scanning through the following list, I aren’t so sure it was a good idea. Nevertheless, here it is. You can all hold me to account on December the 31st. I will, of course, have forgotten this list by then and think you’ve got it in for me, but them’s the breaks.

Writing Projects (All Novels)

  1. Final prowriter run through for Into Eternity book 3 of The Eternals Series. Look to publish somewhere close to Easter.
  2. Steampunk extravaganza, Britannia Unleashed, to be given last edit and then prowriter check. Make changes if required. Look to publish mid-year.
  3. Rewrite The Snow Lily to the level I would prefer. Look to have finished by Christmas if possible.
  4. Expand on The Repaired apocalyptic Sci-Fi. Take the story from the 40 000 words already written to closer to double that. Make Marianna Bosomsworth terrifying.
  5. Enjoy, as you already are, expanding Mortimer Headlock and the Case of the Missing Moonchildren on an evening. Try to tie in with Britannia Unleashed Timelines. If all goes well and you’re still enjoying it promote this story to third on this list.
  6. Flush out further the ideas for Wolfriders.

Note to self: Three of these stories are already written so take a deep breath and go for it.

Short Stories

  1. As time allows submit from short story collection to appropriate magazines.
  2. Watch out for the release of The Shark at the End of My Bed.

Promotional

Continue to support the release of The Eternals and Hunter Hunted in preparation for the release of Into Eternity.
Try your best to continue with three posts a day on WordPress and also post appropriate posts to Facebook Author Page and Instagram. And for God’s sake learn how to use Twitter properly.

Hopes

For continued success and the enjoyment of doing what you’ve always dreamed of.

Thank you for reading my 2017 writing goals.

Richard
Richard M. Ankers author of The Eternals Series.

The Eternals
Hunter Hunted

An Inevitable Cold

An Inevitable Cold

Author’s note: As a writer of speculative fiction, I often stray into the nighttime worlds of creatures some would refer to as subjects of horror. Sometimes this is true, but not often. The one classic example of this is the vampire to whom I feel a sleepless affinity. I write often of them in one form or another, and they are the inhabitants of my main body of work The Eternals, the newly released Hunter Hunted, and the final book of The Eternal Series to be released early/mid 2017 Into Eternity. I feel for what they have lost and all that they will never have. I sympathise and commiserate. I hope the following short piece of writing might give my readers a little taste of just why this is.

Thank you for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers, author of The Eternals Series.

There is a difference between feeling cold and being cold. Feeling cold refers to chapped lips on a winter’s day, sopping wet feet caused by too cheap shoes, or even falling through ice in your best woollen jumper and jeans. Having sampled all three, I can vouch for the unpleasant results of each to one degree or another. None of the aforementioned miscalculations, however, can prepare one for what real cold means, what being cold entails.

Being cold is a state of life, so to speak, for myself. I exist in permanent Antarctic conditions. My skin is cold to the touch, freezing even. To touch me is to recoil in shock like sticking one’s fingers in an electrical socket. But I am cold within as well as without. My blood does not circulate in soothing currents of crimson warmth, but instead churns in sluggish motion like sea ice reclaiming summer losses crystalline inch by crystalline inch rather than in liquid miles. I am cold, it is as simple as that.

When I wake from slumber, I stretch, creak, fracture along wrinkles and crevasse along scars until snapped to attention I pull myself back together. The whole thing takes effort, much effort, and I tire of it if truth be told. As I step from my bed in hushed rigidity, I strive to remember what it is to move in natural motion and bit by tiny bit recover myself. I say recover, for I lose myself for eternities at a time. They are but the blinking of an eye to you, but to me far more. Even one as cold as I does not wish to sample the absolute zero of infinity. Not yet. Not until I’m ready to go, anyway.

There are benefits to a half-life of cold seconds and freezing hours: the joy that comes from fractional warming. I say fractional because it never lasts. In fact, it lasts for shorter periods after each individual warming. A blast of metallic heat will perforate my entire being, infuse me, then rush away like a river in flood to be replaced by an inevitable cold. I say inevitable because it is, and that saddens me.

I often sadden. Just thinking about how often I sadden saddens me further and proliferates a never ending circle of morbidity. I do not wish to be morbid; icicle tears hurt when they fall.

I haven’t always been sad, not in my past, not at all. I was a happy man with a happy life living in smiles and married to a happy wife. I like saying this because it has a singsong melody that I now lack. I have forgotten what music feels like though I still love to listen.

When I hunt as bat or wolf or fog or just boring old me, I try to imagine the sun beating down upon my back as it did in that wonderful summer of twenty-nine. Eighteen hundred and twenty-nine if you were there too, though I doubt it. Saffron was the colour of the season, gold its twin, and all burnt in an involuntary happiness that lasted until the inevitable redress that nature brings. I await my redress. I await it with a practised smile that always feels like a sneer.

One pretty young thing once said I sneered even when she acquiesced to my wishes. It did not feel like it but neither does it now. I stare into a small porthole window hoping to see my reflection smile back; there is no reflection to behold. I am reflection-less. I am nothing. Yet still, I flip open the window; it revolves like a lifted latch and I glide into the room it protects. I feel warmth from the person in the bed. It won’t last for long.

Forgive me this ramble — I am cold and just wish to be warm.


 

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#kindledeal #TheEternals

Just two more days of The Eternals £0.99/$0.99 kindle offer.

The Eternals, neither human nor vampire, are the last inhabitants of a dying Earth. In the face of a slowly perishing sun, some have accepted their fate while others are ready to fight for their future. It is to this ultimatum that Jean, the last Eternal lord, is born.

Jean’s life changes drastically after his bite takes the life of Princess Chantelle of The New Europa Alliance. Suddenly, he’s a man on the run, falling in love and rediscovering his humanity.

With the sun’s clock ticking, Jean stumbles from manipulated mishap into age-old conspiracies and beyond, as he tries to reconcile his sordid past.


Link: The Eternals

New Release / Now Also Available 

Hunter Hunted (Book 2 In The Eternals Series)

“Life is a collection of colours when all you’ve known is night.”

Sir Walter Merryweather


Link: Hunter Hunted