The Story Behind the Story with author Susan E. Wadds of Ontario, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome another newcomer to the Scribbler.

 Susan was introduced to me by a mutual friend and we are more than happy to have her as our guest this week.

She is sharing the SBTS of her novel and is treating us to an excerpt.

Read on my friends.

 

  

Finalist for the 2024 Canadian Book Club Awards and Winner of The 2016 Writer’s Union of Canada’s Prose Contest, Susan Wadds’ work has appeared in carteblanche, The Blood Pudding, Room, Waterwheel Review, and many more. The first two chapters of her debut novel, What The Living Do, (Regal House Publishing, 2024), won the Lazuli Group’s Prose Contest, and were published in Azure Magazine. A graduate of the Humber School for Writers and a proud member of The Writers Union of Canada, Susan is a certified Amherst Writers and Artists (AWA) workshop facilitator. She lives on a quiet river on Williams Treaty land in traditional Anishinaabe territory with an odd assortment of humans and cats.

 

Title: WHAT THE LIVING DO (Regal House Publishing, 2024)

Synopsis:

Sex and death consume much of thirty-seven-year-old Brett Catlin’s life. Cole, ten years her junior, takes care of the former while her job disposing of roadkill addresses the latter. When a cancer diagnosis makes her question her worth, suspecting the illness is payback for the deaths of her father and baby sister, she begins a challenging journey of healing and self-discovery. Encounters with animals, both living and dead, help her answer the question, who is worth saving?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

There’s a pervasive belief in many cultures that illness is somehow deserved. We ask, Why is this happening to me? What did I do wrong? Is this God’s punishment? Or even, I don’t deserve this. As though the body has betrayed us by falling ill.

But what if we are carrying a guilt so deep that a cancer diagnosis confirms our suspicions that we don’t deserve to live?

I came face to face with this belief with my own 1991 cancer diagnosis; that some meanness in my past had caused cells to mutate. As I worked through aspects of my past and psyche through various forms of therapy to uncover the source, it began to dawn on me that my illness might not actually be my fault.

In this novel I intended to illustrate this arc in a more dramatic way than being selfish or inconsiderate, so I gave my character an early tragedy. The deaths of her father and sister are burdens of guilt that created a barrier to anyone getting too close. Instead of a power position such as lawyer or doctor, I wanted her in a genuinely tough work role, so I put her on a roads’ crew side-by-side with misogynistic men. To further boost her need for distance, I gave her a much younger partner.

As for where the images and ideas spring from—I lived for years on and off in the Slocan Valley in the Kootenay Mountains, where a sweet Doukhobor cabin I first lived in burned to the ground. Luckily no one was at home when it happened, but having that experience gave me the idea to dramatize such a thing.

The aspects concerning Brett’s work partner, Mel, come from my years with Chippewa, or Ojibwe, and Cree people, including my former husband and son. So much of what that character imparts to Brett is what was directly said and taught to me. I wanted to honour my son’s family and ancestors.

Website- please go HERE.

A question before you go, Susan:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

Susan: I’m messy as hell. I often write along with others from visual or situational prompts. I facilitate several workshops a week in the Amherst Writers & Artists method, which requires me to take the same risks. In other words, even if I don’t “feel” like writing, I’m bound to do it. In that way, most of my first draft scenes get written. The rest of the slog through the editing and revision processes are done at a messy desk that also needs revision. And when it comes down to the final push, I take myself far away from distraction or responsibility. A retreat or artist residency to devote myself only to the manuscript. One of my devices is to send the manuscript to my Kindle and read it as though it isn’t mine. I can pause to make notes directly onto the Kindle and then take it back to a messy desk to do the final edits.

I drink coffee in the morning and water throughout the day. I do not listen to music when I write. I need quiet—too much noise already in my head. Once my writing day is done, I do love my red wine.

Excerpt from What the Living Do (pages 78-80.)

 

What Norah told me was that she was an only child because her mother had MS, and that all she longed for was a swarm of children laughing and fighting and scrambling around in the dirt. She’d gladly give up her consultant job for a shot at being a mother, a housewife—anything for a family. I spewed my usual, “The world’s going to shit. How can you justify bringing another human into this hellhole with no future?” And she’d laughed, poured me another drink, and fast-forwarded through the credits to start the next episode. “Don’t be an idiot, Brett,” she said. “Children are what make it all worth saving.”

I have to tell her. Right now.

I motion to the server. “Bring us two margaritas. Shaken, not frozen. No ice. Lots of salt.” The server nods and slinks off, her hips too narrow to bear children.

I will tell her when the drinks come. Maybe after we’ve finished the first one.

“So,” Norah says, happy now, forearms supporting her as she leans toward me. “Bring me up to speed. What’s new?”

“I have cancer.”

She doesn’t know. Josh didn’t tell her because Cole didn’t tell him. Men are so mystifying. Of course she’s pissed off that I didn’t tell her sooner, but she won’t abandon me. It’s easier to support someone when the thing that’s wrong isn’t their fault.

“I’ve been thinking about leaving,” I say. “Maybe it would be better for everyone if I get my sorry ass out of here.”

“Leave? For where?” Norah’s tongue slides along the glass of her margarita. “You mean after you have the surgery?”

“You know I’ve always wanted to go to Bali.”

“Yeah, yeah, but that scumbag Mark didn’t want to go, right?”

A crumb of salt lodges in my throat. “Right,” I say, coughing a little.

“Oh, right,” she says, looking down. “I am sorry, you know. I was hurting. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s all right,” I say. “Really.” Indicating her glass, I say, “Should we do this again?”

She’s grateful, I can tell. Which makes me feel grateful. I order another round.

“So, you won’t go? You’ll stay, right?”

I shake my head too vigorously and the plasma screens distort the way a fairground distorts from the Zipper ride. Blinking, I whisper, “Cole loves me. I’m trying to let him.”

“Let him?”

I continue to whisper. “Yes, let him. And between you and me,” I say, tipping my body over the table, “it scares the crap right out of me.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake,” she says, meeting me there at the center of the table. “You love him, don’t you?”

“Love is a scary, scary thing, Norah. A very scary thing.”

She laughs, that high tinkling sound I’ve missed so much.

Pushing myself back against the seat, I raise my frosty glass. “This may be the last time I get drunk as a real woman,” I declare.

“Oh, Brett, you mustn’t say that!” Her glass stalls in the air. “You’ll still be able to have sex, won’t you?” Her voice drops low. “You can still have sex now, right?”

“I can since I’ve healed from the LOOP or LEEP or whatever. And apparently even if I have the works taken out my husband won’t even know!”

We clink. “You got married and didn’t invite me?” Her eyes have lost their focus. I follow the path of her fingers as she pinches up some salt and pitches it over her left shoulder. I lift my glass again. “You’re drunk, Norah. Plain and simple. Like a skunk.”

“Look,” she exclaims, pointing with her knuckle at a forty-something guy in a ball cap at the bar. “He’s into you. He knows you’re a real woman.”

The guy has a three-day beard and a pretty sweet profile, a Keanu Reeves look-alike.

“He’s not even looking this way,” I say, although I’m aware that he has been.

“Are we going to talk about it?” says Norah, suddenly sober and dead serious.

Over her head well-padded men in blue and white and red and black chase each other with sticks up and down a wide, slick surface. The sound system blasts a batch of singers singing about being really happy. “Happy!” they insist.

“I think we need another round.” When I speak again it isn’t quite a mumble. “It’s not right to bring children into this world, Norah. It’s not safe.”

Pinching up more salt that’s fallen from my drink, she casts it over her shoulder, her lips mouthing some habitual incantation, gestures so automatic she doesn’t notice my amusement. “We can keep them safe. We just have to watch for signs. You can’t stop the wheels of life because some bad things happen to some people some of the time.”

Happy.

“Signs? Bad things happen in this world. Bad things happen to children. Children get hurt, Norah. No rabbit’s foot or horseshoe or rain dance is going to prevent that.”

She swats at the air. “It’s not like that here. We have things in place. Safeguards. We’re civilized.”

My laugh is harsh. “Those safeguards are illusions. Wake up, Norah. Bad shit happens. It happens here, there, and everywhere. This world is a barbed-wire maze of bad shit.”

Happy.

“Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine? We don’t live in a third-world country, Brett.”

I fall back against the hard wood of the booth. “It can happen. In a heartbeat.”

She waves her empty glass. “I don’t believe you. I think you are afraid for different reasons. But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay; I still want a family. I don’t care what you say, I’m not giving up.” These last words quaver at the end. As she tips the oversized glass to her mouth, she tilts her head as if to pour back tears as well.

“I need a cigarette.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” she says after guzzling her drink. “You hate smoking.” She sends a knuckle out toward Keanu. “Maybe he smokes.”

This sounds like a wonderful story, Susan. Thank you for being our guest. We wish you continued success with your writing.

And another BIG thank you to all our readers and visitors.

Feel free to tell us what’s on your mind.

The Story Behind the Story with Arts NB's Literary Art's Award Laureate and Author Valerie Sherrard of Miramichi, NB, Canada

 

We are beyond happy to have Valerie join us once more.

Valerie is the recipient of the prestigious Lieutenant Governor’s Award for high achievements in the Arts. 2024 Literary Arts Awards Laureate.

Her dedication to the art of writing is an inspiration for all of us.

If you missed her previous visit, please go HERE.

She is visiting today to share the SBTS of her newest novel.

Read on my friends.

 

 

 

I’ve been writing books for young people for a couple dozen years now. I started writing seriously in my early forties, though I’d always wanted to create books. Having worked with young people for years, it was a natural choice to write for children and teens. I enjoy producing work for all ages, from picture books for young children, to young adult for teens, but my ‘sweet spot’ is middle grade. To date I’ve had 34 books published. I chose the traditional publishing route as that felt like the best path for me, and I’ve been happy with the results.

This year, I was thrilled to be honoured with this province’s Lieutenant Governor Award for High Achievement in Literary Arts.

Today I’m introducing my latest young adult novel – about which Kirkus reviews says: ““[The] first-person narration will ensnare readers immediately, sustaining their interest as this compact, strongly paced story navigates red herrings and subplots. … A fast-paced page-turner that explores moral gray areas.”

 

Title: An Unbalanced Force

 

Synopsis:

Ethan Granger isn’t sure what his father does for work, just that it’s lucrative enough to support their family’s privileged lifestyle, and that it often requires him to go out of town for business.

When Ethan catches his dad in a lie, it raises unsettling questions he can’t ignore.  Before long, this seemingly small fib reveals a clandestine and potentially illegal operation he’s been keeping from the family. Ironically, Ethan uses all the deceitful tricks his father taught him to find out the truth.

Hiring a private eye, sneaking into his father’s office, following him on his “business trips” — how far will Ethan go to expose his dad’s lies? What if the truth forces Ethan to make a choice that could throw his whole world off balance?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

This is one of my novels that grew from an idea for a title. Taken from Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, the phrase An Unbalanced Force drew me. While it generally relates to objects, I thought it would be interesting if applied to situations. In this story, the main character is faced with a decision that could create an unbalanced force that impacts his whole world.

 

 

Website: please go HERE.

Link to Valerie’s Arts NB  Award.

Please go HERE.

A question before you go, Valerie:

Scribbler: What is the ideal spot for you when you write your stories? Music in the background or quiet. Coffee or tequila? Messy or neat? 

Valerie: I do most of my writing in my office – a small and somewhat crowded room off the kitchen. I prefer coffee and quiet while I write but welcome the sights and sounds that come from a bird feeder that hangs just outside my window. It’s a cozy arrangement, except for one thing!

My desk possesses a magnetic force for attracting clutter. This force is powerful enough to overcome all efforts to keep it tidy. I often come into my office in the morning expecting a nice, organized workspace, only to find there’s been an overnight accumulation of chaos.

 

Excerpt from An Unbalanced Force:

 

Chapter One: Ten Years Ago

 

When I was seven years old, my father saved me from certain death.

That is a truth that lives in me. It forms itself into the shapes and colors of my world, and rises with me every morning, as faithful as the sun.

I am here today, and not reduced to what is politely referred to as “remains” because of my dad.

For a number of years after that day, I had a great need to hear the details again and again. Often, I coaxed the story from my mother while she cooked dinner or folded clothes or when the two of us were running errands in the car.

There was something about hearing it told to me—something about the story itself that seemed strangely solid, as though it was a trophy I could display on a shelf. How or why words formed themselves into a kind of possession I can’t explain. They just did.  

 “You had just turned seven,” my mother would begin. And then, without fail, she would pause.

I wonder, looking back, what those pauses meant. It may be that she was giving me time to transport myself to that day in memory. Or, perhaps those few seconds were for her—a chance to steel herself against the emotions she was about to relive.

“We were living in the south end of the city,” she would say when she was ready to continue. “You remember the place, Ethan—the beige two-story house with white shutters at the windows. Your room was blue with beautiful white clouds painted around the top of the walls. The previous tenants left it that way and you never wanted us to change it.”

I have vivid memories of those clouds. As night fell, they seemed to swell and billow in the dancing shadows cast by a nearby streetlight. They weren’t part of the story, but Mom had her own way of telling it, and I never tried to hurry her.

“You weren’t supposed to leave the yard by yourself. Not ever.”

Sometimes Mom would look at me then. Look right into my eyes, as if she needed to reassure herself that I was actually there, that my disobedience hadn’t stolen me from her. Other times, she’d hurry on to the next part.

“And of all the places you could have wandered off to, you decided to make your way to the only empty house on the block.”

That big old empty house was like a seven-year-old-boy magnet. I’d discovered the place not long after we’d moved to that neighborhood and had already been there more times than I could remember.

“I don’t know what could have possessed you to do such a thing, but you actually went into the house!”

Reproach has crept into her voice at this point of the story and I’m not one hundred percent sure it’s all for me. Has Mom really never considered that I had probably been on the vacated property lots of other times?

Maybe not. To get there, she’d have to admit she was a stay-at-home mother who often had no idea where her kid was.

And then she’d tell the rest of the story—as she knew it. Mom’s version was soft and gentle, free of the terror of that afternoon. I wrapped it around mine like a bandage.

But half accounts will not do today. 

The empty house was faded brick, a tired looking place. In the heat of the summer it had a stillness that other homes—homes that are lived in, did not. That stillness gave it an air of mystery. It summoned me with its breathless, heavy silence.

It drew me in.

The windows on the lower levels were loosely boarded up, with spider-webs and bits of leaves and such in between the wooden slats that had been hammered in place. Whoever had nailed the boards on hadn’t taken many pains at the job. Otherwise, it’s doubtful the fingers of a seven-year-old boy could have pried off the single slat of wood that half-heartedly covered a small basement window at the back of the house.

Brushing aside the detritus I pushed my face close to the pane of glass and squinted through the film of grime that covered it. Except for a hulking shape I later discovered was the furnace, the basement was nothing more than a dark haze from where I squatted.

Oh, but it promised more if I could get myself onto the other side of that pane of glass.

The window was an old aluminum slider, seized up with dirt and inactivity. It moved an inch or two in response to my tugs and then refused to budge any further. I pulled and strained to no avail and was close to giving up a few times but the prize of getting into the house kept me going.

And then, quite to my surprise, the window yielded with a sideways jerk. Seconds later, with my heart nearly bursting, I had dropped to the floor inside and was tiptoeing through the deep grey shadows. The air smelled like dirty socks and swamp water and something sharp I couldn’t identify.

A quick scan of the room told me there was nothing worth exploring down there so I made my way up to the main floor, relieved to find the door at the top of the steps unlocked. There wasn’t much more on that level than there’d been downstairs—an old sideboard and a tall child’s chair with fold-out steps, which saved the day when I was ready to leave and found I needed something to climb on to reach the window I’d come in. The final object downstairs was a cracked mirror leaning against a wall in an open hallway closet.

I went from room to room. I walked around the perimeter of each one. As I moved about, a peculiar feeling grew in me which I can only describe as a sense of ownership. This feeling gained strength and seemed more real with each subsequent visit. I reveled in the thrill that I was alone and no one knew where I was.

I was in my house.

On the day of the incident—which happened after at least half a dozen visits there, I discovered the purpose of a pole that had been left in an upstairs bedroom closet. It was a plain wooden pole except for a metal hook on one end and I’d taken to carrying it with me, sometimes thumping it on the floor as I walked around, other times brandishing it like a sword.

On this particular foray I’d been exploring upstairs when I noticed, for the first time, a framed rectangle on the ceiling of the second floor hallway. I knew it had to be a passage to the attic and quickly realized the pole was the key to opening it. I fetched it and spent the next few minutes poking the pole’s hook at a metal loop until, suddenly, it took hold and a drop-down ladder descended.

For several seconds I could do nothing but stand and stare, trying to take in the incredible luck of finding a way to expand my explorations.

Then I climbed up and into the attic. There wasn’t the slightest chance that I could have done anything else.

 Thank you for being our guest this week. Congratulations on your recent Award.

We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

 

And another HUGE thank you to all our visitors and readers.

The Story Behind the Story with Author Jon Hurd of New Brunswick, Canada.

 

Let’s welcome another first-timer to the Scribbler.

Jon has generously accepted my invitation to be our featured guest this week.

I’m quite certain you’ll enjoy hearing the SBTS about his newest novel.

Read on my friends.

 

 

Jon Hurd works with men in addiction recovery in Moncton, NB, Canada. Writing seriously since 2020, he has two books currently in print. He loves spending time with friends, feeding people and yelling at the TV during sporting events. Jon is also the exceedingly proud father to two girls.

 

Title: Hot Dogs on Pizza

 

Synopsis:

Jon Hurd's trove of essays and musings dives deep into life's quirks, from friendships to faith to failures. Join in for a rollercoaster that nudges you to ponder your own life’s journey and your place in the world. With wit and wisdom, this book turns everyday moments into a humorous exploration of life's twists and turns.

 

The Story Behind the Story:

I’ve always just looked at life a little differently. I always wondered if other people would appreciate that view. As in my first book, “Jesus Farted …”, I look at life, work, people and faith and try to do with equal parts wit, wisdom and whining. 

 

A question before you go, Jon:

Scribbler: Where is your favourite spot to write? Are you messy or neat? Your beverage of choice?

 

Jon: The couch. I write on my phone. Ice cold Coca Cola.

 

An Excerpt from Hot Dogs on Pizza

“When I was a kid, we grew up eating some weird things. Peanut butter and iceberg lettuce sandwiches. Bread toasted under the broiler with Kraft singles. And instead of pepperoni, Mom would put sliced up hot dogs on our pizza.”

“Not everything makes sense in life. Sometimes you have to cobble together the pieces of who you are and what you’ve done. But pizza is pizza. There are no bad slices.”

 

 

 

Thank you for being our guest this week, Jon. We wish you continued success with your writing.

 

And thank you dear readers and visitors.

Feel free to leave a comment below. T.Y.

The Story Behind the Story with returning author S. C. Eston of Fredericton, NB, Canada.

 

Great News! Steve has a new book out and he’s here to tell us about it.

 

Surrender has been long anticipated by fantasy lovers and Mr. Eston’s many fans.

He’s no stranger to the Scribbler and please follow the link if you missed his previous visit.

Go HERE.

Read on my friends.

 

 

STEVE C. ESTON has been a lover of the fantastical and the scientific since he was a young boy. He wrote his first story by hand while still in elementary school—a five-page story about a tiger-masked ninja fighting mythical monsters that included his own illustrations.

Steve has published four books: The Burden of the Protector, The Conclave, Deficiency, and The Stranger of Ul Darak (First book of the Lost Tyronian Archives).

When not spending time with his family, Steve makes time for his numerous hobbies, which include reading books, listening to music, playing video games, watching movies, making puzzles, and playing hockey and tennis. He also loves to travel.

For information on current writing projects and for free short stories, head on over to:

www.SCEston.com

 

Title: Surrender, Book 1 of the Baneseeker Chronicles

Synopsis:

Lyna, a young warrior-sorceress, roams the world, looking for a place to belong while hunting and destroying every bane core she can find—objects of pure evil that bring madness and misery wherever they appear.

Her next quarry lies in the isolated village of Tanasu, located at the edge of civilization and bordering the Territories of Sij, the land of her ancestors. There, Lyna hopes to destroy the deadliest core she’s ever faced and maybe find a place to call home.

But with each use of her powers, Lyna loses a part of herself; a memory of her past, a remnant of her spirit, a piece of her strength and youth. And when she only finds death and a cursed land in Tanasu, Lyna starts to question if her efforts are making a difference and if there is any hope for this world, and for herself.

Now Lyna must decide. Abandon her quest and leave the world to fend for itself? Or continue what has become a hopeless fight—at the risk of surrendering her very soul?

 

The Story Behind the Story:

Thank you Allan for having me once again on the South Branch Scribbler. The idea for this series developed over the course of many, many years. ‘Surrender’ takes place in an imaginary world known as Arvelas. I created it as a young teenager, when I first started playing table-top role-playing games. I have been traveling there, writing stories and hosting role-playing games, for over 35 years. Arvelas is a world I know well, a place I love deeply.

While at university, I hosted a series of gaming sessions. During one of these games, a character played by one of the players went to the Netherworld, or underground world, to rescue his mother who was a prisoner there. This character is none other than Onthar, the main protagonist in ‘The Conclave’, one of my published books. During this quest, Onthar was captured and imprisoned in the mines of Quartas, a dangerous and bleak place where workers are slaves with little hope of escape. This is where Onthar met Lyna, a young shadow elf, for the first time. In exchange for her help escaping from his cell, Onthar promised to help her reach the Surface, the world above ground. As we learn in ‘Surrender’, Onthar was true to his word and brought Lyna with him all the way to the city of Telstar.

From the first time I met Lyna during this gaming session, I knew that she was destined to play a major role in Arvelas. I wanted to learn more about her, her past, and see if she could find a new place to call home in Arvelas. Although I hosted many other role-playing games over the following years, I was never able to explore Lyna’s story. It is in one of these games, though, that some sinister objects of pure evil first appeared: the bane cores.

A few years ago, I was between stories and pondering what to write next. The reception I had received for ‘The Conclave’ had been extremely positive and a few readers had asked if I was planning on writing more stories in Arvelas. The answer was always yes. It was just a question of when to write, and what to write.

I believe that I mulled over this for a few days, playing with a wide array of ideas, perusing some old notes. What stood out were the bane cores, introduced in the gaming sessions I mentioned previously. These objects were not destroyed during the games we played. In fact, by the end, they were stronger and the future of Arvelas was quite bleak. These objects had to be dealt with, if only to satiate my curiosity as to what was going to happen to Arvelas next. While considering what and if I could write anything about these objects, I stumbled on my notes for the gaming sessions of Onthar in the Netherworld. One name stood out then: Lyna di’Stavan.

There, I had it... the main protagonist.

I already had the setting: Arvelas. I had objects of pure evil that needed to be destroyed. I had thought for a while of exploring a new genre: dark fantasy.

I had most of the ingredients for a brand new series.

What was missing? Well, that would have to be discovered after I sat down, and started to write.

 

Website: Please go HERE.

An Excerpt from ‘Surrender’

A cart pulled by a single gray horse appeared on the crest of the hill. At its helm, a bulky man held the reins in one hand and the edge of his cowl in the other. As the cart made its way down the slope, the wheels left two muddy trails in the snow.

Lyna stepped off the road, conceding the way. Above, the dark sky reminded her of her motherland, its thick clouds forming a ceiling just as compact as the cavernous rocks of Karlynas. Although it was midmorning, the sun had yet to show its face.

Since she had branched off toward the north, leaving the Green Road that had once connected the realms of Tilia and Istagon, darkness had gotten heavier, bleeding freely into the day. The phenomenon was anything but natural and Lyna wondered if this was a manifestation of the Territories of Sij, her intended destination.

The cart slowed down and stopped in front of Lyna. A treated canvas covered a significant quantity of merchandise in the back. Most likely a peddler.

Beside the man, on the end of a pole, a pendant in the shape of a leaf swung left and right. The symbol of Mitra, deity of protection and healing. It was common practice in these lands to display one on your travels.

“Turn back,” said the driver, without looking her way. A large nose and a black beard stuck out of the hood. The hair was unnaturally dark, most likely oiled and colored. “You heard me?”

“I did,” said Lyna.

At her voice, the man turned his head sideways. “I know that accent,” he said.

Lyna doubted he did. She also knew he could not make out her face hidden inside her own hood.

“An elf, from Quilanis?”

“No,” said Lyna.

She was not welcome in Quilanis. The Quil’an didn’t think favorably of their cousins from the Nether.

The man snorted, as if he did not believe her. The horse puffed, wanting to leave. It was a beautiful animal, its coat thick and smooth. Even though it was not the typical mount a knight would ride, Lyna guessed that it originated from Erlinia.

The peddler let the animal take a few steps. The wheels of the cart creaked as they went in and out of a hole.

“No matter,” he said. “Turn around. Whatever business you have in this place isn’t worth your while.”

At the man’s feet, Lyna noticed a single boot, on top of which rested a torn cloak. Both garments were too small for the driver.

“What happened to your partner?” she asked.

The man looked down and touched the cloak. “This land is cursed, and the village…”

The peddler shook his head.

“What happened?” Lyna asked again.

“They took him!” he said. “They took him and they gave him to the woods.”

“A sacrifice?”

“Call it what you want. I say it’s insanity.”

“Who did this?”

“The villagers. The Territories muddle their minds. Who can blame them?” The man shifted as if to look over his shoulder, but stopped himself.

“I thought only the Red Shield were allowed to ban captives into Sij.”

“Officially, yes. But who would know? This is the end of the world. No one cares what happens here.”

“Some care enough to come all this way and trade.”

The man stared at her and mumbled something she could not make out.

The horse took another step. “Turn back,” repeated the peddler. “This is my advice to a fellow traveler, freely given. Heed the warning of an honest trader, I say, and return from whence you came.”

With those words, the peddler whipped the reins and the horse jumped forward—and Lyna stretched time, suddenly, with great force. The cart’s movements slowed down, as if it was pushing through thick quicksand, slowed until the cart barely moved.

Lyna closed her eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the flow of energies whirling around her and through her, feeling relief, feeling free, and feeling the cold and dominant presence of the core to the north.

When she opened her eyes, the peddler and the horse had not budged, one of the man’s hands open and reaching but not yet touching his cowl, which had moved back ever so slightly under the wind.

Lyna went to the back of the cart, untied a hemp rope, and lifted the canvas. Under, on one side, elongated wooden boxes were stacked from front to back. Food, most likely oats, some vegetables, possibly even flour. Common items, but it made sense that a village as isolated as Tanasu would welcome such wares. It made less sense that the peddler would leave without selling any of it.

On the other side, round casks held beer, wine, or a combination of both. The containers were in passable condition. Farther down, one leaked and the smell suggested that its contents were as cheap as the barrel they were stored in.

Lyna retied the rope and stepped back to her initial position. Something was not right. She had half expected to find a body hidden in the back of the cart. She wondered why she cared and realized she didn’t.

Once again, she had called upon her ability to drink from it, not because it served any useful purpose. She hated how craven she had become, how dependent. Yet she hesitated to let go of the energy. What harm would it do if she held on just a little longer? The energy flowed around her, caressed her, swaddled her. She almost felt safe in this place between realities, where time bent to her will.

Safe and reinvigorated… momentarily. The reassuring feeling was an illusion. Dizziness and disorientation would follow, her body aching for the power, demanding it. For now though, for just an instant, Lyna felt at peace.

She breathed in deeply and reluctantly let go. Time flowed back to normal, and instantly the horse’s hooves found the ground and jerked the cart forward. It quickly gained speed.

The peddler kept his head low and didn’t look back. For him and his horse, the short pause had never taken place. The cart negotiated the partially hidden road fairly well, Lyna’s own prints hinting as to where it was. A few moments later, the peddler and his wares disappeared between the trees at the bottom of the hill.

Thanks for sharing the good news, Steve. 

I’m anxious to get my hands on a copy. 

Thanks also for being our guest this week. 

We wish you continued success with your writing.

And another HUGE Thank You to all our visitors and readers.

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