Bloody Passion by Laura Tolomei

Bloody Passion
Laura Tolomei
eXtasy Books
Oct 31, 2009
ISBN: 978-1-55487-417-0
eBook
158 Pages
Dark Fantasy, Gay, Horror, Ménage, Paranormal, Shape Shifting, Halloween, m/f, m/m, m/m/m

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Cedric was brought to a Druid for training when he was just a boy. “…he has dark connections,” claimed his mother. Perhaps, but these did not show through until one day, many years later, when his mentor abruptly left their village, claiming the darkness around Cedric and that which would certainly follow was too great to be overcome.

Sure enough, a creature of the night arrives and begins to steal the village’s animals as prey. The resultant hiring of a hunter and the friendship between he (Rory), the Druid (Cedric) and a young man named Newlyn, seals the fate of all involved.

One beast is killed, only to release an even greater and more evil monster. To capture this one, Cedric must solve the puzzle of a terrible nightmare that has plagued him for years, one he intuitively knows will reveal things better left buried.

In Bloody Passion Laura Tolomei has written a tight short story about the true, mixed nature of man, and what can happen if that nature is not controlled or put to work for the forces of good. I say short story, because the rest of her novel is filled with page after page of explicit male on male sex and an occasional m/m/m or m/f/m Ménage à trois.

This brings me to the critical portion of my review. First, Laura has/had no way of knowing I have publicly stated I will read no further works from eXtasy books. She sent me the book for review because we are internet friends. Having agreed in advance to the review, I will complete it.

There are the two issues I have with eXtasy books: Regarding the first book I read from this company, they stated quite clearly they were not taking editorial responsibility for the work being published; second, the sex was so much more prevalent than story, that I felt the story was nothing but a structure on which to hang the erotica. I went so far as to say there was an uncomfortable similarity to pornography.

Laura’s book? First of all, the editorial disclaimer does not appear in this book. Second, the overall calibre of writing is very good, although I did pick up on several misspelled, missing and misused words that a competent proofreader should have caught. The mistakes did not affect my reading experience. Third, while I feel there was again a disproportionate amount of sex to story, the work felt like a legitimate piece of fiction.

Bloody Passion went beyond my comfort zone for M/M erotica, but the book kept me engaged from start to finish. Laura Tolomei writes this type of fiction with a sure hand and obvious skill. If sizzling hot m/m erotica interests you, then I would say Bloody Passion will reward you for your time.


Copyright: © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

An interview with author Dayna VonThaer

Friday, September 25, 2009 will be the day for a HUGE Book Blitz to promote the Limited Edition of Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon. This is Dayna VonThaer’s first Novel.


Hi Dayna,

My audience is made up of publishers, readers and writers, so I’m going to be asking you questions relating to all.

Q. Congratulations on your accomplishment. Would you, in your own words, give us a brief description of Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon.

A. This book is the first in a series of at least five novels. It begins with the Celtic gods of the Tuatha De’ Danann (Hence the name) and includes Egyptology. The story begins with a full moon on Halloween, and the Seven Sisters Constellation is in view with the moon. The Seven Sisters are synonymous with catastrophe and death in nearly every ancient culture.  In this novel, we witness the beginning events that take place during Samhain (Sah-Win) which is the Feast of the Dead. (I ask your readers to Google to see what year this even actually took place. You’ll be surprised.) The Dagda, once the High King of Ireland, and a Celtic god awakes from a two-thousand year slumber on this night. His tribe (the Tuatha ) is gone, and he’s left alone in the modern, mortal world to find his way home.

Q. Where did you find the inspiration for this story?

A. I was visiting London, and had dinner at my friend’s parent’s home. I’d never met his parents before, so they invited me over to Sunday dinner. His dad, this huge, tall, muscular old Irishman with white hair spent the night poking at me for my name. I didn’t understand, and finally he quipped, “Dayna. Like our Mother Goddess, Danu. You’re named after Mother of Creation herself, hasn’t anyone ever told you that?” We spent the evening chatting away, where he told me all about the Irish myths and so on. I was fascinated. I already had a story about an Irish witch brewing, and now a spark had lit. I spent three years researching Celtic mythology, and the Ancient Egyptians for this series.

Q. Who is your target audience, and what would you like to say to them?

A. Obviously, I’d love to say this book is for everyone! This book is NOT for children. I would say as long as you’re an adult, this book is for your age group. As for tastes, it’s definitely something I think all pagans would love. Anyone interested in mythology, history, astronomy, horror, mystery would enjoy this book. It’s packed with all the elements of love and hate, fear and loathing, tenderness and humor. The Celts and Egyptians are just the beginning. There are more characters and cultures that will have their say in later volumes.

Q. Where will Tuatha and the Seven Sisters Moon be available for sale?

A. Right now, the Limited edition is only available through my website. This version has a special cover dedicated to Salem (my former home) and includes a hidden chapter that will NOT be in the standard version. It will never be reprinted in any form. Each copy is personalized, signed, numbered, and includes S&H. The standard version will be on Amazon, Borders, Barnes and Noble, and other book retailers, as well as my website. If you order from my site, each copy will be signed.

Q. Tell us about your publishing company B.A.S.E.D Press.

A. I started B.A.S.E.D. Press to house my work (I have approximately 15 unfinished manuscripts collecting dust) but I also wanted a place for my writer friends to go where they can get true support, advise, and see their work unscathed by other publishers. Obviously, editing always needs done.  But I don’t feel writers HAVE to alter their work to make it mainstream. I will offer editing, marketing, cover art, promotional services,  book videos, and other services when I decide to accept submissions. I’d like to get my own book off the ground to work out the kinks before anyone puts their ‘baby’ in my hands.

Q. I have a company similar to yours. The traditional world of publishing won’t recognize me as a “legitimate publisher” until I have released many more titles for others than for myself. What is your response to this fact: Do you consider yourself a self-publisher. Why or why not?

A. I don’t like being put into a box, which is a big reason I didn’t accept the mainstream publishing offer I had with this novel. If they want to call me a self-publisher, so be it. I’d just like others to recognize the differences. B.A.S.E.D. Press is NOT vanity publishing, nor is it  print-on-demand. Though POD can be useful and cost effective, it does not always garner the best quality. And large-house publishers like to use this point to put us wee-publishers in our place, like we’re sitting at the kids table, scolding us for not playing by their rules. Self-publishing has a great deal of benefits, but it’s very hard work. I am responsible for each and every detail. Which can be very good, considering I can schedule my own book tours, I can sell things through my website, I can control inventory, contests, and do it on my terms. I don’t need ‘permission’ to do what I like in terms of promotion. I don’t think a lot of people realize that even big publishing houses do not spend much in terms of publicity on new writers. They don’t get the top-shelf treatment, or ads. Those dollars are reserved for the big names. You’re still responsible for about 95% of your publicity. Also, only 10% of authors outsell their advance. That means 90% of authors have to write another book within that contract time to make up that difference, or are even dropped for lack of sales.

Q. What is the most difficult part of the writing and/or publishing process for you? The most enjoyable?

A. Marketing, hands down is the most difficult. It doesn’t end. You have a plan, and each day is spent following that plan to get your book out to the readers.  I love writing, but I especially love writing when I’m not paying attention. I lived in Salem, Mass, and I used to write on the beach. I’d sit with my coffee and type away. Then I’d go home, and a few days later, I’d read what I wrote. Those pages are always the best, because my heart spoke, not my head. Those are the words that make me almost always laugh or cry.

Q. What methods are you using to market your book?

A. Everything is in three’s: web, print, person. I do a lot of the initial marketing via the web. It’s obviously a great tool to meet other writers and spread the word. Then, of course print. I’ve sent ARC’s to newspapers for review, and have asked for reviews from other writers. Radio is kind of an in-between medium. I’ve contacted some personalities that have been generous enough to put me on the air, and advertise my novel. Finally, there’s me. I’ve been setting up appearances in Salem during Haunted Happenings where I can sign books, and speak to my ‘fans.’ All five of them!

Q. Who are your favourite authors?

A. I’m a classics girl. Growing up with a librarian for a mother, I spent my life engrossed in books.  Stoker and King are of course the horror masters, Tolkien and Rowling are the ringleaders in fantasy with Baum. I read all kinds of genres, but not much for chick lit. Hawthorne was kind of a mixture of it all. He was obviously a classical writer, with such a creepy, ominous tone to his books.

Q. Which of these authors has had the greatest impact on your own writing?

A. Hawthorne is a huge influence. I lived in Salem, just blocks from House of the Seven Gables. He had a genuine affection and fear of Salem, and he used that in all of his writing. Especially the way he seemed to try to make amends for the sins of his ancestors. (Hawthorne’s grandfather was a judge in the Salem witch trials, who sent people to the gallows even after being found not guilty.)

Q. Tell us about your next project or project(s).

A. The second volume of Tuatha is in the works, but another story has sidetracked me slightly. Blue Moon: RISING is a story I’m working on based out of New Orleans. It’s a werewolf story, but it’s unlike any kind you’ve read before. I joke that it’s really a story about racism, and could stand on it’s own legs even without the wolf element. As a classic reader, I wanted to create my own world, make these creatures of the night the way I see them. (In all honesty, I’m actually terrified of werewolves, and have had recurring nightmares about them since I was a child.) I hope to release it early next year, depending on the success of Tuatha.

Q. What have you learned along the way with regard to writing and publishing?

A. Perseverance. What one person loves, another will hate. Don’t take it personally, but try, try, try to learn from it. Start to develop that thick skin now. Also, there’s a duality not many writers are prepared to experience. The creative side, the writing and building of your world is only half of the book process. You must develop the other side, become both left and right brained for the marketing and promotion. Because, that’s when the real work comes in. Writing is the easy  part!

Q. Any general advice for writers?

A. Just write. Turn off the internet, unplug the phone, and get to it. Allow your authentic voice to speak. When it does, you’ll have a masterpiece. I say, “If the voices in your head make you cry, you’re a lunatic. Put their words on paper, and you’re a writer.”

Thank you for sharing with us Dayna. I wish you much success.

Dayna VonThaer can be found at http://www.dvonthaer.com/.

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

A Rhapsody for the Eternal by Darren Speegle

A Rhapsody for the Eternal
by Darren Speegle
Raw Dog Screaming Press
2009
978-1-933293-78-3 (hardcover)
978-1-933293-77-6 (paperback)
Dark Fantasy

Buy this book from my Amazon.com store
Buy this book from my Amazon.ca store


Official Blurb:

A Rhapsody for the Eternal is a complex gilded clock where gears in the future clank against the cogs of the past. Behind it all lies the mystery of human destiny. This is a new science that smells of dusty books and ancient secrets, things beyond human understanding. Speegle haunts his own stories with delicate insinuations of something more, something deeper. Yet even at the surface these stories breathe with tension. From the Tiptoeing Monk unraveling the riddle of a nursery rhyme to the parents of the first ghost born in centuries, these fantasies feel real and the people, though from a different time, are compelling in a way that our actual neighbors rarely are.


The Stories:

The Lunatic Miss Teak
Handpicked to replace a false and terrible God, a man unknowingly heads toward an unimaginable fate.

Elephant Speak
In the distant future, the science of genetics rules all. Yet human gods cannot prevent the occasional, random recessive gene from bringing back the past. Watch, and wonder at, the first “ghost” to be born in a century.

The Man in Window Three
A plan to escape lives of slave labour turns sour for six men when art thieves show up in the middle of their operation.

Transtexting Prose
When he buys a piece of modern art from the future equivalent of three girl guides, a man finds himself plagued with dreams about the picture, dreams that hint of something deeply disturbing locked within his memories.

Glitzing with the Big Delicious
In a bizarre new world of technology gone mad, some individuals use up their souls for glimpses into the future, while others siphon off these glimmers like today’s addict snorts cocaine. Get ready for a strange trip.

Waltz with the Echoes
Genetically engineered and enhanced beings provide a conduit between Armageddon and a new age now rising out of the darkness. None seem to know who or what they are—archetypes, collective memories of the past or simply tortured souls? You decide.

The Tiptoeing Monk
A father and son use a mythical key to open a door on what is, what was and other than were. Unfortunately, the duo finds that such awesome opportunities come at a similar price.

Disapparency
People are disappearing. When his friend becomes one of them, a man goes looking for answers. What he finds is an example of the old bromide “Be careful what you ask for.”

The Third Stanza
If you hated the world and were given the chance to bring about Armageddon, what would you do?

The Horn on Which the Fruit Blossoms
Is she Eve, Joan of Arc or something even more fundamental? A man is sent to the past to find out. He wanted to know and does: will you?

Night Watch
A couple living on a strange and devastating world, a result of mankind’s  attempt to escape Earth’s final hours, make one last effort to find a reason to hope.

A Last Word
A poetic summary of Speegle’s collection which includes the following tell-tale line: “And vanquished all futures and slaughtered all hope.”


The Review:

Darren Speegle writes stories that are often difficult to understand, and they rarely have a clear or definite ending. But life is not “cut and dried,” he says. Nor are his tales easily placed in a certain genre. Speegle claims to write fantasy; I see aspects of mystery, science fiction, fantasy and horror. Most definitely horror, as A Rhapsody for the Eternal is nothing if it is not disturbing.

With a style leaning heavily toward the literary and a tendency for almost poetic descriptiveness, Speegle regularly obscures his stories from the reader. This is, at times, both irritating and intriguing. On the one hand, you find yourself wondering what is going on; on the other hand, your mental state becomes much like Speegle’s tragic characters: off balance, feeling out of place, questing for meaning and aware of something just under the surface but unable to identify exactly what it is. Quite frankly, I’m not even sure you’ll agree with my short summary of each story.

There is little doubt Darren Speegle is a brilliant author, but I think he is also a little too self-indulgent. What I can say for sure is the stories in A Rhapsody for the Eternal will never bore you, and they’ll be with you long after you’ve finished reading.

What an exotic reading experience!


Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

Dialogue with The Devil

Many readers, writers and editors think of the short story as something with a beginning, middle and end. The story, they understand, must make the very best use of every word. And the main character must be changed in some way, emotionally, mentally or physically. This change may be subtle or not.

All these of these points are true. Yet I have never been one to follow rules. I obey the laws of our land because the alternative is anarchy. But if breaking a rule does not harm, then I see no reason not to challenge it. To hell with the traditions of others.

The following short short story is an example of this. If you haven’t read the other related stories on this blog (They are all chapters in my new novel TechnoMage.), then you may not figure out all of the connections; oh, the necessary information you need exists within the story, but it isn’t going to be spoon fed to you. And the traditional beginning, middle and end just doesn’t exist.

Think of the story as exactly what it is: a few moments of conjoining time-lines in the lives of an antagonist and  a protagonist. These few moments demonstrate both the positive and negative results of arrogance. I shouldn’t have to tell you this but, as I’ve hinted, readers of today are much too used to being spoon fed.

Enjoy the short for what it is meant to be…

Dialogue with The Devil

Satan was in ecstasy. Not since the destruction of mankind’s original planet had he experienced such a feeling of joy. His goal had been achieved! Magic and technology once again worked together to give him the power his siblings had taken away. And humanity’s medicines, when combined with Eden’s magic, worked miracles. Satan was still human, but never had there been a man like he. If his new state of being was what The Creator had been after with the humans, then the fallen angel would never again regret his battle with God. Mankind did not deserve even the possibility of such power.

And now, to crown this marvelous accomplishment, the seer had brought young Lightfoot back as a sacrificial offering. The Devil felt like dancing.

Reveling in the moment, the ancient being poked his captive with a black, sausage-like finger, licked black lips with a scarlet tongue, expressed his contentedness with a deep rumbling in the bellows of his lungs.

The boy’s eyes flickered, then opened. His breath hissed inward between suddenly clenched teeth. The Devil grinned at the sight of Jack’s eyes going flat. You could almost see hope draining from his body into the air.

“Having a bad dream, Jack?”

A fly circled around the boy’s head, landed on his sweat-slicked face. Lucifer set his gaze upon the carrion eater. The fly dropped to the floor, its tiny life snuffed out—just like that.

Jack trembled.

The Devil walked in a circle around his captive. He moved slowly, his ancient skin protesting every footstep with audible cracking and popping and ripping noises. Lucifer knew what his skin looked like: he resembled a giant, overcooked pig, one that had been roasted over open coals until black. His appearance, and the sounds of his breaking skin, seemed to horrify humans more than anything else about him. One used the tools one had.

“Speak to me boy,” The Devil commanded. “Ask me your questions, and tell me what you will trade for your life.”

That got the boy’s attention.

“Yes,” he said. “Your kind always wants to bargain.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. He forced his eyes away from the horrible creature who stood before him, checked out his surroundings.

He knew this place!

The Devil had taken over Morgan’s home. Jack was back on Eden! What did this mean?

“What’s going on?” Jack asked.

“You didn’t think your actions were going to go unanswered, did you?” replied The Devil. “I had a lot invested in Morgan. And what you did to Richard… That was noteworthy, boy. Such potential.”

“How can that thing be Richard?” Jack queried. “He’s dead. He must be dead.”

“You haven’t figured it out, Jack? Not as bright as you think you are?”

The Devil chuckled. It was a terrible sound.

“All things are possible when you combine magic and technology. The beginning and end of all of man’s atrocities lie in that marriage bed.”

He paused, looked into Jack’s eyes.

“Pandora’s Box,” said The Devil, his voice filled with undisguised glee.

A sudden hollowness appeared in Jack’s gut. He couldn’t breathe.

“My family,” he whispered.

Now Lucifer truly shone. His voice took on a silky tone as he spoke.

“We are sorry to announce the tragic passing of the entire Lightfoot family. John Lightfoot, son of Patrick; Rosalee Lightfoot (nee Marsalis) and Jack Lightfoot, son of John. Also mourned is Katy Lightfoot (nee Watterson), wife of Jack. All were respected members of their community. They will be missed. God have mercy on their souls.”

Lucifer tilted back his head and laughed.

Rage blossomed in Jack’s chest. Red and white butterflies pulsed behind his eyes. He fought back tears. Then, for the first time since regaining consciousness, Jack noticed his restraints. He noticed because he was straining against numerous leather straps that bound him to a table top.

“Bastard,” he screamed. Then he jumped. First, to the world he called Hell, to see for himself that Richard wasn’t at the bottom of the pit where Jack had left him to burn. The seer wasn’t there, but The Devil was, a grinning visage of evil. Jack jumped again. This time to his father’s home. A blackened ruin was all that remained. The Devil stood beside Jack and shook his head sorrowfully.

“You’re mine Jack. There’ll be no escape for you. How could I allow that?”

And they were back in Morgan’s office.

Lucifer commanded that Jack look him in the eyes. Jack did. The Devil began to grow in size. He continued to expand until he was ten feet tall, becoming more muscular, growing heavier, skin taking on a golden hue, smooth, younger. Hair sprouted on The Beast’s head. And in the end, transformed, Lucifer stood before Jack as an Adonis. He’d become a blond, gorgeous giant, whose beauty put your heart into your mouth and sent your eyes to the floor in subdued awe.

“I rule here. How did you come to think otherwise?” The Devil said. “Your choice is to live and serve me or die and serve me. There is nothing else available to you.”

But Lucifer, arrogant by nature, failed to understand Jack Lightfoot’s own arrogance. Oh, to be sure, Jack knew he was in serious trouble, understood that he had been defeated, recognized his terrible loss. But Jack didn’t know how to give up. He believed with everything he was—and this was his arrogance—that  humans are unlimited beings, that they are young gods. Jack wasn’t capable of joining The Beast, nor could he roll over and die. Instead, the talented sorcerer, in a moment of absolute genius, saw a way out.

The Devil, through Morgan and Richard, had opened Pandora’s Box. Jack would use that. He would embrace Lucifer’s desire to bring magic and technology together. He would go into the box itself.

The boy made one more jump. This time it was to a place he suspected The Devil wouldn’t follow.

What did our young hero do? The unimaginable, of course. Jack Lightfoot jumped out of his physical body, across the void and into the largest, most complicated computer he knew of—the newly completed Google complex on the shores of the Columbia river, in the northwestern US. He did this by riding a wave of all the power he could summon, combining magic, spirit and technology to create his version of what The Devil appeared to have done to Richard the seer.

Lucifer stared at the lifeless body before him and howled his fury.


Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

Deus Ex Machina

This short story is the third chapter in my upcoming novel, TechnoMage. The previous two chapters (also stories in their own right) appear in earlier blogs. You can find them under the titles of The Speed of Dark and Resurrection.

Deus Ex Machina

Jack Lightfoot was enjoying a cup of his wife’s kick-you-in-the-ass coffee when the front door exploded. The thing that caused the damage didn’t belong on Eden, came right out of one of Earth’s sci-fi movies. A close cousin to the Terminator, the robot stood well over six feet, was black in colour but gleamed like polished chrome and had a sleek, deadly look Jack figured was meant to paralyze the mind.

Jack blasted the robot back out the hole where his door had been. The spear of power he used would have killed a man. What came next did succeed in freezing Jack’s mind. The machine got to its feet. A laser erupted from the robot’s right hand. A tiny, concentrated beam, the laser didn’t even mark the wall behind Jack. But from the moment the laser appeared, you could see the power curling around the beam, enhancing it, strengthening the force of the thing, until it became an ugly, coiling rope of red and blue that torched Jack’s home as he tried to get his mind around what was happening.

The heat hit Jack almost as an afterthought. His head hair curled, ends turned into golden fuzz by the inferno. His arm hair was vaporized. And as his lungs rebelled against the superheated air, Jack heard Katy’s screams.

He took one more look at the machine through the flames. It was already advancing on his ruined home. Jack turned his back on the thing and began to pick out a path through the flame-filled building.

Their bedroom was thick with smoke. Flames snaked up walls, slithered across the ceiling. Scalding, fist-sized balls of fire were dropping here and there. One had lit up Katy’s bedclothes. Jack dove for the bed, wrapped his arms around his wife and threw them both out of the world.

A few minutes of panic followed as Jack slapped at Katy’s nightgown until he was certain all of the flames had been subdued. Then, as she sat on the ground, hugging her knees to her chest, steam and smoke curling up in wisps from various locations on her body, breath puffing white in the icy air, Jack tried to make some sense of where they were.

He hadn’t framed a conscious image before sending them hurtling across the void. All he’d been concerned about was getting Katy away from the flames. Perhaps his mind equated cold with no fire.

Jack took a look around. No trees. Short grasses and shrubs. Barren ground in places. Some gravel and ice and snow. The land was flat. Low, grey clouds scudded across the sky, quite visible in the moonlight.

The moon… Earth’s moon. Jack was sure of it. He’d stared at it often enough when he was a child. Sure. Sure it was.

Jack sent his mind deep into the earth, seeking the lazy rivers of power he knew would be there.

He found them.

“Katy,” Jack said.

She shuddered.

“Katy,” he repeated, his voice sharp this time.

Jack’s wife turned her head toward him.

“We’re on Earth. Somewhere in the Arctic.”

She remained silent.

“We’ll freeze out here. Got to get you somewhere warm.”

Katy nodded.

I’ve never tried jumping from place to place on Earth, Katy. Even by myself.”

“’What are you saying?” she said, voice made husky by the smoke she’d inhaled.

Jack shrugged and said “I don’t know if I can do it or if it’s safe. Just wanted to warn you.”

“What happened, Jack?” she asked.

“Don’t know. Some kind of machine. Looked like something from Earth. But it used magic. Torched the house with a spell.”

Katy went white. “Magic and technology?” She shook her head and mouthed the word no.

“Doesn’t seem possible. But it’s what I saw, honey.”

Jack pulled Katy into his arms.

“Can’t be a positive turn, anyway you look at it.”

Trembling, Katy put her face into Jack’s neck. When she spoke, her voice was muffled.

“Morgan got his wish after all.”

Morgan Heist had been a sorcerer and a businessman of some note who’d attempted to bring Earth’s technology and Eden’s magic together. Jack, through a combination of talent, perseverance and luck, had managed to thwart the tycoon-mage. Morgan hadn’t survived the ordeal. Nor had his sidekick, a seer who went by the name of Richard.

But there may have been a third plotter, a master of the dark arts. Morgan had supposedly awakened Satan himself. He’d enlisted The Old One to help him cross the void to Earth. Satan wasn’t an archangel anymore, had apparently been sentenced to live out his days as a human. The man was still unbelievably powerful, though. And he had spells most sorcerer’s just dreamed about.

“Must be The Old One,”

Katy pulled Jack closer.

“Shall I try to get us out of here?” he asked.

Jack felt his wife’s head move up and down against his neck.

The young sorcerer gathered the power he’d discovered, letting it build until his head buzzed and his teeth and bones ached. When he judged he had enough extra juice, Jack envisioned his parents’ home. The house, an 1880’s restoration they’d recently purchased as a Bed & Breakfast, was located in Gananoque, on the way to Ottawa. Jack couldn’t construct a clear mental picture of the dark green clapboards, the cedar shakes or the rock-walled basement, but he was able to recreate the feelings those images had generated when he visited his parents. He could hear the voices of his mom and dad. Could smell pasta cooking on the stove. He even felt the slap of waves against the dock which was married to the wrap-around deck his dad had just finished building.

“Beam me up Scotty,” Jack muttered.

The two lovers experienced a peculiar twisting in their abdomens, as if their intestines were snaking around in their bellies. It was a fluttering and squeezing and pinching sensation—all as one experience.

Then they were there.

A sailboat was floating in the bay. John Lightfoot stood at the barbeque, tongs in one hand, a bottle of Rickard’s Honey Brown Ale in the other. Rosalee was humming in the kitchen. Jack could hear her through the French doors that opened onto the deck.

John, a sorcerer himself, took the materialization of his son and daughter-in-law in stride. He stepped over to the couple, placed a hand on Katy’s back, kissed her smoke-grimed cheek and wordlessly handed her his beer.

The three turned to make their way through the French doors into Rose’s country-style kitchen. All of them, Rose, John, Katy and Jack, were discussing what had happened—beer for everyone—when the machine dropped out of the sky.

The thing was about six feet away from where Jack was sitting, and the kitchen doors were still open, so he could see this was the machine responsible for destroying his home.

Father and son rose from their spots at the table and went out to meet the monster. Sunlight gleamed on the black metal skin of the machine, danced and twinkled on the water behind it. A warm wind fluttered Jack’s hair then continued on to the barbeque, where it puffed up clouds of meat-laden smoke.

John Lightfoot said “I would know with whom I battle.”

Red eyes flashed. The air filled with an insect hum. And an emotionless machine voice answered.

“What I once was, I am no longer. But you may call me Richard.”

The seer! Jack had left him for dead on a planet he thought of as Hell.

“You are surprised,” the monster said. “I was too. My new master was not ready to let me go. I have been remade, given a new purpose.”

The robot stopped speaking and attacked. A ball of blue lightning erupted from each hand. One for Jack and one for his father. Both men were slammed back against the wooden wall of John’s home.

John bounced off the wall, spun left and dove over the railing of the deck through a space between the house and the barbeque. Jack went right.

The robot tracked Jack. It sent another ball of blue flame his way. The mass of energy found its target. Jack felt as if he’d been immersed in boiling oil. He screamed.

The abomination, with speed surprising for such a large machine, moved on Jack, taking him up in its black-bone hands as if he were a weightless piece of paper. Those hands, merciless, dug into young Lightfoot’s flesh and, to Jack’s horrified astonishment, proceeded to leach the life from his body. In just a few seconds Jack was as weak and defenseless as the newest of newborns.

A fist-sized rock clanged off the back of the robot’s head. The thing turned. A barrage of stones and pebbles, traveling at the speed of bullets struck it in the face and neck. It appeared unharmed. Then, the robot began a deep, ominous humming. The sound built in intensity until Jack could feel vibrations in his own body. The frightened mage wanted to warn his father, who after sending the hail of stones at Richard, was moving in for a more personal attack. But Jack couldn’t speak, couldn’t even lift a hand to warn his father off.

A blinding white light erupted from the dark figure which held Jack. The flash seared the image of his father onto the wall behind him, burnt his skin and plunged him into unconsciousness.

Richard the seer, once known as Richard Bartholomew—late of Eden but formerly from a place much further away—and now the Devil’s right hand, tucked Jack Lightfoot a little more tightly under one arm, walked over to where John Lightfoot lay on the deck, looked down, then squashed the man’s head with a heavy metal foot.

Jack, still unable to move, watched in helpless terror. And as the monster moved into his father’s home, the young sorcerer loosed an unheard and unhinged cry. The Devil had sent him a message… He heard it in the dying screams of his mother and his wife.

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

Resurrection

Resurrection is the second chapter in my upcoming dark fantasy novel, TechnoMage. Each chapter in this novel will be a short story in itself (I hope). The first installment of this book was The Speed of Dark and is featured in an earlier blog on this page.

Resurrection

Pain was everywhere. It reached down into Richard’s memories and pulled him back to the light. He could hear himself screaming: sounds which seared his brain as the unending light had seared his eyes and the hot gravel had seared his skin. But he couldn’t stop. The screams rolled out in waves, one after another, time and time again—until blessed unconsciousness came crashing down.

Tim fed them for months. Mother was pleased. One day, after finishing a particularly good roast, she even went so far as to say he tasted better than Becky. Richard figured that was because he was younger.

At night, when greasy rain fell on the rotting roof, creating phosphorescent droplets which occasionally fell on his skin and burned him, Richard would conjure up images of what his mother would say when the time came to eat him.

“Richard didn’t have an ounce of fat on him,” she would brag. Or, perhaps, “He made a fine stew.”

The boy could hear the smacking of her wet, red lips, could envision her licking juices from jewel-encrusted fingers, flat, black eyes studying each morsel as she calculated how to get all the precious meat from his dead bones.

On the days Richard wasn’t locked in the cellar, when his mother chose not to go foraging for edibles in what was left of the city, he enjoyed walking in the fields. Trees hadn’t yet recovered from the firestorm, but clover and hay and the like had come up greener than ever. He also watched dragonflies. They weren’t birds, but they were alive. And mother wouldn’t eat them.

Bright light behind his eyes. Voices in his head. The unmistakable buzz of an electric saw.

How strange. The world had faded for a moment, had left him feeling like he was somewhere else. Richard shuddered, gooseflesh rose upon his arms. Time to head back. Mother was cooking up the last of the Tim-steaks. She’d be angry if he was late.

The boy pushed through waist-high grasses. Poisoned grasses. Ones he’d contemplated ingesting on many previous occasions, as a way to bring about an end to the headaches and the nausea and the aching in his chest.

But Richard was more afraid of the dark than Tim had been. So, recently, rather than thinking about ways to kill himself, he’d begun to harbour a secret dream. Down in the black place that was now his mind, the boy was cultivating the thought that maybe, just maybe, he could find the nerve to make mother a dessert.

“Wake up seer,.” the voice rasped and rumbled. “Now, majicker, I demand it.”

Richard’s eyes opened of their own volition. The owner of the voice, he of indeterminable age, skin the colour and texture of pig cracklings, eyes of liquid fire, stood before Richard like some terrible combination of dream answered and nightmare delivered.

Richard wondered how this could be. He knew in his gut that he’d died on some hellish world, abandoned there by his young enemy, Jack Lightfoot. Yet here he stood, before his liege.

“How?” he asked.

The voice that came out of Richard’s mouth was not his own. It wasn’t even human, having a strange mechanical quality he equated with those telephone devices he’d learned to use on Earth. Richard attempted to bring his hand to his face. Nothing happened. He couldn’t move any part of his body other than his eyes and his mouth.

“What have you done?” he asked in his strange new voice.

“All will be revealed,” said the Old One. “For now, know that you have been resurrected. Understand that I have kept my word with you. Eden will be yours. Perhaps, in time, Earth shall follow.”

The beast came close.

“Right now, we need to speak about Lightfoot. Did he cause what happened to you? Is he, as I suspect, a throwback? Has he the ability to cross the void at will? Does the Godhead flow through his veins?”

Richard let his mind revisit the battle he’d fought with Lightfoot. The incredible power he’d felt in the boy. The way the young mage had straddled two worlds, and the ease with which he had tossed Richard across the void.

“I suspect that what you say is true, but I can’t verify. All I know for sure is the boy was able to pull me from this world and leave me in another. I saw him cast no spell.”

The Old One nodded, waved a hand, and the world went black.

After finishing off every hateful morsel on his mother’s bones, Richard had gone to the city. He lived off scavenged foodstuffs, spending his nights foraging under the cover of darkness and his days holed up with books he found in an underground archive. It wasn’t safe to be out in the daylight. Too many hungry eyes. Besides, the books turned out to be useful. Most were about magick, the chosen trade of his father and his father’s father.

The boy studied and practiced magick until his supply of edible food ran out. Winter was coming, and he knew that to further linger in the city meant starvation. But he’d learned enough by then; he was able to defend himself—after a fashion. Selecting a few of the more substantial books in his collection, Richard filled his pack with as many other useful items as he could find: a boning knife, a durable tarp weighing but an ounce, a lamp guaranteed to never fail and Devil Dust for starting fires. He then turned away from the city and headed south on a snow-kissed road.

Years went by as words roll off the tongue. Richard continued to damage his soul. He embraced evil, following the path his mother had set him on, a path which took him to many strange places. One of these was his father’s childhood home. Here he reclaimed a few of his sire’s prized possessions, namely a crystal ball and an unusual stone almost too large to carry. In another place, a village full of thieves and murderers where he spent two summers and one winter, the boy learned the importance of preparedness and forward thinking. He also learned to speak little and listen a lot.

So it was, that in his seventeenth year and full of well-hidden venom, Richard Bartholomew invited an old man to share his fire. They’d camped on an open plain, at the side of a dusty road, under a canopy of a million stars. Neither of the men had wanted to close his eyes on the majestic view, so they’d chosen to forgo sleep for conversation.

“There’s many a world under them stars,” said the old man, running a hand through his wispy hair. “And I met a man who claimed to have been to one of them.”

Richard had been intrigued.

“This fellow—called himself Herod—told me he was a trader. Said his family had been traveling between the stars for generations. Got around in some kind of iron ship that was lighter than air, if you can get your mind to believe it.”

“They flew through the heavens?” Richard asked in wonder.

“Never saw it,” said the old man. “But that’s what Herod claimed.”

“He had this weapon. It was a small thing you could hide in the palm of one hand. A thief took my purse one day. Herod just pointed the thing at him and the fellow was gone. There was this incredible flash of white light, then nothing. Nothing, that is, but the ground, my purse lying on it, and the thief’s severed hand attached. No blood, though. The hand was sealed at the wrist, smooth as glass.”

The old man gazed up at the stars and said, “I was a young man, I’d find me one of those ships, or I’d summon me a demon that had the power to carry me across the void. Either way, I’d get off this world. She’s almost done for.”

Richard, who knew a little bit about demons, listened carefully. Then, as first light touched the eastern horizon, he sent the old man home. It was a fine breakfast, enjoyed more because the old man had been well met. Once the feast ended, Richard put his new knowledge to work. He endlessly studied and practiced the magick in his books—long past the time when the old man was fit for eating. But he did it. He managed to conjure up one of the fallen Gods, and he bargained for passage to a new world. The deal wasn’t great, but it worked for both of them. Richard gave her the use of his body for a year; she gave him The Garden of Eden.

When the Old One turned on the lights again, Richard had his mind back. He remembered what had happened to him, realized he’d been reliving parts of his childhood, even understood that his new master had somehow brought him back from the dead. The questions remaining were: What was the Beast up to? How had the Devil found him? And as it had been through so much of Richard’s life—what price would he pay?

“Ready for that war?” the monster asked his vassal.

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009

The Speed of Dark

“I just read The Speed of Dark and it left me breathless.

A totally arresting and quietly horrifying story.

I’ll definitely be keeping a watch for more of your work.”

T.M

The Speed of Dark

Richard Bartholomew’s little brother sat on the bottom stair and studied the line bisecting the rock-walled basement.

“What’s the speed of dark?” he asked.

Trying to ignore the sudden knot of pain in his stomach, Richard answered. “Doesn’t have a speed, Tim,” he said. “Darkness is just the absence of light.”

Shadows, almost lifelike in their furtive movement, crawled a few more inches away from the walls. Richard pretended not to see them.

“Light moves fast?” Tim asked.

“Nothing’s faster,” Richard said.

Small windows atop the western wall glowed with that special golden light which always seems to be reserved for crisp, autumn evenings. These tiny glass squares of life cast beams of airy gold into the spreading gloom. Billowing ribbons of dust danced along the slender rays, entertaining the watching boys, distracting them until the darkness closed in, until the colour of the light changed and took on the hue of blood.

Suddenly, Richard heard his mother’s voice within his head. “Somebody’s got to go.” She’d stood as a rock in the middle of the hall, blocking the way out to the world. Had taken her purse up before speaking, dug out the keys to the old Motor Cart. Then, casually, as if instructing him to do something as mundane as washing the breakfast dishes, she’d made her wishes clear. “You decide,” she’d said. “But I want somebody gone by dark.”

Mother had locked them down—as she always did when going out. The rumble of the engine as she eased down their gravelled drive reminded Richard of distant thunder. A cold shiver walked up and down his spine. Bile rose in his throat.

Richard wiped the memory from his mind and joined his brother on the steps. He could feel the younger boy tremble. The cool, dry basement air was sour with the scent of Tim’s fear. A centipede scurried across the floor, its serpentine movements and glossy red skin the perfect harbingers of this night.

“How do we get out of this?” Richard asked himself. Action was required. Becky had proved that. Nobody gets to refuse mother. Not even once.

Tim had Becky’s eyes. Richard had been able to keep her alive in his mind because Tim had her eyes. Grey. With striations of blue and yellow.

“Wanna try busting a window, Tim?” he asked.

Tim looked up at Richard with their sister’s long-dead orbs and said, “Can’t bust those rocks. So what good is it gonna do?”

“We can’t just sit here and wait for it, Tim. She don’t take no for an answer. We gotta get out.”

“Windows are too small,” Tim said. “Ain’t no way to change that.”

Both boys allowed their gaze to follow the lines of the walls. The basement had nothing in it but the stairs on which they sat, four bare rock walls, a hardened earth floor and a couple of rows of six-inch windows. They’d already tried to force the door at the top of the stairs. Hadn’t managed it. Not even when there had been three of them.

“Can you make me not afraid, Richard? Can you make it so I don’t have to go into the dark?”

Richard started crying.

“Watch the windows, Timmy,” he said. “Let the sun fall on your face.”

Tim got up and walked over to one of the diminishing beams of light. He turned toward the window from which the beam originated, then stepped into the path of the reddening light.

“Richard!” he exclaimed. “It’s still warm.”

The older boy didn’t have the heart to tell Tim the warmth would fade, that there was no way to escape the darkness. Their problem wasn’t the speed with which darkness travelled, he thought, but one involving the very nature of darkness.

Richard hung his head, tears darkening the soil below. He didn’t know how to explain that the dark was already here. It had always been here.

Clayton Bye
Horror Editor

Copyright © Clayton Clifford Bye 2009