11 July 2014 at 12:35AM PDT is the 12th anniversary of my father’s death.
I try to make it a point to stay up, a Memento Mori for the man who shaped my life, in ways good and bad. I tend to stay up to see the clock tick past the moment more often than I go to his grave in the following 24 hours.
Night owls, he and I.
It is from him that I learned the bad habit of staying up far too late, reading until I drift to sleep anywhere but in bed.
He nurtured my love of the wild, untamed mountains that edge my home state. Of the trees reaching impossibly high into the star-filled nights, the sound of crickets in my ears and the smell of bear grass in my nose.
He gifted my sharp tongue, my love of horrible puns, my slow to simmer but quick to boil temper.
He told me to find my stories, to craft them carefully. Even if they were just for me.
I miss him terribly.
Heirs of the Demon King: Uprising is the first standalone book by British author Sarah Cawkwell. Already known for her publications in the Warhammer 40K universe, Cawkwell strikes a new path with this story, set in an alternate history of the UK. In a world ripe with magic, Richard III won the Battle of Bosworth Field with otherworldly assistance, and the Plantagenet line remained on the British throne. One hundred years later, the contract signed at Bosworth is up, and Melusine, the demon that ensured the Plantagenet reign, is ready to collect on her half of the deal. In response, young villagers Mathias and Tagan are caught in a race against time, trying to piece together the one thing that can stop the overrun of the world.
The obliteration – and survival – of the world’s magic is the driving theme that ties the entire story of Heirs of the Demon King together. It works, too. Continue reading
I will be the first to admit that I really screwed up in my early 20s. Lots of credit card debt. No cares. That ended at 26 when I found myself with $40,000 of medical debt after my gall bladder, in all its hereditary glory, died a magnificent death.
That’s a story for a different time.
While the medical bills were (mostly) taken care of, it sent the rest of my debt into a nosedive. I managed to get it somewhat under control with a debt consolidation program, but that went tits up when I lost my job (four days before I found out I was pregnant.) That’s another other story.
Needless to say, my credit is in utter shambles. I have spent the better part of my late 20s and all of my 30s (so far) paying off bits and pieces when I could, where I could. It’s very slow going. I’m paying off a several-thousand dollar debt at $25.06 a month. It will take over five years, and I’ve been working on it for over a year. The point is: I’m doing it. I’m not trying to hide, or shove the blame on anyone else. I got myself into this trouble, and I’m trying to do what I can to get out of it.
Which is why, when got a phone call on January 30 of this year, I panicked. Continue reading
The way he touched her
Made her feel like she glowed,
Observable from orbit like
An earth-bound star.
The way he sipped his coffee
While staring at her as though
She were a rare treasure,
Plucked from obscurity.
Between life and ER trips and longer stories, I haven’t done a Friday Fictioneers prompt in a month. A damn shame, really; Rochelle always organizes it so neatly. Let’s see if I can’t get back on track, yeah?
The Morning Walk
Copyright Erin Leary
Fulfilling Wishes at the End of the World
Until the day I die, I’ll never forget those glassy, unblinking eyes. They are frozen in time for all eternity, to replace the face of Michelangelo’s David as it sat carved in my mind. The world had fallen apart in the streets outside that day, as we walked through the museum hand in hand.
It was all we wanted to do.
We had decided to spend the day there, he and I, that morning over coffee. So rarely did we get time to ourselves, having an afternoon together sounded like a tiny slice of heaven. We would play hooky from work and go through the museum like tourists, gawking at the visiting exhibits. Hell, maybe we would even eat at the overpriced cafe. He emailed his boss, I called in. Then, giggling like kids skipping class, we hustled to catch the bus downtown.
Our tickets were stamped 10:45AM. The bombs started falling at 12:23PM. Continue reading
My short story Earthquake Weather was the editor’s pick for this week’s round at The Speakeasy. I am just pleased as punch. There were some very good pieces put up this week and the competition was, in my opinion, quite stiff. Thank you, lovely editors!