books

Nekromancer’s Cage releases in 10 days!

In an alchemy rich industrial city, mix one apprentice apothecary with a group of bandit musicians, a talking cat and a whiff or two of necromancy, and what do you have? Nekromancer’s Cage!

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Hi everyone, I just thought I’d pop up a reminder that my latest upper middle grade/teen book, Nekromancer’s Cage, comes out this month on the 24th!

It’s filled with lots of intrigue, magic and whimsy, and I’m very proud of all the work that’s gone into it.

If it sounds like a book you or a younger family member would like to dig into, you can PRE-ORDER IT HERE.

Poetry

The dance of pipes

Bubbles drift down the side street

From the flute of reeds

Played by the boy

Busking for spare change.

Passersby see their reflections in

The rippling surface as the orbs hang

In the air before them.

Some linger, entranced

And see something more.

Futures near and far

and scenes of indeterminate time.

They slip a coin into the waiting hat

And when it jingles full

The boy smiles, sneaking off on legs

Furred with short brown fleece and

Feet of cloven hooves.

Short Stories

The Magic Bauble

The Christmas lights blinked on and off, making the tree look as though it was twinkling. I sat under it, filling my nose with the smell of new wrapping paper and tinsel, wishing it was already morning.

‘Now, Rupert,’ Nan said, sitting down in the squashy armchair next to the tree. ‘I have a very special present for you this year. You can open it tonight, but you have to promise not to use it until tomorrow.’ She had a mysterious smile on her face as she said it, and produced a small box from her handbag. ‘Do you promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Very well then,’ she said. ‘Here you are.’ She handed me the box, which was wrapped neatly in silver paper. I undid it carefully, knowing that this wasn’t the type of present you could tear at in a mad rush. Inside was a bauble. Just a single bauble made of blue metallic glass. I felt the happy expression slip off my face, replaced by one of extreme puzzlement.

‘It’s a bauble,’ I said.

‘Yes, but a very special bauble,’ Nan said. ‘I gave your father one just like it when he was your age. Now, you must be careful not to drop it. And don’t forget, you mustn’t hang it up until tomorrow.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s bad luck,’ she said. Then she laughed. ‘Don’t look so disappointed, Rupert. You can have the rest of your presents tomorrow.’

While I was in bed that night, I heard Mum and Dad talking to Nan. Since I was too excited about Christmas day to sleep, I crept onto the landing at the top of the stairs and listened to what they were saying. To my surprise, they were talking about me.

‘Are you sure it was wise giving it to him this year? He’s awfully young,’ Mum said.

‘Nonsense, Maggie. Alexander here got his at the same age, and it didn’t do him any harm,’ Nan said.

Dad laughed nervously. ‘We should be getting to bed, you know how early he wakes up on Christmas day.’

I heard then get up, and not wanting to be seen I ran back into my room and threw the covers over my head. Dad poked his head around my door, and I let out a few fake snores. Satisfied, he left, closing the door behind him. I sat up, my heart thumping with excitement.

The bauble was on my bedside table, still in its box. I picked it up, switching on my bedside lamp so I could see properly. It looked just the same as before, plain metallic blue, without any decoration at all. My own reflection stared back at me, so distorted that I let out a snigger.  Wanting to stifle the sound, I forced my fist into my mouth, but dropped it away again as I saw what was now on the bauble. It was a picture of a giant air balloon. It looked so real that I put my hand out to touch it, but it vanished, leaving me staring at my reflection again.

Certain that it hadn’t been some trick of the light, I looked away again and turned back to it quickly. There it was again. The exact same air balloon, drifting across a cloudy sky. Careful not to touch it this time, I looked closer. There was a man in the basket of the balloon, dressed in a short brown leather jacket and a matching cap with giant goggles on the top. He was waving at me. I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but it he was still there, grinning widely and swinging his arm in great arks. Staring stupidly, I waved back. As soon as I did, the picture changed and I saw myself taking the bauble downstairs and hanging it on the tree. Then the picture changed back to the man in the balloon. He was looking at me expectantly.

‘I can’t,’ I whispered. ‘Nan said it would be bad luck if I hung it on the tree before tomorrow.’

The man folded his arms and shook his head. Again the picture of me going down to the tree appeared, but this time it didn’t go back to the man, just to my reflection. I sighed, not knowing what to do. In the end, my curiosity won out and I crept downstairs, wincing at every creaking floorboard.

The tree lights were still on, twinkling away merrily, and I noticed that several more presents had been placed under the tree. Gingerly, I reached out and placed the bauble on one of the middle branches. I looked at it reflecting the lights, and suddenly felt myself falling. The room fizzled away and I landed with a bounce on a giant cushion, floating along in a pinkish sky.

A group of birds flew past me, circling around the other cushions floating about. I watched them swerve as the bright greens and reds of the air balloon floated up to my level. The man in the basket appeared soon after, chuckling to himself.  ‘I thought you’d never make it, lad,’ he called over to me. ‘Welcome to the World of Impossibilities. Anything you wish will come true while you’re here.’

‘Anything? Really?’

‘Of course, lad. Your imagination is the limit,’ he said.

‘Then I wish for…a hamburger,’ I said. A hamburger appeared in my hand, hot and smelling as scrumptious as any I’d ever had.

‘Now you’re getting it, lad. ‘Fraid I best be off now though. I’ll be seeing you,’ he said, and waved goodbye as his balloon sailed higher and higher.

I waved back, before attacking my burger with delight. It tasted just as delicious as it smelt, and while I was eating it I considered what the man had said. Anything I wish would come true? I had to test it. Ignoring the sudden butterflies in my stomach, I took a giant leap off the cushion, landing on another that was at least a whole football pitch away.  I bounced straight off it, high into the air, and went on to bounce off another and another.

Fifty giant cushions later, in mid-jump, it occurred to me that I could choose not to fall if I wanted. I stuck in the air, looking around at the cushions floating around me, and spotted a rainbow, bright and colourful as the one painted on my bedroom wall. I could slide down it and find out if there really was a pot of gold at the bottom.

Excitedly, I ran through the air. A thick red carpet appeared from nowhere, rolling out in front of me, taking me directly to the rainbow. It was soft and squashy under my feet, and I felt so light and springy that I had to practice my cartwheels all the way along. Unfortunately I wheeled my way straight into the side of the rainbow and hit it with a thud. I got up, putting out a hand to steady myself and felt that the rainbow was smooth.

Giggling with excitement, I jumped on it and whooshed down with incredible speed. I put my hands down to try and slow myself, and found that the colours of the rainbow were now precious jewels. I gathered up whole handfuls of them, but then landed in a giant black cauldron, buried up to my neck in gold coins. No, not gold, chocolate coins, wrapped in gold foil. They were just like the ones that Mum usually hid in the Christmas tree. If only my pyjama bottoms had pockets, I would have stuffed them full of jewels and chocolate to take back with me.

That brought me to a sudden halt. How was I going to get back?

I climbed out of the cauldron and looked around. There were great buildings of marble and granite all around me, with wide streets full of market stools covered in brightly coloured awnings. In the square where I had landed, a musician played a flighty trill of his flute, and jugglers and fire eaters competed for spectators. Dancers swirled about, trailing sleeves of fine silk. It was the most wonderful sight I’d ever seen.

‘Come here boy, and taste the fruit of your dreams,’ a merchant said.

‘No, try on our finely tailored suits,’ said another, brushing the first one away.

‘Don’t listen to those petty traders, boy! You should come here, and take home one of our fine woven scarves for your mother, or a clay pipe for your father,’ said another in a stripy suit. It was so colourful that it made my eyes dizzy.

More and more people called out to me to come and look at their wares, and some even got into heated arguments over who would serve me first. ‘But I don’t have any money,’ I replied each time, but they would simply say I could pay them next time or that it was a gift. Soon my arms were growing tired under the amount of boxes I was carrying, and my feet grew hot from walking. I was sleepy and I wanted to go home.

‘Please,’ I said to the people I passed. ‘Please, how do I get back?’ But no-one took any notice, they simply laughed and said I was pulling their leg.

It would be Christmas morning soon, and I would miss it all if I stayed. I had to get back.  Still everyone laughed at me, and the faces that had looked so kind now looked cruel and began to frighten me. I was lost and alone, and I began to cry.

I found a shadowy corner and sat down, trying to rub away the tears. A shadow passed over my face, and I looked up.   ‘What’s the matter, lad?’ It was the man from the air balloon, still with his leather cap and goggles.

‘I don’t know how to get home,’ I sniffed.

He knelt down and put his hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t despair lad, just remember what I told you. Anything you wish in this place will come true. Though I have to say your wish is a rare one. Most people that come here don’t tend to go back,’ he said, rubbing his chin. ‘Only once has someone done it, and that must be nigh on thirty years ago now. A young boy, if I remember rightly. Looked just like you in fact. If I didn’t know better I’d have said you were one and the same.’

I looked at him and saw he was serious. ‘I…I think my Dad might have come here, when he was young.’

‘That must be it then,’ the man said. ‘Still, if you really want to go back like he did, all you’ve got to do is wish it.’

‘Th-thank you,’ I said.

‘No problem, lad. Have a safe trip now.’

His face swam out of focus as he spoke, and I found I was being pulled upwards as though someone was pulling on the back of my pyjamas. Faster and faster I seemed to go, and then…THUD. I landed back on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, blinking. Light was pouring in through the window, and I could see snow falling outside. I heard footsteps behind me, and turned around guiltily.

It was Dad, wearing his chequered dressing gown. ‘Merry Christmas, champ,’ he said, smiling. Then he caught sight of the bauble still on the tree and raised his eyebrow. ‘Didn’t get much sleep last night then?’

I shook my head, thinking he’d be angry, but his mouth split into a wide grin and he started laughing. I laughed too, so hard that my stomach muscles hurt.

‘I feel like I’ve missed something,’ Mum said from the doorway, with Nan appearing behind her. ‘What’s the joke?’

‘Nothing, Mum,’ I said innocently, and Dad laughed even more.

‘See, Maggie?’ Nan said to her. ‘I told you it would be all right.’

 

 

 

 

 

Poetry

Far Above The Clouds

The man uncurled his fingers and looked at his palms.

Bells. There were bells, tubular ones

resting there, instead of his bag of secrets.

The rain still poured down on the mountainside,

yet the clouds were below him, not above.

His hand twitched, and he fell forwards

into the long grasses, through soil and rock

until he could not be told apart from it all.

The bells clattered to the ground, ringing

out for the valley to hear. The rain

stopped at the sound of those bells.

Those tubular bells igniting the day.

Poetry

Little ballerina doll

Toes against the box. Comfort lacking.

Weight on one pointe; gravity sucking me down.

My foot sinks into the floor. Smile. Be light.

High arches circle, support from the side.

I feel safe now, knowing I can lower myself.

Hop away. Run from the box.

Run, but never escape.

The box is attached. It demands to be risen on.

It owns me.

For the swans and fairies I’ve grown up watching,

it’s clear they own their box.

Why can’t I?

Poetry

Step to it

Beneath our feet in the coils of carpet

full of dander, paper fibres and pollen,

past the underlay thick as a pinky finger,

the floorboards warped to become musical notes

when stepped on, down

into the foundations

is a pulse. A beat.

A rhythmic tap of a dancer’s shoes,

the drum of fingers on a worktop,

a family getting into a car and shutting the doors

one after another.

When the house is empty,

the beat stops.

A light in the unoccupied spare bedroom switches on.

Click.

Poetry

Grim Street Music – for all your musical needs

Every time I try to practice with my violin,

the world goes rather peculiar,

 

as a funeral march sings out of it

and humanity drops to its feet.

 

My pet mice love it, they get to

dance freely out of their cage.

 

The owner of the quaint music shop

where I bought it did say the wood

 

it was made from came

from an unconventional source

 

before turning back to the coffin

that was the sales counter.

Poetry

Next, please.

Crafting, a menu that extends to the farthest craters of the moon. Drawers inside of boxes, containing tiny keys – silver, brass, gold. Locks in high places, just out of reach, tucked behind ears for later thinking. A pot of molten language, sifting, bubbling, evolving. Curses turn to common tongue, tongues that cease to pause and hear. Words tiptoe away down to the shadows.

Poetry

Escape

The ants crawl up the paper wrapper. Crisp. Slicing away at the butter within. Our eyes travel with them as they take their neat cubes back down the trail, meeting their brothers in traffic. Disconnect. A crash. Cymbals rained down on our heads. An ambulance was called. And police. The first and second violins screeched in erratically, but they didn’t stop. No long notes. Connect. The ants march on. We are the car behind. We are, we are, we are.