Showing posts from October, 2015

Fall-ing back to Caledon

The return voyage back to Caledon's shores was not an easy one. The girls' excitement over the vistas as our airship set off over the waves of Blake Sea faded after only ten minutes. Though I had amassed what seemed to be a bottomless bag of activities for our journey, the kits went through all that I had in only an hour. I resorted to lying, telling them that their father, Duke Constantine (or Captain Bunneh to those who know him well) had sent his Indigo Squadron out to accompany us home. The next three hours was filled with a mis-identification of every bird, cloud and, indeed, large insect as a Crimson Pirates aircraft on the horizon. When we arrived at Oxbridge Village, the girls glimpsed a poster for the Caledon Harvest Festival on the platform and the bargaining began. I briefly forgot how elusive they can be when they want to be. Had I remembered, our bargaining would have included leashes. They promised to hold their hands behind their backs while I checked a

The Evening Breezes Are Turning Blustery

The windows on the upper story of the Caledon Zephyr building rattle in their panes. The northern gales are in good form this eve. Nights like this, I miss the smaller news shack up on the hill, which was buffered somewhat from the weather coming in from the seafront, and I wonder about changing the name of the paper to something less windy. During my hiatus, there has been many deliveries to the building. Tonight, as the winds outside howl and batter the eaves, I try to make sense of why some distributors sent me kraken milk instead of ink and unbleached tanglewood pulp paper instead of something more refined—the swirling purple, green, and brown patterns in the pages have a mystical charm but it is hardly something that is good for reading. I break the seal on another crate and peer inside—who ordered pink paper? The strong gust hits the seaward side of the building, and something bangs outside. No doubt something from one of the sidewalk stalls that was not properly sec

Witch's Charge

  In her cave beneath Speirling Isles, the Firth Witch stares into her fire.   The veil thins. It comes time to commune with those in the other realms of existence--to pay honor and earn the boon of their wisdom and strength.    It is also the time to be on guard. There are forces in the otherrealms that continually batter against the veil, trying to rip their way back into physicality. Lesser witches would have long ago become possessed, but not Aettrynne.    There is but one thing that has always possessed her. The flames that flicker in her eyes are not the reflection of the bone-fire in front of her but the cold flames of hatred that long ago consumed her soul. Her treaty with the Guv'nah of these lands, however, stays the wrath that would create a wasteland if loosened upon these "Caledonians."   The Witch has, as it is said in the common language, "bigger fish to fry." This season, there will be new priestesses to initiate, no matter h

This is Not How I Envisioned a Semi-Afterlife

This is Not How I Envisioned a Semi-Afterlife It is the fifth day of my imprisonment. I am a half-witch, half-vampire. I have slipped through the streams of time to study slaughter under the likes of Van Helsing, Summers, Belmont, Frost, and Blake. I survived the Burning Times though I can still feel the blazes blistering my feet and smell the scent of my sisters being burnt to ash. I owe Lady Aevalle my life. My debt to her mother, the Fae Queen, is an old one and goes as deep as blood. It was Aevalle, herself, as a child, who stood boldly in her mother’s Court and demanded that the followers of the Olde Ways be spared from the flames. But our pact did not cover this. When the air on the Caledon Firth began to change, Aevalle called me up to her metal fortress in the sky. The kittlings had discovered that it was faire season and had not only read up for themselves, but had informed their sisters about the festivities and goings-on across the land. The La

Magick is Afoot

The hallowed season approaches. I wander around the islands, almost oblivious to the rain coming down, though it is matting my hair to my scalp and shoulders. Speirling has been my home for so long now, I hardly notice the storm. Speirling before Hallow's Eve season But it is the time for the tides to change. The wheel of the year turns and elsewhere in Caledon, the leaves have gone blazing in reds and oranges and earthy browns. Not here. Not yet. The volcanic warmth from beneath Lionsgate gives the Speirling Isles a wee respite from the elements. Or at least the cold elements. A charge from the clouds lights up the sky, making the landscape suddenly brighter. I look skyward and become almost mesmerized by the twirling of the funnel cloud above my head. Funny how it can Another lightning flash and a series of bleats wakes me from my daydream. Pitch and Soot. That's why I'm down on the island--time for their dinner. They graze on the purpl