Book promo
If you wish to send us books for next week’s promo, please email to bookpimping at outlook dot com. If you feel a need to re-promo the same book do so no more than once every six months (unless you’re me or my relative. Deal.) One book per author per week. Amazon links only. Oh, yeah, by clicking through and buying (anything, actually) through one of the links below, you will at no cost to you be giving a portion of your purchase to support ATH through our associates number. A COMMISSION IS EARNED FROM EACH PURCHASE. That helps defray my time cost of about 2 hours a day on the blog, time probably better spent on fiction. ;)*
FROM HEATHER STRICKLER: Whirlwind of Stars (Mythic Roads Book 1)
Some worlds end in Fire
Some in Ice.
A whirlwind swept Karsus away.
Sarah Macaran survived. Kidnapped, struggling with strange powers. She stowed away in the Toto’s cargo hold, but Scarcrow and the Toto’s crew have other worries: Dorothy vanished.
Can Sarah unravel the mysteries before the Wind finds her? Or the Witches of the Galaxy take matters into their own hands?
FROM MICHAEL LORTON: The Missionaries
Ron Rothman has nothing to lose. He hates his job; his marriage is disintegrating. When he crawls out of the smoking ruins of an automobile on the outskirts of Bangkok, leaving his wife’s lover dying in the front seat, the police suspect the wreck was not an accident. When he begins an affair with the dead man’s girlfriend, that suspicion becomes near-certainty. Krasaung Phiwang is a detective in one of the most corrupt police departments in the world, but he is an honest man and a good cop. Now his job—and perhaps his life—depends on finding enough evidence to convict the American of murdering his rival, whether he is guilty or not.
FROM WILLIAM MEISHEID: Beginnings: Book One of the Chronicles of the Lawgiver
The year is 1292 B.C. and Egypt has almost recovered from more than a generation of turmoil. Begun by the “Pharaoh who is not named,” the nation was plunged into social and religious chaos by a leader who overthrew the historic gods of the Two Lands in his desire to follow a single supreme and all-powerful deity, which he named Aten.
The powerful priesthood of Amun-Ra blamed and sought destruction of the Hebrews for corrupting the forgotten pharaoh with their heretical religious ideas. However, they sought to accomplish their annihilation in a way that would not destroy the economy of Egypt since the Two Lands had become dependent on Hebrew labor. By killing all newborn males, the blight would gradually be removed from the land within one generation.
Now, during the fourth year of a fledgling dynasty, a new threat is taken from the waters of the Nile by the sister of Pharaoh: a Hebrew child who should rightfully be put death as an offering to Sobek, the crocodile-headed god. However, the princess is childless and abundant signs and portents signal the gods have an opinion in the matter.
Through numerous twists and turns of an eventful day, Pharaoh and his priests seek the will of the gods in council, while Nephura, the Chief Priest of Amun-Ra in Memphis, seeks his own resolution to the problem. Before the day is out the destiny of two nations is forever changed as the name of Moses is first etched into the annals of history.
Discover possible answers to questions that have long remained problems such as what happened to the edict and why wasn’t Moses put to death as required by the law.
FROM GERALD L. HALL: Unwanted Gifts
Stewart Williams was a seemingly ordinary man working for a Defense Logistics Agency office. But he had inherited an extraordinary family gift to create objects seemingly out of thin air and to heal people with a mere touch. When Stewart uses this gift to heal his wife Sarah, help his community, his state and America. His act leads to an year-long adventure with many twists and turns. With the aid of several friends from his church, Stewart and his wife go into hiding from a hostile President B.H. Arnold with a hidden agenda once their identity is discovered. Because of the unexpected consequences set into motion by Stewart’s incredible act, events lead to a massive terrorist attack on America and an even more dramatic response on the part of Stewart and his wife.
FROM DANIEL ZEIDLER: Ghosts of a Fallen Empire
In the distant future an isolated human world has survived the Nomad Wars and the Fall of Imperium. Together with their non-human allies, the Dussakairay and the Bregus, they repopulated and rebuilt their devastated region of the galaxy to form a 40 system Commonwealth. For over five centuries the people of the Commonwealth have known only peace and prosperity, but an ancient enemy has been watching from the ruins of the old Imperium, slowly rebuilding their forces, and waiting for their opportunity to reduce the Commonwealth to ashes. The founders of the Commonwealth may have given up their Imperium, but they did not give up all of the Imperium’s secrets. Now the only hope for the people of the Commonwealth lies with the Ghosts of a Fallen Empire.
Are you looking for a fun and entertaining science fiction story with action, adventure, intrigue, a little humor, and dash of romance? How about one that also has star yacht racing, thrilling space battles, and clever, daring heroes you’ll enjoy rooting for? If you answered “Yes!” or even if you answered “I’m not sure… maybe?” then Ghosts of a Fallen Empire just might be the story you’re looking for!
FROM LAURA MONTGOMERY: Simple Service: Science Fiction Colonization Adventure (Martha’s Sons Book 1)
They’re stranded beyond the known stars. Will Peter Dawe’s perilous mission with a brother he despises end in death?A lost starship’s settlers, isolated on an uncharted alien world, manage to terraform a mountain-ringed valley into a rich replica of Earth. Despite their success reproducing the environment they need to survive and thrive, only tenuous forces hold together the human colony on the world of Not What We Were Looking For. The governor’s appropriation of the western settlers’ weapons for the city strains those bonds to breaking point—and then beyond when Peter Dawe’s father sends him to get the weapons back.
Twenty-year-old Peter Dawe’s restless nature easily endures the lost colony world’s rigors. His genetic modifications make it even easier. So when Peter retrieves the family weapon, he also brings back a motorbike, a piece of technology no longer available to everyone.
It would be a fine prize to keep to himself. He won it. He earned it. He quickly learns that his brother Simon lies in wait to take what isn’t his. Simon wants more than just the motorbike. He wants Peter’s glory.
But when Peter’s father forces him to take his hated older brother on Peter’s next mission, the pair must not only navigate the city’s perils and politics but learn to work together—when neither thinks the other should be in charge. Their success—and their very lives—depend on it. Or will Peter be proven right that he should have faced this task alone?
Simple Service is the first book in the immersive Martha’s Sons science fiction series. If you like gripping action, insurmountable odds, and alien worlds, you’ll love Laura Montgomery’s tale of a man determined not to let family ties sabotage mission success.Buy Simple Service to pull off the impossible today!
FROM ELLEN KUHFELD: Secret Murder: Who Shall Judge?
In the days of old, life could be cheap.
Death, however, could be very expensive.
“There is one problem. And here he comes, at this very moment.”
Yes, Thorolf Pike was trouble. Declared an outlaw and exiled from his home, he had come from Surtsheim, where his fellow Norsemen lived, to Northlanding, where English settlers lived. Now he was dead, by an unknown hand. Who killed him? And, should the murderer be judged by English law, or by Norse law, for the crime of secret murder?
FROM HENRY VOGEL: The Hostage in Hiding
In a family full of heroes, Nora Connaught is the normal one. She’s never fought space pirates. Never saved anyone’s life. Never done anything remotely heroic.
Now she’s 18, and going off to college on another planet. Nora hopes she’ll finally get to live a normal life.
But life never goes as expected.
After pirates hijack the starliner she is traveling on, putting thousands of lives at risk, Nora must live up to the Connaught name.
Can she cast her own heroic shadow?
FROM HARDING MCFADDEN: Making Monsters: -stories
Welcome, all, inside the head of Harding McFadden! With open arms, he invites you to visit with an assortment of strange guests: a robot on a forgotten world, and a deadly visitor on Halloween night in Sleepy Hollow. The undead at the end of the world, and the last cursed soul thereon in his workshop at the top of the Earth. A barbarian, charging at a beast from beyond the stars, and an incredible heroine, looking eye-to-eye at forever. Here are tales of old friends, and lost loves, the world under our feet, the furthest stars, and points in-between. Won’t you visit for a while?
Five Stars: “It is an amazing book, can’t stop reading it. Harding McFadden and Chester Haas did an amazing job with keeping the reader intrigued through out the entire book. I highly recommend, can’t wait for the next one.” Amazon review of The Children’s War
Five Stars: “A great adventure book exploring important themes for today’s society. Godchick is an interesting and entertaining character that still manages to come off as believable, with relatable emotions and experiences.” Amazon review of The Great First Impressions Trip
Five Stars: “The book was really amazing, I could not put it down. I read some of the stories over and over. It has easily become one of my favorites. Harding Mcfadden has easily become one of my favorite authors. Can’t wait for his next book!!!!!!!” Amazon review of The Judas Hymn
FROM ROB HOBART: The Sword of Amatsu (Empire of the Sun and Moon Book 1)
For four centuries, the Empire of the Sun and Moon has been torn apart by war as its samurai Clans fight for the empty throne of the Emperors. The Gray Wolf Clan is one of only six Clans remaining, but faces a deadly threat from the more powerful and ruthless Jade Dragon Clan. Yet the greatest threat to the Empire is not the bloody ambitions of its samurai. The shadowy followers of the Cult of the Mask, worshippers of foreign demons, burrow through the Empire’s society like worms in rotten meat, growing in power year by year.
As battles rage and conspiracies fester, the fate of the Empire will turn on the actions of a handful of samurai. The young lord Ookami Akira, trained by monks to be a master of war but desperately ignorant of the Empire’s civilization, must learn to be the ruler of the Gray Wolf Clan or he and his people will perish. Kuroi Kaede, a naïve girl forced into an unwilling marriage to Akira, must master the courts if she is to survive. The lowly magistrate Kobayashi Mitsui is the only one in the Empire who recognizes the true scale of the threat from the Cult of the Mask. And the murderous wandering swordsman Kenji may hold the fate of all in his blood-stained hands…
FROM TONY MCKINLEY: The President’s Suit: How Dr. Applebreath and the Little White Ball Saved the World from Nuclear Annihilation
What would be the opposite of a Black Hole, a gravity source so powerful that not even light can escape it? The opposite would be a negative gravity source so powerful that nothing can even touch it! Dr. Applebreath has been developing energy weapons and defenses for decades built on this concept. JJ’s President’s Suit is a lightweight business suit that employs this principle to render the wearer invulnerable to small arms fire by absorbing the incoming energy of approaching projectiles and reflecting them back with equal momentum. Farley’s Anti-Gravity Ballroom enabling dancers to swim and float through the air under the towering ceilings employs the same principle. Then one Christmas Eve, in the Satellite Ballroom that shares all information sources on the planet, our heroes see that nuclear war is erupting between the global super powers. It’s time to save the world, it’s time for The Little White Ball!
FROM KYRA HALLAND: Daughter of the Wildings Books 1-3
In the Wildings, magic can get you killed.But sometimes, it’s the only thing that can save you.
The gunslinging mage. The rancher’s daughter with a dangerous secret. Together, they must stop a renegade wizard before the dark and deadly power he’s discovered destroys everyone who makes the Wildings their home.
And the adventure begins…
If you love magic, adventure, and romance in a unique setting, come discover the wonders and mysteries of the Wildings with magical bounty hunters Silas Vendine and Lainie Banfrey in this innovative epic romantic fantasy-western series. This ebook collection contains three full novels: Beneath the Canyons, Bad Hunting, and The Rancher’s Daughter.
Contains language, violence, and mild to moderate sensual content.
FROM LARRY DENNINGER: Songs for Clara
Rochester, New York, the summer of 1986. While clearing out the attic of his childhood home, Frank Stephens discovers a hidden collection of songs, composed by his father, for a woman named Clara.
But his mother was named Louise, and she died of cancer eight years ago. His father, now living in a retirement home, is suffering from Alzheimer’s, and is likely unable to give an explanation. Even if he could, would he? Their relationship bears scars of lifelong unresolved arguments and grudges. Despite these obstacles, and his sister’s objections, Frank is determined to discover Clara’s identity.
Frank is convinced his father was unfaithful. His search for the truth uncovers secrets and promises, which causes him to reconsider everything he once believed to be true – about his life, his parents, and his future.
FROM WILLIAM ALAN WEBB: Standing The Final Watch: (Last Brigade) (The Last Brigade Book 1)
America might be dead, but Nick Angriff will kick your ass to resurrect her.
Lt. General Nick Angriff has spent his adult life protecting family and country from a world of terrorism spinning out of control. On the battlefield, off the grid, in clandestine special task forces and outright black ops, Angriff never wavers from duty. But when a terror attack on Lake Tahoe kills his family, he’s left with only the corrosive acid of revenge… that is, until a hated superior officer reveals the deepest of all secret operations. Against the day of national collapse, a heavily-armed military unit rests in cryogenic storage, to be awakened when needed, and Angriff is named its commander.
Fifty years later he wakes to find the USA destroyed and predatory warlords roaming the ruins. Stalked by assassins bent on seizing his command for their own purposes, Angriff has to prepare for war while avoiding murder.
Because the only wall still shielding survivors from slavery and death are the men and women of The Last Brigade.
FROM RACHELLE AYALA: Red Hexed: Ruby (Love Charmed Romance Book 2)
When all you need is beauty, and the Devil’s serving boy needs you to play dead—with Hella, the Norse Goddess of Death.
Ruby Rush lost her face to a fire and has been in hiding ever since. When her best friend brings her a magical mirror, she finds herself through the looking glass with Roger Rok, a demigod son of the Norse God of Love.
He’s looking for a berserker sword to stop the end of the world, and in return for her help, promises her a beauty beyond her wildest dreams. But bargains, as well as mirrors and hearts, are made to be broken—especially when Ruby comes face to face with Hella and is whisked away to her icy realm of death.
While Ruby fends with Hella, Roger must deal with the conflicting desires of Odin, Loki, Hella, and Freya while a shapeshifting horsefly turned cockatoo leads or misleads them on their journey to stop Ragnarok.
Ruby tries to protect her heart, and Roger does his best to charm and protect her into helping him navigate modern day San Francisco. As the end of the world draws near, will Ruby discover that Roger’s professed love is not an illusion? More importantly, will Ruby and Roger find what they’re truly looking for?
Vignettes by Luke, Mary Catelli and ‘Nother Mike.
So what’s a vignette? You might know them as flash fiction, or even just sketches. We will provide a prompt each Sunday that you can use directly (including it in your work) or just as an inspiration. You, in turn, will write about 50 words (yes, we are going for short shorts! Not even a Drabble 100 words, just half that!). Then post it! For an additional challenge, you can aim to make it exactly 50 words, if you like.
If you have questions, feel free to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: CROW
According To Hoyt 
The large black bird landed in front of them.
Amber asked “What’s a crow doing here”?
Steve replied “That’s no crow.”
“Ok, what’s a raven doing here?”
“It’s not an actual bird. Ok Edgar, take your normal form”.
The black “bird” grew larger and changed into a young man their age dressed clothing that appeared to be made of feathers.
“Feathers for clothing”?
Edgar replied, “It’s the best way to avoid destroying or losing my clothing when I change.”
“We screwed up,” I sighed, rolling my shoulders back and forth to loosen them up. “And, there’s no real way to stop this disaster other than playing it out to the end.”
“Not even by eating crow?” Viola asked, looking grim.
“I’m be willing to go for roadkill buzzard tartare at this point, but nobody’s offering. It’s only my flayed corpse or not.”
“So let me get this straight, Moretti: you think that our perp is the guy who all three victims were suspected of killing last year. A dead man. Your suspect is a dead man. What the hell do you think this is, Detective?! A freaking Brandon Lee movie?! A freaking comic book?! This is the real world, Moretti! People don’t come back to life and take revenge on their suspected murderers.”
“Lieutenant, I know it sounds insane, but just…”
“Jack, I think you’ve been working a little too hard. You’ve got vacation time saved up, right? Take a week or two, go someplace sunny and warm with lots of palm trees, relax, recharge, and get your head back on straight, okay?”
“But Lieutenant, if you’d just look…”
“Don’t make me make it an order, Jack. Or a suspension.”
“Lieutenant, just watch the surveilance footage!”
“Okay, fine. Just this once, I’ll humor you. Okay, what’ve we go…. holy mother of… Crawford didn’t have a twin, did he?”
“No, sir. Only child of two only children. No siblings or cousins or anything.”
“Holy shit. Jack, forget everything I just said about that vacation. Actually, no: vacation’s on hold until we bag… whoever or whatever that is.”
I was filled with questions, and he had answers for every one, though most of them raised many more questions than they laid to rest. My head felt full to bursting well before we stopped for the night, and spinning with confusion.
Marturoi conjured a magic tent that set itself up in a minute and we both collected firewood. He laid the fire, pointed his left hand at it, and cast a fantastic brightly colored magic spell that reached half-way up his arm. A dazzling light flashed, and the fire blazed up instantly.
He brought pots made of a strangely light, silvery metal from the tent, and asked me to fill them with clean snow. He placed them over the fire, and when they were boiling well he opened shiny silver paper packets over them, and dumped in powders and hard dry lumps. He stirred the pots until the smells made my mouth water, pulled them off the fire, and served the stew and soup in bowls made of the same metal, with large spoons made of a different metal. His food was strange, but very good. I looked up at the sky, and asked him which star was his home, but he said he was not sure, because he had been unable to identify the configurations. I did not know what that meant either.
All at once I could hardly keep my eyes open. He led me into the tent, pointed to a ‘sleeping sack’ and told me to crawl in. I obeyed, and knew no more.
I woke to sunlight and squawking crows, an empty sleeping sack beside me, and a smell of roasting fish. I crept from the tent, yawning, and saw Marturoi tending about a dozen fish on sticks around the fire, while a few crows squabbled over the fish heads and entrails. When I asked how he caught so many, he said he had removed the ice from a stream, ‘stunned’ them and simply picked them from the water. He tried to explain more but it was too early, and my head was still full from the day before. I was hungry, he had roasted fish, and that was enough for me.
Anthony Hopkins complimented me, “Michael, your cookbook, ‘Recipes for the Apocalypse: How to have your Neighbor for Dinner’, was wonderful.
“Thank you, ‘Hannibal’”, I replied. “Have you tried any of them yet?”
“Of course! In fact, I’m grilling my insufferable competitor, Russell, right now”, as he flipped over the steak.
“Gaaah. Why do we have to get up so early?”
“We have things to do. If we wait for the rooster to crow, we’ll be behind and never get caught up.”
As they sat reminiscing of times gone by her companion with crow’s feet round her eyes felt she had to crow about the riot of 2043 when they took two crowbars from case in the cab of the Caterpillar and cruised through the crazed crowd carelessly crowning croaking cross dressers.
Thank you for including my book, Sarah. Gives me plenty to crow about!
“Let’s get this straight. We’re going to build this gizmo and haul it overland to the Soviet moon base, totally on this Russian dude’s say-so.”
Admiral Chaffee shook his head. “Please don’t call Leonid Gruzinsky a Russian. Yes, his name is Slavic in form, but he’s not a Russian, and I still remember how annoyed he’d get when people treated all Soviet citizens as Russians.”
“So what is he?”
“I’m surprised at you, given how much Soviet Georgia has been in the news these days. Gruzin literally means Georgian in Russian. The original Georgian form was probably something like Kartvelishvili — the -shvili ending is characteristically Georgian, like Stalin’s original name, Dzhugashvili.”
“OK, so it’s a sore spot for him, but just what is the deal with it? Especially with everything going on in Tbilisi right now, you’d reckon he’d want to disassociate himself from all that and emphasize how tight he is with Moscow right now.”
“It’s complicated, and it’s been a decade since we worked together getting the Aphrodite crew back home, so I’ve probably forgotten a good bit of what he told me. But the best comparison for the relationship of the peoples of the Caucasus to the Russians would be the various American Indian tribes to the US.”
“So he’s like a Sioux or a Crow.”
“Actually those tribes would be better comparison to the Chechens and the other tribes of the North Caucasus. The Georgians and Armenians of the Transcaucasus would be more like the Cherokee or the Iroquois. In fact, they were civilized Christians with written languages when the ancestors of the Rus were still pre-literate tribes worshiping a pantheon similar to those of other Indo-European peoples.”
“What’s your name?” I asked the older crow.
“I haven’t any,” she said. “Naming belongs to Adam’s children.”
I thought of myself an hour before: no crow yet, but a Negro schoolgirl being reviled as a race traitor for loving Selma Lagerlöf’s Nils. “May I call you Akka, then?”
“Certainly.”
“This is getting us nowhere.”
“Shut up, Willie.” A well-built Survivor on a dappled roan hunkered down in the chill, pulling his gabardine blazer tighter around him. “You whining doesn’t do anything except make the waiting worse.” He shifted in the saddle uncomfortably.
The heavyset Macho beside him whispered: “I don’t care. I can say what I want out here, Jennings, and I say this is wasting time. We need to scavenge, then light a shuck. Waiting for the WildLand Express to show up is a fool’s errand: they’re smarter than to come back to this place.” He patted his Appaloosa with a beefy hand, steadying the unhappy animal. “This place feels bad, Man.”
High above the ruined camp, a murder of crows mumbled amidst the misted branches of the Express Oak; heads tucked beneath their wings, they waited the coming morning’s gorge of corpses. Beneath them, a gargantuan flock of turkey buzzards roosted, dreaming of bodies and blood below.
“Willie’s right…” A stout, ash-gray Hombre astride a dun gelding muttered. “This scene stinks of evil. The horses can feel it; no wonder they’re spooked. The fog and the smoke make it look like hell and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Devil himself is laying wait for us in the middle of all this. Cash, we need to salvage what we can and leave. Tell Chartreaux nobody came, then let’s skeddadle back to the Roy Plantation – nothin’ good is gonna happen here.” Cold, he stuck his rough-scaled bronze hands beneath his fancifully stitched denim jacket, wiggling his thick fingers to keep them warm.
“Expect the unexpected.” A slender Hombre in wide-brimmed hat and brown striped poncho leaned back in the saddle, at ease. “If you expected something else, you shouldn’t have come.”
WATCHER of the DAMNED: Trail of Travail (I just wrote this excerpt about crows and plugged into my WIP lol)
c4c
The bird perched on the windowsill as she was finishing up with the vegetables, hopping from foot to foot. It looked like one of the crows that lived there, but small. A runt maybe?
“Why hello little bird. Are you joining us for breakfast?”
The bird just tilted its head one way then the next as she ladled the food into the plates. She flicked a small slice of carrot at it. It caught it with a clomp.
“Well, yes, it’s just me right now. He’s usually here by now. He’s probably just late.” She sat down and started, if that could be described as stirring her rice.
“Just overslept, I’m sure.” The bird simply stared at her.
“Or one of the weir baskets got tangled? Those are a pain to unknot.” The bird tilted its head.
She was out the door before she had even finished settling her swords. Walk. Don’t run. Run, you’ll be to tired to act when you get there. Walk. Don’t run.
The crow took one last mournful look at the plates then flew after her.
“This is getting us nowhere.”
“Shut up, Willie.” A well-built Survivor on a dappled roan hunkered down in the chill, pulling his gabardine blazer tighter around him. “You whining doesn’t do anything except make the waiting worse.” He shifted in the saddle uncomfortably.
The heavyset Macho beside him whispered: “I don’t care. I can say what I want out here, Jennings, and I say this is wasting time. We need to scavenge, then light a shuck. Waiting for the WildLand Express to show up is a fool’s errand: they’re smarter than to come back to this place.” He patted his Appaloosa with a beefy hand, steadying the unhappy animal. “This place feels bad, Man.”
High above the camp, a murder of crows mumbled amidst the misted branches of the Express Oak; heads tucked beneath their wings, they waited the coming morning’s gorge of corpses. Beneath them, a gargantuan flock of turkey buzzards roosted, dreaming of bodies and blood below.
“Willie’s right…” A stout, ash-gray Hombre astride a dun gelding muttered. “This scene stinks of evil. The horses can feel it; no wonder they’re spooked. The fog and the smoke make it look like hell and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Devil himself is laying wait for us in the middle of all this. Cash, we need to salvage what we can and leave. Tell Chartreaux nobody came, then let’s skeddadle back to the Roy Plantation – nothin’ good is gonna happen here.” Cold, he stuck his rough-scaled bronze hands beneath his fancifully stitched denim jacket, wiggling his thick fingers to keep them warm.
“Expect the unexpected.” A slender Hombre in wide-brimmed hat and brown striped poncho leaned back in the saddle, at ease. “If you expected something else, you shouldn’t have come.”
~~~~~~
I wrote this prompt into my WIP for WOTD: Trail of Travail. I posted it here an hour ago but it disappeared into the whammiverse… if it shows up as a double post, pls forgive and I will delete.
“This is getting us nowhere.”
“Shut up, Willie.” A well-built Survivor on a dappled roan hunkered down in the chill, pulling his gabardine blazer tighter around him. “You whining doesn’t do anything except make the waiting worse.” He shifted in the saddle uncomfortably.
The heavyset Macho beside him whispered: “I don’t care. I can say what I want out here, Jennings, and I say this is wasting time. We need to scavenge, then light a shuck. Waiting for the WildLand Express to show up is a fool’s errand: they’re smarter than to come back to this place.” He patted his Appaloosa with a beefy hand, steadying the unhappy animal. “This place feels bad, Man.”
High above the camp, a murder of crows mumbled amidst the misted branches of the Express Oak; heads tucked beneath their wings, they waited the coming morning’s gorge of corpses. Beneath them, a gargantuan flock of turkey buzzards roosted, dreaming of bodies and blood below.
“Willie’s right…” A stout, ash-gray Hombre astride a dun gelding muttered. “This scene stinks of evil. The horses can feel it; no wonder they’re spooked. The fog and the smoke make it look like hell and I wouldn’t be surprised if the Devil himself is laying wait for us in the middle of all this. Cash, we need to salvage what we can and leave. Tell Chartreaux nobody came, then let’s skeddadle back to the Roy Plantation – nothin’ good is gonna happen here.” Cold, he stuck his rough-scaled bronze hands beneath his fancifully stitched denim jacket, wiggling his thick fingers to keep them warm.
“Expect the unexpected.” A slender Hombre in wide-brimmed hat and brown striped poncho leaned back in the saddle, at ease. “If you expected something else, you shouldn’t have come.”
~~~~~
I wrote this weeks prompt into my WIP for WOTD: Trail of Travail
~~~~~~~~~~~
OMGosh I tried to post THREE TIMES and it wouldn’t let me – I think wordpress hates me. Now watch as they all show up NOW lol
I’d been warned not to call any of the talking, black-feathered birds “crows,” “ravens,” or anything of that sort, so I felt relief when the big one offered to cue me in.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“No problem,” he answered. “That group of little ones are pawns, and the two slightly-larger ones are bishops. There’s also a knight out there, hopping around – but he’s not in sight right now. He’ll be about the same size as the bishops.”
He stopped and preened for a moment, then fixed me with a beady-eye. “As for myself,” he said, “I’m a rook.”
Still not enough spoons to do a vignette but you knew a certain feline would be amused by this prompt, didn’t you? =P
I don’t care what they say, roosters do NOT crow at daybreak; they start while it’s still pitch dark. Anyone who has spent time in rural Guatemala, or on Kauai, will vouch for that. The sound is rather relaxing, though, once you get used to it. Why Guatemala? I’ve participated in volunteer medical clinics there more than once. And Kauai… well, if you don’t already know, the place is overrun with feral chickens thanks to a couple of hurricanes over the past few decades.
To this day I associate the sound of a rooster crowing with the scent of woodsmoke and early mornings in Central America. Half asleep, I think “Another day in clinic,” until I am fully awake. But as a working MD I am here to say that I will take a rooster’s crow over a pager going off any day.
If you’re up before the sun, that’s the right time, anyway.
I note that Chanticleer notoriously thought that he brought the sun up, which shows he had to be earlier.
Odin Allfather has two ravens, Munnin and Huginn, who fly around the world every day and bring him tales of all that has happened. I am a lesser godling, and I only have a crow who flies around the steadings to bring me today’s gossip of the laundry and kitchen.
Kind of a Pratchett-esque flavor to that.
The drunk staggered out of the bar, having lost the argument. “I’d have never guessed you knew so much football, Mr. Jenkins,” the bartender said.
“I do not,” said Jenkins, “merely more than he did. But I am not given to crowing.”
Next to him, Nigel Slim-Howland stifled a snicker.
Gentle prodding was ineffective. Nigel Slim-Howland would not get out of bed. “He had rather much at the bar last night,” said Jenkins. “His reluctance is understandable.”
“But he must rise,” said Gwendolyn, Nigel’s maid. “His schedule…”
“May I suggest drastic measures?”
“Very well,” said Gwendolyn. “COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!”
Nigel woke up.
An old crow visited her favorite beach and gathered unique shells and driftwood. Then she explored the tide pools for treasures. A sunbeam pierced the water and illuminated a shiny object. It was a silver spoon, polished to a bright finish. The old crow recognized the insignia and shouted hallelujah!
A crow sprung out of a tree ahead of them, and flew off, cawing. Moments later, another joined it. They passed the next trees and flew onward, dark shadows against the bright sky.
He glanced at Ava. At least she did not show relief at their being two of them.
A crow cawed ahead. Or two. Lucie thought. Her thoughts were so muzzy.
“Just leave her here,” snapped a voice she could not place. “They said we couldn’t kill her, Heaven alone knows why, but they didn’t say that we had to keep her alive. Taking the boy’s bad enough.”
“I couldn’t steal it from bandits, or go to I Know Not Where and Bring Back I Know Not What. And no one give it to me.”
“Oh, no one would give you such a thing.”
Rosaleen looked desolate.
“Instead, you will get three.”
Rosaleen blinked. She did not crow, but she looked with dawning hope.
“A crow, a crow,” called one drunken merry-maker. “That won’t do, that won’t do. Let us find other! This bride and this bridegroom deserve better!”
“There’s another,” a child — well, crowed, thought Rose.
The revellers shouted it up, and not one of them noticed a third crow. For girl.
Checking whether I can post here.
It was a hooded crow – as if it wore a very short black hooded jacket backwards to cover his face and head, and open, so that it ended halfway down his chest and didn’t reach to his back at all. Then black wings and black tail and everything else gray.
Unless it was Ishvalan – then the gray was close enough to white as made no difference. The Ishvalan hooded crow was black and white, just like life and death.
Note: The description is of the Mesopotamian hooded crow.
So, apparently I can’t post my vignette, for some reason. wpde
It was a hooded crow — as if it wore a very short black hooded jacket backwards to cover its face and head, and open, so that it ended halfway down its chest and didn’t reach to its back at all. Then black wings and black tail and everything else gray.
Unless it was Ishvalan — then the gray was close enough to white as made no difference. The Ishvalan hooded crow was black and white. Like life and death.
Note: The description is of the Mesopotamian hooded crow.
I’ll look in a few minutes.
yes?
I had to type it directly into the box rather than copying from LibreOffice Text. Usually I can copy and paste as plain text, but I had problems this time, I think because I had em dashes in the original.
It was a hooded crow – as if it wore a very short black hooded jacket backwards to cover its face and head, and open, so that it ended halfway down its chest and didn’t reach to its back at all. Then black wings and black tail and everything else gray. Unless it was Ishvalan – then the gray was close enough to white as made no difference. The Ishvalan hooded crow was black and white, just like life and death.
Note: The description is of the Mesopotamian hooded crow.
It was a hooded crow – as if it wore a very short black hooded jacket backwards to cover its face and head, and open, so that it ended halfway down its chest and didn’t reach to its back at all. Then black wings and black tail and everything else gray. Unless it was Ishvalan – then the gray was close enough to white as made no difference. The Ishvalan hooded crow was black and white, just like life and death.
It was a hooded crow, as if it wore a very short black hooded jacket backwards to cover its face and head; an open jacket, so that it ended halfway down its chest and didn’t reach to its back at all. Then black wings and black tail and everything else gray.
Unless it was Ishvalan, then the gray was as close enough to white as made no difference. The Ishvalan hooded crow was black and white, just like life and death.
Note: The description is of the Mesopotamian hooded crow.