*Trying to get a handle on winter cleaning/organizing, combined with all the extra sleep to recover from whatever the heck that was that ran me over. I will be doing a fundraiser, starting tomorrow if I get organized enough. Mostly because I said I would do another at the end of the year. I’m trying yet a new format for those. We’ll see how it goes. For now, better late than never, it’s the promo post and vignettes – SAH*
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.*Note that I haven’t read most of these books (my reading is eclectic and “craving led”,) and apply the usual cautions to buying. I reserve the right not to run any submission, if cover, blurb or anything else made me decide not to, at my sole discretion.– SAH
https://amzn.to/3APaQEHFROM MARY CATELLI: Over the Sea, To Me.
A novelette retelling an old ballad.
A castle of marvels, by the sea — full of goblins and sprites. Many young knights come in search of adventures, and leave in search of something less adventurous.
A knight brave enough to face it could even woo the Lady Isobel there, but when Sir Beichan and she catch the attention of her father, the castle has horrors as well as wonders, enough to hold him prisoner. Winning freedom may only separate them, unless its marvels can be used to unite them, over the sea.
FROM BLAKE SMITH: An American Thanksgiving
It is Thanksgiving Day, 1865, and Margaret Browne isn’t feeling very thankful. The war is over, and her grown-up sons have returned from the fighting, but her beloved husband remains absent, last seen a captive in a notorious prisoner-of-war camp. The Browne family muddles through their uncertain path, lost without their leader, but when everything begins to go wrong all at once, Margaret must hold together the farm and her family, and turn a disaster into a true day of thanks-giving.
EDITED BY JAMES YOUNG, WITH A STORY BY YOURS TRULY: The Violent Blue Yonder: Aerial Alternate History (Arc of Ares)
Victory, speedy and complete, awaits the side that employs air power as it should be employed-Marshal Sir Arthur Harris, Bomber Command
War in the air, like any other domain, is subject to the whims of Fate. Throughout history, humans have always asked “What if?” Violent Blue Yonder explores what happens when that question gets asked hundreds (or thousands) of feet above sea level.
Do you like the age of “canvas falcons?” Come along as Sarah Hoyt, the 2018 Dragon Award Winner for Alternate History, surmises what could have happened had The Red Baron survived World War I. Or alternatively (pun intended), let Rob Howell (“In Dark’ning Storms”) and Joelle Presby (“Friends In High Places”) lay out opposite sides of early American intervention in airpower’s first conflict.
More a fan of closed canopies and superchargers than flimsy, flammable death traps? See how the German Luftwaffe gains the upper hand in a Second Battle of Britain in “Londonfall.” Or see different events in the Pacific as William Alan Webb cuts in with “Sword of the Sun,” a tale set in his A World Afire universe. Finally, if worlds afire are your thing, we have 2010 Sidewise Award Winner Eric Swedin having the Cold War go brilliantly hot in “Foolish Games.” Prefer your Cold War to have less thermonuclear annihilation? See what happens when former Flying Tigers and Tuskegee Airmen team up in Justin Watson’s “Red Tailed Tigers.”
Bottom line: Whether you like your aviation fiction to “make kills” or “make history,” there’s something for you in Violent Blue Yonder. As the first of three Arc of Ares anthologies, this book sets the alternate history tone in a way that would amuse the Greek war god himself. So grab a helmet and map case, as these twelve tales are about to take you on sorties you won’t forget!
FROM WILLIAM LEHMAN: HARVEST OF EVIL: Book one of the John Fisher Chronicles
For John Fisher, it’s just another day at the office. But his “office” is a black Dodge Durango, rolling through the wild heart of the nation’s federal lands. Legends aren’t myths here; they’re reality. Creatures of shadow and blood, granted their place in the world after the Civil Rights Movement.
The law’s clear: magic is legal… until it’s used against the land, the people, or the rules of the natural order. Then, it’s his job to bring them in.
John’s not just any cop. He’s got the skills of a SEAL, the instincts of a predator, and a network deep inside the supernatural world. Werewolf, vampire, sorcerer – it doesn’t matter. No matter what you are, when you break the rules, he’s coming for you.
FROM RACONTEUR ANTHOLOGIES: Fission Chips: Space Cowboys 6 (Raconteur Press Anthologies Book 42)
The story lines in this anthology run the gamut, from planetside, to open space, to Mars and beyond:
An old cowboy and his dog teach the new kid how to handle rustlers. Cowboys defend their ranch and others against predators and thieves. Good guys and gals vs. the bad guys while they learn about horses. ‘Ranching’ creatures come among the asteroids, lousy neighbors, and rustlers. Frontier sheriffs step up and solve a crime before things go badly for everyone in town. ‘Rodeo’ takes on a whole new meaning with LBJ in an alternate history. Learning occurs on a cattle drive, with a surprise ending. With rustlers in space, technology is in play, with the equivalent of Rangers. A cowboy and his girl take on train robbers to save the passengers. An old cowboy comes out of retirement for one more cattle drive on Mars.
(from the introduction by J.L. Curtis)
FROM HOLLY CHISM: Gods and Monsters (Modern Gods Book 4
Here there be dragons…again, damn it.
Deshayna has her sanity back, and forces older than the gods have granted her a new purpose. Chronos, his freedom restored, fights for his sanity, and with it, a purpose in helping Deshayna—now called Shay—with hers. The gods are starting to pull together more…and it’s about time.
Millennia after the last dragons to threaten human existence have been hunted down, they’ve started to reappear, hinting to the surviving gods that something more sinister appeared first: Tiamat.
Instead of a confrontation, though, the gods—major, minor, and genus loci—are drawn into a frustrating hunt for a predator that flees rather than attempting to strike.
FROM LEIGH KIMMEL: The Other Side of Midnight
Life has been a nightmare for Mitya ever since he was arrested on trumped-up charges and exiled to Siberia. But this labor camp in the far north of Magadan Oblast hides a secret far more terrible than the merely human evils of the Great Terror. For the universe we know is not the only one, and there are places where it interpenetrates with universes where the laws of nature as we know them do not operate, where humanity has no place. Worlds inhabited by beings ancient and terrible, to whom humanity are slaves, playthings, food.
FROM KAREN MYERS: The Chained Adept: A Lost Wizard’s Tale
MEET A POWERFUL WIZARD WITH UNANSWERED QUESTIONS–AND AN UNBREAKABLE CHAIN AROUND HER NECK.
Have you ever wondered how you might rise to a dangerous situation and become the hero that was needed?
The wizard Penrys has barely gained her footing in the country where she was found three years ago, chained around the neck and wiped of all knowledge. And now, an ill-planned experiment has sent her a quarter of the way around her world.
One magic working has called to another and landed Penrys in the middle of an ugly war between neighboring countries, half a world away.
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.
We recommend that if you have an original vignette, you post that as a new reply. If you are commenting on someone’s vignette, then post that as a reply to the vignette. Comments — this is writing practice, so comments should be aimed at helping someone be a better writer, not at crushing them. And since these are likely to be drafts, don’t jump up and down too hard on typos and grammar.
If you have questions, feel free to ask.
Your writing prompt this week is: Rod
According To Hoyt 
Grumble Grumble
I purchased Harvest Of Evil today before I saw the Promo!
Oh well, I saved Fission Chips for later and now is Later! [Grin]
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“Hey! Why do you can that stick a Rod?”
“I didn’t say that. I said that it’s Rod’s and Rod would not like anybody that took it without his permission.”
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“It was Jasper’s idea to see if I could make that rod fly about like it was rock,” said Diggory. He waved his hand on the grass, where an iron rod lay. “Because it was iron and out of iron ore.”
“Could you?” said Marcus.
“No,” said Diggory.
“We should see if you could do it with iron ore,” said Jasper. “Because that would be rock.”
“Marcus first,” said Diggory. “If we don’t have any ideas for him, then.”
“First you would have to find iron ore,” said Marcus, feeling a smile form on its own. “No mine is near.”
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The rod that marked the landing was its usual dark, unprepossessing self. Aidan wondered if they made them that way to make it hard to launch, or land. But he was off the boat as soon as the way was clear.
“Trying to flee?”
His shoulders slumped. He said nothing.
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The closet didn’t have proper hangers, instead it had wooden rods and metal clips for clothing. It took Kevin a few minutes to figure out how to hang things up, but once he was, he put his suitcase in the bottom of the closet proper.
The next bag he opened, he unrolled a drop cloth first, then he took a deep breath.
From that bag, he started to lay out weapons and ammo on the table.
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“I know he’s only four, but he’ll have to go in the trunk.”
“Why?”
“The seats of my mustang are too nice and I don’t want him messing them up.”
“Ok…”
Besides, it’s what my dad used to say: ‘Spoil the rod and spare the child.'”
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“Get my nerf bat.”
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“A priest, a Mexican, and a Halfling walk into a bar” I said.
“What the hell kind of a joke is that? There’s no comparison with those three” Jim replied.
“It’s better than saying a Halfling Mexican priest just bashed his head on that curtain rod. Better call the medics.”
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The skylight display, like streaks of burning sleet, was beautiful from some viewpoints.
Directly on the target of the orbital rods from God was not one of those.
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“Rods are an old English surveying unit you’ll find sometimes in terrestrial title deeds.” The archivist looked up at us over his antique half-lens spectacles. “Here on Mars, everyone agreed that we’d all start with the same SI units from the beginning, so our descendants wouldn’t have to go to court to settle exactly what a given unit meant in early land grants.”
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She was sitting on a park bench, or maybe more a bus-stop bench; for it bordered a nice grassed-and-treed park, but faced the street. The book on her lap was elegant, leather-bound and gilt-edged, one she was sure she’d never seen before in her life, in waking or in dream. But the midnight-dark words sharp-printed in it were familiar as her shadow:
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy hand, O God —
Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod.
John Calvin might ha’ forged the same — enorrmous, certain, slow —
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame — my “Institutio.”
But before Pamela could get any deeper into “McAndrew’s Hymn” there was a short sharp toot on a horn, and the jaunty words, “Care for a lift, Miss?”
She looked up to see a fiery-red early-model Mustang, with a swarthy but handsome man at the wheel. And there was something about him; not only a strong “vibe” of trustworthiness, but a certain kind of weight, as if he was the sort of person who’d properly have business at Mar-a-lago these days, as if he rubbed shoulders with tycoons and presidents and kings.
Suddenly it occurred to her, in that discontinuous way things tended to go sometimes, that she needed to get to the bus station, soon, or she would miss the bus to — wherever she needed to go. Despite a patent lack of any timekeeper, or schedule, or ticket, or any such.
So she stuck a green oak leaf from the grass between the pages of the book and said, “So you can drop me at the bus station, then?”
“Of course, going right by it. And don’t worry about kissing the car.”
“Huh?”
“‘Your mither’s God’s a graspin’ de’il, the shadow of yoursel’,
‘Got out of books by meenisters clean daft on Heav’n an’ Hell.
‘They mak’ him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt,
‘A jealous, pridefu’ fetich, lad, that’s only strong to hurt,
‘Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss his red-hot rod…'”
Only he’d said it more “kiss his red hot-rod” and that made it clear. And by the logic of the here-and-now, it made perfect sense that this one did and would know not just the fine book in her hands, but the page and line of the poem she’d been reading. By then, she stood next to the now-open door.
Held by someone with strong-calloused hands, piercing-clear eyes, and a dapper baseball cap that read, in bold gold-on-red letters, “Sanitary Fish Market.” Wearing faded-gray blue jeans and a checked flannel shirt.
“Thanks. But how did you know which one I was reading?” Pam said, from the passenger seat. As she vaguely dismissed any need for seat belts, here.
“Oh, you’re one of the Daughters of Martha for sure, so it’s only proper you’d be reading that one. Or the ‘Song of the Machines’ — but not too likely ‘Gods of the Copybook Headings’ — that’n’s too obvious.”
He didn’t have more than a trace of southern-mountains accent as he said it, but it was clear he knew her parents’ talk well, too.
And for a minute or two they just rode the near-empty streets, catching almost but not quite every light. With the Mustang’s engine purring most of the time, behind mufflers that worked, splendidly. As he shifted up and down like someone who’d spent half his life behind the wheel. And then, he started to hum, a tune Pam knew very well. So it did not surprise her when he began to sing to it, in lovely but muted sun that struck down through the gaps between the mostly-tall buildings.
Though the words did, somewhat; ones she was sure she’d never heard.
“And there are those with secret light,
The Universe one starry night;
Its mysteries, and its pitfalls,
Shine right through you.
“You wouldn’t think, to see her there,
‘Her flashing eyes, her floating hair,’
Each miracle, four bits
Delivered to you,
“Hallelujah, hallelujah
Hallelujah, hallelu-u-jah.”
“I’m pretty sure, kind sir, that Leonard Cohen never wrote those words.”
And he chuckled. “Of course not. But his song, never mind the messy gory details of copyrights and such, already belongs to the world. So of course there will be folkish variations. These come from a story, about someone who’s a lot like you, Miranda Lake. Who’ll be born on Mars, soon-ish.
“She co-invents something called a Keeling-Lake device. Matter conversion to pure energy. Helps win a war, for Mars and for freedom for humanity.”
And he smiled, winningly and warm. “You can call me Dave, if you’d like; these odd modern days pretty much everyone does.”
“Dave, that’s very kind — but I’m sure not the sort of person who could deliver miracles one after another, fifty cents a pop.” There was a hint, though barely more, of a smothering tiredness and a deep-buried magmatic frustration in her voice as she said it. “And I’d be Pam to you, if you please.”
“So, you day-trade on the short sales? Because you do sell short a lot.”
“Huh? I wouldn’t dare play the markets.”
“You just shorted yourself, to about 100% of your total position.”
And for an instant, if only briefly and only in her inward imagination, her face burned redder than the car they rode in.
“There was the divorce, and the sideways move at work that was more of a demotion than a promotion, and the DEI altars we’ve got to bow to, and…”
“And what does that have to do with what you can give the world?”
“Me? What?”
Somehow then, as if it was relevant, she remembered the First Commandment. Thou shalt have no other gods before Me.
Including, presumably, even job-requisite ‘ally’-idolatry.
“There is a light from inside you, Pamela, hardly even covered by a bushel basket, never mind the layers of soot and asphalt so many people use. When you’re alone, in the deep intimate weekend hours, that light shines out.
“Maybe with you it’s ‘only’ those ‘cold equations’ of transfer orbits and cycler habitat trajectories — but it’s truly and already bright.
“Your light shines in their dark; and their dark does not overcome it.”
And Pam found herself speechless, for she could not deny it, any of it.
Not to this remarkable and plain-spoken man, nor at all to herself.
“There’s a cool clean wind blowing across the world, Pamela June Clark. A shift away from the close, musty, fetid air some people have been so happy to welcome, and try to exploit. And people like you, so very many people so much like you, are starting to feel it, and come out to revel in it.
“Ah, here we are. I’m guessing you’ve left all your baggage behind?”
“Yes, I’m carrying only the book. But I do know, on this trip at least, somehow I’ll have all I need.” Her words rang true. “But since you know my whole name, Dave, what’s yours?” By now she stood by the terminal.
“In the old days, I used to be called David ben Jesse.” He grinned. “Till we meet again, Pam.” And his ripe-cherry-red car pulled away.
Over the rumble of the idling bus diesel, she could just hear his song. “Once there was a secret chord” — before it faded into the background.
She turned to the bus, whose LED display read “WHERE YOU NEED TO GO” in bright-gold letters, and saw a young man holding a sign. “Pamela Clark” its first line read, with “Space X” underneath. Only the “X” was the new logo of ex-Twitter, not the synergic-curve X of SpaceX.
And then there was a wet, sandy-rough tongue washing the side of her neck, and she knew Felis Navidad was saying hello and wake up, and the dream it had all been was done.
But her mind was full of memory, and more. Equations and diagrams, sharp and clear as the words in that book. Near-Hohmann transfer orbits, which passed Earth five or three times in fifteen years, the VISIT orbits or their first cousins. Cycler trajectories, so that ‘passengers’ could be at work those six months it took between Earth and Mars, on a habitat they could live in and improve for the next crews, made mostly of asteroid ore from delta-V “nearby” places like Bennu.
Classic Kepler ellipses in position space, perfect stereohodograph circles in velocity space, all of it. The light.
No baskets in its way, or hers, now or henceforth.
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Very nice.
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