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Going Bump In The Night

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

So I wake up in the middle of the night, with something akin to the sound of a sailing ship under stress in a high gale. “creak, creak, creak.”

I get up and realize it’s Havey cat — who weighs approximately three tons, give or take a hundred pounds — who, for reasons inexplicable, has decided to promenade himself across the printer and other equipment at the other end of our bedroom.

Remove Havey cat. Explain inadvisability of this, while he looks at me with his confused little eyes. Pet him a bit. Go back to bed. Start sort of falling asleep…

CREAK, CREAK, CREAK.

Remove Havey from printer. Scold him in whisper so as not to wake up husband, go back to bed.

CREAK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Havey has jumped in a single leap (imagine a big, heavy white pillow taking flight) five feet up to the back of my research chair, which is now being subjected to downward pressure, for which it wasn’t designed, and which must approach that under which coal turns to diamond.

At that point I realize that Miranda-cat, who normally sleeps with #2 son is watching this interestedly from top of research desk. This puts it in perspective. What I’m watching is not casual cat nuttery but, somehow, a battle in the bizarre war between the two white cats in the house: Havey and D’Artagnan. (No, don’t ask why. They both are convinced There Can be Only One. Perhaps they each think the other is a rogue clone.) Miranda, who rules the house with an iron paw, is clearly the referree.

Try to defuse the situation by grabbing D’Artagnan — who is the least hygienically challenged of the white cats — and take him to bed with me. He curls up at my feet. Miranda, uninterested, leaves the room. Ahhhhh. Sleep at last.

Creak, creak, creak.

Get up, half asleep, grab Havey-cat. Toss him out the door. Close the door. Get back to bed. Euclid and D’Artagnan sleeping respectively at Dan’s and my feet. They’re polite cats who ask to go out to use the box, so no problem, right?

Start drifting to sleep. Wake up to sound of almighty cat battle at my feet. “Wha?” Not only are the only two cats Euclid and D’Artagnan, but anyone capable of picking a fight with Euclid would be able to pick a fight with cheese. Euclid JUST doesn’t fight back, unless it’s his tail that he’s fighting.

As eyes focus — slowly — realize that D. has decided this is his chance to have mom and dad all to himself and is biting Euclid till he screams.

Lean down confusedly and swat first lump. Bad luck, it’s Euclid. Who immediately decides I’ve gone nuts and skeedadles to the door, where he begs me to let him out.

Deciding to make the best of a bad thing, grab D. under my arm, open door, and throw him out at the same time Euclid goes out.

Go back to bed. Ahhhhhhh. Repose at last…

Knock, knock, knock.

Half asleep brain thinks “Kid must be sick and need me.”

“Yes, who is it?”

MEOOOOOOOOW OW OW. — in demanding tones.

“Oh, go increase and multiply” (not that politely.) “Since when do you knock on doors. Leave me alone.”

Knock, knock, knock. MEoooow ow! ow!

Put pillow over head and manage a semblance of sleep.

Free Ebook and Sample

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

*I’ve collected all my Elizabethan Era short stories into a short book called The Private Wound. The title story is an alternate history with Queen Elizabeth. The book also contains two mysteries and (I’m sorry!) a vampire story. About half of the stories are unpublished.  One way or another, it is rather Marlowe Infested. If you like these stories, consider taking a look at my book No Will But His, the story of Kathryn Howard. sarahahoyt.com/nwbh-excerpt.html*
 

The ebook is available in various formats here:  http://cornerbooth.sarahahoyt.com/blueplate.html

Feel free to download, pass the links around and/or mug innocent passerbyes and make them read.

This is an excerpt from The Private Wound: 

 
Elizabeth was the last one to leave the choir, at the end of the line of grey sisters of the tertiary order of Saint Francis.
A thin young woman, her pale face looked out of the dark headdress, its perfect features seeming rather to belong to an ancient idol lovingly carved in ivory.
She lingered and dawdled, at the end of the line.

If pressed she might confess that she wanted nothing more than a respite from the company of the other nuns, like her cloistered prisoners of this inglorious convent. A respite from company and a moment alone…………..

And from Juggling, another short story in the collection:

 
"Be it a crime, then? To be a juggler?" the young man in the fine lawn collar asked. His fashionable black velvet doublet — close fitting, winged at the shoulders, tapering at the waist slashed through to show taffeta in a bright flame-color like a harlot’s stockings — couldn’t have looked more out of place in this tavern, filled with rough-dealing men and the lowest grade of itinerant laborer that England had to offer during the reign of Good Queen Bess.

He seemed unaware of, or untroubled by the crowd that surrounded him, though they were out of their seats, their mugs of beer abandoned, their mouths distorted in menace, their hair matted, their clothes dirty and ragged, their hands big and calloused and half-tightened in menace.
Kit Marlowe knew well enough that had this crowd not had sport enough on their hands for this evening, they would have turned on him with like fury, because he was different, with his fine clothes, his scholarly manner, the courtly affectation of his gestures. Nor could he tell what drove him to this class of tavern, where cutpurses and their molls, beggars and their doxies gathered. Except maybe that very danger that they would turn on him. Except the pulse-pounding excitement of traipsing into the forbidden and walking into the yawning maw of fear.
Kit, you are an idiot, he told himself…

By Their Cats Thou Shalt Know Them

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

By Their Cats Thou Shalt Know Them

Mumble years ago, my husband and I were sitting in a comedy club in Charlotte NC when the poor visiting comedian decided to make a riff on common cats’ names versus common dogs’ names, or such. He started by saying that dogs were given manly names – I don’t remember the examples he gave – while cats got names… and here he made the mistake of pausing and asking who in the audience had cats. Our entire table raised their hands.

The comedian might still have saved himself, had he noticed that we looked a little… unusual… He didn’t. So he asks my husband his cat’s name. He said, “Petronius the Arbiter, cat from Hades.” Comedian said “uh” but, nothing daunted, proceeded on his – oh so very – unwise course. He points at me – clearly not taking the hint that we were married from our holding hands. Or perhaps he thought one of us had to be sane – and says, “And your cat’s name?” “I have two,” I said. “Random Numbers and Pixel Wallwalker.” You’d think by this point he would take a hint, but nothing doing. He points to a friend of ours at same table and says, “And yours?” “Crystal.” Another friend, “Yours?” “Myiuki,” he says. “It means Deep Snow and…” At which point the man lost it. “WHAT are you guys? Did you land from Planet Weirdo?”

All I can say is he could have done worse. He might have found a table full of writers. Recently while talking about cats to a friend, it occurred to me that writers have a strange and creative approach to naming their cats. (Some of them carry this as far as naming their kids, their cars, their home appliances and their dental floss. The least said about THOSE writers, the best.)

For instance, the Hoyt demesne is afflicted with a mix of variously named felines, ranging from our own characters to other people’s characters. Continue reading “By Their Cats Thou Shalt Know Them” →

A Sample of Darkship Thieves

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

*I know I’ve done this before, but now that DST is actually shipping from Amazon, here is the opening. And happy New Year, everyone.*

One

I never wanted to go to space. Never wanted see the eerie glow of the Powerpods. Never wanted to visit Circum Terra. Never had any interest in discovering the truth about the darkships. You always get what you don’t ask for.

Which was why I woke up in the dark of shipnight, within the greater night of space in my father’s space cruiser.

Before full consciousness, I knew there was an intruder in my cabin. Once awake, I couldn’t figure out how I knew it. The air smelled as it always did on shipboard, as it had for the week I’d spent here – stale, with the odd tang given by the recycling.

The engines, below me, hummed steadily. We had just detached from Circum Terra – a maneuver that involved some effort, to avoid accidentally ramming the station or the ship. Shortly we’d be Earth bound, though slowing down and reentry let alone landing, for a ship this size, would take close to a week.

My head felt a little light, my stomach a little queasy, from the artificial grav. Yes, I know. Scientists say that’s impossible. They say artificial gravity is just like true gravity to the senses. You don’t feel a thing. They are wrong. Artificial grav always made me feel a little out of balance, like a couple of shots of whiskey on an empty stomach.

Even before waking fully, I’d tallied all this. There was nothing out of the ordinary. And yet there was a stranger in my cabin.

Years in reformatories, boarding schools and mental hospitals, had taught me that the feeling I woke up with was often the right one. Something had awakened me – a door closing, a step on the polished floor. Continue reading “A Sample of Darkship Thieves” →

Naming the names — D’Artagnan Hoyt

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

A post by D’Artagnan Hoyt, the bestest cat in the world (Mommy says so.)

She doesn’t like it when I call her mommy. Says she’d remember if she’d given birth to me, which is silly, because I don’t remember being born, so no reason why she should. The thing is, I’m probably adopted, because I’m handsome and fuzzy and not a pink blob on two legs, like Mommy and Daddy and the sad, deformed bigger-kittens they have. But, you know, they’re still the only family I gots. And they feed me and pet me and younger deformed-giant-kitten lets me sleep in his bed at night, which is really warm.

So… to make a long story short, mommy says that no one even knows all the name she writes under, which comes prettilly from a woman who calls me D’Artagnan, Tagnan, Little Cat (which I’m not!) Pickle Jar, Sausage, Bah-Lamb and a dozen other things and expects me to remember them.

Anyway, her names so far are Sarah Hoyt and Sarah D’Almeida and Elise Hyatt and apparently for only one book (Plain Jane) a house name (Whatever that is) Laurien Gardner.

And, she says I should tell you about the books, so here goes:

My favorite is the shifter series (I read them after they go to bed. I mean, geesh, if Mommy found out I can read and write, she’d start dictating to me.)

Draw One In The Dark — adventures of a dragon boy and a cat girl, though what she wants with a lizard, is beyond me. There’s also a pearl. It’s very educational.

Gentleman Takes a Chance — more cat girl and dragon boy. Kyrie, the cat girl is really hot, though Mommy would probably glare at me for saying so.

Then is the Musketeer’s Mysteries series. These are out of print, Mommy says, which is not fair, since it’s all about the adventures of D’Artagnan who was named after me, and who solves mysteries with his three friends, Athos, Porthos and Aramis. I’d like to meet the cats they’re named after.

Then there’s Darkship Thieves, hopefully the first of a series, only I read this in manuscript form, since it only comes out January 5. It’s about this girl who goes to space and meets a guy with cat eyes. Two paws up. Recommended reading. Go buy it. I want to read more of these.

Then there is the Magical British Empire — Heart of light, Soul of Fire and Heart and Soul, only of course they don’t have any cats. They do however have dragons. I wonder what mommy thought she was doing there? No clue.

And then there’s Dipped, Stripped and Dead under Elise Hyatt. It’s about Fluffy. The second book will be about the cat Pythagoras. Comes out in April.

Also in April comes out No Other Will But His, which is about Kathryn Howard, wife of Henry VIII, but mom says there’s no cats in it, though Kathryn behaved a lot like a cat whatever that means.

And that’s it, and now I’m going to make Mommy give me kibble and pet me. This was exhausting.


Euclid talks about books and tail and stuff

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

(A guest post by Euclid Hoyt, the patriarch of the Hoyts’ tame pride and known in the family as Neurotalon.)

Hi to everyone out there. My human, Sarah, says that there are many many people you can reach through this computer thing. I don’t know what she means, because I’ve walked up behind this computer thing — and coughed a hairball or two on top of it, and let me tell you, it’s not touching anyone. But then humans are weird that way. I mean, it’s like the whole thing with water. what sane species keeps water in their lair, ready to dump on them at a moment’s notice. They could just lick themselves clean like normal people, or have their friends lick them, at least. I mean, it’s fun and no sudden water on head.

But Sarah-human is looking over my shoulder, and anyway, I didn’t mean to make this a post about humans. You know, I’m not complaining. Oh, well, okay, I’m complaining, but it’s not that bad. They give us food twice and a day and everything, even if Havey eats most of it. Of course, I can’t figure what they put into those cans. I’ve never seen animals that shape running around. Perhaps they just press squirrels really well? Sometimes I have nightmares where those wheel shaped things are spying on me with beady little eyes. They have purple fur, and they hate me, becaus ethey know I’m going to eat them some day. But then my tail… Uh… no, Sarah, I don’t need to see the vet for more valium. Whatever gave you that idea?

Sarahhuman says if I’m going to blog — like it was my idea! — I might as well promote her stuff, so look, Sarahhuman has books out this month. And last month and things. Only she doesn’t write as Sarahhuman — apparently there’s a lot of them, though I’ve never met another one — but as Sarah Hoyt, where she has this great book called Gentleman Takes A Chance. It’s all about this cat called Not Dinner and how brave he is and the adventures he has, though there’s some boring parts about a guy who changes into a dragon and a girl who changes into a panther some ancient canine trying to kill them or something and this whole courtship thing humans do, but they don’t yowl or anything, so it’s boring. Then there’s one called Dipped, Stripped And Dead about this cat named Fluffy, though Sarahhuman says it’s really about some girl who refinishes furniture and dates this hot policeman and solves mysteries. Whatever. It’s written under Elise Hyatt, because Sarahhuman was asked to have another name, like when you go to the humane society and they give you a name. Let me tell you about that.

They called me Tootsie. TOOTSIE! As if it weren’t obvious that my name was Euclid. And they were going to put me down till Sarahhuman and Danhuman and their two cubs came and rescued me at the last minute. My tail was so scared that it’s never been the same since. I can’t sleep without its sneaking up on me and trying to strangle me, and then Sarahhuman makes me swallow valium, which only makes the tail take advantage of my confused state and it just isn’t fair.

But Sarahhuman is coming again, and if she reads this she’ll say I need to see the vet, so let’s keep that between us. Buy her books, because then she buys us kibble and toys and stuff, and is too busy to think I need valium.

Till next time.

Euclid Hoyt

When the Chickens Roamed The Earth

Posted on by Sarah A. Hoyt

I won’t even go into how I got into this, but it started with talking about a chicken’s eyes.  Then looking at chickens online.  (Hey, like you don’t look at stuff on line.  First stone, buddy, first stone.)  Of course, I didn’t need to look at chickens.  I grew up with them (around.  I mean, I wasn’t literally in the hen house.)  But the kids didn’t and I wanted to show them the expression in chicken’s eyes.

Why, you ask?  Oh, surely you can understand.  If you’ve ever looked into a chicken’s eyes, you surely have a clue what is happening there.  It’s as though every t-rex in the world is being reincarnated as a chicken over and over again.

In my head, this is what happens when one of us looks into a chicken’s eyes:

H (for human):  mmmm fryer!
C (for chicken): Hey, hey, something is very wrong here!
H: Chicken soup!
C: I used to be much larger than your puny ancestors.  They got caught in my teeth.
H: Chicken casserole!
C:In my dreams I still am.  I stalk the world and your kind cowers.
H:Roast chicken.
C: Do you mind just lying down and letting me peck you to death?  Shouldn’t take more than two hours, and it would do wonders for my self esteem.
H: What?
C: Not even for therapy?  You mean, evil, cold b*stard.  In my dreams I’m crunching you right now…
H:Chicken soup will make you feel better.