There are two things you should know right off the bat, just to keep things fair. One: though some would say otherwise, Root Hashells wasn’t to blame for the beginning of the fight at Low Fishdrum’s Tavern and Tackle, only the end of it. And two: the spirits she killed didn’t really mind all that much, at least in the long run. It gave them time to cool down and reflect on their actions. Death is sort of like a time-out when you think about it.
Knowing that, I hope you’ll go a little easier on Root. She’s had a rough go of things lately, and it’s certainly not about to get any better. But before we get to her, let’s look a bit more at Low’s.
Whether Low’s got its name for the quality of the food or the price of it was a common source of speculation among first-time patrons. That speculation passed faster than the fare through an unprepared digestive tract as soon as the speculator made the acquaintance of the owner, Low Fishdrum, and found that though their previous theories were an unfortunate coincidence, the greater misfortune was being born to parents who, in addition to already passing along the unlucky surname “Fishdrum,” had the truly regrettable sense to slap the name “Low” before it.
The building itself did little to help matters, but that’s often how these things go. Some considered Low’s an eyesore. But then again, some considered those who considered Low’s an eyesore terribly haughty and bourgeois. So form your own opinion as we go.
The squat building sat like a toad on the bank of the Gob-ui River. In most cases, riverfront property didn’t come cheap in the city of Unn, despite there being quite a lot of it. This abundance was due in no small part to the river’s dramatic oxbows bending this way and that across the whole of the city as if the river itself knew the appeal of its banks and, in a cocky-albeit-generous move, furnished the city with as much waterfront as possible. Somehow, the wealthiest and greediest still managed to own around ninety-one percent of it.
Low’s, however, inhabited a remarkably affordable plot, owing thanks for the steep discount to the neighbors. A feral cat rehabilitation home neighbored the tavern on one side—charitable and quaint, perhaps, but only from upwind. Sandwiching it from the other side was a brothel with a penchant for double entendres, known abroad for its orgies and locally for its minestrone. (Now, neither building might sound like too troublesome a neighbor, but keep in mind: you’re out of earshot.) Together, the two crowded in on the tavern as if trying to squeeze every sour drop from the ale-soaked floorboards.
But Low’s kept the air of an unbothered old drunkard lying woozy in a recliner as it leaned—concerningly, some said—away from the street and out over the muddy riverbank, propped carefully against the algae-covered dock attached to its rear.
Standing at an even one and three-quarters stories, the building was clad in a carapace of warped and worm-eaten siding that seemed determined to escape the structure, judging by the amount of it that lay around the foundation like dozens of spindly legs. The tavern and what Low insisted passed for a tackle shop took up the ground floor, while the stunted attic housed a handful of rooms available for rent to particularly short lodgers, people with a love for crouching, and, of course, smaller spirits.
At the front of the building, hanging crooked from a beam above the cobbled street, was a sign bearing the tavern’s name in chipping daffodil-colored paint. It was this sign that caught Root’s attention as she passed it by in the golden light of the waning day. Though the voices of the change in her pocket provided more of a dialogue than a choir, they were unanimous in urging her to stop in for a drink. For some reason, coins always seem more persuasive in these matters when they have limited backup, and so with a sigh, Root stepped through the open door into the haze of tobacco smoke and the fresh memory of a grease fire.
The grease fire, as she would learn in about two hours, would only be the second worst thing to happen at Low’s that evening.
So this blog never had a real schedule. Posts came in waves broken up by irregular hiatuses—and this last one was longer than most. But that’s for good reason, because there are a couple of major changes coming.
When? Now.
The end of this little hiatus comes with two big announcements. Announcement one: “Realmwrite” is no longer just a little blog for me to throw my writing at. Realmwrite is now a publishing company. Yeah, like the kind that publishes books. Pretty big leap, I have to say. You can read more about Realmwrite Publishing here.
Second big announcement is related. Can’t have a publishing company without publishing some books, right?
My debut book and the debut book published by Realmwrite Publishing, Skyborn, hits shelves this month.
And there’s the cover. You can find more information at the link above.
And finally, one last thing to add. You may be thinking “What of this blog? Realmwrite has transcended Tumblr to grow into something new—what’s the plan here?”
This blog is still going to be a big vessel for sharing the news from the company and from myself. Instead of flash fictions and short story excerpts, you’ll see information on actual real books—both already published (when we get there) and anticipated. That’s not to say those other bits of content will be gone entirely, however. But this Tumblr is where Realmwrite got its start—I can never just leave it behind.
Linked where I said you could find more information about Realmwrite Publishing, you will also find more links to the new pages for Realmwrite—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—as well as my personal author pages. Feel free to go and give those a like/follow as well for more updates going forward.
That’s all for now. Thank you all so much for your support of this blog, and I hope you’ll continue to support it now even as it makes this big transition. And keep an eye out for future Skyborn news—like I said, it’s coming later this month, though the date has yet to be announced.
A common misconception. In reality, the trees have uprooted themselves and shifted to mirror a location that you passed through before. They want you to turn around—there is something back there that they would like to show you.
When something gets inside of an oyster—usually a parasite or grain of sand—the oyster begins coating it in nacre. This holds the foreign object in place to keep it from irritating the oyster and doing damage to its softer, vulnerable inside. My theory, which I have named ‘The Oyster Disturbance Theory,’ says that the universe works in a similar fashion. If something foreign were to enter the universe—say, something from another universe—the universe does what it is able to do in order to contain the object and keep it from harming that which is native to the universe. In our case, it pinned everything in place. It’s a defense mechanism.
I’m back—a month later than planned, but back nonetheless.
So, let’s see. First off, an update on what has been going on: I put my writing (and by extension this blog) on hiatus back in November for mental health reasons. The fall was rough. I was in a bad spot and needed to cut some toxic stuff out of my life. Focusing on myself did wonders, and I can say at this point I’m in a far better place than I was—and probably the happiest I’ve ever been.
In terms of writing: I’m getting back into the swing of things—slowly. I’m going to take my time with that one. I have a short story in the planning stages, plus a handful of flash fiction ideas. Those will pop up here in due time.
“And what of Sylphstone?” Well... that’s going to have to wait for a bit. I pushed a bit too hard with that one. I’d like to get more experience with shorter works before I finalize Sylphstone, just so I can keep from putting out a book that’s not my best work. In order to do that, I need to give myself some time. So for now, Sylphstone is taking a backseat, but I promise I will bring it back when I feel that I am capable of fixing the things that need to be fixed and making it a project I am proud to put out there.
I think that is everything for now. Thank you all so much for supporting this blog, it honestly means so much. And as always, keep an eye out for new content in the coming weeks!
I’m putting this blog on a hiatus of sorts. I’ve decided to put my writing on pause through Christmas to work on more important things (mental health related, as well as current things going on in my life). Until then there will be no new posts, but come January I aim to have everything up and running again. Thanks for the understanding, and thanks for supporting this blog!
Happy NaNoWriMo to everyone who is participating! I’m not doing it this year since Sylphstone is with my beta readers and I’m not ready to write another full-length novel quite yet. Instead I have a number of smaller projects to work on, excerpts of which will be popping up sometime soon.
The second draft of Sylphstone is now finished! I have another quick read-over to do before it gets sent off to beta readers, and after that I will continue with subsequent drafts. In honor of the occasion, I have another teaser coming in just a moment (literally as soon as I finish this post).
The contaminated water bubbler doesn’t spout water, it spouts everything else. Somehow all of creation has ended up in the pipes—except, of course, for water. Mud has been seen to come pumping out of the spout, small pebbles clinking through the pipes as it flows. One of the older students claims they got a mouth full of spaghetti when they attempted to drink from it. Once, the raucous sounds of a fire alarm bellowed up through the corroded pipes, causing the whole school to evacuate before they realized it was only the water bubbler. A night-shift janitor once received the gift of 19 French-vanilla K-Cups, followed by a mint-condition US Bicentennial quarter and a soggy, half-eaten loaf of focaccia bread (It was soggy with isopropyl alcohol, mind you, as if you will remember there is no water in the pipes). Some of the stories are even more bizarre. One student pressed the button only for Ronald Reagan to rear his ugly head. Another had hunger spew forth, followed by red and then April 17th. In one instance, the bubbler produced the universe in its entirety.
It doesn't like to be described. The scientists, they come with their notebooks and cameras looking to document never-before-seen wildlife. They find it, hiding alone in the jungle, and exclaim "eureka!" at this new creature. They begin to write a description of it, but it doesn’t like that. They write that it has small, pointed ears, so it makes its ears round, and they grow until they are long and droop low to the ground. They write that it has a bushy tail, but then the tail vanishes altogether. They scribble faster now, words scrawling across the page describing the spindly forelimbs, but then they are gone and it has wings and it flies to a low branch of a nearby tree. Frustrated, the scientists take out their cameras and snap a picture. They look at the image, satisfied that they have captured its appearance, but when they look back it is something entirely new—something never-before-seen.
As of today, the second draft of Sylphstone is underway! I am going to slow the frequency of the teasers while I go through the editing and publishing process (otherwise you will have the entire book by the time it's ready, cut up into several hundred puzzle pieces). Instead I will start posting flash fiction and other odds and ends again, and of course more updates on the progress of the book.
She pushed at the water, trying to bring herself to the surface. Her vision started to close in, and her lungs burned. Still struggling, she sucked in a breath of water. Coldness entered her, and she stopped trying to fight. Calm took her.
With a groan and a hollow scraping sound, the door opened enough that Girra could pass through. The noise made her heart jump, and she took a moment to pause and listen for any sign that she had been detected. When none came, she guided the door closed as gently as she could to ensure it emitted no sound, though she left it open a crack. She would not be long.
In the dim light, Girra could see that she stood in a kitchen. A long table filled most of the room, and a mess of utensils hung from a rack just above it. There were herbs and vegetables strung up along the ceiling to dry out, some hanging low enough that Girra had to brush them aside as she passed. She took the opportunity to untie a few and add them to her already bulging pack.
As she walked, water dripped from her cloak and hair and left a trail of water droplets on the floor. She brushed a clump of hair behind her ear just as a drop of water fell from it and landed on her cheek. She was grateful to be out of the cold night air, but the cabin was not particularly warm either.
In the corner, she found a burlap sack with only a few potatoes and an onion in the bottom. She removed them and carried the sack with her, using it to collect the stolen goods. Fruits and vegetables, a loaf of bread, and even half a block of cheese found a new home in the sack. Girra was nearly set to leave when a cold blade snaked its way under her chin and dug into her neck.
