P.S. Broaddus

I’m cold. A desert island sounds good right now with its sandy beaches, rolling waves, peace and quiet… I put in a request for palm trees and other vegetation, too. Birds. No snakes. A hammock. One terrific thunderstorm. And chocolate, of course. Would it be cheating if I brought my e-reader and a solar charger? It only takes up the space of one book, right?

Choosing a mere three books is serious business. I think I’ll go with something old, something new, and…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Before I fully answer this question, I admit that I’m going to cheat juuuuuussssst a little bit. You see, I think that others might expect that I should respond to this question by listing first, the book of authority for …

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

I have a wonderful life. I’m surrounded, tackled, and set upon by four wonderful kiddos, loved by a beautiful wife, and I have several vocations I truly enjoy. I write, I teach, and I work in real estate. I get to be a part of restoring old buildings in a small yet interesting and thriving community.

All that said, getting stranded on a distant island sometimes sounds like a holiday. I wonder how long I would procrastinate starting a signal fire…Especially if I had three good books.

I think I would want the books to fall into categories – something that I’ve read and love and could read again and again would be the first category. It’s like comfort food. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone settles into this place for me. It’s fun, engaging and nostalgic, while still offering enough literary depth for an extended island stay.

Second, I’d enjoy a book I haven’t read. A big fat one. Probably something that would qualify as a classic. War and Peace? Atlas Shrugged? I tried getting through Dicken’s David Copperfield once, and never made it. The danger would be that I end up disliking it, and I’m stuck on an island with a book I hate. But who knows, in the time it takes to get rescued, maybe we would become good friends.

Finally, I read a small section of the Bible almost every day, but it seems like a cheat to claim the whole Bible. If I couldn’t have the whole thing, having the Book of Psalms would be a treasure, or the Gospel of John.

What about you? Can you relate, or are you more of a Dwight Schrute: “Physician’s Desk Reference-hollowed out, inside-waterproof matches, iodine tablets, beet seeds, protein bars, NASA blanket and, in case I get bored, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. No, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Question, did my shoes come off in the plane crash?”

Comment below or shoot me an email! And, as a brief aside, I’ll be teaching a storytelling class in a couple of weeks. If you’re a writer, or a dabbler, or a scribbler – come talk about storycraft and myth. We’ll tell tall tales and spin new yarns. But be very careful, because you may end up thinking writing can be fun.

A Drift of Quills – The Trickster Guardian

By P.S. Broaddus | February 1, 2019 - 1:02 pm |February 1, 2019 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Today is the latest edition of flash fiction Friday. This morning I finished tweaking the story while my boys shot at me with their various weapons, whooped and hollered, scalped me, and then climbed over, on and under my chair. You know, the usual.

But now here we are, and our group of writers have chosen an image and we have written a short story from the same picture. As usual they are incredibly interesting and wildly different. Check out what we’ve found…

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

The Trickster Guardian

When Gregus first took the idea to imitate his master, it had been as a joke. At least, that’s what he later said.

It happened like this.

Braxton Seerguard was the powerful, yet reclusive, forest guardian of Runewood, tasked with keeping the road passable from Bear Pass to the Sparkling Hills. When an invitation came from the Cantonwoods Clan to attend the chieftain summit, Seerguard growled his displeasure. He was getting older, and liked an evening at home–not one playing wild games with the clans. He asked Gregus–his assistant, servant, apprentice, or pain in the neck–depending on who answered, to attend in his stead. So you could argue that Seerguard’s downfall was really his own doing. Had he been less reclusive, and more engaged with the inhabitants of his region, perhaps Runewood would still be free, and the light of the White Tower would not have turned dark.

But, it just so happened that the Cantonwoods Clan had never met the forest guardian. Which is what sparked Gregus’ plan–all for a laugh, of course. When he arrived at the chieftain summit the servant bowed low and cleverly introduced himself, with much flowery language and the recounting of many deeds, as the representative of the forest guardian of Runewood. Except, somehow or another, the “representative” language was hurriedly mumbled. Or perhaps missed altogether. The Cantonwoods Clan and their chieftains clapped Gregus on the back and thrust the enormous clan stone in his arms, and roared with laughter as he staggered and fell over. Then the festivities began. They were numerous, lively, all involving some show of skill, and tied to long tradition. One example suffices. It was a test for the strongest members of the various clans. The contestants took the aforementioned clan stone, a monster of rock that required both arms to hold properly, and hurled it as far as they could from a set point. “This is the measure of the clan’s loyalty, strength and ugliness!” shouted the contest’s caller, and the crowd hooted with laughter and appreciation. One giant of knotted muscle and shaggy hair hurled the stone with one arm, was disqualified for overstepping the line, and promptly re-qualified as the caller went sailing through the air after the stone.

It was an rowdy and exciting time, but not unusual, and might have slipped into history without any notice except for this–Braxton Seerguard’s description, manner and presence had subtly changed. Without knowing, without meaning, the Cantonwoods Clan spread a slightly different version of the forest guardian. If you didn’t know the end, you might not have even noticed, or thought it important. But for any leafing back through histories, interviewing those who were present at the beginning–there weren’t many left–concurred that it was at the chieftain summit the ruse began.

The forest guardian made one other mistake, perhaps more deadly than being overly fond of quiet days and long evenings: he did not appreciate the cleverness, or tenacity, of his servant. He dismissed him as lazy, or even foolish. Which only fueled Gregus’ imagination.

And as we all know, a reckless imagination can be a dangerous thing.

Years later, when Brandy Thumpton was captured by the Red Guard and taken to the fortress of Vandar Sul, (this was before he became known as the Black Cape, and the first time he escaped Vandar Sul), he met Gregus. The former servant had of course by then assumed his master’s name and become Braxton Seerguard, forest guardian of Runewood. He sat in a chair in front of a roaring fire, full of ill-gotten power and the confidence that comes from knowing that even the lowest mouse who knew his secret would squeak no more.

Brandy Thumpton had only a few memories of the old forest guardian, from when he was a child, but he was the first to have seen the two, make the connection, and make it publicly known that this new Braxton Seerguard was an impostor. But that only happened after he leapt from the wall into a giant oak and escaped into the forest, avoiding the dogs by never touching the ground, moving from tree to tree all the way to the river. (That was what prompted Gregus to cut down the forest surrounding Vandar Sul).

And so the joke played on, but with only one laughing.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

The Sword of Seysan

Let me tell you a story. I was chosen as the Royal Companion to Seysan, the younger prince of our fair country, on account of my virtual nothingness and my possible usefulness. My insignificance came firstly from having no genealogical claim on the throne, and secondly through the persuasion of the king’s good friend, the Master of the Hunt.

My usefulness needed demonstration, but performing secretarial duties for the prince and protecting him from distraction or annoyance didn’t prove terribly challenging. I learned to dance, sing, ride, paint, and play a decent game of cards. In all other things I must be expertly unexceptional and perfectly neutral. A balm. A pet to sooth the so-called savage sovereign. Faugh.

Amid this perfectly normal, perfectly dull process of coming of age and adulthood, things went decidedly south…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Breaking Spells

Aiden Piper journeyed from the Burara Wilds back home, where six years earlier, Fenella’s father, Nigel Duke, had forced Finn Mock to put a spell on him. It happened the day before he and Fenella were to exchange their vows in the cobblestone-paved Dorberg village square. As a consequence, Aiden and his love would remain divided until they broke Finn’s spell. But Nigel, taking no chances, had paid crimpers to trick Aiden, drug him, and then . . .

Thanks for following along! Please let me know on Facebook what you thought of The Trickster Guardian, or shoot me an email, or send me a carrier pigeon. I’m always eager to engage! Also, a special thanks to artist Pete Mohrbacher (DeviantArt) for letting us use the painting – you can check out more here.

A Drift of Quills – Best and Worst

By P.S. Broaddus | January 4, 2019 - 3:11 pm |January 5, 2019 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Happy New year! I hope you are enjoying the hope an expectation of fresh beginnings. I know we are! But before I tell you about that, take a look at what our group of authors has put together for you, detailing the best, and worst, parts of being an author…

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

I love being an author. It’s my answer to that age-old question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Of course, then you have Neil Gaiman’s advice: “Growing up is highly overrated. Just be an author.” Being an author is fun. Except when it isn’t.

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

In general, I prefer to end things on a positive note. Thus, I shall first set forth my “worst.” For me, that’s fairly easy. Some say it’s the editing. But no, no, no, not for me! That’s actually one of the best things for me, as it means that my thoughts are already down. From there, I can manipulate them to my heart’s content. I just need . . .

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

My own musings on the best and worst aspects of being an author will be rather short this time around. Which will perhaps illustrate the blessing and curse of the vocation aptly. First, the worst. The worst aspect of being a writer? It can be put off.

There it is. The bald, ugly truth. You can put off writing. You can put off the practice of honing words, of shaping worlds and spinning tales. In fact, as terrible and awful as it is, it can be put off…indefinitely. There are many great writers who never wrote, and even more great stories never told. And that truly is a heavy weight.

So too often I do put it off. I fill my time and don’t make space for inky words that have the potential, with time and patience and some skill, to make the world a better place.

The best part about being a writer? I could jokingly say the best part is being able to put it off. 😀 This week in particular the putting off was a welcome respite as we just had a daughter!! She came as a joyful surprise on Tuesday, January 1st. (We thought for certain we were having another boy). We have a new joy and a fresh beginning.

But the real joy of being a writer, the truly best thing? It’s having the capability, the potential, to change the world. To make something better. To make this place more beautiful. That’s the best thing, easily sabotaged by the worst thing, but always there, beckoning and calling ~ “onward and upward.”

A Drift of Quills – Christmasy Gifts

By P.S. Broaddus | December 21, 2018 - 11:52 am |December 21, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Merry Christmas traveler! What are you listening to this Christmas? I love a Celtic mix – it’ll include Celtic Women and The Irish Rovers, and it’s ever so more interesting than, “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.”

This month our collective band of rag-tag writers has put together some freebies. We’ll all be giving away the first book in our series, and it’s easy to get in on the fun. To register enter your email below!

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

“I know what I have given you… I do not know what you have received.”
― Antonio Porchia

It has been a strange year, sometimes awful, often amazing. [And] in this time of affliction and adversity, it’s Christmas all the time…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

This is the season of giving. As I look at the many, many packages I’ve wrapped and put beneath the tree just for those in our little family (there will be six of us for Christmas Eve), I can see that it will take hours for us to go person-by-person, gift-by-gift, as is our tradition, to open them. This way everyone gets to see what everyone else got. And here’s the crazy part…

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Christmas is coming. It’s just around the weekend corner. And I’m finished with wrapping.

I also just finished reading Jonathan Stroud’s Screaming Staircase, and as usual, Stroud has this incredible knack for creating unique and clever voices in his characters. His descriptions are vivid and often hysterical. (His Bartimaeus trilogy was a good example). So that’s what I’m doing. Reading good books, drinking a bit of ‘nog, and enjoying the Christmasy lights, music, and raucous excitement from the boys.

Of course, all of that is in between the work outside – cleaning up after the last snowstorm, building a new shed in the back yard, working at the office, and negotiating the purchase of one of the historical buildings downtown. Built in the late 19th century, the old building is a stately brick two story, with a lot of work to be done. It’s an exciting thing to get to take a historical treasure of that type and get to be the primary force involved in restoring and conserving it.

If you’ve got the tenacity, gumption, and foolhardiness for it, that is.

So there’s my lead into Christmas. I’m looking forward to the coming days. To the quiet contemplation of Advent. To the hymns sung on Saturday evening and Sunday morning, and again Christmas morning at St. Stephen’s Lutheran Church. And of Christmas itself. It is here. Go, tell it everywhere. Christ, our Savior, is born.

A Drift of Quills – Aladdin

By P.S. Broaddus | November 5, 2018 - 3:00 pm |February 1, 2019 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Today is a new edition of flash fiction Friday. Except I had to struggle through website certificate and DNS issues, and here it is Monday already!

But here we are, and our group of writers have chosen an image and we have written a short story from the same picture. As usual they are incredibly interesting and wildly different today. Check out what we’ve found…

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Image result for aladdin text

The giant sand tiger’s jaws snapped shut, swallowing our latest chump—er, candidate, apparently not as worthy an individual as we had hoped. The teeth of the door came dangerously close to my tail feathers. I sputtered, my mouth too full of gritty sand to form a proper curse. “Of all the—”

“Patience, Iago. Patience.” Of course that was Jafar. Always ragging on me about “patience, this” or “patience, that.” Well, I’m a parrot, and my lifespan, as amazing as it may be, is only about half his lifespan. I don’t have time to dither around waiting for a disembodied tiger head to give us another goosechase. This is the door to the legendary Cave of Wonders. Supposedly. But all it does is give us riddles about a “diamond in the rough.” And eat whoever crosses the threshold. I mean, really. There’s enough treasure down there for everyone.

Talk about having your head in the sand. Hehehe.

***

Not to brag, but I’m the only reason we’ve gotten this far. I was the one who snatched the key from Arad, the traveling merchant. He wanders the eastern villages, and makes it to our capital of Agrabah once a year, trading trinkets and shinies. Mostly junk. Dotty old fool. He didn’t know what he had. And then he didn’t even realize it was gone. The key to the Cave of Wonders. That was a good day. I flew into Jafar’s workshop, the key gently struggling in my grasp, its wings fluttering helplessly. Jafar was on the far side of the cluttered room, sitting cross-legged on his meditation mat. He poses as one of the sultan’s advisers, but he’s actually a sorcerer who has been hunting the Cave of Wonders for a lifetime. He makes me call him “Master” in mixed company—but I know we’re partners. Equals. Except that he can’t fly. I try not to hold that over him.

I landed on a bench crowded with ancient texts and trinkets. I inched sideways along the bench. He was in a trance. His eyes were white as he attempted to find ways to obtain “the lamp.” Whatever that was. He’s a little kookie sometimes. Powerful, yes. But kookie. Like I said, he’s not perfect. Can’t fly, wants a magic lamp, etc. etc. I stopped at the edge of the bench, near his shoulder. I leaned in near his ear, took a deep breath, and squawked as loud as I could. Little pleasures.

I of course ducked, flapped to the floor, scuttled under a desk, and somersaulted into the air, avoiding getting blasted (too badly) by his cobra-shaped staff.

“Wait!” I hollered, grinning as wide as my beak would let me. He had his staff trained on me and I wasn’t sure how long my acrobatics would keep me from getting roasted. “I found something I think you might like.” I floated down, tail feathers only slightly smoking and held the key out in one claw.

His eyes narrowed. “What is this?” Long, spider-like fingers plucked the key out of my grasp. The key’s delicate wings gave a convulsive shudder, as if they could feel the evil in his fingers. Steampunk Key Necklace, by nedacat (DeviantArt)

I chuckled. “Oh Your Mightiness, it is the key to the Cave of Wonders that you so generously gave your humble servant the task to find.” He likes it when I say stuff like that. Of course it’s hard to do it without a smirk.

He held the key up to the dim light trickling in from an arched window, studying the ancient markings. “Iago,” he breathed. “You fool. You may have actually found the key.”

“Really?” I squawked, then ruffled my feathers. “I mean, of course, Your Mightiness. How could your ingenious and magnificent servant do otherwise?”

What followed that very evening was a complicated series of spells and enchantments, whereupon he released the key into the desert night. Then I had to endure a ridiculously high-chased ride through the desert, following the winged key to the hidden sand tiger’s head—the door to the Cave of Wonders. Only, just my luck, the key was only half of the puzzle. We found the door, but couldn’t go through it. Only “one who is worthy may enter.” Which of course we all assumed would be me, but, uh, the sand tiger apparently hasn’t seen all of my gleaming interior qualities yet.

Or it just has a thing against parrots, which is very backward thinking. That kind of prejudice is so last century.

***

Now I’m flying through Agrabah, looking for “one who is worthy to enter—a diamond in the rough.” Whatever that means. I land on a ledge and peer into the alley below. A monkey is sitting on the rooftop across from me, a stupid little hat on his head. He grins at me. I sneer back. A homeless, scruffy, street rat scrambles across the roof, a loaf, obviously stolen, in his hand. “Come on, Abu!” The monkey tips his hat at me and the two of them swing down a line heavy with laundry and scamper away through the alley, the distant shouts of guards far behind. At least this street rat is quick. And nimble. Maybe he can make it further into the tiger’s mouth than the others.

I sigh. It’s so much easier to find a sucker than “one who is worthy.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Destroyer of the World

“This is it?”
The question broke the ice of silent scrutiny, startling Issovel Johdris where she knelt at the feet of the Master Keeper. She did not shatter. She was not dead, then; had not frozen beneath the contemptuous assessment.
“My daughter, yes.” Mother remained admirably unruffled.
Head still bowed, Issovel strove to emulate her. They’d practiced this. Self-control, whether on the field or off. The Master’s next words might have undone her had she not been too cold and stiff to do more than twitch.
“I can’t give her the key. She will destroy us. Destroy the world.”

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Unfortunately, Trish is unable to join us this month. Please join us in sending good thoughts and warm wishes her way…

Thanks for following along! Please let me know on Facebook what you thought of Aladdin, or shoot me an email, or send me a carrier pigeon. I’m always eager to engage! Also, a special thanks to artist nedacat (DeviantArt) for letting us use the painting – you can check out more here.

A Drift of Quills – Throwback Thursday

By P.S. Broaddus | October 12, 2018 - 11:54 am |October 12, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

A Drift of Quills – The Biggest Challenge

By P.S. Broaddus | September 7, 2018 - 7:46 am |September 7, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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This month it’s all about the biggest writing challenge on our current novel. So we aren’t necessarily talking about the daily, routine distractions that take away from the writing process ~ we’re talking about the particular challenges we are facing on our current work-in-progress…

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

My experiences in the novel-writing game are relatively few, but so far, every novel has posed at least one challenge. I’m not talking about the Usual Life Challenge that pops up every time you choose a cool project and Things Happen. Like the furnace goes out, or you get the flu, or you remember at the last minute that a Quills Post is due tomorrow… No, I’m talking about novel-specific snags and pitfalls. Like the Beisyth Web in As the Crow Flies, or the (top secret now) timeline issues in Flesh and Bone. This time, right-this-minute, I find myself surrounded by a virtual cloud of delicate perfume as I…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Where does one begin? There are so many: (1) ways to stumble; (2) reasons to delay; and (3) opportunities to turn one’s attention elsewhere. It seems in one way or another, all of these things have happened to me as I’ve worked on Volume Four of The Oathtaker Series.

As to my “stumbling,” I spent a year on a work that I am very pleased and proud of. Unfortunately …

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

I am currently working on a distinctly different story than anything I’ve done before. This new novel is not at all related to The Unseen Chronicles, and while I certainly miss Essie Brightsday and the cast of characters we met in A Hero’s Curse and Nightrage Rising, I am loving the new setting. Inter-dimensional travel, a mad scientist, two brothers, a detective, a runaway…There is so much to investigate and explore! So many new characters to interact with!

But embedded within all this excitement is a dinosaur-sized problem. Dinosaurs to be exact. In addition to inter-dimensional travel and a mad scientist and all the other fantastic ingredients in the story, I’ve got dinosaurs.

So how do you research dinosaurs? What sounds did they make? What did they smell like? How did they move and interact? And is watching Jurassic Park really research? 🙂

That’s my new challenge. Creating a world that is as accurate and believable as possible. It would be so easy to write the story and then one of my boys point out that an ankylosaurus would never be in the same area as a kronosaurus, because the kronosaurus lived in the Early Cretaceous period and the ankylosaurus lived in the Late Cretaceous period. Silly dad. Everyone knows that.

Fortunately, not only am I having a good time, but so are the boys. They are loving the research and eager to help. That sounds like a win to me. What do you think? Where do you recommend I do my research?

A Drift of Quills – Outside Inspiration

By P.S. Broaddus | August 3, 2018 - 7:18 am |August 3, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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This month we’re discussing what keeps us busy outside of writing, and, perhaps even more interesting, do we gain inspiration from that activity, or is it just a distraction…

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

“Whim” has often been the instigator…

My writing desk follows me everywhere. Virtually, anyway. Overheard conversations make good fodder for dialogue. A turn of phrase from a television show or movie often suggests an entire scene or plot point. I realized during a discussion about some people in my life that one of them in particular would make a fantastic model for a character. (No, I will not say whether protagonist or antagonist!)

I try to jot these ideas down on my phone, but sometimes I really have to tell my desk to go to its room and give me a break. Have you ever noticed that not thinking about a thing is like a magic solution for finding an answer to it?

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

But I don’t garden like that anymore …

I used to be quite a gardener. I had a huge plot. I can’t even estimate its size. I grew berries, beans, corn, squash, melons, peas, and on and on. Admittedly, even at the best of times, I tended to lose a fair amount of my crop because I couldn’t eat it in time and wasn’t big on storing methods (although drying herbs or beans was always a hit with me). (That said, I usually had an abundance. Don’t believe me? Check the pic here of just one wheelbarrow full of tomatoes from one year.) Also, in truth, I lost some crop to overzealous weeds that would come along about the same time that I was no longer having fun.

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

I don’t often get the question, “What keeps you busy?” That’s usually because I have three little boys running around and through my legs. I also work as a full time real estate agent, running my own business and managing property for myself and others. I have a master’s degree in film, but I’ve taken a step back from film production and editing to give more time to my love of writing.

And while I enjoy real estate and homes and remodeling and flipping, that isn’t necessarily where I get inspiration or rest. I don’t garden – the wonderful wood nymph I married is in charge of that department. Likewise, film and film editing is work – enjoyable work, but work nonetheless.

There are a couple of things I do that fill me up, that aren’t work, and sometimes even provide inspiration and encouragement. I love being active outdoors – sports, kayaking the Catawba River, or something similar is sure to grab my interest. But then I also enjoy just walking around the historic district of our small Southern town. These are spaces that leave time to think and meditate – or not. It’s space. Deliberate and slow. That’s the space that story needs to be born and grow.

One other thing I used to do more of in the past was play computer games. It provided room for story and gave me a sense of unhurried time. I don’t do that much anymore because three little boys like to climb on my lap, my shoulders, my back, my head, all the while begging to have a turn.

Not every enjoyable or relaxing thing is a creatively positive one. Youtube and Netflix take away from my creativity and imagination – they fill the time and space with their own stories, leaving little room for anything else. They’re good in their place (I really enjoyed the recent rendition of “Lost in Space”), but they don’t inspire me.

What about you? What fills your non-writing time? Does it inspire? Or kill creativity?

A Drift of Quills – Flying Cities

By P.S. Broaddus | July 6, 2018 - 12:00 am |July 6, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Today is a new edition of flash fiction Friday.

Our group of writers pick an image, and we all write a short story from the same picture. They are incredibly interesting and wildly different today. Check out what we’ve found…

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Morrowskye, the First Flying City

Twelve-year-old Zee Anderson liked straight lines and right angles. Unfortunately for her, the city of Morrowskye had very few straight lines and no right angles. Instead it had sails and balloons, walkways and cupolas, turrets and towers—all built on top of each other with little reason or rhyme—except to reach higher upward.

Her paint can sat beside her, untouched. Zee kicked her feet through the air, sitting high on a swinging scaffold, overlooking the city, which appeared as though it was tumbling into the sky. Her family, scattered and giggling below, loved Painting Day. It was a city holiday, after all. Everyone colored at some point on Painting Day. Even Nat, her little brother. His round face screwed up with concentration, he was ignoring brushes and using his fingers, hands—even feet. Now that was fun—watching him slowly disappear under a rainbow of color. He laughed and pointed at the crooked smiley face he had drawn and shouted, “Me!”

She felt like everyone in Morrowskye excelled in creating interesting and imaginative things. Except her. Zee counted the sails on the crowded tower of houses across from her. Twenty-seven. She supposed they were beautiful in their own way.

A tremor shook the platform she was sitting on. The city swayed, as if riding an ocean wave. The tail fin on a windmill, already at a jaunty angle, felt the tremor too. It sagged and then whatever held the rusted metal together let go. The fin clattered down the side of the house and came to rest in a neighbor’s yard, looking for all the world like it belonged there, and had always been there.

The painting around and below her paused for a moment. The bright chatter gave way to a few troubled glances, but then someone laughed at the mess of a spilled bucket of yellow, and the people of Morrowskye were able to shrug away the tremor like a bad dream.

Zee knew the tremors were getting worse. Just last week an entire section of the Rambleskies district had collapsed. She pushed herself off her platform and dropped to the deck beneath her.

It was the way the city was built. She was sure of it.

But no one wanted to hear that. No one wanted to be told how to build a city. Not since the fall of the Old Federation with its cold concrete laid out in squares as far as the eye could see. Of course she wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, but Zee wished she could have seen the Old World with its true angles and straight lines. They built into the sky too—even higher than Morrowskye, if the legends were true.

She bounded down the stairs, in no real hurry, but enjoying the rush of almost falling down the steep, uneven slope of steps, all varying in height and width. She hit a sail sheet at the bottom, letting it catch her. It was stretched with the breeze, so it was exactly like falling into a cloud. At least, that’s what Zee imagined it would be like.

“Zee Anderson! Get out of my sail!” screeched a bent, irate woman with a wiry tangle of gray bristles poking out from under a black hat, three sizes too small.

“Yes, Jaeda.” Zee rolled out of the sail. “It’s just that it sits right at the bottom of the steps—it’s a perfect safety net.”

“I don’t care what it is,” Jaeda snapped from the window of her house. “Get out of my windsail or I’ll take my yulanda after you!” She brandished a heavy looking rolling pin, dusty with flour, with an intricate design carved into the roller. Her flatbread was not only tasty, but beautiful.

Zee grinned and waved before continuing around Jaeda’s house and down another flight of stairs, this one painted green like the first leaves of summer. She hopped the one blue stair—it was bad luck—and skidded to a halt in front of garish red and purple door. She grimaced at the color and knocked. A shaggy boy’s head poked out.

Zee arched her eyebrows. “Hey, Nance. Your family out painting? Is your brother home?”

A smile spread across Nance’s impish face. He ignored the first question. “Which one?” He asked, but it came out more like, “Whith un?” since he was missing at least three of his baby teeth.

Zee rolled her eyes again. “The biggest and ugliest.”

“Oh, tha’ un. Jack’th upthtair.” Nance swung the door inward. “Thomeday you’ll fall for my good lookth, Thee.” Zee marched past, headed for the loft in the back. “And it’ll be thoo late!” Nance hollered after her. Two more boys, even smaller than Nance, were dividing a stack of marbles in the kitchen. Zee scrambled up a steep ladder and pushed through a heavy sailcloth curtain.

“Hey,” she said.

A pale boy, about her age, looked up from where he sprawled on a cot next to a large window. “I figured you’d be here,” he replied.

“Another tremor,” they said in unison.

“How was it down here?” she asked.

“Bad enough, but not like Saturday’s.”

“The higher up—”

“—the bigger the repercussion,” he finished.

“That’s four this month.”

“Nineteen this year.”

“Up from a total of five all of last year.”

“And only one before that. Ever.”

Zee plopped down on his cot. “Do you think they’ll believe us?”

“I think they’ll have to.”

“What about the framing system, do you think it will work?”

Jack bent over a sketch pad that had dozens of markings and drawings, most of them with lines and right angles. “I hope so.”

Zee squinted at his work. “You’re sure it’s bendy? It can’t be too rigid. It’ll break.”

“It’ll bend. Like a mast in the wind.” He frowned. “First things first—we have to interrupt the Painting Day parade—”

“—and convince Mayor Thompson that the city’s collapsing—” Zee interrupted.

“—and that we can make the city fly,” Jack finished.
“Gramma Zee,” a fuzzy-headed girl interrupted from under her covers, “skip to the part where you made the city fly.”

“I can’t skip ahead in the story!” Gramma Zee smiled. “Besides, your brother is asleep. I’ll save the rest for another day.”

The girl gave a comical frown. “I like the part where you make it fly.” She poked her head over the bed, looking toward the window. The last glow of the sun sparkled against clouds floating past.

Gramma Zee nodded and rubbed the fuzzy head. “I liked that part too.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Opposite Tricks

When Toady says they’re to paint the Widow Grayling’s house, Akasha stares along with everyone else.

“Orange.” Uneven teeth make his smile particularly fiendish. The gang erupts into hoots and shouts of laughter at that. The widow’s a quiet woman of modest means. Her house used to be brown, but most of the color’s chipped off now. It would no more willingly wear orange than would the widow.

“She needs some brightening.” Zekan always backs up Toady. If their illustrious leader decided they should all become acolytes at the local temple, Zekan would hand out the cassocks and thump anyone who questioned the choice. Same if Toady resolved to filch grub down in the Bellows—Royal Ghost territory, where Toady’s Azure Fang Gang would swiftly find their end. Hopefully not a permanent one… Did the Ghosts kill children?

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Mother had warned her not to appear weak . . .

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There Are Signs!

Having arrived at the port in Corsair, the largest city in Metzphlat, Kira and her mother stepped off the ship’s deck and onto the wharf, then shuffled through the bustling crowd. Signs all around, in assorted sizes, shapes, and colors, directed folks, informed them—and no doubt warned them—of numerous matters.

Suddenly, came a jostling from behind. Kira’s grip loosened and a second later, she found herself quite alone.

Quickly she looked ahead, but could not catch sight of her mother in the still growing crowd. Unsure whether the gangs hurrying both directions had swept her beloved parent back the way from whence they’d come, or had caught her up and whisked her forward, Kira choked back a cry.

Thanks for following along! Please let me know on Facebook what you thought of Morrowskye, or shoot me an email, or send me a carrier pigeon. I’m always eager to engage! Also, a special thanks to artist Zhiyong Li for letting us use the painting – you can check out more of her work here.

A Drift of Quills – Books We Hate

By P.S. Broaddus | June 8, 2018 - 1:00 pm |June 8, 2018 Author of "A Hero's Curse", Writer's Rambles

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Today we address that elephant in the room, books we hate. Maybe they’re not in the room. Maybe they’ve been stuffed under sofas or tossed in boxes or surreptitiously donated to the library…but did you finish it the first time you picked it up?

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

We’ve all come across them—those books that are so badly written you wonder if the author was even an earthling. Or, assuming that they weren’t hatched on another planet, if they bothered to attend grade school. Or if they live in a sensory deprivation chamber and have no freaking idea what the real world is like. The first pages of such a book are usually painful. Do you risk the agony of finishing the entire book? You want to know my philosophy?

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Do I finish books that I start, but hate? I can answer this question with a single title: Moby Dick, by Herman Melville. I found Moby Dick to be utterly, incomprehensibly, annoyingly, mind-bogglingly boring—and odd—and downright awful. I hated it. Hated it! Nothing, nothing anyone could say about a color, or its significance, or what Melville may have mean to symbolize through the use of a color, could ever possibly resurrect this title for me. I found a solid 70% of the work to be complete nonsense—a waste of ink and a waste of paper. Lest I be mistaken, let me put it simply: I truly and completely abhor this work. Perhaps more than any other I’ve ever read. So . . .

Parker Broaddus

Author of A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising