Vigil by Angela Slatter, a review by Jeanette Greaves

The Vigil blog tour continues:- Vigil

First impressions – this book was great fun to read. It starts with the fallout from a fight between a trans-dimensional monster and a half-supernatural / half-human woman, and it ends with favours being called in from an angel who looks like he should be playing lead guitar in an indie band.

Did I love it? Yes. Do I want more? Definitely.

There’s something about this book that reminds me of Pratchett’s Discworld. Partly it’s the deadpan humour, partly it’s the multi-species dramatis personae. Slatter introduces a cast of characters drawn from many races. Some are hybrids, including our heroine Verity Fassbinder.  The various races have complicated relationships, and there’s no shortage of race supremacists of several flavours to add to the pot and simultaneously give it a good stirring.

Fassbinder is one of a select group of people who are aware of the presence of supernatural beings in Brisbane, they are tasked with keeping the peace to protect both the human and the non-human (Weyrd)population. Her role is a very particular one, she lives in the human world, and that of the Weyrd, and has very useful connections in both. She’s basically a gumshoe detective with extra powers. She’s got a dark back story, a long to-do list, and super strength. She also has a massive sense of responsibility, and an inbuilt need to protect the weak, especially her loved ones. Her loved ones include a new boyfriend, who is cute, nearly as smart as Verity, and a hostage to fortune in a malevolent world.

As I mentioned before, there is a lot of back story in this novel, the reader is pushed straight into the deep end, and is expected to doggy paddle around, grabbing clues as to who Verity and her friends are, and why they do what they do. Don’t worry, it’s not all that complicated, and there’s something very refreshing about not being a spoon fed reader. On the other hand, I do really, really want to read some of that back story at some time, because her ex boyfriend (and current colleague) is a ridiculously handsome near immortal who goes by the nickname ‘Bela’. Also, there are hints at past cases that sound like they’d be fun to read about.

If you’re looking for literary fiction, this isn’t the book for you. If you’re looking for a great romp with a strong, stroppy, multi-tasking protagonist, some seriously creepy villains, and a plot that charges around, under and over Brisbane at high speed, this is the book for you.

Thank you to the team at Jo Fletcher Books for the review copy, and the opportunity to be part of the blog tour for this hugely entertaining novel.

Vigil is available now, from Jo Fletcher Books.

Angela Slatter (www.angelaslatter.com)

Jo Fletcher Books (www.jofletcherbooks.com)

 

Next stop for the blog tour:-  parmenionbooks@wordpress.com (Wed 20th July)

Posted in Review | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

‘Vigil’ by Angela Slatter – blog tour coming soon.

I read a book and I liked it. Find out why on July 19th.

Blog tour poster

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Everything Lost in Flash Flood 2016

My flash fiction ‘Everything Lost’ was published in this year’s FlashFlood online event.

I hope you enjoy it.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Museum of You by Carys Bray – a review by Jeanette Greaves

First of all, I was lucky enough to be sent a review copy of this book by the publisher. If you’ve read my review Museum of Youof her first novel (A Song For Issy Bradley), you’d probably guess that I would have bought it anyway. Still, that’s the formalities out of the way.

The story of Clover and her dad Darren, (and Clover’s mum Becky, who isn’t around any more), is my feel good book of the summer. Yes, Carys Bray has done it again, she’s taken a story of loss, grief and miscommunication and turned it into a celebration of love, friendship and community.

As I said in my review of ‘A Song For Issy Bradley’, Carys Bray’s work gets under my skin. She writes about families, the kind of family we all know, or are part of, and she writes with absolute, unmerciful, unswerving truth. But this isn’t misery lit, it’s a view of real life from the point of view of someone who knows how to love and what it means to grieve.

Darren and his twelve year old daughter Clover have avoided each other’s pain since before Clover can remember. Every day, they find three things to be happy about, and formally celebrate them. It’s important to be happy, and to make sure that the people that you love are happy. But it’s hard work, and when you have other people to care for (like Darren’s widowed dad and Clover’s damaged and vulnerable uncle,) sometimes it’s difficult to make time to be happy, and to take things forward.

Their journey towards a greater understanding of each other takes place during the school summer holidays. Clover has been on a museum trip or two, and has met a museum curator who impressed her greatly. Clover wants to create and curate a museum, and luckily for her, there is a treasure trove of potential exhibits in the spare room, all the stuff about her mum that her dad has never had the energy or the will to sort out. Her exhibition is going to be a surprise, and it’s also going to help her find out more about her mum.

Darren and his twelve year old daughter Clover are beautifully drawn and very believable. They don’t feel like fictional characters, they feel like the people next door, with all their flaws and hopes and dreams. Even with the book read and shelved, they’re still with me, and I’m wondering what they’re up to now. It’s not just the father and daughter that I want to hear more about, because every character in this book deserves a novel of their own.

Loved it!

‘Museum of You’ is out now, published by Hutchinson and available in hard cover, Kindle and ebook formats.

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief by Lisa Tuttle – a review by Jeanette Greaves

somnambulistI’ll put my cards on the table right away. I’m a big fan of Lisa Tuttle, I got hooked on her short stories when I was a young woman in my twenties. I’d happily spend a month’s disposable income on one of her paperbacks. I love her science fiction and fantasy books, and have tried to keep up to date with her work over the years, as she’s explored many aspects of genre fiction. I did not expect her to launch a series of detective stories, but with ‘The Curious Affair of the Somnambulist and the Psychic Thief’, that’s exactly what she has done. As a fan, I would have bought this book anyway, but was lucky enough to receive a review copy from her publisher.

Detective fiction is absolutely not my genre. I read my way through a whole pile of Poirot, Miss Marple, Ellary Queen and Sherlock Holmes books in my teenage years, and have never been tempted to repeat the experience. The whole genre seems to hang upon the puzzle of figuring out who dunnit, and sometimes, what was done. Obviously there are many millions of people out there who absolutely love that, but it’s not for me. I kinda like to see a spaceship, or a big disaster, or at the very least some kind of supernatural happening.

So … thanks are due to Ms Tuttle for producing a detective story with a decidedly supernatural theme. I think that most readers will figure out very quickly ‘who dunnit’, but the questions of ‘what they did’ and how our heroes are going to stop it happening, are intriguing enough to make this book a real page turner. The book is set in the period of Sherlock Holmes, and there are several nods in the direction of Mr Conan Doyle. It’s also set firmly in the world of spiritualists, and their attendant cynics and would be debunkers. Our very own heroine is of a decidedly sensible bent, but she has much to discover about herself.

The book introduces a set of characters who I hope will continue through the series. The detectives of the piece are Miss Lane and Mr Jesperson. Miss Lane is a heroine for the ages, a truly independent woman with principles, curiosity, and a vast store of cynical common sense. She has found herself unemployed, homeless and penniless, because of her strong principles; but within the space of a few chapters she acquires a new role, as the professional partner of Mr Jesperson, a young man of huge talent and even huger self belief. The pair are perfect foils for each other, and whilst their fondness for each other grows throughout the book, this is a perfectly platonic and respectable relationship. It has to be, as Lane and Jesperson are living under the same roof as the wonderful Mrs Jesperson. She is the hero’s mother, and a woman almost magically capable of managing a respectable middle class existence on a very small income indeed. The fourth character, who I fervently hope will appear in future novels, is Miss Fox, the erstwhile employer of Miss Lane. I have to admit, I have a real soft spot for Miss Fox, who manages to be simultaneously fascinating and very annoying.

The book is beautifully written, I enjoyed the simple, flowing style which is the mark of a master at work. It’s also very well researched, and served as a taster for an internet trip of my own into the history of mediums in Victorian Britain.

If you like a good tale well told, or if you like a strong female protagonist, or if you’d like to get in on the ground floor of what is set to be one of the most entertaining detective series of the decade … read this book. 

Posted in Review | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Bonfire ’68

Bonfire ’68

Bonfire Night isn’t what it used to be. These days it’s all about the fireworks, and who has the most, the best, the noisiest. The fires themselves are tamed, organised, run by the local authority or a worthy charity. Back in the late sixties, there was a bonfire in every third or fourth back garden. The rich kids had a box of garden fireworks, the poor kids had a packet of sparklers, but it wasn’t about the bangers, the rockets, the catherine wheels and the roman candles, it was about the fire, and what was on it.

Every bonfire was a local history goldmine, piled high with the year’s debris. Back then, few people had cars, and the local tip wasn’t all that accessible. The dustmen only took what fitted in the bins. If you had something to get rid of, it got fly tipped, or it went on the fire.

In ’68, my family were invited to a ‘big bonfire’, hosted by my auntie’s neighbour. Mum made great slabs of bonfire toffee, and my sister and I made toffee apples. We were promised a big bonfire, sparklers, and maybe even some fireworks. In the days leading up to Bonfire Night, I joined the local kids in dragging a Guy around the houses, begging for a penny. Where that Guy ended up, I don’t know, he went to another bonfire, another fate.

I faced the party with a queer mixture of excitement and dread, the TV seemed to be constantly showing stories about children killed or maimed by fireworks, and I took them all to heart.

We arrived early, with the toffee apples and the bonfire toffee, mum had offered to help with the jacket potatoes. Mugs and glasses had been begged and borrowed from the neighbours, and bright bottles of pop stood on the window ledge, cherryade, limeade and Tizer.

The bonfire was yet unlit, and in the late afternoon gloom, I went to inspect it. There was a broken ladder, one side split, the lower rungs rotten, the feet black with leaf mould. There was a box of paper, I reached in and took a sheet, it was boring stuff, lists of figures, pounds, shillings and pence. Stuffed deeper inside was a flash of pink, I bent and rummaged through the bits of cardboard and tatty wooden toy blocks and found treasure, a love letter, years old. I folded it, and put it in my pocket, feeling a romantic urge to save the passionate fire of those long spent words from the flames. Higher up, a flutter of white caught my attention. A baby jacket, it looked new, hand knitted, the tiniest size. I frowned at the waste, but couldn’t quite reach it to retrieve it. I stepped back, taking in the prevalent colour of the bonfire, a deep, rich blue, mostly made up of old carpet cut into shreds, and two moquette armchairs, long past their best.

A hand on my shoulder made me jump, it was the lady of the house, she managed a smile. “Be careful, all that stuff might fall on you. It’s not a good place to be playing. Come on now, come back to the house, we’ve got some parkin fresh from the oven, let’s eat it while it’s warm. Your cousin is going to light the bonfire for me once it goes dark.”

I remembered then, the lady lived alone, something sad had happened, I wasn’t quite sure what.

Darkness came fast, and the clouds that had been threatening all day cleared away, blown by a fresh breeze. It was going to be a dry, cold, Bonfire night, the best kind. Sparklers lit, we kids gathered round the fire, watching my cousin light a long taper of twisted newspaper, and thrust it into the heart of the bonfire. It sputtered, and died. He tried again, to laughter from the older men. He was blushing, messing up this rite of passage from child to man, fumbling this offered opportunity. With the next taper, he blew on it before he thrust it into the dark depths. He held it there, waiting for a bundle of cardboard to ignite. At last, as the taper burned towards his hand, the cardboard started to glow, then to burn, flames licking up eagerly, fanned by the new breeze, reaching upwards towards the timber of the old chair.

Within minutes, the noise was overwhelming, the crackle of wood, the crashes as the bonfire collapsed in on itself, the sudden bang as the Guy’s balloon head exploded. The smoke blew into my face, and suddenly it wasn’t fun any more, the carpet was smouldering unpleasantly, and I retreated into the house.

I’d not been there before, but it was the mirror image of my auntie’s house, and was comfortably familiar in its layout. The kitchen was crammed with grownups watching the fire in comfort, through the window, chatting to each other. I couldn’t see the lady of the house. I walked into the front room, and on impulse went up the stairs, standing at the landing window, watching as fires and fireworks lit up the evening. I could see dozens … hundreds … of fires all around town. A year’s worth of discards was on fire, and the smoke was already thickening.

There was a small box on the landing window ledge, ebony and silver, with a clever little latch. I knew it wasn’t mine, and wasn’t my business, but the familiarity of the house, the way it felt just like my auntie’s place, lulled me into a sense of belonging, and I reached out to touch it.

‘Please. Don’t touch that.’ The voice came from right behind me, I jumped, and knocked the box onto the floor, where it fell open. White dust spilled out. I stepped back, narrowly avoiding it, and ran downstairs.

I carried on running, out of the back door, stumbling, almost falling into the fire, running past my auntie’s place, back home, to a locked, dark house. Fires burned all through the town, and the smell of ashes haunted me.

2012

Jeanette Greaves

Posted in Fiction | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Pyre by David Hair – a review by Jeanette Greaves

Cover art for The PyreThe Return of Ravana by David Hair

Book 1 – the Pyre

Disclaimer – this book was sent as a review copy by the publishers.

Followers of fantasy writer David Hair may already be aware of his ‘Return of Ravana’ trilogy, written for a young adult audience. This version of the first book (formerly known as ‘Pyre of Queens’) has been updated and revised for the UK re-release.

The book is set in Rajasthan, India, and follows the adventures of two groups of young people. Our modern day heroes meet at school. These three teenagers, who were strangers to each other, are brought together by fate in a moment of mutual recognition. Gradually, through a series of supernatural encounters, visions and episodes of sheer academic research, they come to realise that they are a part of an eternal story that they are bound to play out to the end.

The time slip trope, where a group of modern characters echo the steps of a long dead tragedy, is not new, and has been used to great effect by writers such as Alan Garner (‘The Owl Service’, in particular, comes to mind.) Alan Garner’s work played in the background of my mind as I read ‘The Pyre’, and I would love to know if the author is a fan of Garner.

The myth of Ravana, the Demon King, is the foundation stone to the story. In eighth century Rajasthan, a powerful king plots his own godhood, planning his own death, and his subsequent resurrection as a reincarnation of Ravana the demon king. This rite of power is to be fuelled by the obscene sacrifice on his funeral pyre by sati (suttee) of his seven queens. The sacrificial pyre is where the tale really begins, for our heroes in the past. Their adventures are echoed by the modern characters who are fated to follow in their footsteps, and maybe, just maybe, avoid some of their mistakes.

Although this is the first book of a trilogy, it actually stands well as a novel in its own right. Although I would be interested in finding out more of the story, and would love to read the next two books, The Pyre pulls together enough strands at the end to give a feeling of completion. I enjoyed the characters, and found the modern day teenagers more rounded and fully fleshed as characters than the eighth century ones, who drifted into stereotype occasionally.

In summation, this is a reasonably fast paced young adult novel that can be safely read by someone who is unsure about committing to a trilogy, and can be enjoyed by the adult reader. I read it in two long sessions, and was sorry to say goodbye to the cast. I look forward to reading Book Two.

The Pyre is available now.

Posted in Fiction, Review | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Fandom

I wrote this a dozen or so years ago, after an epic trip to London to see the Manics. I was awake for nearly 24 hours, which explains the spaceship and the elephant, but nothing else.  It turns out that I wasn’t constipated, the pain was from gallstones, but that’s another story.

This will probably be impenetrable to anyone who isn’t a fan, or is unaware of the Manic Street Preachers but …

Here we go:-

Five Fans and a Nissan

Relic got up ridiculously early that Monday morning, setting out to brave the heavy rush hour traffic between Preston and Sowerby Bridge. Luckily it was a road not well travelled, and she reached Sheila’s International Brigade Hostel in plenty of time. Collecting Itay and Jan, and dropping off Sheila in Halifax, she headed back out of town, and tried to find Glossop.

After realising that it wasn’t to be found in the hills around Oldham, her fallible sense of direction finally located the M60, and before noon, she was outside Michelle’s home. Shell and Mel piled in, and the fearless five set out on their long journey. Five minutes later they stopped, for fuel, sweeties, pop and copies of City Life magazine with the Manics Move interview in it.

The next task was to find a road South. The M1 seemed suitable, but the hills were in the way. The day was getting hot, and the journey over the Pennines in a small car was scenic but a little cramped, especially when traffic got heavy and the breeze from the open windows failed to revive the three in the back.

By the time relic found the motorway, time was getting on, and Sheila had started to ring to ask if they were in the queue yet. As a distraction, they listened to Mark and Lard on the radio, to the bemusement of those passengers who were unfamiliar with their sense of humour. As they swept past Junction 31, relic observed that her mother-in-law lived ‘just over there’, and suggested visiting her. The idea went down like a lead balloon.

Miraculously, the M1 was light on traffic, the sun beat down, relic got sunburned, and people began to fall asleep. Every half hour or so, Mel would poke rel and ask if she was OK. Jan made a superhuman effort and didn’t snore. Not once. Honest. After a stop for loos, Skittles, more pop, and a leg stretch, during which Itay was temporarily misplaced and rel clucked around like a mother hen, they resumed the journey. They arrived at the outskirts of London and came off the motorway and onto the North Circular. Relic reminded all four passengers that she had a present for Nicky, and they weren’t to let her forget it. The Quest for a Parking Space began, and for the first time that day, Michelle began to lose the will to live. They passed an interesting looking recycling centre, and relic suggested they go there, instead of HMV. The idea was vetoed. The power of prayer was suggested, until it became apparent that the car was filled with atheists. The power of observation and common sense was then applied, to no avail, and eventually the power of luck and blind chance led them down a side street to a previously unheard of Underground station with all day parking for £2. Prayers of thanks were offered to Nicky (by relic), and as the five of them, plus Itay’s guitar and the men’s luggage, waited for the train, she passed round yet another birthday card for Sean for them to sign. As they sat on the train, getting excited at last, relic looked up and reminded her four ungrateful passengers that not one of them had reminded her to pick up Nicky’s present. Still, they had Sean’s birthday cards. Wristbands were checked carefully, and eventually the five of them emerged from Oxford Circus tube station into the hot dusty glare of a London summer’s day. The Northern women stared like yokels, and eventually they got their bearings and headed for HMV, rel bought Lipstick Traces from a puzzled clerk who failed to understand why anyone would travel more than five miles to see the Manics perform from a tiny stage to a sweaty crowd. Michelle and Mel retired to the pub, where Shell threw up enthusiastically, but had seemingly regained the will to live. Jan and Itay marked their places in the queue with a bag and a guitar, and rel waved to her friends at the front of the queue, and settled down to chat to a nice young man who was standing behind her. Nicky Wire (no, not that one, the Welsh one … no, the really really Welsh one, you know, that pretty teenager with the nice hair … Rhys! That’s the one.) was in front of her, with Starlight and her friend.

Mel and Shell came back from the pub, and gradually more friends started to arrive, Sheila with the rest of the International Brigade, Tracey, etc. As the afternoon wore on, drinks and food were passed round, and Starlight and her friend suddenly revealed that they had guest passes, and disappeared into the building. They returned half an hour later with an unsatisfactory bag of Walkers crisps, rejected by Nicky Wire (the real one, the impossibly good looking tall one with the great smile and the long legs and the perfect collarbones and the blue blue eyes), but seized on eagerly by several fans.

It was about then that the great HMV Queue singalong started, with Itay and Rhys taking turns to play Itay’s guitar, and Amanda in superb voice at the front of the queue, leading the fans in amazing renditions of Manics songs. Relic mimed. Shell and Mel disappeared again, for Shell to puke. More food, but people were beginning to ration their liquid intake, with an eye on bladder control. Nervousness spread like wildfire, after all, this wasn’t just a gig, it was a signing, a chance to meet the band. Fans were showing each other the albums, collectibles and projects that they had brought to be signed. Several people had brought guitars.

Eventually security guards came out, and asked everyone to stop singing, because the Manics were trying to sound check. The queue got organised, and at last, at long last the fans filed in, the International Brigade, and Mel, Shell and rel trying to stay together. In a frustrating display of sheer bloody mindedness the HMV staff herded the fans into tiny enclosures, in a system that meant that those who had arrived ten minutes before the doors opened had a better chance of actually seeing the Manics than those who had been there all day. Shell was nearly in tears, and was obviously ill, she sat on a rack of CDs. Jan noticed that rel couldn’t see a thing, and hauled her closer to the front, where she found herself behind a hugely fat guy with the worst BO in the history of civilisation. Still, she realised that she could actually see Nicky, which was more than she’d achieved at Move. Mel was taller and could see, Shell was not well at all, but everyone felt better when the gig started, the Manics ripping through a set of B sides and rarities that was lapped up eagerly by the audience. Screams of ‘I love you Nicky’ and ‘Shag me James’ were heard, and then the girls started to shout too. A chant of ‘Sean! Sean! Sean!” was picked up enthusiastically, in tribute to the drummer. Nasmyth and Havers were introduced, and got cheered, the crowd was in a hugely good mood. All too soon, it was over, and after a short break, a queuing system for the fans was set up. Mel, Shell and rel were determined not to be parted. Rel saw James first, and her knees went. He looked gorgeous. Then she saw Nicky, and forgot all about the singer. Mel and Shell had gone ominously quiet. Rel confessed that the sight of Nicky was almost curing her constipation. “Know your Enema” Shell joked.

First, to Sean, who accepted the birthday cards with a smile, and chatted to everyone. Rel fell in love there and then, and hasn’t got over it since. Nicky laughed at her when she had an attack of teenaged babbling all over him, but he wasn’t nasty at all, and he didn’t have his sunglasses on, and he was the most perfect vision of male beauty that she’d ever seen. She forgot to check that James had signed everything, just thanked him with a quick smile and tried to move on, dropping the insert from her new CD. Doubling back for it, she was stopped by an over anxious security guard, who obviously thought she was making for James. In hindsight, that might have been a good idea, but no, she was still besotted after her first sight of Nicky close up. She waited for Mel and Shell, Shell was gutted, she’d been too shy to speak to James, and he’d not spoken to her. Mel had been similarly struck dumb, and although she’d got a very nice smile, the whole experience had been a disappointment. It was universally agreed that Nicky and Sean had been lovely, but that James had let Shell down. Shell went to puke, again, Mel went with her. Rel tried to go to the loo.

They all said their goodbyes, getting hugs from friends and FD forumites who were meeting for the first time, and made their way to the tube station. Michelle was heartbroken, and Mel was furious. James could have tried harder. He was to redeem himself the following week, at the Manchester signing, but after the day of travel and queuing, it was all too much, and the women were exhausted. They found the car, complete with Nicky’s present, and started the long drive back home. They stopped for almost an hour at Gateway services, rel was still having odd pains, and Shell was still ill. Pizza and orange juice helped, and they were back on the road, playing Lipstick Traces and beginning to feel better, talking about the gig and meeting the band. Suddenly an alien spaceship appeared in the middle of the M1. Rel was slightly alarmed, but not as alarmed as her passengers, who were abruptly aware that their driver was hallucinating. Shell offered to drive, but she was half dead, and rel decided that she stood a better chance of making it back to Glossop, if not Preston. Sheffield was the next stop, and for some reason the fates had decreed that the three fans had to be diverted off the motorway, around Meadowhall, and through a huge slick of human sewage. At that point, all three lost the will to live. It seemed like the final straw. Opening the window to get rid of the smell wasn’t an option, as the stuff was spread in a noxious clinging layer to the bottom of the car.

They decided to take the Woodhead road back to Glossop, a good idea at the time, but soon a thick ground fog descended. Relic was driving on trust, as long as the wheels turned smoothly, she assumed that they were on the road. Finally, Shell said it. “I’ve lost the will to live.” At that precise moment, dead ahead through the fog, a set of headlights was approaching them at some speed. “That’s convenient.” replied rel, preparing for death, and thinking about Nicky’s eyes. For some reason, Mel and Shell were laughing hysterically, and rel joined in. The headlights were on the other side of the road, and death was averted. Shell showed that she had brains as well as beauty by suggesting that rel pull over until an HGV went past, pointing out that the huge one that was halfway up the Nissan’s exhaust pipe might be a likely candidate. The HGV cabin was above the fogline, and the driver could obviously see where he was going. Rel took on the suggestion, and the rest of the journey was easier. With the exception of an hallucinated elephant on the road into Glossop, and a stranded milk float with a man lying underneath it on Shell’s estate, the next half hour passed uneventfully. At Shell’s house, rel dropped off her passengers, and set off home, slightly bemused by the 3 am traffic jam at the mini roundabout in Glossop. She turned the volume up on her CD player, put ‘Can’t take my eyes off you”. on repeat, and finally got home just before 4 a.m.

The phone rang at 11 a.m. and she struggled out of bed. It was Shell. “Jeanette, how much do you love me?” she said.

Rel struggled for an answer. “Wha?”

Adam’s got spare wristbands for Manchester tomorrow, and he’s promised me that you can have one.”

Rel was happy. And that’s another story.

Posted in Non fiction, Witterings | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Grasshopper’s Child by Gwyneth Jones. A short review.

This book arrived in the post mid morning, and I’d finished it by bedtime. Every minute away from it was a minute I wanted to be back in Heidi Ryan’s difficult, terrifying world. Gwyneth Jones has given us another heroic protagonist in Heidi, but so many of the young teenage girls and boys in this book show strength and resolution in the face of the power of Empire and the equally inescapable threat of local corruption.
Set in the near future world of the Bold as Love series, ‘The Grasshopper’s Child’ continues the story of an England managed by a foreign power, where austerity, officially sanctioned tech, and the nationalisation of the means of production are an accepted part of life for many, but where the evidence of deeply hidden crimes bubbles to the surface of life in a seemingly idyllic Sussex village.
Recommended for adults and young adults alike.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Eight Pane Sash

hauntings_coverWhen we wake up naturally, when our bodies are rested and safe, the ghosts of our dreams linger for a while. In those ghosts lie the memories of places and people, of action and adventures that are far from our waking lives. For some, those ghosts cry out to be made real. And so came ‘The Eight Pane Sash’, almost fully formed in the first draft.

When Hannah Kate invited submissions on the theme of ‘Hauntings’ for her third dark fiction anthology, I wondered if there was another ghost story in me. My first attempt at a ghost story had been ‘Mistfall’, in the Impossible Spaces anthology. I was a bit bemused when ‘The Eight Pane Sash’ story turned out to be a better candidate for the Impossible Spaces theme than ‘Mistfall’ had been. I love the crossover between the two stories, and the two anthologies, and that this new story gave me a hat trick of acceptances with Hannah Kate’s collections. Thank you Hannah, for all your support.

The book is out now, in paperback and ebook formats. Here’s the link, and if you haven’t checked out ‘Impossible Spaces’ and ‘Wolf-Girls’ yet, don’t worry, it’s not too late.

Posted in Fiction, Hic Dragones | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment