Hawthorn & Ash is Almost Here

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Hawthorn & Ash is almost here! As are two more anthologies featuring my work!

It’s all very exciting.

2019 is drawing to a close and it’s been one hell of a ride. I’ve had over 50 pieces published over the course of twelve months.

So, what’s releasing and when?

Let’s see…

Hawthorn & Ash from Iron Faerie Publishing comes out on the 6th December. It’s available to Preorder now! It’s an anthology packed full of fantasy stories about faeries and other mythical creatures.

Apocalypse  from Black Hare Press comes out on the 9th December. It’s available to Preorder right now! This anthology is sure to delight everyone! With stories about the end of the world, what’s not to like?

Organic Ink 2 from Dragon Soul Press comes out on the 30th December. It’s also available to Preorder! An anthology packed full of poetry.

Please, if you haven’t picked up a copy do so now! I promise you won’t regret it!

All three anthologies are packed full of great stories and poetry from fantastic authors, so what better way to see out the end of 2019!

The Countdown is on for Organic Ink, Volume 1

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There’s about twelve hours until Organic Ink Volume 1 arrives! Are you excited? I am! I hope you’ve snagged yourself a copy, because the purchase price goes up the moment the anthology goes live!

So, grab it for $2.99 while you still can!

I have two poems, Petals and Darkness included in this anthology and I can not wait for it to hit shelves! It’s so pretty!

Pre-order NOW! At over 600 pages and 50 poets, it’s going to be awesome!

Get Your Copy Here!

Organic Ink, Volume 1… is almost HERE!

organic ink promoHave you purchased your copy of Organic Ink Volume 1 yet? With less than two weeks to go until its release, why wait? And if you need a better reason… it’s only $2.99. The price is set to go up to $7.99 upon RELEASE! (30th June 2019)

I have two poems, Petals and Darkness included in this anthology and I can’t wait for it to hit shelves! Pre-order NOW!

Get Your Copy Here!

This incredible poetry anthology features 50 talented poets who’ve brought emotions and experiences to life in such beautiful ways. I’m truly humbled to be one voice among the fray. It’s going to be huge!

Week Sixteen

Today is the end of the sixteenth week of the 365 Writing Challenge and I failed dismally this week in way of words added to pieces of fiction and poetry. However, I did write an impressive 2,114 words on my blog. So, that’s a win in my book.

So, what have I accomplished in the past seven days?

Let’s list it shall we and find out!

  • Added 100 words to an Iron Faerie Publishing submission piece.
  • Added 100 words to Le Fay.
  • Submitted one drabble to Black Hare Press.
  • Wrote one poem.
  • Edited a couple of short stories.

And of course, the wait for contest scores continues, as does waiting to hear back on a few – 5 – submissions I’ve sent to publishers in the last month.

Of course, that list doesn’t include my work with The Horror Tree which can often be overwhelming or my work with Iron Faerie Publishing.

Until next week (or the week after that). Happy writing.

It’s National Poetry Month!

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Yep, it’s true! I didn’t know until recently either.

So, in honour of coming out from under my rock and learning new things… as well as the fact that over the past few days, I’ve been busy writing up a storm on various projects that center around King Arthur and Camelot. I thought I’d share a poem on that very subject, which I’ve not actually read a lot of. As I do prefer books to poetry.

However, I am finding poetry a lot of fun to write of late, so I thought I’d share something Arthurian in nature to commemorate National Poetry Month and have decided to start with the one by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, which having combed through Mallory’s, Le Morte d’Arthur recently is actually a retelling of some of the earlier chapters in the book and if you haven’t read Le Morte d’Arthur, I recommend you do so, although, fair warning, it is a hard slog. I’m finding the language quite interesting though.

Fun fact: Not only was Tennyson the longest serving Poet Laureate but he was the first to be raised to a British Peerage for his contribution to the poetry world. Something which he hated and only took to ensure the financial security of his son, Hallam. 

Just a little something, I find fascinating given my love of British (particularly royal) History.

It’s such an epic poem. I think I’d get through Mallory’s Le Morte d’Arthur a lot quicker if it was all written as a poem. I’ll let you make up your own mind. While I continue to wade through the tome that is Mallory’s version of the tales.

Morte d’Arthur (1912)

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

So all day long the noise of battle roll’d
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur’s table, man by man,
Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep
They sleep—the men I loved. I think that we
Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,—
Tho’ Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more—but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro’ the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword—and how I row’d across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word.”

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro’ the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man.
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”

So saying, from the ruin’d shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth work
Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled, as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw: but at the last it seem’d
Better to leave Excalibur conceal’d
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“Hast thou perform’d my mission which I gave?
What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the ripple washing in the reeds,
And the wild water lapping on the crag.”

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale:
“Thou hast betray’d thy nature and thy name,
Not rendering true answer, as beseem’d
Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight:
For surer sign had follow’d, either hand,
Or voice, or else a motion of the mere.
This is a shameful thing for men to lie.
Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again
As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing
I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.”

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time
Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere,
Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought;
But when he saw the wonder of the hilt,
How curiously and strangely chased, he smote
His palms together, and he cried aloud,

“And if indeed I cast the brand away,
Surely a precious thing, one worthy note,
Should thus be lost forever from the earth,
Which might have pleased the eyes of many men.
What good should follow this, if this were done?
What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey,
Seeing obedience is the bond of rule.
Were it well to obey then, if a king demand
An act unprofitable, against himself?
The King is sick, and knows not what he does.
What record, or what relic of my lord
Should be to aftertime, but empty breath
And rumours of a doubt? but were this kept,
Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings,
Some one might show it at a joust of arms,
Saying, ‘King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur,
Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake;
Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps
Upon the hidden bases of the hills.’
So might some old man speak in the aftertime
To all the people, winning reverence.
But now much honour and much fame were lost.”

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit,
And hid Excalibur the second time,
And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily:
“What is it thou hast seen, or what hast heard?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“I heard the water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath:
“Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue,
Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me!
Authority forgets a dying king,
Laid widow’d of the power in his eye
That bow’d the will. I see thee what thou art,
For thou, the latest-left of all my knights,
In whom should meet the offices of all,
Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt;
Either from lust of gold, or like a girl
Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes.
Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice,
And the third time may prosper, get thee hence:
But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,
I will arise and slay thee with my hands.”

Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran,
And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged
Among the bulrush-beds, and clutch’d the sword,
And strongly wheel’d and threw it. The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirl’d in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock
By night, with noises of the northern sea.
So flash’d and fell the brand Excalibur:
But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
And caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.
And lightly went the other to the King.

Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath:
“Now see I by thine eyes that this is done.
Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?”

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems
Should blind my purpose, for I never saw,
Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die,
Not tho’ I live three lives of mortal men,
So great a miracle as yonder hilt.
Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him;
But when I look’d again, behold an arm,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
That caught him by the hilt, and brandish’d him
Three times, and drew him under in the mere.”

And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard:
“My end draws nigh; ‘t is time that I were gone.
Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight,
And bear me to the margin; yet I fear
My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.”

So saying, from the pavement he half rose,
Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm,
And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes
As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere
Remorsefully regarded thro’ his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words,
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him thro’ the place of tombs.

But, as he walk’d, King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sigh’d the King
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, “Quick, quick!
I fear it is too late, and I shall die.”
But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge,
Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walk’d
Larger than human on the frozen hills.
He heard the deep behind him, and a cry
Before. His own thought drove him like a goad.
Dry clash’d his harness in the icy caves
And barren chasms, and all to left and right
The bare black cliff clang’d round him, as he based
His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang
Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels—
And on a sudden, lo! the level lake,
And the long glories of the winter moon.

Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them; and descending they were ware
That all the decks were dense with stately forms
Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream—by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose
A cry that shiver’d to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur’d Arthur, “Place me in the barge,”
And to the barge they came. There those three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept.
But she that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loosed the shatter’d casque, and chafed his hands,
And call’d him by his name, complaining loud
And dropping bitter tears against his brow
Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white
And colourless, and like the wither’d moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash’d with drops
Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls—
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the daïs-throne—were parch’d with dust;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,
Mix’d with the knightly growth that fringed his lips.
So like a shatter’d column lay the King;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro’ the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere:
“Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Such times have been not since the light that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolved
Which was an image of the mighty world;
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.”

And slowly answer’d Arthur from the barge:
“The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.”

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look’d one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

Discovered a poem you didn’t know existed? Or have you written some of your own? Let me know in the comments below.

Hello, Autumn

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Yes… it’s March 21st, which means Autumn can officially start… in the Southern Hemisphere, that is. The previous twenty-one days were just a warm up… seeings as in Oz the weather can never make up its mind. I’m really over Summer, if you can’t tell.

This post is kind of two-fold today, as there’s been quite a lot going on in the niche I carved out for myself in the writing world, as small as it is now, I’m hopeful it’s going to grow into something huge. A girl can dream, right?

organic-inkTwo days ago, I received an acceptance for my poem, Petals, that I submitted two weeks prior and kept it completely under wraps. I truly believed I sucked at poetry, because I don’t really get how to write it. Like, I’ve always felt there’s a right way and a wrong way to write poetry and its instilled in me this immense fear of getting it wrong. So, I’ve totally just steered clear of it. Yeah, so I totally jumped out of my comfort zone for this submission and its surprisingly paid off. So, that of course lead to me submitting another poem, because I hate odd numbers… suffice to say, my second poem, Darkness, will also be appearing in the Dragon Soul Press anthology, Organic Ink, Volume One. Which will be published later this year. I can’t wait!

In other news, I’ve also submitted a drabble to another online only publication. This time it’s for Black Hare Press. I’m crossing my fingers (and toes) that I hear back soon.

Finally, I’ve also done a soft launch of my Patreon, which I’ve been debating for a long while whether to launch and I decided last night to just go ahead and do it… so, if there’s any interest at all, I’d be eternally grateful. There’s three tiers at the moment but I’m hoping to find news ways to give back to anyone who champions my cause, no matter how small, when time permits. If you would like to chip in, the link is HERE.

I truly hope that the Equinox finds you well. I really do love this time of year.