Daysong Graphics
Bitter Chivalry

Blessed Stranger, what have I done?

Daymonde shut his chamber door. The startled manservant straightened from laying out Daymonde’s wedding finery. As the man offered a hesitant bow, Daymonde could see in his thoughts the observation that the queen’s betrothed must have spent the night in solitary contemplation of what this day would hold.

Contemplation, aye, but hardly solitude.

Would that he had.

But too late, and he had a vow to keep. The elation of the past hours already faded into a cold sickness in the pit of his belly.

Could he bear to take Fiona as wife after this night?

Could he bear to face her and all her people if he did not?

The slight tingle of the presence of another’s Gift warned him just before the door flew back on its hinges.

Altnik Pearson’s amber eyes blazed, and though their minds remained veiled to each other, every line of his lean form bespoke fury. Daymonde gestured for the manservant to leave. Altnik held himself rigid, fists knotted at his side, until the door closed again. “You stupid, selfish fool!”

Bracing himself for a mental blast of rage that did not come, Daymonde retreated to his dressing table and poured a cup of mulled wine. He swished a mouthful of wine before swallowing. “You’ve seen her this fine morning, then?”

(Read More)
The Writerly Feeling

I could do this. Yeah, why not? I mean I’ve got a billion stories in my head. All I have to do is write them down.

The idea occurs to me as I peruse the books at the local Barnes & Noble. All these other people get published. I don’t see any reason why I can’t. I used to write stuff all the time. I can do it again.

I amble over to the writing section. Man. There are a lot of books on writing. “This one looks good.” I grab a copy of How Idiots Write Novels and a copy of A Cute Girl’s Guide to Grammar and head to the cash register.

At home I clear off my desk and pull out Mom’s old typewriter. Sure, I have a great new Mac, but this is much more romantic. Did Hemingway use a computer? I don’t think so. I insert some printer paper and begin typing. Shoot. Where’s that Wite-Out? Digging through the drawer, I find the bottle in the back corner behind a rubber-band ball. I struggle with the lid, finally prying it off only to find a white shell coating the inside of the bottle.

I grab a piece of paper and a pen. Wite-Out, I write. I stare at the three words typed on the paper—one of them a totally wrong word—and tap my teeth with the pen. Typewriter Ribbon.





(Read More)
Fossil Hunter