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Here are 7 Author Shoutouts for this week. Find your favorite author or discover an…

The post 7 Author Shoutouts | Authors We Love To Recommend appeared first on LitStack.

 

Alien Ghostshipby Bella Blair
What is it about:Jane: While scouting my assigned sector in our galaxy, I come upon an abandoned alien ship. A Ghostship. Excited to explore the deserted vessel, things soon turn strange as an eerie mist follows me wherever I go, even showing me the way to a cabin that appears to have been left in a hurry. Soon I discover, that I'm not only unable to leave the Alien Ghostship, but I begin to dream of a handssome, alien stranger. Is he the guy who left this ship in an obvious haste? 
WREN: Thanks to my copilot's betrayal, I have been a prisoner in this cave for I don't know how long. My only hope is that my prototype ship has left to find help, otherwise I'm afraid I will be doomed in here. One morning my tablet announces that somebody has boarded my ship. A woman of a species I have never seen before. Did she board my ship to steal it or to get help? And what is that mist that seems to follow her everywhere? And why do I suddenly begin dreaming of her? So real it is as if she were sitting right next to me. So alluring that all I care about is being with her. 
What did Voodoo Bride think of it:I got this as a freebie for signing up to Bella Blair's newsletter
This is a nice read.
It could have used a bit more editing, but I liked the story well enough to overlook the typo's and missing words.
The romance is fast, but enjoyable. It is a bit of a puzzle how the two are noticing and feeling each other, but that added a bit of suspense to it.
The ending was a bit too obviously trying to shove in lead characters of other books, but all in all ths was a pleasant read. I got several other freebies for signing up, all part of different series by Blair. I might try one of those to see if there's a series/world that captures me.
Why should you read it:It's a nice SciFi Romance.

Robert E. Howard in a photo sent to H.P. Lovecraft in 1931,
and Bran Mak Morn: The Last King (Del Rey, May 31, 2005)

January 22, 2025 was the 119th birthday of Robert E. Howard, my favorite author. The works of this great author resonate with countless fans to this day.

“Worms of the Earth” is my favorite story by Robert E. Howard. It features Bran Mak Morn, the last king of the Picts.

Howard was fascinated with Picts, his conception of whom was largely mythological, with splashes of real world history. The Picts in his stories span Kull, Conan, Bran, James Allison, and more.

Art and layout from “The Worms in Earth,” published in
Bran Mak Morn: The Last King. Art by Gary Gianni

Of this story, REH said, “Only in my last Bran story, The Worms of the Earth… did I look through Pictish eyes, and speak with a Pictish tongue!”

The attached pictures feature art by Gary Gianni, from the Del Rey paperback, Bran Mak Morn, The Last King. His illustrations of the witch-woman, Atla, are particularly good.

From “The Worms in Earth,” in Bran Mak Morn: The Last King

She was truly remarkable in the story, especially when she named her price for help to Bran:

What of my blasted and bitter life, I, whom mortal men loathe and fear? I have not known the love of men, the clasp of a strong arm, the sting of human kisses, I, Atla, the were-woman of the moors! What have I known but the lone winds of the fens, the dreary fire of cold sunsets, the whispering of the marsh grasses? – the faces that blink up at me in the waters of the meres, the foot-pad of night-things in the gloom, the glimmer of red eyes, the grisly murmur of nameless beings in the night!

I am half-human, at least! Have I not known sorrow and yearning and crying wistfulness, and the drear ache of loneliness? Give to me, king – give me your fierce kisses and your hurtful barbarian’s embrace. Then in the long drear years to come I shall not utterly eat out my heart in vain envy of the white-bosomed women of men; for I shall have a memory few of them can boast – the kisses of a king! One night of love, oh king, and I will guide you to the gates of Hell!

The Ultimate Triumph: The Heroic Fiction of Robert E. Howard
(Wandering Star, January 1, 1999). Art by Frank Frazetta.

The Ultimate Triumph ~ The Heroic Fiction of Robert E. Howard, illustrated by Frank Frazetta, is a prized treasure of mine, a gift that I received from my dear friend, Jim Goodwin.

“Beyond the Black River,” in The Ultimate Triumph: The Heroic Fiction of Robert E. Howard. Art by Frazetta

It features my favorite Conan story, “Beyond the Black River,” a recently discovered version of “The House of Arabu,” and several other rarities, poems, and one of my favorite letters that REH wrote to HPL regarding his stance on Civilization vs. Barbarism.

From The Ultimate Triumph: The Heroic Fiction of Robert E. Howard. Art by Frazetta

Sprinkled throughout this slipcased volume are incredible illustrations and paintings by the great Frank Frazetta. In fact, a foreword by Mr. Frazetta is also included, as well as an introduction by preeminent Howard scholar, Rusty Burke.

The title of this book is no misnomer, my friends — it truly is the ultimate triumph.

From The Ultimate Triumph: The Heroic Fiction of Robert E. Howard. Art by Frazetta

Robert E. Howard’s boxing stories may be his least read, because he’s so well known for Conan, Kull, Solomon Kane, Bran Mak Morn, El Borak, and several “Weird West” tales (a sub-genre that he is sometimes credited as the originator of).

But the boxing stories are excellent, too! They also include more humor than many of his other works (excepting the stories from A Gent from Bear Creek). Several of the “Sailor” Dennis Dorgan tales were not published during Robert’s lifetime, and those that were published were done so under his pseudonym, Patrick Ervin.

The Incredible Adventures of Dennis Dorgan (Fax Collector’s Editions, January 1, 1974))

In December 2022 I received the download files for “The Black Stone,” by Robert E. Howard. This dramatic presentation, recorded by the inimitable H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, may be (and please correct me if I’m wrong) the first time they have recorded an REH story. I couldn’t wait to listen to it! This is one of my favorite short stories.

Robert E. Howard’s The Black Stone (H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society, December 2022)

Robert E. Howard was an incredible innovator of sword-and-sorcery, weird fiction, horror, boxing, action/adventure, western, weird west stories, and more, as well as an equally impressive collection poems and verse. And he did almost all of it in a ten-year period from about age 20 to his passing at age 30, pounding away on an Underwood typewriter in a cramped, screened-in porch. I marvel at what he accomplished, and I wonder at what might have been.

If you are interested in the man and his life, I highly recommend Blood and Thunder, by Mark Finn.

Robert E. Howard postcard

I never imagined that a postcard would be sent to me from Robert E. Howard’s home town of Cross Plains, TX. And during the 100-year anniversary of Weird Tales magazine, no less! I am ever grateful to my dog brother, Mark Finn, for making this possible.

I first met Mark after I’d read his stellar biography Blood & Thunder. I wanted to express my gratitude and appreciation for his incredible work, and I soon learned (surprise, surprise; or, “surprize,” as REH spelled it) that he was a fellow tabletop RPG enthusiast and comic book fan. So, thank you, Mark! By this postcard you rule!

Jeffrey P. Talanian’s last article for Black Gate was a review of The Eye of Sounnu by Schuyler Hernstrom. He is the creator and publisher of the Hyperborea sword-and-sorcery and weird science-fantasy RPG from North Wind Adventures. He was the co-author, with E. Gary Gygax, of the Castle Zagyg releases, including several Yggsburgh city supplements, Castle Zagyg: The East Mark Gazetteer, and Castle Zagyg: The Upper Works. Read Gabe Gybing’s interview with Jeffrey here, and follow his latest projects on Facebook and at www.hyperborea.tv.

The White Mists of Power, Heart Readers, and Traitors made my reputation as a fantasy writer. Published worldwide to great acclaim, the books have been in print for years. But they haven’t been revamped since 2012. The interiors were old and tired, and the covers of the 2012 versions have not held up.

So we’re reissuing the books with a brand-new design. And, as we’ve been doing, we’re starting the relaunch with a Kickstarter. This Kickstarter contains more rewards than we usually have, because the original mass market books are part of the Kickstarter, signed by me.

As well as the very first edition of The White Mists of Power.

If you back the Kickstarter, you will get the brand-new ebook editions. You can get the newly redesigned hardcover or trade papers and…or…you can get the original older versions.

We have a lot of other fun items in this Kickstarter, so head on over and take a look.

We’re all sick of the villains, morally gray characters and the bad things we have to hear about constantly.

It’s time to switch things around and celebrate the best of the best supporting characters — they may not be the main protagonists, but they absolutely make every scene better just by existing. They’re the ride-or-dies, the problem-solvers, the comic relief, and we can trust they’ll never do things with evil intention.

While some heroes brood in the corner, these legends are out there actually getting things done. Vote wisely!

(And if you wish to revisit the results and heated discussion for the previous villain poll, you’ll find it here.)

The selection today:

Grandma Frida is the badass grandma we all wish we had. She can talk to tanks, fix tanks and drive tanks, but she also made her garage be the safe place for everyone to go when they need to pour their hearts out.

Orro is a seven-foot-tall, monstruous hedgehog alien chef who acts like Gordon Ramsay on a Shakespearean monologue spree. He lives for culinary perfection, feeding people until they levitate with joy and storming off into his Dramatic Woods. FIRE!

Leon lived his early teenage years thinking he was the only dud in a magical powerhouse family. Now, he’s an unparalleled killing machine, fueled by dead pan, sci-fi Westerns and the same big heart he’s always had.

Grendel is he a poodle? Is he an omen of death? All we know is he’s fluffy, even in nightmare Black Dog shape. His hobbies include vomiting, rolling in vomit, eating everything not nailed down, stealing our hearts…and being living proof that pets reflect their owners.

Gaston a gentleman of adventure, a spy, a gourmet smooth-talking rascal who could probably convince Death itself to take a vacation. If life were a swashbuckling novel, Gaston would be the one swinging from chandeliers mid-battle while winking at the enemy.

Andrea the sharpshooter ex-Order knight, now queen of the boudas – and she did it all in heels (whilst being a beastkin). She’s the kind of loyal best friend who brings snacks, shoots first, and asks questions if necessary.

Helen: we would fix all her ripper cushions! The adorable bacon menace who stole all our hearts also has a kill list, and is ready to defend her family with her Fangs, as any self-respecting warrior vampire princess would.

Cornelius impressed us with his ferrets, deadly frying pan skills, and pied piper song of grief. He is a proud father, a loyal friend and someone who could call on arcane animals to shred the enemy to pieces while sipping his tea. Terrifying? Yes. Lovable? Definitely.

Luther or Dr Loose Cannon to his detractors, is the scientist-magician-bestie every hero needs. His lectures, unexpected sass, hilarious T-shirts and ability to keep up with whatever post-apocalyptic Atlanta throws at Kate make him a true BDH treasure.

Note: There is a poll embedded within this post, please visit the site to participate in this post's poll.

The post Best of the Best poll – Sidekick Stars edition first appeared on ILONA ANDREWS.

 Doing a reread of this book before reading What Feasts at Night. 

The mushroom's gills were the deep-red color of severed muscle, the almost-violet shade that contrasts so dreadfully with the pale pink of viscera. I had seen it any number of times in dead deer and dying soldiers, but it startled me to see it here.
(page 1, What Moves the Dead by T. Kingfisher)
---------
Teaser Tuesdays is a weekly bookish meme, previously hosted by MizB of Should Be Reading. Anyone can play along! Just do the following: - Grab your current read - Open to a random page - Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!) - Share the title & author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their  TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

David Dalglish is in a groove as a fantasy writer. He tends to publish about a book or two per year, he juggles multiple series per year so there’s a decent chance he’s starting a new series. The Radiant King launches a brand new series, The Astral Kingdoms that is epic in scope. Gods? Angels?…

I received a review copy from the publisher. This does not affect the contents of my review and all opinions are my own.

The Third Rule of Time Travel by Philip Fracassi

Mogsy’s Rating: 4 of 5 stars 

Genre: Science Fiction

Series: Stand Alone

Publisher: Orbit (March 18, 2025)

Length: 325 pages

Author Information: Website

Time travel in science fiction has always been a fascinating yet challenging concept, teasing stories with endless potential while bringing its own unique set of headaches. Taking a bold step into this tricky domain of complex timelines and tangled paradoxes, Philip Fracassi brings us The Third Rule of Time Travel, a novel where the weight of memory and grief takes center stage.

The novel follows scientist Dr. Beth Darlow, who along with her late husband Colson had been developing a machine that allows the transport of the human consciousness through time and space. However, this form of time travel has limits. First, you can only travel within your own lifetime, so forget about going back to the dinosaurs or witnessing the fall of Rome. Second, there is no reliable way to know when and where your consciousness will end up, only that it can travel for no more than ninety seconds. Third, over the course of these ninety seconds, no interaction is possible, only observation. Due to the restraints on this particular tech, these three rules are immutable, with many mechanisms put in place to ensure that sending an individual’s consciousness to the past should not alter the present.

In the aftermath of Colson’s death, Beth is left to raise their young daughter on her own. She throws herself into her work, using the time machine to gather more data. But as the pressure mounts, her trips into the past become increasingly dangerous, with the machine seemingly to force her to relive her most traumatic moments. For Beth, whose life has been marked by plenty of grief—including the tragic loss of her parents and older sister in a plane crash during a childhood vacation, and Colson’s fatal car accident on her last her birthday—these painful memories threaten to shatter her. Then, a disturbing anomaly arises in the form of a discrepancy discovered between reality and the failsafe method designed to monitor changes in the present timeline. As the line between what is real and what is not begins to blur, Beth must do everything she can to hold onto her loved ones and her legacy.

Fracassi’s storytelling in The Third Rule of Time Travel is a riveting mix of fast-paced action punctuated by poignant, emotional beats. Tragedy has followed Beth since she was a kid, and the novel kicks off with a harrowing opening sequence, putting us in her head as her consciousness is transported to the worst moment of her life, as a way to introduce its time traveling elements. From this point onwards, the plot maintains strong momentum, keeping the interest going by making the reader care about Beth’s personal and professional life. The cutting-edge descriptions of the story’s time traveling method alongside the top-secret nature of the character’s work made it easy to keep turning the pages.

When it comes to characterization, Beth Darlow is a layered and sympathetic protagonist whose strength lies in her determination to keep living despite the recent loss of her husband, juggling both the important roles of scientist and now single mom. At home, she struggles with the guilt of hiring a nanny and having less time to spend with her daughter, while at work she seems to be constantly fighting time and funding constraints placed upon her by the company’s higher ups. But while this is undeniably Beth’s story, I feel that some of the supporting characters—the best friend, the research partner, the hard-ass boss, etc.—could have been better fleshed out to give the novel’s premise a more convincing boost.

There are also moments where this book stumbles under the weight of too much exposition, though going back to the complexities of time travel, I suppose a certain amount of info-dumping is to be expected. Most of these sections were thankfully brief and didn’t affect the pacing too much, and to his credit, Fracassi managed to get a lot of detail and explanation across without making it boring. Ultimately, the unique “three strict rules” imposed upon the author’s version of time traveling resulted in a thought-provoking read, emphasizing the psychological impotence one must experience when reliving a terrible life event with no power to change its course. That said, as is often the case with time travel stories, I didn’t feel like it stuck the landing. The climax and the ensuing confusion almost seemed intentional, as if discouraging you from overanalyzing and asking questions.

Still, at the end of the day, The Third Rule of Time Travel is a fresh and ambitious novel whose risks largely paid off. Despite a few minor stumbles here and there, the story managed to avoid major pitfalls that tend to plague hard science fiction time travel narratives—namely, the type of overly complicated or excessive minutiae that causes much frustration to readers. Overall, it was a worthwhile read that mades me appreciate the subgenre.

Sometimes meeting your soulmate happens under difficult circumstances.

Briella and Marcus, both suffering, find rays of light and each other, when events go horribly wrong.

A story of how love and caring win even over loss, and start to mend even the most broken hearts.

“The Mix-up” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.

 

The Mix-up By Kristine Kathryn Rusch

Briella Wilder felt silly driving back to the Rolling Hills Pet Memorial Park with the small and tasteful gray bag strapped into the passenger seat of her six-year-old Audi. She had a slight headache from repressing tears which—she thought—was a lose-lose situation. If she cried, then she couldn’t see the road. And if she didn’t, she got the headache.

Of course, she almost always got a headache after crying, hence lose-lose.

And there really wasn’t anyone she could talk with about losing Rochester, not someone who would understand. Her more insensitive friends were impatient with her. After all, she had lost cats to old age before, and she had two perfectly lovely Siamese at home, so, really, what was the problem?

The problem was that Rochester had been beside her for the past fifteen years. He had shown up at her new apartment in her new city, when she had been shaky and terrified to live alone.

Until that summer, she never had lived alone nor had she ever moved across country before. She knew back then that she needed a new start. Her parents had divorced and started new families and she had married the wrong man in the middle of that, maybe to prove to them that marriage worked.

Instead, she had learned that marriage was hard, and she and Del did not love each other enough to weather the ups and downs. He liked to say he left first, but that wasn’t accurate. They left together, on the same day, walking down the sidewalk away from the townhouse that had felt so very sterile, the way that people walked down an aisle as they exited a church.

Reverse wedding march, she had called it, and Del had snuff-laughed, something she always liked about him.

She liked most things about him—still did—but she had never really loved him. They had remained friends, though, and he had been the first to call her when she had texted that Rochester died.

Rochester. Hard to believe he fit into the tiny cat-shaped urn Rolling Hills had given her.

Or hadn’t fit, as the embarrassed owner of Rolling Hills told her that very morning.

Because the cremains in the urn beside her did not belong to Rochester. They belonged to another cat named Rose Chester. The extremely stressed receptionist had misheard, and given Briella the pretty little gray bag without following procedure.

No doublecheck on the last name, no need to present identification. Just Briella’s signature on a fancy little document, and then the receptionist had gone into the back and returned with the gray bag, that Briella had somehow known from the beginning did not belong to Rochester.

But she had assumed she had felt that way because Rochester was gone. He had struggled so hard at the end—a bony pile of long black fur which was steadily getting coarser due to illness, pretending that everything was all right, until he couldn’t anymore.

Even then, on that last morning, he had gotten up off his special catbed (which Briella had moved to the end of the couch during those final two weeks so that he could always be with her) to greet the home-care vet who was going to put him out of his misery.

He had toppled over on his way to her, and Briella had to pick him up, cradling him as she talked to the vet. It was obvious to all three of them that Rochester had used up all of his nine lives and then some.

Briella’s two Siamese —Brooklyn and Bronx—watched from their favorite hiding place under the stairs. They were a bonded pair that had met at the animal shelter and taken to each other. They liked Rochester, but they had never loved him.

Not like she had.

She swiped at her left eye, because it was betraying her by filling with tears. Fortunately, she had turned on the wide side street that led to the memorial park.

The park was startlingly big, partly because it was almost as old as the city. The park was green, with actual rolling hills and large pine trees. There was a manmade pond in the center, with benches all around it. The benches had iron railings that were decorated with little cat and dog heads. The feet were, of course, clawed.

She had gone into the park three days after Rochester died and sat quietly, staring at the pond. That was the day Rolling Hills had called to let her know that his remains were ready. Or cremains, as they insisted on calling them.

She had gathered herself enough to go inside the little white building, when a couple stormed out, still screaming at each other. She had hoped for peace, and had instead found turmoil.

Turmoil everywhere.

And the poor receptionist tried her best that day. She had been shaking from the encounter, trying not to cry herself, and yet somehow remaining professional. She had even—with empathy—told Briella that she was ever so sorry for her loss.

Briella had believed her. But Briella had never believed that the little urn held her heart-cat. And she had told herself that the reason was because she had never received the cremains of a cat before, even though she had cremated three others.

She just couldn’t bear to part with whatever was left of Rochester. And yet, it turned out, she had.

She pulled into the narrow parking lot in front of the white building. There was another, wider lot, for people who wanted to visit their pets in the cemetery. She had seen the little headstones, some with lifelike statues of a cat or a dog or, in one case, a rabbit, but she couldn’t imagine leaving Rochester there. That felt like abandoning him.

He had hated the outdoors so very much. He never wanted to leave the warmth and safety of indoors, not after she had rescued him.

Another car, a newish dark blue sedan, sat at the other side of the narrow parking lot. For a moment, Briella stared at the vehicle, trying to see if someone was inside. As emotionally fragile as she was at the moment, she didn’t really need to see another screaming fight outside of this building.

But the car appeared empty, and it was parked far away enough that it might have belonged to a staff member.

Briella sighed, and stepped out of her car into the spring sunshine. The sun wasn’t warm, but its thin light was comforting. She wiped at her eyes again, then reached back inside the car and removed the tasteful gray bag.

The braided handle was soft between her fingers, and the bag itself was thick and pleasant to the touch. It struck her that this was not the type of place that made obvious mistakes, particularly ones that would cause the pet parents even more grief.

The owner had to have been mortified.

Briella took a deep breath, and crossed the lot. Last time she had been here, two days ago, she hadn’t noted how clean the white exterior was or the beautiful calligraphy in the same gray as the bag which suggested the rolling hills of the business’s name.

She opened the door and stepped inside, then blinked at the sudden dimness. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

The entry was clean and wide, with a few seats along one wall. There were pamphlets on grief and a display of urns that looked like they had been taken from a museum.

A small door opened into a hallway Briella had never ventured down. If the tiny map on the corner of the desk was accurate, they included viewing rooms and places for families to mourn, just like a human mortuary had.

A man was standing near the reception desk, blocking Briella’s view of the receptionist. The man was wearing a shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders. His dark hair rested on the back of his collar a bit unevenly, suggesting that it needed a trim. He was taller than she was and looked strong, but nothing in his posture suggested that he was angry.

Briella hung back, so that she wouldn’t call attention to herself. At first, she thought there was going to be conversation, but there wasn’t: no one sat in the reception chair.

A woman that Briella hadn’t seen before came out of the back area, and said as she did, “Mr. Chester, if you’ll just wait in the back. It’ll take a minute—”

“Mr. Chester?” Briella blurted before she could stop herself. “You’re Rose’s…”

She let the name dangle, because she wasn’t sure what to call him. Some people objected to owner. Others thought pet parent too precious by half.

The man turned. He had a strong face, with flat cheekbones and a square jaw. His skin was light brown and he had deep circles under his eyes.

He looked as sad as she felt.

“Yes?” he asked.

She held up the bag. “I think this might be yours.”

“Let me.” The receptionist hurried over and took the bag. She was an older woman, wearing tan dress pants and a blue and tan patterned blouse that would hide any stain.

Briella recognized her voice. This was the woman who had called that morning.

“Let’s get you to the back room,” she said. “I need to confirm…”

And then she shook her head, as if somehow, she was editing the experience as she was having it.

“I’m so sorry about the confusion,” she said. “We don’t run our business like this. I don’t know what happened, but I can assure you, it won’t happen again.”

“I know what happened,” Briella said. “You had a couple in here that was having a screaming fight over their pet. I got the sense they were no longer together. It felt…”

She wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence either. The word she wanted was violent and it seemed like a violation of the peace in this place.

But the other two waited, until she finished her sentence.

“It was scary,” she said, deciding not to go with violent. “I saw them on the way out.”

Mr. Chester nodded, his gaze meeting Briella’s. He seemed to understand what she was saying.

“I was here when they arrived,” he said. “They were furious with each other. Your poor receptionist wouldn’t give either of them the cremains they asked for, because apparently, there’s some kind of legal battle…?”

“Oh,” the owner said. “I know who they are. And yes, there’s a legal battle. They’re not supposed to come here in person anymore. I didn’t realize…”

She closed her eyes, catching herself. Then she shook her head again, and opened her eyes, not looking any calmer.

“But that’s not an excuse,” she said. “We try to make your experience here as smooth as possible, and we failed that. When we call you, we set your loved ones in a different area, alphabetically, and we—”

“It’s all right,” Mr. Chester said. “Really. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Yes, but this…” The owner’s voice broke. “We’ve never had this happen before.”

“And I’m sure it won’t happen again,” Briella said. “I used to do crisis management for businesses—” and she had hated every minute of it, which was why she quit. “—and we found that when a serious mistake happened, the business put new systems in place to make sure the mistake would never happen again.”

The woman nodded, then her expression changed, becoming just a bit hooded. Her professional look, most likely.

“For what it’s worth,” Briella said, “I never even opened the bag. Everything here is exactly as you gave it to me.”

“Me too.” Mr. Chester swept his hand—also square with long fingers—toward a bag on the table. “I wasn’t…I don’t know.” He smiled, but it was an uncomfortable smile. “I didn’t…um…I don’t know if I wasn’t ready to face the loss of Rose or…it just didn’t feel like her.”

“Yes,” the woman said, and it was clear from her tone that she had launched into her canned speech. “These are just reminders of loved ones.”

She leaned forward and took the bag that Mr. Chester had brought as well.

“If you would like,” she said, “there are family rooms in the back, if you want to wait in private. I know how hard this is.”

But something in the woman’s eyes said she didn’t know, that this was still new.

“We have markers on each urn to ensure that the right one goes to the right family. I just need to check our system, which is also in the back. I’ll take you back there, if you would like.”

“I don’t mind waiting here,” Briella said. She really didn’t want to see all of the workings of a pet mortuary. This experience had been tough enough without putting images in her head that might never go away.

“I’ll stay too,” Mr. Chester said, then looked at Briella. “If you don’t mind…?”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

“It might take fifteen minutes or so,” the woman said. “You might be more comfortable.”

“Take your time,” Mr. Chester said, and somehow managed not to sound like a man who wanted to add and get it right.

The woman nodded, then disappeared through that door clutching both bags.

Briella had a hunch the woman would check and double-check and go through each system as carefully as possible, before she brought the bags back out.

Mr. Chester moved to the display of urns, hands clasped behind his back. Briella sat in the chair closest to the window. The chair was on the same wall as the door that the woman had gone through. Briella did not want to watch the door, as if she were in a hurry.

She really wasn’t. She worked at home now, in the quiet, and could adjust her day if she needed to. She had promised herself that she would take it easy after Rochester died, and not put pressure on anything.

After a moment, Mr. Chester sat in a chair across from her. The entry wasn’t that big, so they weren’t sitting far from each other.

He looked over at the reception desk, with its empty chair. “You don’t think the receptionist got fired, do you?”

“I hope not,” Briella said. “Everyone’s allowed one mistake.”

He smiled. This time the smile was soft, and suited his face. “Let’s hope this doesn’t get counted as two mistakes.”

Briella nodded. “I’m Briella,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“And yours,” he said. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” she said, and then realized what she had said. “Despite the circumstances.”

His smile faded just a bit. “I left work to come here. No one there seemed to understand why I thought it was important to bring the bag back. They thought it could wait.”

“Yeah,” Briella said. “I kept thinking about someone else, wanting their pet, and not getting even the right…what do they call it?”

“Cremains,” he said in a tone that suggested he didn’t like the word.

“So I came right away too,” she said.

“Good thing,” he said. “Then we don’t need to make a third trip here, not that this is a bad place.”

“Exactly,” she said. “When the mobile vet told me about it, I was picturing, you know, horror movie crematoriums.”

With smoke coming out of the roof and a dirty trailer park front office, a man smoking a cigarette who took the body and tossed it on a pile.

She didn’t say any of that, but maybe she didn’t have to, because Mr. Chester—Marcus—smiled.

“Me too.” He leaned forward just a bit. “What was your cat’s name?” Then he caught himself. “Cat, right?”

“Cat,” she said. “His name was Rochester.”

“Rochester,” Marcus said. “Rose Chester.” He nodded. “I can see that.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“Why Rochester?” he asked. “The name?”

“That’s where I was living,” she said, “when he showed up. In New York, not Minnesota. All my cats have New York names now.”

“All?” Marcus asked. “You have other cats.”

“Two,” she said. “They’re bonded pair. Bronx and Brooklyn. I’m not sure they care that Rochester is gone.”

He rubbed a hand on his knees, a bit nervously. “Rose didn’t like other cats. Just me.” He shrugged. “I suspect she would consider it a betrayal if I got a cat, even though she’s gone.”

“Or maybe she would want you to be happy,” Briella sa.

“Naw,” he said. “She really wanted me to herself.” He chuckled, lost in a memory. Then he sighed. “The place is quiet without her.”

“It’s not quiet at my place,” Briella said. “Those two play a lot. But Rochester followed me everywhere. He was my shadow from the moment we met.”

“Sounds like he had a lot in common with Rose,” Marcus said.

“Was she jealous of you spending time with people?” Briella asked. She had heard about cats like that.

“She hated my last girlfriend,” Marcus said. “Turns out, Rose was right.”

Briella nodded. “Yeah, Rochester had a radar about anyone I brought home as well. I’ll miss that. The two Bs don’t have that kind of radar.”

The woman came out of the back with two bags. They were two different shades of gray. One was slightly darker than the other. She set them on the desk.

“I was as careful as I could be,” she said. “I put everything in new bags. Yours is the darker bag, Mr. Chester, but if you would like, you can go through it and make sure.”

Marcus stood, and walked over to the bags. He picked up the tag on the side. Then looked inside. “It appears to be in order,” he said.

“And Ms Wilder, if you want to look at yours,” the woman said.

Briella stood. She didn’t have to look. She knew, somehow, that bag belonged to Rochester, just as surely as she knew that the previous one hadn’t.

Still, she looked at the tag and then peered inside at the pamphlets, the framed paw print, and the tiny little urn with a cat face along the top that looked nothing at all like Rochester.

“Would it make you feel better if we checked the numbers?” she asked the woman.

“No, no,” she said. “I had my assistant help me. Not the receptionist you saw, but the one…”

She mercifully let that sentence trail off. Briella didn’t want to know what all of the jobs were in this building.

“I don’t need to double-check,” Briella said, and knew better than to ask Marcus if he did. She didn’t want to put pressure on him.

“This is Rose,” he said and hefted the little bag as if it held the weight of a gigantic personality.

“All right,” the woman said. “Again, I’m so sorry for the mixup and if you need anything from us or the next time—”

“It’s fine,” Briella said, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence either. It was probably something like the next time you need our services which was not anything she wanted to think about. Not this week. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” the woman said. “I appreciate the understanding.”

“I’m glad you cleared it up,” Marcus said, and then he walked to the door. He pulled it open, letting the lovely spring sunshine inside. He held the door for Briella, and she walked through, stepping into the faint scent of roses. Only then did she realize some were blooming near the door.

Marcus followed her out. He looked at the other car in the lot, so obviously his. He was about to say something, but Briella spoke first.

“I, um…this might be odd, but would you and Rose like to get some coffee?”

He glanced at the bag as if he were checking with it. “We would love to,” he said. “But I suspect Rose will remain in the car. She was never the adventurous type.”

“Neither was Rochester,” Briella said. “We passed a coffee shop about a mile from here. If you want…”

“I’d love some,” Marcus said, “if you don’t mind me boring you with Rose stories.”

“Only if I can counter by convincing you how brilliant Rochester was,” Briella said.

He smiled. She was beginning to like how easy his smile was and how often he was willing to share it.

“I would love to hear about Rochester,” he said. “I’ll follow you to the coffee shop, since I don’t remember seeing it.”

Something in that sentence let her know that he had been too upset to notice. Something else they shared.

“You just hit the main road and turn left,” she said. “I promise I won’t drive too fast.”

“All right,” he said, and headed to his car, carefully putting the bag with Rose into the front passenger side. When Briella saw him put the seatbelt over the bag, she knew that they had a lot more in common than the loss of a special pet.

She went to her car, and strapped Rochester in. Then she backed out, saw that Marcus was waiting, waved, and headed down the street.

She was most of the way to the main road when she realized that the tears no longer threatened. She had no idea what would come of coffee with Marcus, and she wasn’t sure that mattered, not in the long run.

But in the short run, it would be lovely to discuss Rochester with someone who understood the loss of a family member—and felt it, as deeply as she did, every single day.

 

For Cheepy

___________________________________________

“The Mix-up” is available for one week on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores, as well as here.

Copyright © 2025 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Published by WMG Publishing
Cover and Layout copyright © 2025 by WMG Publishing
Cover design by WMG Publishing
Cover art copyright © Canva

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

 

People often ask why Nancy and I moved to New York when we left the Appalachians. We could have settled pretty much anywhere, but we chose an area — the Hudson River Valley — that few think of as a retirement destination. The fact is, a main reason we came here was to be near my brother and sister-in-law, whom we adore.

Jim and me, birding in Arizona.

As it happens, this is my brother’s birthday week, and so I am afforded a wonderful opportunity to embarrass him.

James Coe — Jim to me; Jimmy when we were much younger — is just about my very favorite person in the world. He is older than I am. I won’t say by how much, but trust me, it’s A LOT!! When we were kids, I wanted to do everything he did, often to his dismay. He was my babysitter, my early-life mentor, occasionally my tormentor, but throughout all my years my best friend. He was the one who interested me (and our oldest brother, Bill) in birdwatching. He shaped my early musical tastes, introducing me to James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, Crosby Stills and Nash, Carole King, Simon and Garfunkel, not to mention the Monkees and Young Rascals. Later, as I got older, he was my guide to jazz. He saw to it that I discovered pizza. He risked parental sanction by lighting off firecrackers for my entertainment (and the satisfaction of his own pronounced pyromaniacal tendencies).

Jim is a remarkably talented artist — you can find samples of his work, as well as his very impressive biography, here — and all kidding aside, his courage in pursuing his own unconventional artistic career emboldened me to do something similar in pursuit of my passion for writing fantasy. In a sense, I owe my career to his example. His art is all over our walls, and for all of my adult life, the best gift I could receive for any birthday has been an original James Coe painting. Over the years, he has been incredibly generous in that regard.

He is a bold and creative chef, an accomplished baker whose from-scratch bread rivals Nancy’s (and that, my friends, is saying something). He is wise and caring, a wonderful Dad to his talented, beautiful children, Jonah and Rachel, a loving spouse to his spectacularly brilliant wife, Karen, and a marvelous uncle to our girls. He is, to this day, my favorite birding companion, my constant partner in silliness, my beloved big brother.

So, please wish Jim a happy birthday, and really do check out his website. He is annoyingly talented.

Love you, Coe.

People often ask why Nancy and I moved to New York when we left the Appalachians. We could have settled pretty much anywhere, but we chose an area — the Hudson River Valley — that few think of as a retirement destination. The fact is, a main reason we came here was to be near my brother and sister-in-law, whom we adore.

Jim and me, birding in Arizona.

As it happens, this is my brother’s birthday week, and so I am afforded a wonderful opportunity to embarrass him.

James Coe — Jim to me; Jimmy when we were much younger — is just about my very favorite person in the world. He is older than I am. I won’t say by how much, but trust me, it’s A LOT!! When we were kids, I wanted to do everything he did, often to his dismay. He was my babysitter, my early-life mentor, occasionally my tormentor, but throughout all my years my best friend. He was the one who interested me (and our oldest brother, Bill) in birdwatching. He shaped my early musical tastes, introducing me to James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, the Beatles, Crosby Stills and Nash, Carole King, Simon and Garfunkel, not to mention the Monkees and Young Rascals. Later, as I got older, he was my guide to jazz. He saw to it that I discovered pizza. He risked parental sanction by lighting off firecrackers for my entertainment (and the satisfaction of his own pronounced pyromaniacal tendencies).

Jim is a remarkably talented artist — you can find samples of his work, as well as his very impressive biography, here — and all kidding aside, his courage in pursuing his own unconventional artistic career emboldened me to do something similar in pursuit of my passion for writing fantasy. In a sense, I owe my career to his example. His art is all over our walls, and for all of my adult life, the best gift I could receive for any birthday has been an original James Coe painting. Over the years, he has been incredibly generous in that regard.

He is a bold and creative chef, an accomplished baker whose from-scratch bread rivals Nancy’s (and that, my friends, is saying something). He is wise and caring, a wonderful Dad to his talented, beautiful children, Jonah and Rachel, a loving spouse to his spectacularly brilliant wife, Karen, and a marvelous uncle to our girls. He is, to this day, my favorite birding companion, my constant partner in silliness, my beloved big brother.

So, please wish Jim a happy birthday, and really do check out his website. He is annoyingly talented.

Love you, Coe.

In Gifted and Talented, three siblings are forced to reckon with their long-festering rivalries, dangerous…

The post Spotlight on “Gifted and Talented” by Olivie Blake appeared first on LitStack.

Confession time, guys. I think I might have a drinking problem.

Really? No one could have guessed that. I’m surrounded by idiots.

There’s one above you.

And one below you.

We are legion. Also, why are you all upside down?

I have occasionally strayed off topic here at Black Gate, KISS, the Beach Boys, Humphrey Bogart…stuff like that. I played tee-ball as a tyke and have loved baseball my whole life. With a new season dawning (one in which my beloved Dodgers are the reigning World Series champs for the fourth time since I was born), I wanted to talk baseball. And I think that sharing about Don Newcombe is the way to do it.

In 1949’s (sappy) It Happens Every Spring, Ray Milland’s chemistry professor suffers through his life half of the year, to get to baseball season.

Lord Tenneyson said ‘In the Spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.’ For a long time, it was baseball, not love, that young men thought of in American Spring.

When Spring Training would roll around in Florida (and then later, also in Arizona), I used to say “If they’re playing baseball somewhere, there’s till some hope for the world.” I’m not sure I believe that in these messed-up days. But the Dodgers (the epitome of a small-market, hard-working franchise, competing against big city, big money teams – HA HA HA) are working out and playing games in Arizona. It’s baseball season, which helps me ignore that my Ohio wind chill is 15 degrees right now.

The Dodgers and Yankees met in the World Series in 1947, 1949, 1952, 1953, 1955 and 1956. It was a glorious era for NYC baseball (and the Giants were a powerhouse as well), though Brooklyn managed to win only the 1955 matchup.

The greatest advantage that the Yankees had was their starting pitching. Whether it was Eddie Lopat, Allie Reynolds, Whitey Ford, Bob Kuzava or Don Larsen, the Bronx Bombers always seemed to come up with somebody in big moments (if not for Cookie Lavagetto, Bill Bevens would be included on that list).

Rick Monday, Newcombe, Sandy Koufax, and Steve Garvey

During this era, Don Newcombe rose above other Dodger would-be aces such as Carl Erskine, Ralph Branca and Johnny Podres (though the latter certainly carried the flag in the 1955 Series). Big Newk missed the 1952 and 1953 seasons, as he was serving his country, fighting in Korea. And his 1954 season was a poor one: it took him a year to get back to form after being released from service.

But from 1949-1951 and 1955-1956, Newcombe went a combined 103-40, with 92 complete games. Those are some impressive numbers for the 1949 Rookie of the Year.

However, he got a reputation as a choker in big games. He went all ten innings against the Phillies on the final day of the 1950 season, with the Dodgers needing a win to force a playoff. But he gave up a three run homer to Dick Sisler in the top of the tenth in the season-ending 4-1 loss (which would have been a win if third base coach Milt Stock had simply held Cal Abrams at third in the bottom of the ninth).

He carried a 4-1 lead into the ninth inning of that famous game three playoff against the Giants in 1951. But he couldn’t hold on and he had been relieved by Ralph Branca when Bobby Thomson hit the home run heard round the world.

And in three World Series’, he just couldn’t get the job done for the Dodgers. He started 5 games, going 0-4 with an ERA of 8.59 and lasting about 4 innings a start. Dominating regular season, poor post-season: Shades of a great lefty named Clayton Kershaw, several decades and thousands of miles West, later (Kershaw is my second-favorite Dodger, after Jackie Robinson).

In 1956, he won the (very first) Cy Young Award and the NL MVP, going 27-7. But in the World Series he couldn’t make it out of the second inning of game two or the fourth in game seven. His drinking more directly impacting his performance, as well as his shoulder wearing out from the overuse, his career was effectively done, and he went a combined 37-42 in the four years after that Cy Young season.

He spent 1961 in the minors and he finished in Japan in 1962, as a first baseman. Newcombe was a career.268 batter, with 7 homers in 1955. He could have been a major league hitter.

A Trailblazer

Newcombe was one of the first black players signed by the Dodgers. He and Roy Campanella played with Nashua of the New England League (B) in 1946. Newcombe returned there in 1947 (striking out 186), while Campanella played at AAA Montreal, and Jackie Robinson changed the world in Brooklyn.

Newcombe was dominant in his two years at Nashua, going 33-10 with an ERA well under 3. He probably would have played in AA ball in 1947 but the Dodgers’ two AA teams were in the South and not yet ready to be integrated. Apparently AAA wasn’t the best option, as it had been for Robinson and Campanella.

In 1948 he went 17-6 at AAA Montreal (while Campy began his Hall of Fame career in Brooklyn). He threw his only no hitter, won three games in the first round of the International League Playoffs (losing another game 0-1), and then won a game in the Governor’s Cup series. He then went 1-1 as the Royals defeated the Dodgers’ other AAA team (St. Paul) for the Junior World Series. Newcombe dominated AAA.

He got called up to the Dodgers early in 1949. He was only the second black pitcher in the major leagues and the first good one (Dan Bankhead pitched in four games for the Dodgers in 1947).

Jackie Robinson deserves every praise and accolade. But Don Newcombe was the first man to prove an African-American could pitch in the major leagues. He hit 3 batters as a rookie, and 6 his third year. But there were no racial issues about a black pitcher hitting a white batter. It didn’t hurt that he was 6’-4”, 220. But his success, and his acceptance on the field, made him a pioneer, though he never received the credit he deserved for that.

Close to Cooperstown

His raw numbers are lacking in HoF dazzle: 153-96, with a 3.57 ERA.

He does have one Rookie of the Year, one MVP, and one Cy Young award, along with one World Series ring, and he was a four-time All Star. That’s what is. But we can also look at a few ‘What ifs.’

There are four distinct elements of his career that might have changed his possible Hall of Fame path:

1) Newcombe’s first two seasons were spent with the Newark Eagles in the Negro Leagues. It’s fair to say that he might have developed more quickly with two years in the Dodgers’ system. But he was only 18 that first year. Maybe the hard experience of playing in the Negro Leagues had some benefits for him.

2) He lost a season, maybe two, to baseball’s color barrier. It’s a foregone conclusion that he would have done better than Dan Bankhead did. He was 17-8 with 19 complete games and a league-leading 5 shutouts as a 23 year-old rookie. That’s a pretty good start.

3) And he lost nearly two peak seasons to the Korean War. Plus his first year back was basically a lost one as well. He easily could have had three more 20 win/single-digit loss seasons.

Give him 60 more wins for the Korean War years, and there would be a dozen pitchers with fewer wins who are in the Hall of Fame, including two Dodgers (Don Drysdale, Dazzy Vance).

4) Finally, had Newcombe pitched better in the World Series (especially in 1956), he might well have continued on as one of the NL’s top pitchers, instead of spiraling deep into alcoholism.

With two more outs, it’s Newcombe, not Bobby Thomson, who is the hero of the 1951 NL playoff series (playoffs only occurred if two teams were tied at the end of the season. MLB did not adopt divisions and regular playoffs until 1969).

And with post-season success, the media might have lightened up (racism was certainly involved, but everyone loves a winner – somewhat). And he might have been more at ease if he wasn’t so clenched up inside from the criticism (Conversely, Newcombe was not appropriately praised for when he excelled, which he often did.).

That fourth factor (the postseason) was certainly within his control. But if the first three things had gone a bit differently, Don Newcombe might well be in the Hall of Fame today.

He and Justin Verlander are the only players to win the Rookie of the Year, Cy Young and MVP awards. That speaks volumes.

He Was Criticized Unjustly in the Press

If you’ve read books about Jackie Robinson, you know the abuse that racist sportswriters (and fans, and players, and…) heaped upon him. Other early trailblazers like Newcombe were also the subject of vitriol. On September 14, 1951, Tommy Holmes of the Brooklyn Eagle – under the headline Is Newcombe Ailment a Case of Imaginatis? – wrote a scathing, rumor and innuendo-filled attack on Newcombe, which never would have been written about a white pitcher. Excerpts can be found in Jon Weisman’s book on Dodgers pitching, Brother in Arms. It’s a pathetic piece of non-objective ‘journalism’.

For example, Holmes asserts that ‘experts’ expected Newcombe to win 30 games that season, and instead of doing so, he was complaining about a sore arm. Dizzy Dean won 30 games in 1934. Exactly one pitcher has done so (that’s a good trivia question – go look it up) in the 90 seasons since. Holmes wrote an ‘uppity negro’ piece on Newcombe, and it was wrong in EVERY way.

As Chuck Dressen desperately tried to stop the Dodgers’ epic collapse (they led by 13 games in August), he kept throwing a tired (Newk led the team in innings pitched and had 18 complete games) and sore-armed Newcombe out there.

Newcombe started on September 17th, lasting only 6 and two-thirds. On the 22nd, he only made it 5 innings. On the 26h, he threw a complete game in a 15-5 win (you think Dressen couldn’t have given him a few innings off in a ten run win?). Only three days later on the 29th, it was a complete game shutout. And the very next day in the must-win season-finale, Dressen had him pitch 5 and two-thirds innings of relief. Big Newk gave up one hit and no runs as the Dodgers won 9-8, forcing the three-game playoff that made Bobby Thomson a baseball legend.

On only two days rest, after that heavy workload, Newcombe pitched 8 and one-third innings in that third-game loss. He had performed an even more impressive feat of carrying the team to the final day of the season the year before.

Holmes and other writers (and NYC baseball writers were celebrities in their day) wrote about Newcombe from their racist beliefs, not as objective observers. He was a workhorse who carried Dodgers teams to the brink of championships.

Alcoholism and Rebirth

Newcombe succumbed to life-long alcoholism. While he made the choice to drink, the unrelenting (and unreasonable) pressure he was subjected to, along with racist abuse, surely contributed to its severity. He declared bankruptcy in 1965 (he sold his World Series ring, which future Dodgers owner Peter O’Malley later bought and returned to him), and later divorced.

But he stopped drinking, straightened out his life, and was the Dodgers’ Director of Community Relations for over forty-five years, passing away in 2019. He became a leader in several organizations inside and outside of baseball, related to beating alcoholism.

Newcombe reflected on his career being cut short:

“I was only 34, but the alcohol had taken its toll. I think it shortened my major-league career by about six or seven years. I regret that I didn’t take better care of myself in the latter part of my career because I would like to have made the Hall of Fame, where I think I belong.”

Don Newcombe was haunted by his own demons, but found his own personal redemption. And with better handling on the Dodgers’ part; a few more seasons in the majors; and some more self-control, he could well be in Cooperstown today.

Newcombe recounted a conversation he had with Martin Luther King Jr.:

“Do you want to know what Jackie’s impact was? Well, let Martin Luther King tell you. In 1968, Martin had dinner in my house with my family. This was 28 days before he was assassinated. He said to me, ‘Don, I don’t know what I would have done without you guys setting up the minds for people for change. You, Jackie (Robinson) and Roy (Campanella) will never know how easy you made it for me to do my job.’ Can you imagine that? How easy we made it for Martin Luther King?”

He was an under-appreciated trailblazer, who rewrote his own personal story and played a major part in Dodgers’ history, on and off the field. And he wasn’t as far from a Hall of Fame career as one might think. It’s a shame no one worked with him to write a biography. It would have been a terrific book. He passed in 2019.

Bob Byrne’s ‘A (Black) Gat in the Hand’ made its Black Gate debut in 2018 and has returned every summer since.

His ‘The Public Life of Sherlock Holmes’ column ran every Monday morning at Black Gate from March, 2014 through March, 2017. And he irregularly posts on Rex Stout’s gargantuan detective in ‘Nero Wolfe’s Brownstone.’ He is a member of the Praed Street Irregulars, founded www.SolarPons.com (the only website dedicated to the ‘Sherlock Holmes of Praed Street’).

He organized Black Gate’s award-nominated ‘Discovering Robert E. Howard’ series, as well as the award-winning ‘Hither Came Conan’ series. Which is now part of THE Definitive guide to Conan. He also organized 2023’s ‘Talking Tolkien.’

He has contributed stories to The MX Book of New Sherlock Holmes Stories — Parts III, IV, V, VI, XXI, and XXXIII.

He has written introductions for Steeger Books, and appeared in several magazines, including Black Mask, Sherlock Holmes Mystery Magazine, The Strand Magazine, and Sherlock Magazine.

 

 

 

 

Buy The Raven Scholar

FORMAT/INFO: The Raven Scholar will be published on April 15th, 2025 by Orbit Books. It will be available in paperback, ebook, and audiobook formats.

OVERVIEW/ANALYSIS: Every 24 years, seven contenders from seven warrior temples match wits and blades in a series of trials designed to pick the next emperor of Orrun. It's a tradition that has largely ensured a peaceful transition of power for over 1500 years. But this year, one of the contestants is murdered on the eve of the competition. High Scholar Neema Kraa is charged with solving the murder, plunging her into a web of palace secrets. It isn't long before Neema realizes that people will kill to keep their secrets - and the only path to survival might be becoming emperor herself.

The Raven Scholar is an intricate, mesmerizing tangle of palace intrigue. This is a story with secrets upon secrets upon SECRETS. It's almost too many secrets, except that they are so carefully woven together, it makes the plot a delight to unwrap. Each revelation casts new light on past actions and motivations, while still keeping you guessing as to who the actual murderer is. If you're just here for the murder mystery alone, you'll have plenty to keep you entertained.

All of this is supported by the very deliberate pacing of the book. The Raven Scholar takes its time setting up the story. Lead character Neema Kraa doesn't arrive on the scene for multiple chapters, and the murder itself doesn't take place for well over 100 pages. But every chapter leading up to the murder is all in service of setting up the cast of characters, their relationships, and some very important recent historical events that personally affected everyone.

Most importantly, the story itself never drags, constantly making me want to read more. There are some doozy revelations that left me wide-eyed as I encountered the dark secrets in a character's past or realized the implication of new information. Again, it borders on too many things, but it's all so deftly woven together, it stopped short of feeling overstuffed.

I also applaud The Raven Scholar for being a story that is brutal and bloody without being gory and grim. Make no mistake, people will die and some very bad things will happen, but the author cuts away before it becomes too much. She also balances it out with a thread of humor strung throughout. Characters like the mischievous Fox warrior Cain or the ever dramatic Sol help break up the doom and gloom with some much needed levity.

 I also have to shout out the magnificent use of the narrator in the story. While Neema is the lead character and the story is told in third person, this is being recounted to us by another. I won't spoil the surprise of who, but suffice to say it is deployed wonderfully. The bulk of the story follows Neema, but every now and then it swings away to follow other characters for a little bit, in a manner fully justified by the choice of narrator.

Neema herself is a scrappy, if brusque, lead. But most importantly, Neema is smart and she is competent, two of my favorite things in a protagonist. Her intellect and drive have made her one of the foremost scholars of her day. Unfortunately, her background of hailing from a backwater town prevents her from being able to easily navigate the political waters of the court. It's not that she doesn't understand the game, it's that the elite courtiers would rather shut her down than play the game with her at all, no matter how high she rises.

CONCLUSION: The Raven Scholar checks every box of things I love in a book. It has a compelling lead, a mystery that truly keeps you guessing, and a brutal competition for the throne. This is the kind of book that when I wasn't reading it, I was thinking about wanting to read it. I powered through the final 200 pages in one sitting because I simply couldn't stand dragging it out any longer. I had to inject this book into my veins as soon as possible, and now I'm staring at that most dreadful fate: waiting for the next book. But given how amazingly well done this first book was, I have every confidence that I will devour the sequel with equal speed.

  

>the provisional release date is 4th November, 2025.
Let’s go!!!

The Leaning Pile of Books is a feature in which I highlight books I got over the last week that sound interesting—old or new, bought or received in the mail for review consideration. Since I hope you will find new books you’re interested in reading in these posts, I try to be as informative as possible. If I can find them, links to excerpts, author’s websites, and places where you can find more information on the book are included, along […]

The post The Leaning Pile of Books first appeared on Fantasy Cafe.

Gollum sat up again and looked at him under his eyelids. ‘He’s over there,’ he cackled. ‘Always there. Orcs will take you all the way. Easy to find Orcs east of the River. Don’t ask Sméagol. Poor, poor Sméagol, he went away long ago. They took his Precious, and he’s lost now.’

‘Perhaps we’ll find him again, if you come with us,’ said Frodo.

‘No, no, never! He’s lost his Precious,’ said Gollum.

Sméagol from The Taming of Sméagol of  The Two Towers

When I was younger, The Two Towers (1954) seemed to suffer from middle-book syndrome: the bits after the start of series that had to be trudged through in order to reach the exciting end. Not all of it — it does feature a big battle complete with magic and explosives — but Frodo, Sam, and Smeagol’s trek to Mordor sometimes felt as arduous for me to read as it was for them to cross the swamp and slag heaps. Now, I believe The Two Towers, and the second half, The Ring Goes East, is the heart of the whole series. Nowhere does Prof. Tolkien speak more clearly on the weight of war, the burden and necessity of standing against evil, and the eroding effects of that duty.

The Two Towers has some of the most powerful writing in all the trilogy. There are several passages that have never failed to move me. That one of the most powerful of these lines was taken away from Sam  carelessly given to Bad Faramir (more on that atrocity later), is one of the greatest crimes among the many I hold against Peter Jackson.

It’s the book of the trilogy that contains the most obvious references to Tolkien’s own service at the Somme in 1916. In the comments on my first article in this series, Half a Century of Reading Tolkien: Part One, K. Jespersen wrote that the books tasted of ashes, a flavor he linked directly to the First World War. I don’t tastes ashes in the books myself, but there are chapters redolent  of them.

Battle of the Hornburg by Alan Lee

Again, for the uninitiated, a brief summary is in order. Following the disastrous events at the end of The Fellowship of the Ring, the Nine Walkers are split into three groups. Merry and Pippin, captured by a band of orcs, are dragged westward toward Isengard and Saruman. Frodo, with Sam insisting on accompanying, after Boromir’s attempt to seize the Ring, heads eastward toward Mordor and Mount Doom. Aragorn decides that Frodo and Sam might succeed on their own, but unless he, Legolas, and Gimli follow the other two hobbits, they will suffer torment and death.

The book’s first half, The Treason of Isengard, switches back and forth between Merry and Pippin’s travails, and Aragorn and his companions’ assorted adventures across Rohan. The two parties are reunited a week later after the return of Gandalf, the introduction of the Ents, great tree-like beings, and the Battle of the Hornburg (aka, the Battle of Helm’s Deep). The last is huge and murky in Peter Jackson’s film version, but on the page is tighter and far more tactically coherent.

The Ring Goes East, as I said, is the real heart of the trilogy. Frodo takes leave of his companions because he knows he must take the Ring to Mount Doom and that no one else can resist its malignant gravity. It also introduces Gollum/Sméagol. Gollum had been tracking the Nine Walkers from at least Moria, but he remained off stage. Now, he is captured and bound to Frodo after being made to swear on the Ring. Gollum, who calls the Ring his Precious, bore it for centuries. It twisted and hollowed him out, eating away at his mind and his soul. Now, he would do anything for its owner and, simultaneously, anything to repossess it.

Together, the trio cross the Dead Marshes, site of a great battle. Fought thousands of years before, images of the fallen, man, elf, and orc alike, linger on just below the surface of the marsh’s waters. Ghost lights flit over them, luring the unwary to their doom. Tolkien supposed that the battlefields of the Somme lived on in the Dead Marshes. He described how shell holes would be filled with water and the dead of both sides floated in them.

Clearing the swamps and finding Mordor’s main gate too formidable an obstacle, they head south to a secret way through the mountains Gollum claims can take them safely into Mordor. They meet their first men of Gondor, see an oliphaunt, witness the sallying forth of one of Sauron’s armies out of  citadel so evil the ground around it is cursed, before starting on Gollum’s secret way. Things do not go well for any of them from there.

Riders of Rohan by Angus McBride

The Two Towers expands the reader’s vision of Middle-earth way beyond anything Tolkien displayed previously. The only human civilizations shown were the towns of Bree and Esgaroth. Now, we get to cross the expanse of the land of Rohan and meet its people, the Rohirrim. They been described as “Anglo-Saxon’s on horses,” which is reinforced with their Saxon-derived names such as Théoden, Éomer, and Éowyn.

Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed; their grey coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks. The Men that rode them matched them well: tall and long-limbed; their hair, flaxen-pale, flowed under their light helms, and streamed in long braids behind them; their faces were stern and keen. In their hands were tall spears of ash, painted shields were slung at their backs, long swords were at their belts, their burnished shirts of mail hung down upon their knees.

It falls to the resurrected Gandalf to restore the king’s spirit so he can rouse his people and his forces against those of Saruman. Saruman once led the White Council against the resurgence of Sauron, but he came to betray them. Now he plans to conquer Rohan, Gondor’s only ally, and seize the Ring for himself.

And rouse the king, Gandalf does, which means we get one of Tolkien’s great epic moments. He doesn’t always show you the action in the books. We get the death of Boromir, Gandalf’s battle against the balrog, and the destruction of Isengard all second hand. Not this time. Instead, we get s brutal night battle against terrible odds and in harrowing detail, alleviated only a little by Gimli and Legolas’s banter over who’s killed more enemies.

It was now past midnight. The sky was utterly dark, and the stillness of the heavy air foreboded storm. Suddenly the clouds were seared by a blinding flash. Branched lightning smote down upon the eastward hills. For a staring moment the watchers on the walls saw all the space between them and the Dike lit with white light: it was boiling and crawling with black shapes, some squat and broad, some tall and grim, with high helms and sable shields. Hundreds and hundreds more were pouring over the Dike and through the breach. The dark tide flowed up to the walls from cliff to cliff. Thunder rolled in the valley. Rain came lashing down.

The Battle of Helm’s Deep by Darrell K Sweet

Arrows thick as the rain came whistling over the battlements, and fell clinking and glancing on the stones. Some found a mark. The assault on Helm’s Deep had begun, but no sound or challenge was heard within; no answering arrows came.

The assailing hosts halted, foiled by the silent menace of rock and wall. Ever and again the lightning tore aside the darkness. Then the Orcs screamed, waving spear and sword, and shooting a cloud of arrows at any that stood revealed upon the battlements; and the men of the Mark amazed looked out, as it seemed to them, upon a great field of dark corn, tossed by a tempest of war, and every ear glinted with barbed light.

Brazen trumpets sounded. The enemy surged forward, some against the Deeping Wall, others towards the causeway and the ramp that led up to the Hornburg-gates. There the hugest Orcs were mustered, and the wild men of the Dunland fells. A moment they hesitated and then on they came. The lightning flashed, and blazoned upon every helm and shield the ghastly hand of Isengard was seen. They reached the summit of the rock; they drove towards the gates.

Then at last an answer came: a storm of arrows met them, and a hail of stones. They wavered, broke, and fled back; and then charged again, broke and charged again; and each time, like the incoming sea, they halted at a higher point. Again trumpets rang, and a press of roaring men leaped forth. They held their great shields above them like a roof, while in their midst they bore two trunks of mighty trees. Behind them orc-archers crowded, sending a hail of darts against the bowmen on the walls. They gained the gates. The trees, swung by strong arms, smote the timbers with a rending boom. If any man fell, crushed by a stone hurtling from above, two others sprang to take his place. Again and again the great rams swung and crashed.

The Treason of Isengard was probably my favorite part of The Lord of the Rings when I was young. It’s got action and adventure and lots and lots of cool things. I remember me and my dad debating exactly what Orthanc and Meduseld looked like. Gandalf reappears and we learn about the palantír. The reunion of Merry and Pippin with Gandalf and company in Isengard is one of the funniest moments in the books. It all terrific, but it’s in The Ring Goes East, though, where the deepest themes of The Lord of Rings are developed.

Frodo and Sam march off toward Mordor knowing they probably won’t return, but they know it must be done. Defending what is right comes with a cost that leaves no one unchanged. It is too easy to fall in love with bloody deeds for themselves and forsake the things that might be lost.

In the middle of an attack by a band of Gondorian rangers on a force of enemy soldier, Sam meets the enemy up close for the first time.

The Fallen Southron by Anke Eißmann

Sam, eager to see more, went now and joined the guards. He scrambled a little way up into one of the larger of the bay-trees. For a moment he caught a glimpse of swarthy men in red running down the slope some way off with green-clad warriors leaping after them, hewing them down as they fled. Arrows were thick in the air. Then suddenly straight over the rim of their sheltering bank, a man fell, crashing through the slender trees, nearly on top of them. He came to rest in the fern a few feet away, face downward, green arrow-feathers sticking from his neck below a golden collar. His scarlet robes were tattered, his corslet of overlapping brazen plates was rent and hewn, his black plaits of hair braided with gold were drenched with blood. His brown hand still clutched the hilt of a broken sword.

It was Sam’s first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man’s name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace –

To take these words and give them to anyone other than an innocent gardener from the Shire is practically sacrilegious. I imagine this is how Tolkien must have felt on seeing his first dead Germans in the mud of the front. These words are at the core of the humanist heart of the books. War is a engine that sucks men in and grinds out corpses. It might be necessary, but it is horrible and not something to be cherished as many in Gondor have come to. Instead, the value of what is being defended must never be forgotten.

‘For myself,’ said Faramir, ‘I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.

In The Hobbit, Gollum was simply a twisted little monster below Goblin Town who riddled with Bilbo. Here, he’s become Sméagol again, a pathetic creature torn apart by possessing the Ring for so many years and the hold it still holds over him. Not much of Sméagol remains after five hundred years of possessing the Ring, and as he describes it, that part of himself went away a long time ago. When Sméagol is first captured, Frodo recalls the words of Gandalf about how Bilbo’s was stayed by pity and mercy from slaying Gollum and finds the same pity in his own heart. Come the third book, The Return of the King, even after Sméagol has betrayed them and tried to kill them, Sam can’t bring himself to kill him. He’s enough of a tragic creature that Tolkien is able to convince Frodo, and more importantly, the reader, that he might still be something worth saving.

Frodo and Sam are the most developed characters in the trilogy. Tolkien doesn’t go in for all that much interiority with any of the other characters in his books. From their conversations and from their thoughts, Frodo and Sam take on much more life than anyone else. Together, they get to express one of the most profound things in The Lord of the Rings.

Gollum by Alan Lee

 

‘And we shouldn’t be here at all, if we’d known more about it before we started. But I suppose it’s often that way. The brave things in the old tales and songs, Mr. Frodo: adventures, as I used to call them. I used to think that they were things the wonderful folk of the stories went out and looked for, because they wanted them, because they were exciting and life was a bit dull, a kind of a sport, as you might say. But that’s not the way of it with the tales that really mattered, or the ones that stay in the mind. Folk seem to have been just landed in them, usually – their paths were laid that way, as you put it. But I expect they had lots of chances, like us, of turning back, only they didn’t. And if they had, we shouldn’t know, because they’d have been forgotten. We hear about those as just went on – and not all to a good end, mind you; at least not to what folk inside a story and not outside it call a good end. You know, coming home, and finding things all right, though not quite the same – like old Mr. Bilbo. But those aren’t always the best tales to hear, though they may be the best tales to get landed in! I wonder what sort of a tale we’ve fallen into?’

‘I wonder,’ said Frodo. ‘But I don’t know. And that’s the way of a real tale. Take any one that you’re fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don’t know. And you don’t want them to.’

‘No, sir, of course not. Beren now, he never thought he was going to get that Silmaril from the Iron Crown in Thangorodrim, and yet he did, and that was a worse place and a blacker danger than ours. But that’s a long tale, of course, and goes on past the happiness and into grief and beyond it – and the Silmaril went on and came to Eärendil. And why, sir, I never thought of that before! We’ve got – you’ve got some of the light of it in that star-glass that the Lady gave you! Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?’

‘No, they never end as tales,’ said Frodo. ‘But the people in them come, and go when their part’s ended. Our part will end later – or sooner.’

At the Cross Roads by Ted Nasmith

I love Sam’s realization that he personally is an appendix to a tale going back thousands of years. He’s reached this wonderful understanding that he’s in the middle of a story and then it suddenly occurs to him that he’s not even in his own story, but just one more leg on someone else’s. Of course all this gets mangled and bastardized in the movie.

Which brings me to Peter Jackson’s movie, which feels very much like someone other than Tolkien’s story. I’ll only bring up a few of the things that leave me enraged watching his The Two Towers. The easiest one is which two towers the title refers to. The book’s title refers to Orthanc and Minas Morgul. Instead, Jackson has Saruman deliver a line about a new power made of the union of two towers, by which he means Orthanc and Barad Dur. I don’t know if I can say it’s an important thing, but I can say it’s an annoying thing.

Aside from Aragorn falling off a cliff, more bad jokes — dwarf tossing (again!), bad soup, and others — and buffoonishness from Merry and Pippin, there’s the case of Bad Faramir. In the book, Faramir is a throwback to the noblest Men of the West. Unlike his brother Boromir, he fights for the good things, not for the accolades or the desire to perform heroic deeds. He is not tempted by the Ring and helps the hobbits on their way.

Jackson’s Faramir, like Aragorn before him, can’t simply be a hero. He must be flawed and learn something or other before he can achieve his heroic status. That neither he, nor Boromir, are fair skinned with dark hair only makes matters worse.

I’m not that thrilled with how the Battle of Helm’s Deep is handled in the film. In the book, Théoden brings his forces to the fortress for clearly laid out strategic reasons. Here, it’s made out to be some sort of foolish, poorly thought out action. Aragorn argues with him about sending out messengers for aid, something no one in the book would imagine saying for a moment.

The battle never seems as desperate or grim as Tolkien makes it out to be (Haldir, the elf with the five o’clock shadow, getting killed doesn’t count because he’s barely a character). I struggle to image Orlando Bloom’s Legolas acting like this:

He climbed up and found Legolas beside Aragorn and Éomer. The elf was whetting his long knife. There was for a while a lull in the assault, since the attempt to break in through the culvert had been foiled.

‘Twenty-one!’ said Gimli.

‘Good!’ said Legolas. ‘But my count is now two dozen. It has been knife-work up here.’

I can’t bring myself to say anything else about the movie. Yes, we do get to see the Ents destroy Isengard, but even that’s not as cool looking as it’s described in the book. I’m so sick and tired of whining Frodo and the scene with the Ring Wraith and then him threatening Sam makes me nuts. I just tried to watch the animated War of the Rohirrim and I think something broke in my head.

I guess the only thing to do now that I’ve finished The Lord of the Rings is to go to The Silmarillion, The Hobbit, or….Bored of the Rings. Whichever I choose, it’s guaranteed to wash away some of the pain of Jackson’s movie.

Half a Century of Reading Tolkien: Part One

Half a Century of Reading Tolkien: Part Two – The Fellowship of the Ring by JRR Tolkien

 

Fletcher Vredenburgh writes a column each first Sunday of the month at Black Gate, mostly about older books he hasn’t read before. He also posts at his own site, Stuff I Like when his muse hits him.

A Werewolf in England (Dark Temple Motion Pictures, 2020)

A 20 film marathon of werewolf movies I’ve never seen before.

As usual, the films must be free to stream.

I’ve got a bad feeling about this.

A Werewolf in England (2020) Prime

Man or beast? A bunch of hairy honkers.

Howlin’ good time? Hot on the heels of Werewolves Within comes another horror comedy, although this one doesn’t come close to succeeding. It starts well enough, with a title card font reminiscent of the best Bray Studios films, and some gravelly voiced dialects, but it soon regresses into a two-note gag reel of chamber pots and the contents of chamber pots.

Now, I like a good fart or poo joke as much as the next man, but the over-reliance on potty humor soon outstayed its welcome, despite a double dip into demonic diarrhea. There were moments that put me in mind of Motel Hell, but in the end the production was hampered by over saturation (seriously, filter that shit in post), poor sound design and strangely choreographed werewolves.

The beasts, more cuddly than terrifying, could have been really effective with lower lighting and more sparing framing. Oh well — it looked like everyone had fun, and it does feature the line, “I feel a tinglin’ in me nether giblets.”

6/10

Howling VII: New Moon Rising (New Line Home Video, October 17, 1995)
and Meridian (Full Moon Features, April 13, 1990)

Howling VII: New Moon Rising (1995) Prime

Man or beast? Rubbish practical/CG hybrid for all of 30 seconds at the end.

Howlin’ good time? Good people, if you’ve been reading these reviews, you’ll know I’ve watched some terrible films. You’ll also know that the worst thing a movie can do, in my opinion, is be boring. Forget the fact that this is horribly made, awfully acted, and weaves in footage from the last two films in an attempt to make sense of the story. The first hour of this mess is just unfunny bar regulars line dancing to country music while some bullshit ADR is shoveled on top of the steaming pile of plot. I honestly lost the will to live during this one. Settled for chewing my eyes out.

0/10

Meridian (1990) Tubi

Man or beast? Nice, practical, beast… wolf… thing.

Howlin’ good time? It’s a Full Moon feature, directed by Charles Band himself and although I think he’s a better producer, this is a nice looking film, suitably gothic for the subject matter. Meridian stars Sherilyn Fenn (and yes, I was a fully carded member of the Cult of Fenn in 1990) in a twist on the Beauty and the Beast story. In fact, it would have been a traditional, romantic ghost/beast story, if not for the unsavoury date rape that kicks off the whole affair.

The beast itself is a curious design, beautifully created by Greg (Lost Boys, Dracula) Cannom, who was definitely enjoying his ‘high brow’ phase. The prosthetics are great, and the body suit is well done; the huge hairy mass on its back is just one of a pair of extraordinary werewolf humps in the film. An interesting watch for purveyors of circus acts, nefarious twins and early 90s bosoms.

7/10

Mom (Epic Productions, June 13, 1991) and Werewolf of Washington (Diplomat Pictures, 1973)

Mom (1991) Tubi

Man or beast? Goofy were-thing.

Howlin’ good time? A 1990s horror film that is so 1990s it hurts. It starts well enough, with the wonderful Brion James as a shady, yellow-eyed drifter being aggressively creepy, and there’s a potentially excellent story to be had when our hero has to deal with his dear old mom turning into a werebeast and eating winos, but it’s not quite as exciting as I had hoped for. The creature itself is only seen in head and shoulder flashes and, although the mid-transformation make up is cool, the final creature looks goofy as all hell — we are talking Rawhead Rex goofy.

Fair to middling.

6/10

Werewolf of Washington (1973) Tubi

Man or beast? Hairy faced fella.

Howlin’ good time? It’s a scandal that I haven’t seen this before, but I’ve corrected that oversight. Not what I was expecting, this is a political satire wrapped up in a traditional lycanthrope yarn and it’s played for laughs. Skewering Nixon and Watergate, in this flick Dean Stockwell superbly grimaces and gurns as he changes each full moon and makes a meal of the president’s rivals. It’s basically All the President’s Wolfmen. Some genuinely funny moments (a witty script) and remarkable lapses into cinema verité elevate this hokey, bloodless romp into a film that I suspect I shouldn’t have enjoyed as much as I did.

7/10

Dire Wolf (Baby Steps Entertainment, 2009) Dire Wolf (2009) Tubi

Man or beast? Wolf/human hybrid.

Howlin’ good time? Bit of a cheat for no. 13, as it’s not strictly a werewolf, but a lab experiment gone wrong. Nothing remarkable about it; it’s typical SyFy fare, a couple of has-beens surrounded by lacklustre actors in a daft plot, with a surprising amount of practical gore. It’s instantly forgettable. However, it did prompt an extraordinary dive into the career of Fred Olen Ray, whom I only really knew for Alienator and Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers. I’m linking the Wikipedia page for his filmography here, as it’s quite the rabbit hole.

Anyhoo – 5/10

Previous Murkey Movie surveys from Neil Baker include:

There, Wolves: Part I
What a Croc
Prehistrionics
Jumping the Shark
Alien Overlords
Biggus Footus
I Like Big Bugs and I Cannot Lie
The Weird, Weird West
Warrior Women Watch-a-thon

Neil Baker’s last article for us was There, Wolves: Part I. Neil spends his days watching dodgy movies, most of them terrible, in the hope that you might be inspired to watch them too. He is often asked why he doesn’t watch ‘proper’ films, and he honestly doesn’t have a good answer. He is an author, illustrator, outdoor educator and owner of April Moon Books (AprilMoonBooks.com).

In this LitStack Rec, let’s explore the myriad benefits of page turning and its potential…

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