Big Announcement Time!
Six years ago, almost to this day, an idea became a partnership. After countless hours of writing, editing and collaboration, along with the support of our friends and family, we are finally ready to proudly proclaim:
The Lions of the Empire are releasing the first book in the Fate's Crucible saga!
-Beyond the Burning Sea-
It has been over two hundred and fifty years since the sky fell and the Young Gods died.
The pride of the Sea Kings' fleet, the SKS Peregrine, has done the impossible: she has travelled beyond the Burning Sea, long thought to be the southern edge of the world of Ruine. Now, all that remains of her crew struggle to find their way back, led by a young man bearing a book filled with dark secrets. A terrifying truth pursues them, while the Endless Dark of the ocean patiently waits below.
Back on the mainland, the city states of Gundlaan strive to form a united nation. On the fringe of its western frontier, there are whispers of a sinister force gathering. The Laegis Templars, the mortal remains of the Young Gods' army, are dispatched to deal with the problem, but in the vast and untamed Deckoran Wilds, Death itself is never far away...
Beyond the Burning Sea ebook pre-orders are available now!
On Amazon Kindle: https://amzn.com/B01LDAA8UM\
On Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/662368
Physical and ebook release is in two weeks, September 20th! More news and links to follow.
We look forward to introducing you to the world of Ruine and we hope you enjoy the visit. You're welcome to stay as long as you like.
Tim & Wade
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Friday, March 18, 2016
Taste
A slight preface: This was based on an idea I had over Spring Break with the family. On the ride home, my wife and I chatted about the idea. It was really fun hashing some of the details out with her. I was thrilled when she took a stab at writing a small character piece based on the idea. Below is her introduction. I'm both excited and pleased to present it. Past the cut is where I took that idea and ran with it. We hope you enjoy.
>monk
--
-Taste-
The kitchen is a ruin.
There looks to be a method to the madness but a ruin nonetheless.
As she places the tiny microgreen on top she inhales. It looks so perfect. Maybe this time she's done everything as needed. Maybe this time it will work. Closing her eyes she lifts the spoon to her mouth.
One perfect morsel. The crispy duck skin, the smokiness of the duck breast, the poached quail egg popping in time with the tiny sphere of basil oil, and finally the zing of pepper with the arugula micro green. She pauses as all the flavors work together to create a harmonious whole. And they do, almost.
It's good, even great.
But not transcendent, not ethereal, not unearthly, not as good as the original.
"Dammit!"
She throws the spoon in the sink. It splatters dish water as it lands. Where had she gone wrong? Was it the timing on smoking the duck? Maybe the basil had been just a day past perfect? Or was it, as Chef Adria said, that women lack the taladro de carne and therefore... she can't even get through that one without rolling her eyes so hard it hurts.
"UGH, why can't I figure this OUT!?"
With a sigh she starts cleaning up the kitchen. She's been a dishwasher much longer than she's been a chef. Washing dishes is as close as she comes to meditation. It also helps her catalog this latest failure.
>monk
--
-Taste-
The kitchen is a ruin.
There looks to be a method to the madness but a ruin nonetheless.
As she places the tiny microgreen on top she inhales. It looks so perfect. Maybe this time she's done everything as needed. Maybe this time it will work. Closing her eyes she lifts the spoon to her mouth.
One perfect morsel. The crispy duck skin, the smokiness of the duck breast, the poached quail egg popping in time with the tiny sphere of basil oil, and finally the zing of pepper with the arugula micro green. She pauses as all the flavors work together to create a harmonious whole. And they do, almost.
It's good, even great.
But not transcendent, not ethereal, not unearthly, not as good as the original.
"Dammit!"
She throws the spoon in the sink. It splatters dish water as it lands. Where had she gone wrong? Was it the timing on smoking the duck? Maybe the basil had been just a day past perfect? Or was it, as Chef Adria said, that women lack the taladro de carne and therefore... she can't even get through that one without rolling her eyes so hard it hurts.
"UGH, why can't I figure this OUT!?"
With a sigh she starts cleaning up the kitchen. She's been a dishwasher much longer than she's been a chef. Washing dishes is as close as she comes to meditation. It also helps her catalog this latest failure.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Been a long summer...
Here's something I just finished up. Hope you enjoy. More shorts are bound to come, some sooner, others later. Novels still in progress.
Welcome to Barrow
The only thing left of him was desert sand and perpetual motion. One foot in front of the next, he stalked in the wake of the afternoon sun as it fell towards the horizon. The hard clay underfoot reflected the heat back up at him, but the brim of his hat provided his eye a measure of shade and the desperate hope that the next time he tilted his head back, it would reveal the edge of town.
The shadow of a bird slid across the ground, crossing his path. His head leveled and he saw the heat shimmering off of the desert floor, blurring a dozen squat shapes in the distance. Had he the moisture left in his mouth, he might have used it to slide a low whistle off his lips.
Before he could confirm they were buildings, he heard the report of gunfire. He couldn't tell how many shots, not that he would have trusted himself at this distance, but it was a volley, specifically rifles if he had to lay money on it. His hands had drifted to the handles of his handguns, but he wouldn't have had the strength or speed to use them. A dry rattle from his throat imitated a chuckle as he realized that even half dead his reflexes were still working properly.
Just as he was able to make out the town properly, the shadow of the bird slid back across the ground, wings rustling as it came to light on a sign driven into the cracked dirt.
Welcome to Barrow, proclaimed the cracked and peeling painted white letters. The crow attached to the shadow squawked loudly, then shifted slightly from side to side before flying off once again. His feet carried him past the sign, just as they had across the torturous miles of the journey since his horse had died.
Friday, May 1, 2015
Friday, February 13, 2015
Fed.
The monster had to be fed regularly.
His apartment was on the ground floor, in the back corner of the building that faced the alley. It was a plain-faced building with eggshell colored walls. At night, the only working light of the two that flanked the main entrance would shudder and flicker.
His feet were heavy. He told himself that it was the job that left him sore. He told himself that things would be better once his opportunity came around. However, his reassurances were hollow and there was no comfort in his voice. He promised himself things that would never pass and was unable to wring any convincing tone from his words.
Inside his apartment, the door was secured by a flimsy chain. The light switch next to him clicked and a lamp blazed to life. The chair closest to the door was his favorite, a worn relic left by his absent father. The cracked leather was cool under his fingertips. He took the time to remove his shoes and set them to the side. He peeled his socks off, folded them neatly and laid them on top of the weathered shoes.
Pushing back into the comfort of his chair, he stared at the back wall of the apartment.
The light from the single lamp fell short of one corner, tracing a line of unbroken illumination across the floor, never revealing what lurked there. Occasionally on long nights, he would see the end of a serpentine tail, or the glint of a sharpened talon as it came close to the edge of the shadow, but never long enough to distinguish absolute detail.
As he tried to get comfortable in the chair, he listened to it breathe: a sickly, wet sound that was altogether inhuman.
He fumbled with the remote and the television flared to life. The TV sat next to that corner. The way it was angled cast the light into his face, further darkening that corner and somewhat masking the uncomfortable sound. He had no delusion that it watched him, but he chose to ignore it, hoping that in a few minutes his attention would be distracted by...
"Feed."
That word always caused him to tense up, knuckles buckling white as his fingers gripped tight at the arms of his worn leather chair. He clenched his teeth and released, mustering the courage to speak.
"W... What's that?" He could barely manage above a whisper. "It's too early isn't it?"
"Feed.. now."
The voice would never sharpen in intensity or grow louder with anger. It was patient, almost distant, but immediately insistent. He knew he could not resist its hunger. He absently rubbed the scars on his left forearm thinking about that the time tried to resist. The scars were deep. He hadn't tried a second time.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he took slow steps towards the edge of the light. Beside him, the TV chattered happily about cleaning products and dog food.
He stood facing the corner, still unable to pierce the darkness with his tired eyes. He expected that was the only thing saving his fraying sanity from completely unravelling. He'd had one good look, he remembered as fingers gripped the scars on his left forearm, and it had been too much. He forced himself to swallow as he turned around slowly until he faced his chair once more, his back now bared to the line between light and dark.
Immediately he felt the cold breath against his neck, enough to raise gooseflesh. He could not shiver, however, because his body was already taut with anxiety. A hand closed around his left shoulder, a grip that could be neither resisted or broken.
How many fingers were there? Six? Three? He didn't dare look.
The other hand tightened around his right shoulder and the tiny part of him that knew what was coming drew in a sharp breath, as if to scream. There would not be a scream, though. His throat had already constricted into a tiny knot.
The breath drew closer, stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. He could feel something not unlike sharp fingernails scrape a tiny line from the top of his shoulders to the base of his skull. There were already two wounds there, scars that never healed, scabs that never faded. He'd measured them once and they were scarcely larger than the width of his smallest finger. Normally his hair hid them, but he could always feel them. They were always itching, always hot.
It hurt little more than a sharp pinch, as he felt the wounds violated once more. Inside his skin, he felt something move, twisting like serpents, feeling like thin worms sliding past his spine into his head. The motion bordered on sexual, but the feeling was neither comforting nor pleasurable.
His memory flares. He remembers vividly a shiny red balloon, its thin rubber skin refracting sunlight to cast ruby colored shadows on the ground. He remembers laughing and running, his tiny legs carrying him further and further from his father. He remembers the smell of freshly cut grass and newly blossomed flowers. His memory of that moment is blindingly bright like the spring sun of that distant afternoon.
And then it was gone, suddenly and completely.
Whatever had filled his head just that second before... vanished altogether. He struggled to remember, but his head was swimming and the only sensation he could understand was the trickle of warm blood on his neck and the gentle release of the pressure on his shoulders.
He stumbled forward a step or two, his hand finding some balance on the TV stand. He heard his heart racing in his ears and felt it flutter madly in his chest.
What was it? He feels the pain of loss, but cannot remember losing anything. The chair feels comfortable. That sensation is close and real. He sinks into the chair and watches as the TV mentions something about a certified way to lose weight, or gain money.
He promises himself that some day he'll be in one of those commercials... talking about his success.
In the darkness of the corner, it dwelled, waiting to be fed.
His apartment was on the ground floor, in the back corner of the building that faced the alley. It was a plain-faced building with eggshell colored walls. At night, the only working light of the two that flanked the main entrance would shudder and flicker.
His feet were heavy. He told himself that it was the job that left him sore. He told himself that things would be better once his opportunity came around. However, his reassurances were hollow and there was no comfort in his voice. He promised himself things that would never pass and was unable to wring any convincing tone from his words.
Inside his apartment, the door was secured by a flimsy chain. The light switch next to him clicked and a lamp blazed to life. The chair closest to the door was his favorite, a worn relic left by his absent father. The cracked leather was cool under his fingertips. He took the time to remove his shoes and set them to the side. He peeled his socks off, folded them neatly and laid them on top of the weathered shoes.
Pushing back into the comfort of his chair, he stared at the back wall of the apartment.
The light from the single lamp fell short of one corner, tracing a line of unbroken illumination across the floor, never revealing what lurked there. Occasionally on long nights, he would see the end of a serpentine tail, or the glint of a sharpened talon as it came close to the edge of the shadow, but never long enough to distinguish absolute detail.
As he tried to get comfortable in the chair, he listened to it breathe: a sickly, wet sound that was altogether inhuman.
He fumbled with the remote and the television flared to life. The TV sat next to that corner. The way it was angled cast the light into his face, further darkening that corner and somewhat masking the uncomfortable sound. He had no delusion that it watched him, but he chose to ignore it, hoping that in a few minutes his attention would be distracted by...
"Feed."
That word always caused him to tense up, knuckles buckling white as his fingers gripped tight at the arms of his worn leather chair. He clenched his teeth and released, mustering the courage to speak.
"W... What's that?" He could barely manage above a whisper. "It's too early isn't it?"
"Feed.. now."
The voice would never sharpen in intensity or grow louder with anger. It was patient, almost distant, but immediately insistent. He knew he could not resist its hunger. He absently rubbed the scars on his left forearm thinking about that the time tried to resist. The scars were deep. He hadn't tried a second time.
Rising unsteadily to his feet, he took slow steps towards the edge of the light. Beside him, the TV chattered happily about cleaning products and dog food.
He stood facing the corner, still unable to pierce the darkness with his tired eyes. He expected that was the only thing saving his fraying sanity from completely unravelling. He'd had one good look, he remembered as fingers gripped the scars on his left forearm, and it had been too much. He forced himself to swallow as he turned around slowly until he faced his chair once more, his back now bared to the line between light and dark.
Immediately he felt the cold breath against his neck, enough to raise gooseflesh. He could not shiver, however, because his body was already taut with anxiety. A hand closed around his left shoulder, a grip that could be neither resisted or broken.
How many fingers were there? Six? Three? He didn't dare look.
The other hand tightened around his right shoulder and the tiny part of him that knew what was coming drew in a sharp breath, as if to scream. There would not be a scream, though. His throat had already constricted into a tiny knot.
The breath drew closer, stirring the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. He could feel something not unlike sharp fingernails scrape a tiny line from the top of his shoulders to the base of his skull. There were already two wounds there, scars that never healed, scabs that never faded. He'd measured them once and they were scarcely larger than the width of his smallest finger. Normally his hair hid them, but he could always feel them. They were always itching, always hot.
It hurt little more than a sharp pinch, as he felt the wounds violated once more. Inside his skin, he felt something move, twisting like serpents, feeling like thin worms sliding past his spine into his head. The motion bordered on sexual, but the feeling was neither comforting nor pleasurable.
His memory flares. He remembers vividly a shiny red balloon, its thin rubber skin refracting sunlight to cast ruby colored shadows on the ground. He remembers laughing and running, his tiny legs carrying him further and further from his father. He remembers the smell of freshly cut grass and newly blossomed flowers. His memory of that moment is blindingly bright like the spring sun of that distant afternoon.
And then it was gone, suddenly and completely.
Whatever had filled his head just that second before... vanished altogether. He struggled to remember, but his head was swimming and the only sensation he could understand was the trickle of warm blood on his neck and the gentle release of the pressure on his shoulders.
He stumbled forward a step or two, his hand finding some balance on the TV stand. He heard his heart racing in his ears and felt it flutter madly in his chest.
What was it? He feels the pain of loss, but cannot remember losing anything. The chair feels comfortable. That sensation is close and real. He sinks into the chair and watches as the TV mentions something about a certified way to lose weight, or gain money.
He promises himself that some day he'll be in one of those commercials... talking about his success.
In the darkness of the corner, it dwelled, waiting to be fed.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Now available for your bookshelf.
The print edition of Tales of Yhore is now available on Amazon.com and for order at fine brick and mortar booksellers everywhere. Thanks everyone for your interest and support.
http://www.amazon.com/Tales-Yhore-The-Chronicles-Monch/dp/1507722222
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