HOLIDAY MAGICK Now Available!

My contributor's copy of HOLIDAY MAGICK arrived in the mail on Saturday and I have to say, it looks AMAZING! I've already started devouring the other stories. If you haven't purchased a copy yet, go do it right now! It'll be the best ten bucks you spend this week, I promise.

Buy HOLIDAY MAGICK from Barnes & Noble online here.

Buy HOLIDAY MAGICK from Amazon.com here.


HOLIDAY MAGIC: 20 Holiday Stories With a Twist.

People don't usually question holiday traditions...but maybe they should.

Knightly Tales for a Rainy Day

I finally know what to do with my Arthurian flash fiction stories.

I'm putting them together into a collection called KNIGHTLY TALES FOR A RAINY DAY. (I just like the way that sounds.) It'll be a 5-6K story when complete. One of my critique partners gave me the idea of finishing off the stories with one that loosely ties all the others together, and I think that's a fantastic idea. So right now I'm working on the fourth story, Galahad's, and then will write Mordred's, and wrap things up with Arthur's own story which will make mention of all the others.

And then I'll submit them.

For something that started off as a fun project just for my own entertainment, it's turning into something really...great. If I do say so myself, that is. My critiquers all seem to really like the stories, and I'm having a lot of fun writing in these different voices and creating small, 1,000 word slices from the points of view of the periphery characters (and, in the case of Lancelot's story, an entirely made-up character) from Arthuriana.

KNIGHTLY TALES FOR A RAINY DAY. Coming soon!

Tirra Lira

For my Lancelot-based Arthurian flash fiction I'm going in a slightly different direction; instead of picking an obscure corner of the medieval texts I'm going with inspiration from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "Lady of Shalott."

I have a special connection to this poem. My senior year of high school some friends and I performed this poem for our AP English class. I played Lancelot, with aluminum foil helmet and sword, and my friend Peijman played the Lady of Shalott while wearing one of my dresses. It was fun, and afterwords Peijman did an interpretive dance to Madonna's "Vogue." Somehow we thought that went with the poem.

As with my other Arthurian flash fiction so far, my story is born out of the question of what happens to everyone else in the poem. What of the Lady's family? How do they handle news of her death and Lancelot's role in it?

In case you've never read the poem:

Part I.


On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
   To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
   The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
   Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
   The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veil'd
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
   Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
   The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
   Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
   Lady of Shalott."


      Part II.

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
   To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
   The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
   Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
   Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
   Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
   The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
   And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
"I am half-sick of shadows," said
   The Lady of Shalott.


      Part III.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
   Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
   Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle-bells rang merrily
   As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
   Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
   As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
   Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
   As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
   Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
   She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
   The Lady of Shalott.


      Part IV.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale-yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
   Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
   The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse--
Like some bold seër in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
   Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
   She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
   Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
A corse between the houses high,
   Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
   The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
   All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
   The Lady of Shalott."

Arthuriana

I recently wrote -- in a flurry of re-reading the classics -- two flash fiction pieces based on old Arthurian romances. The first, "Lament of the Fisher King," based on the Percival story by Chretien de Troyes, is out for submission to a market. The second, "The Green Knight's Wife," based on the story of Gawain and the Green Knight, is still waiting patiently to be sent to my critique partners.

The problem, as the aforementioned wise critique partners explained, is that something so specific could have trouble finding a market home. In my personal experience, anyone interested in genre fiction -- sci-fi/fantasy and all their many, many subgenres -- is probably a fan, on some level and to some degree, of Arthuriana, ranging from a passing familiarity and general like of Arthur-based movies and mini-series, to a certain friend of mine, Sir Brit, who wrote a whole thesis paper on the possible source material for Chretien de Troyes. (A very good paper, I might add. I read it.)

Then again, the specifics of Percival and the Fisher King, and of Gawain and the Green Knight, tend to be relegated to the more obscure corners of modern Arthuriana. I'm not writing flash fiction about the Arthur-Guenevere-Lancelot love triangle (barf. And, boring.) or extolling the virtues of the old pagan ways versus those oppressive Christians. I'm writing very quick fiction, 1000 words a piece, from the points of view of characters who appear only briefly in the medieval texts, if at all, and barely have any actual speaking parts. The Percival story was inspired by the question: What happened to the Fisher King and his household after they disappeared when Percival left?

While I'm really enjoying this project, I'm conflicted about whether or not to continue. I want to get these stories out, and they are lots of fun to write, but my writing time is precious and I don't want to waste it doing things no one will want to read because they are too obscure. I might do many more and combine them into one long piece.

Here's an excerpt from "Lament of the Fisher King," followed by an excerpt from my first draft of "The Green Knight's Wife."

"Lament of the Fisher King" (Percival)

     No, I cannot curse Percival for things he could not help.

     And so my thoughts turn, as they must, to whom I must blame for my situation. For sending me and my household to this non-existence that stretches before us like a wasteland.

     On this ship my people sink into despair before my very eyes. No one speaks anymore.              Words are lost in the fog, they have no meaning.

To speak is to hope. 

To hope is to go mad.

"The Green Knight's Wife" (Gawain)

With every clod of earth trampled by the hooves of Gawain's horse, my husband spins further into an anxious frenzy. It is only a matter of time before he turns his sharp tongue on me.

"You know what is expected of you?" His brows furrow, his lips turn down. Spittle flies from his mouth as he speaks.

I nod and lower my gaze. But he will not let me off so easily.

Enormous green fingers grab my jaw in a steel vice and force my chin up. Over the years I have mastered the ability to look at my husband in the submissive way he prefers even while he holds my face upwards. Wet flecks hit my face when he speaks. "Tell me what you will do with Gawain."

"I will seduce him, my lord."