I hate writing stuff like this - it feels disingenuous to tell people I’m going to do something, then vanish off the face of that part of the earth for a while, but, for you guys, my paid subscribers, I’ve got an apology to make and, an explanation to offer.
I *DO* fully intend to start my paid Thursday posts back up very soon, but I’m still adjusting to a lot - I’m already writing posts in advance for the AtoZ of me and my Inspirations (though, one of the things I will be doing is giving everyone a list of what I’m doing by next Thursday, so you know what to watch, and where it’ll be. The links might even work, as long as you visit them on the days they should be live ;)).
I’ve talked about it a lot on my feed, and in my blogs but… the fact they’ve never tracked down what is wrong with me, and the fact that I live with a LOT of pain, and the disruption of the nearly two month kitchen refit (to be fair, the refit itself was three weeks - what took so freaking long was getting a proper fridge freezer, sans dents) and to be honest, I’ve just not been here.
So.
To make it right.
Before I make it available to anyone else, and without needing to sign up, there will be a copy of 12x12 (that’s the tutorials), Memento Mori (that’s a paid book of horror), Glass Block (holla for Elliot), Red Box (a short story in Elliot’s universe, coming at you tomorrow), and potentially Out among the stars will all be offered to you without newsletter signups required (because you’re already here). I hope to get one a week out, starting with Red Box. It was once part of an anthology, but it’s been down quite a while, so I don’t think many people actually have that one.
Beyond that. I’m going to try and share stuff I’m writing - for example, up at the end of this newsletter is a story I’m playing with called ‘Neurospicy Fleabag’. Or at least the opening to it. But I can’t promise 52 weeks of faithful stuff. I can promise 52 posts of free or really cheap stuff though. And if you know someone else that might enjoy seeing stuff before it’s released, this really is the place to be.
Anyway. Without much more ado, I give you the opening of my new Werewolf story, which is currently called ‘Neurospicy Fleabag’.
Neurospicy fleabag
He looked at his notes before walking into the room. It was a ragged edged, summarised medical file which noted that the woman he was going to see refused to give her name, just said to call her ‘Fleabag’ He shook his head, and skimmed quickly on the notes, nimble fingers moving the pages, darting eyes looking for information. Then, straightening them by tapping them against the edge of the clipboard before attaching them again, he hung the clipboard back on the wall, and took out his comb. He neatened his hair, straightened his tie, and popped in a breath mint. Then, he took the clipboard back down again.
He flicked through the top sheets carefully, noting some information, storing it, then tapped, precisely three times at the level of his eye on the door jamb.
“Miss…I’m sorry, I’m not calling you Fleabag.” He said softly. “Not until you confirm it.’
“That’s me. They call me a neurospicy fleabag when they’re being kind.” She paused, wrinkling her nose, “Your aftershave is…pungent,” she added, then continued as if she hadn’t said anything, “like, I’ve always been the odd one in the pack, you know? Or, maybe, you don’t.”
The bed was dominated not by a woman, but by the masses of matted red hair, flowing around her, over one handcuffed arm, hiding the glint of metal as he walked in. A living thing in itself, it looked like it was eating the girl on the other end of it. She was slight, pale, raggedly dressed in a ripped and rent shift, threadbare shorts and one purple sock.
One surgical compression surgical sock. The other had ended up hanging from the end of her bed, as if waiting for some Santa Claus to come. He raised an eyebrow at it, and looked back to her, but she was just watching him. Not exactly warily, her head cocked to one side, as if confused. Her nose ruffled gently again, scrunching as she evaluated whether she liked what she was being exposed to. Distaste edged her expression, but she wasn’t exactly unfriendly. Just watchful.