ndblog's DiaryLand diary

AUTHOR: N. D. Hansen-Hill
GENRE: Fantasy/Time Travel
PUBLISHER: Cerridwen Press
ISBN: 978-1-60202-061-0
RATING: PG

BLURB: Shawn Walsh's problems don't arise from his own troubled past but from someone else's. Fires, floods, battles, bone-rattling quakes — he's frequently an unwilling and horrified participant in events long gone. For when The Hollowing claims him, his present dissolves.

Unfortunately, his problems have everything to do with family and his rather questionable heritage — with a birthright he'd rather know nothing about. Lost and tossed about by destiny, trapped and extorted by those long deceased, he's tired of playing a victim.

And he refuses to give up hope. There is still a chance he'll be able to resolve his issues without dying, given the right place… And enough time.

There was something waiting for him on the stairs. His impression of darkness—of The Hollowing—hadn’t been exaggerated. He stood there, shaking, and listened. Beyond the wooden partition the thick silence was giving way.

Thuds and thunks. Rattles and clatters. And then a sound Shawn couldn’t attribute to anything else—the squeak and echo of a heavy tread on wood.

Shawn was holding his breath so he could listen. He didn’t even realize it until his heart started throbbing in his ears. He stood there stiffly and listened to it coming.

The knob was ice-cold beneath his fingers. The chill spread up his arm but he didn’t let it sway him. He squinted his eyes and yanked open the door.

The noise swept through him, carrying with it a rancid stink and a flurry of movement. He couldn’t see anything but darkness and there was noise all around him.

It was a fire. The crackling flames leapt up, roaring, popping, hissing. Screaming sizzles, mini explosions, whines of venting gas.

And then it was merely screams. Shouts that escalated to howls and shrieks. Terror. That’s what this was—terror. Old emotions, dredged up and waiting. The stink of must mingled with the rancid odor of burning hair. Shawn dropped to his knees, sick and sweating.

He fell down the stairs, hitting the landing with a gigantic crash. He couldn’t hear it though—couldn’t hear anything over the cacophony in his ears. In a half roll, half dive he splatted to the bottom floor and crawled, then pushed himself to his feet and staggered for the outer door.

It was closed. Locked. He yanked on the knob, fumbled with the lock but it wouldn’t give. He couldn’t get the hinges loose on the door. The pins were as tight as the lock. No way out.

He ran to the window and slammed the glass with a chair. Glass gave, bars didn’t. He rattled and shook and pounded.

Around him the air seethed. It was transmitting itself to the furnishings. Chairs scraped, dust spiraled, papers flew.

There was only one way out. The upstairs room with its cool moonlight and empty spaces. Shawn flattened his hands over his ears, squinted his eyes and headed for the steps. His flesh was burning as he crawled, clambered and wriggled up the stairs.

It's been a busy week as usual. Of Dragons was released by Red Rose last Thursday, and it's been full on ever since. I have to admit I've learned a fair bit about promotion this week, and networking with other authors and author sites. Some of the romance sites, like Simply Romance , are extremely generous with both their time and their space. I finished the first round of edits on Gray Beginnings, and will be hastily contriving a suitable blurb. The edits for GlassWorks should be in the Inbox shortly, too. In a few minutes I'll be posting on Tales of the Trade. My blog post is due there today.

WIP & Other Things: Only a thousand words added this week to my "Nocturne Bites" effort, but I did submit a blurb for Art & Soul to the open call at Nocturne. This is a quick in effort, with decisions being made by April 16th. I love these mini subs and competitions because they spur me on either to try new genres or venues or to finish what I began months ago. The Nocturne "call" only lasts until the 8th, I believe, so it's time for a quick decision if you're a paranormal pennist.

A new, and quite exciting, Yahoo loop opened this week called "Paranormal Monday". Enthusiasm by authors, with excerpts being greeted enthusiastically by readers.

Oh, wrote an interesting poem this week entitled, "Fragile". I'm in the finals for the Poetry.com Editors' Choice competition, and to qualify, I needed another poem. It was the second poem for the week—the first being the one for Gray Beginnings. I was waxing poetic all over the place, LOL!

11:18 a.m. - 2007-12-03
Red Rose Publishing has contracted GlassWorks
I've been lucky enough to have GlassWorks contracted by Red Rose Publishing! I feel as though this is a real coup - RRP has such a good reputation.

The Hollowing has an outstanding cover designed by Cerridwen Press's cover artists. You can see it at http://www.myspace.com/ndmanuscripts .

Other things - don't know whether I mentioned that Gilded Folly has been joined by both The Hollowing and Gray Beginnings at CP.

In honour of the new cover, I'll leave you with an excerpt from Gilded Folly:
Rom never had a chance. It was over almost before it had begun. Jeremy had barely reached for him when Rom choked, gasped, and toppled over, onto his face.
Leaving his back exposed. Jeremy and Phil could only watch, helpless and gagging, as the blood lights moved purposefully across Rom’s skin. Like a line of army ants, the minuscule bright fragments seeped through his shirtcloth, across his skin, and into the open wound on his back.
“It’s n-not his blood—” The churning in his stomach got him then. Jeremy turned away, gagging and gasping for air.
Phil shoved him aside, and extended a hand, toward Rom. The man’s shrill scream was still hanging in the air, the resonance of it rattling his resolve. “Rom!”
But he pulled back, uncertain. What the hell were these things?! They didn’t act like lights—they’d moved like something alive. The most closely related photo-organisms he could think of in his world were the red tides, or deep sea fish. Maybe the blood had some kind of microbe in it. Maybe some pathogen.
And it might not be too selective.
God knows the Micts weren’t…
He didn’t know what to do. Rom was out cold, but unconsciousness wasn’t offering him much relief. He kept jerking and moaning, thrashing and writhing.
Meanwhile, the damn lights continued to seep down, then disappear beneath his skin. Phil could see them haloed just below the surface.
Christ! He felt like gagging himself.
Think. He fingered his gun. What the hell should he do?
In the end, there was no time to think about it. The sizzling, which had been confined to the map layer of livened blood, was growing louder. Phil looked at the wall. The symbols—the ones Rom had claimed were “There is no path but that of Yaz”—were steaming.
He recalled Wick’s words: “...it’s more like a gas...”
One of those transmogrifier things—in the wall!
“Out!” he bellowed to Jeremy, with a shove that flung him halfway out through the gate. “Now!”
Phil’s fingers twitched, hesitated, then locked onto Rom’s shirt. There was no longer any sign of the blood lights. They’d been doused, as they’d burrowed deeper under Rom’s skin.
Phil fought down his shudder and took a firmer grip on the fabric. On anything but skin...

Cheers,
ND | Melody
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://MelodyKnight.com
Gilded Folly http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4

7:24 a.m. - 2007-09-06
New covers, new contracts, new books
Chocolate ice cream for breakfast is a great way to go! I woke up at 2 a.m. this morning, and wrote like a fiend, and was ready for major sugar consumption by 7 a.m.

I'm working on a YA novel, which I hope will fit in well with my Elf Chronicles, Elf and Trolls (so far). I love the book, and it's now sitting at 19,000. I hope to get to 20K, 21K today.

Other things: a new January release date for In Flames, the sequel to In Trysts (see Amazon/Melody Knight). ErRatic has a cover, and Gray Beginnings now has a home with Gilded Folly and The Hollowing at Cerridwen Press.

I'm loving what I do now, and am still working hard. Hope that September's end brings me to a milestone, book wise (more on that later!).

6:32 a.m. - 2007-06-18
Catch up
Well, #27 and 28 are finished, and off to a publisher for consideration. I have only Art & Soul, and an untitled WIP left on the desktop. Lots of rewrites and resubs this year so I don't know how much further I'll get in new work.

The Hollowing is now with Cerridwen Press, and In Flames with Linden Bay Romance. I have submitted everything I have finished to publishers, which is unbelievable, though 4 of my projects have only been rewritten and polished to the "3-chapter" level.

I'm working on essays for Uni today - palaeoecology. Nervous about completing the first one in time now, particularly because I only have this week and am expecting 2 edits in from publishers!

An excerpt today from Light Play (http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/eBook4094.htm).
Cheers, ND

As he watched, the translucent flesh of Denaro’s forearm and hand began to take on more substance. Fascinated, he stared while she fought with the handle to a drawer—her would-be flesh at times dissolving into the metal, while at others actually forming a grip on the handle. Finally, with a growl of success, she slid the drawer forward—enough to permit her fading tissues to tug a brown file folder through the gap.

It was as far as she got. The file flopped loosely on to the tiled floor, its contents scattering. Morgan, curious now, focused on the top sheet—bringing in the zoom until he could read the words: “Molecular Manipulation of Phytogenesis in Animal Tissues”.

He wasn’t the only one reading it. Caroline Denaro was still there—and as she read, she forgot to maintain the substance that had won her the document now lying on the floor. Sy forgot his own reading in his horror at watching her dissolving substance. He stared as patches of skeletal framework, muscle and sinews began to appear in her would-be skin. He’d seen her disappear before, but it had all been rather sudden. Never this slow dissolution of mortality that made his stomach churn.

Something in her remaining substance told him just how angry she was. She was quivering with fury; any solidity that was left to her shivering in wavery glimpses of misconstrued flesh; a gruesome parody of existence. What made it all worse was Sy’s sudden realisation that Denaro somehow knew he was there, watching. He remembered how it had become a joke with him—no sooner would her private lab be wired for video than Caroline Denaro would be up there with wire nips to cut the wires. It was a small rebellion against Genetechnic’s intrusiveness, but Sy Morgan had always applauded it.

But, it wasn’t the Denaro he remembered who faced the camera now—who drifted forward to glare into the camera’s eye. This creature was frayed and skeletal—its skulllike visage and gaping mouth patchily dressed in shreds of flesh—almost as though Denaro had momentarily forgotten what it was like to look human.

http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm
http://www.NDHansen-Hill.com
http://MelodyKnight.com

11:21 a.m. - 2007-04-29
The Hollowing contracted!
The Hollowing was contracted this week to the same publisher who has Gilded Folly! Exciting news!

Book #28 well underway. Glass Works is a paranormal suspense novel. The one I just finished, Of Dragons, is a fantasy suspense, with traces of SF.

I'm waiting to hear about In Flames. Cross your fingers there will be news next week.

I'll leave you with an excerpt. This one's from Grave Image [http://www.fictionwise.com/eBooks/eBook27039.htm?cached].

It’s not the first time...
Jarron knew it, the moment he put a foot on the tie. She’d had more than one reason for choosing this place. Others had been here before her.
If she wants to kill herself, a voice told him practically, you’re not going to stop her.
I have to, Jarron replied, because she doesn’t know—
She hadn’t had a glimpse, the way he had—didn’t know that there was still a joyful destiny in her future. That there was still lots of living, and happiness, and love. He’d known she was pregnant because he’d seen it. Seen that wrinkled red body squirming in her arms. Seen the tufty hair and heard the lusty wails of hungry baby.
But, most of all, he’d seen her smile, as she looked down at that tiny, scrunched-up face.
She didn’t know—would never know, unless he could get to her first.
He forced himself to take another step, out onto the slippery wood. Oily and dark under the half-moon; waiting only for an unwary step to make him topple...
He froze, his eyes fixed on his feet. On the seemingly endless drop-through spaces between the ties.
It was too high. He’d never done a rescue this high before. Didn’t they know he had limits?
Trees were different. He’d done his masters’ in tree diseases, but that was a few metres versus a few million. Lots of branches to snag on as you went.
Don’t look down. Look straight ahead, and focus on your goal...
Good advice. Must have been a motivational lecturer in his former life. But Jarron did as the voice suggested.
It worked. He moved, a little uncertainly at first, and then more confidently. He focused his eyes on the girl who was nearly dead-centre now, and picked up the pace. He was still focused on her when he tripped, and fell flat on his face.
The thud, coming so startlingly over the night birds and quiet rush of distant water, brought her out of her reverie. She jumped, then turned—catching a glimpse of the painted man who was chasing her across the trestle.
It suddenly didn’t matter that she’d come here to die anyway. At least then, the choice and means were hers. She didn’t want to die at the hands of someone else. Didn’t want those last few moments of deliverance from her despair to be stolen by hands of violence. It was one thing dying in a sudden flash of speeding steel, and another to be hacked or strangled under a stranger’s hands. Panicked now, the girl began to run.
Jarron stood up, appalled. He could see the train now, and it was no vision. It was a thousand tonnes of fast-moving metal. All vibration and regular clackety-clacks that showed no sign of slowing. Rotating, sliding, chugging parts that battered the rails and bruised the ties.
“No!” he gasped. He forgot the drop—forgot everything—as another vision filled his head. Of dark blood and severed parts and squashed heads. Tripping and running and falling and tripping again, Jarron fled after the fleeing figure across the span.

How to begin a book? A man asked me that this morning (at a shop at 6:30, after only one cup of tea), and we ended up talking for half an hour. He had the idea you write fiction with an idea, and only that. The rest of the book comes out of your head. I told him the rest of the book comes from research, and making leaps and connections. Then - somehow - we got into science, and he told me how science was black and white, whereas the arts are much loser. How writing with purpose was like a musician writing for something other than pleasure. It takes something away from the art form. I countered that, of course. Science is relative - relative to past discoveries and conclusion in the field, and relative to the researcher's own conclusions. I asked him how many times has "science" been proven wrong? It's admirable to maintain a discipline with structure, and seek objectivity, but as I pointed out to him, isn't music, in its most basic form, mathematics? What could be more structured than that?

And all before a second mug of tea...

Working like an insane person on books 26-30 now. Yes, I am crazed, and attempting to put 1000 words a day on each. Most days it'll only be 3000 total...but at least I'm trying. It's all part of a plan, for my next publishing round. I'm actually finding it really freeing, too, to stop at 1000 words, and move on. It seems to loosen up all those writer's blockages.

And, as always, I'll leave you with an excerpt.

Kind regards,
ND
N. D. Hansen-Hill
EXCERPTS http://ndhansen-hill.50webs.com EBOOKS http://www.fictionwise.com/ebooks/NDHansen-Hillebooks.htm PAPERBACKS www.lulu.com/NDHansen-Hill GILDED FOLLY http://www.cerridwenpress.com/productpage.asp?ISBN=1-4199-0409-4 (entry in) THE COMPLETE WRITER'S JOURNAL http://www.redenginepress.com/

Elf

Chapter Three

Quist drove like a maniac to Mac's house. He was stern and stiff-lipped as he slammed back Mac's front door; relieved when he found the place the same as always. He hastily checked the locks on windows and doors, then, satisfied, he hauled in Zander's stuff.

"Where are you going?" Zander asked him.

"To make a police report," Quist growled. "So, lock the door." He hadn't mentioned the twitchy curtain to Zander and he didn't intend to. Time to have it out with whoever was doing this.

Zander grabbed his arm. "Not alone."

Quist shrugged him off. "I'm not alone. I have people coming over tonight. Lots of people!" he said, tossing his arms in despair. "I'm gonna stand there, in my empty room, and try to explain why someone ripped off my dirty undershorts!"

Zander shook his head. "None of this makes sense." Tired, he hobbled over to Mac's overstuffed chair and sat down.

"You're right," Quist agreed. He pulled a couple of garlic cloves out of his pocket and looked at them dismally. "My only possessions. Here—" He tossed one to Zander.

"Thanks." He chewed thoughtfully. "Neighbours might know something. I'll start with them."

"Good idea, but, you're the one who needs to hide. Not me. You know damn well the police won't do much more than search for prints, and ask for a list of what's missing." Quist scratched at his hand, then rubbed the back of his calf. "Feel like I have fleas," he complained. He scratched some more. "I'll have a nosy with the neighbours."

"Why?" Zander's face looked like thunder.

"What do you mean, 'Why'?" Quist returned impatiently, beginning to squirm now. "You suggested it. Figure it out."

"No, you fool! Why am I the one who needs to hide?"

"Let's be stupid, shall we?" Quist said sarcastically. He pulled up his shirt and looked at the red blisters beginning to form on his stomach. "It was you after work, and you in the hospital. You Mac said to watch out for."

"But it was your house that got the brunt of it—"

"Don't you get it?" Quist asked, and there was an anger in his eyes Zander had never seen before. "It's a punishment—for ripping off your car, and stealing your DVDs. You get gifts, and I get shit."

"That's crazy! You're my best friend! Hell, you're family! If they were after me, like you claim, why would they punish you? Think about it—"

"You think about it. Whoever's doing this is playing games! Screwing with our heads, just to show they can get away with it! And I'll be damned if they're gonna do it any more!" He spluttered, " Aren't you even listening to me?!"

Because Zander wasn't looking at his face—he was staring at his neck. "Quist," he said, through stiff lips, "you know that medal: th-the one from your dad?" It was a disc-shaped amulet. Quist had worn it as long as Zander could remember.

Quist's eyes filled with alarm and his hand went to his throat. "You mean the medallion?!" he asked, panicked. "Don't tell me they took that, the bast-!" He never finished. As his fingers closed on the medallion's etched surface, a humming sound filled the room.

Zander's eyes widened, and he came to his feet. Mac's TV suddenly came to life in an eye-filling clash of colour and sound, that escalated as the humming grew louder. The microwave in the kitchen began a horrendous whining roar.

Overload...

"Duck!" yelled Zander, launching himself onto Quist's startled form as the TV exploded behind him. Glass and metal blasted across the room.

Zander lay there, facedown on the floor. I came home for this?! To Quist, he said sarcastically, "Yeah, the medallion. I was gonna tell you it was glowing."

Quist wandered into the kitchen, peered at the micro