Rebecca M. Douglass, Author

Warning, arachnophobes! This story is about fighting spiders! Last Tuesday, in a post about finishing your work, Chuck Wendig wrote "Writing is a journey. Driving is a journey. Sometimes driving means taking the exit — get off the highway, and find the backroads. Drive down the backroads, you might see some unexpected sights. You might see a weird little restaurant, or a pretty bridge, or some guy riding an elk hunting giant spiders with a flaming crossbow." He then went on urge someone to write that story about the guy riding the elk. Well, Chuck, you were wrong on one point--that rider's no guy. But for the rest...here's your story. Huntress “They’re back.” Artima looked up from the weapons she tended with the attention a woman lavishes on that which keeps her alive. “What?” Herbert of Callia always looked like he’d lost his last friend. His expression now suggested that he’d found that friend rotting behind the castle. “The spiders.” “I thou

It was a random title draw at Terribleminds.com this week, but I confess I simply picked the title I liked best. For your reading pleasure, 997 words. The Present Will be Infernal That was what the prophecy said: “The present will be infernal.” My Da always added, “and the past and future don’t look so good either.” Most of our suffering was on account of the war. Anytime we managed to get some small crop, seemed like either an army came along and requisitioned the whole thing, or two armies came along and held a battle atop our fields, trampling them to mudholes. Corpses don’t make for good fertilizer, at least not right away. Our village always managed to just scrape by, but it wasn’t pretty. That explained Da’s take on past and present. As for the future—our village won’t have one. The armies took our young men. They’d always taken some, the ones who itched to get out, or who thought they wanted an adventure. But this time, King Tellert declared a muster, and claimed every male of f

First off, yes, I know it's nearly Tuesday (or, depending where you are, already Tuesday). We spent most of last week in the desert chasing wildflowers and got home fairly late on Sunday. So sue me. Or wait patiently, and by the end of the week I'll have wildflower photos to share! Now for our featured review:             I tossed in both covers because a) I'm not sure which one is on my ebook, and b) I like them both. Also note: I do associate with the author on Goodreads. But he's never sent me cookies, cake, or vegemite (thank the gods), and our association has in no way influenced this review. Title: The Vampire Mechanic (The Banned Underground #3) Author: Will Macmillan Jones Publisher: Safkhet Fantasy, 2012. 173 pages Source: I bought this of my own free will and with my own money. Summary:  First, understand who the Banned Underground is (are?): a dwarf rhythm and blues band, with a bog troll on sax. And a dragon on bass. That's a good start. Now, give the

As a special treat this week, we return to the continuing adventures of Gorg the Troll! Gorg and the Mages Gorg Trollheim stood at the window at the top of the tower and studied the Valley of Baleful Stones. He tried not to notice the scattering of stone trolls. He would bring them back to life if he could. He just had to find Duke Bale, kill him yet again, and force his sorcerer to undo the petrifying spell. Bale wasn’t in his tower. Gorg had found only three empty grey robes, like the one that had failed to stop him from entering. These didn’t speak to him, but they did stand in their corners unsupported, which gave him a creepy feeling. Were they watching him? Probably they were. He couldn’t help that. What he had to do, and do fast, was figure out where Bale and the actual sorcerer had gone. A strange idea was starting to tickle his stone mind, and Gorg didn’t like ideas, especially strange ones. To distract himself he broke a bit of stone off the windowsill and put it in his mouth

This week Chuck Wendig challenged us with a genre-mashup. I spun the random number generator, and it came up...humorous fantasy and whodunnit. Clearly, this was a job for Bovrell the Bold, the dubious apprentice-master who abandoned Halitor the Hero to his own devices. Bovrell never was terribly bright. Chuck gave us 1500 words, and I used them. Bovrell the Bold Takes the Case Bovrell the Bold, Hero at large, pulled his horse to a halt and considered the castle. It wasn’t much of a castle. He was used to better, he told himself, but it was going to rain, and he hated it when his armor rusted. He crossed the drawbridge. Careless of them to leave it down, really. Anyone could wander in. He, Bovrell, was a knight and a Hero, but you couldn’t trust everyone. They ought to use care. He followed his nose to the stable. “Ho! Stableboy! I’ve a mount needs grooming!” Bovrell climbed down from his horse and waited for a groom. None came. Grumbling, he led Black Warrior into the stable, shouted a