Guest blog by Faberge Nostromo, author of The Song in the Silver
My writing space is the final frontier. And often it is somewhere I’ve boldly not gone before. It’s certainly been longer than a five year mission too. I first wrote something that counted as writing at primary school when we were given half an hour to write a story. I spent the whole day churning out a sort of James Bond meets 20,00 Leagues Under The Sea effort that had my teacher seriously wondering about the boy in the corner who didn’t say much.
But back to space. I write less often than I ought to but more often than I used to and in places that aren’t always conducive to it. But ‘per ardua ad astra’ as they say. I don’t think I’ve ever really sat at a desk with a laptop and written the way I’ve always pictured writers writing. Ian Fleming at his gold typewriter bashing out Bond was my image of a proper writer, but I did love the romantic notion of the unemployed single mother J.K. Rowling scribbling in a coffee shop, no hope on the horizon, just characters that she had to get out of her head on onto paper.
So I met this lady by a swimming pool in South Africa as she sat, in a bikini, glass of wine by her side, laptop on her lap who turned out to be a writer writing. I bothered her, badgered her and she explained about fonts and format, submissions and genres and unknown to either of us then that was the day I became a writer. A year later, almost to the day, Raven McAllan (for it was her, dear reader) and myself had books published on the same day by the same publisher.
I wrote mine on a smartphone, in snippets in emails from work to my home address, in comments added to google calendar entries, sometimes on a laptop, sometimes even scribbles in a note pad and I still do. And, praise the laaawd, it turns out that I too have characters in my head that are pestering me to get out onto paper (ok, Dropbox via Word on a MacBook Air these days).
The latest one is a reluctant vampire who appeared in my head one day sitting alone on a Scottish hillside under a starlit sky listening to the cry of the werewolf who saved him.
His story is The Song In The Silver, his name is William Reed. Well, part of his story anyway… because, as he’s going to live forever and the people he loves won’t he has a dark and difficult road to walk.
What would you do? You’ve found love but you’ve lost your mortal life. Do you stay or do you go? Do you tell her or do you leave her to mourn? What song do you hear and what is it telling you to do?
A vampire’s bite.
A werewolf’s love.
Burned by silver and called by its song, he walks the night forever, protecting those he loves.
His mortal life stolen by a vampire, his undead life saved by a werewolf, William walks now in darkness. Scarred by her silver on the night he was turned, he secretly protected Mary until the day she died.
And now the fading song of their daughter’s life has called him back to the glen.
Will tonight be the night he can reveal to her the eternal love that has kept her safe, and that will now protect her son?
He sat on the side of the hill, beneath the wind-stunted oak, and looked down on the thin stream of smoke drifting from the croft into the star-littered sky. A faint wisp of the Northern Lights swept like a wraith across the inky black. The wind flicked his raven-black hair from his face and stung his eyes.
She was in there. The time was coming. The conflict in his heart hoped that it might not be tonight, but that if it was, it would be before the dawn broke over the hills opposite.
The howl of a wolf echoed across the valley. He recognized Aatu’s cry. She had been here always, before him. She’d been here all the time he’d been far away, far from the pain. She would still be here after he left.
A bird splashed in the dark reeds along the side of the beck at the cry, protecting her young from the night, just as he’d protected the woman in the croft when he could. And when his presence had threatened her, he’d left to take the threat far away.
He wrapped his cloak tight around him, though he didn’t need it against the cold. He felt neither cold nor warmth—only loss.
He touched the deerskin pouch that hung from the leather thong around his neck. The soft vibrations of the uisge, the life force, from the silver cross inside were fainter now. One pattern of vibrations, one of the harmonies within the song, was fading. The pattern had lived with him for nearly a century. It was what had brought him back, the realization that one part of the song was coming to an end.
The journey had been long and hard. The dark highways of his existence had made it so, but he had come. And he would leave again. After he had had one last moment with her, to tell her. So that she would, at the end, know. Just as he had with her mother.
Author Bio: On Amazon it say’s this about me –
Faberge Nostromo’s career has been one in the true sense of the word – “move swiftly and in an uncontrolled way”; expelled from school, he finally arrived, through fortuosity and belligerence, at a stage in life where he can genuinely claim to be a writer and musician. Whatever you do, do not encourage him.
And I wrote it so it must be true?
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