Memorial Day and Recovering from Inner Brutality

I have often been tough on myself, down on myself, angry at myself. I don’t want to do that anymore. Honesty about one’s abilities is important. Fierce negativity is not the same thing as honesty.

I have beaten myself up over deadlines, and failures to produce work fast enough, in general, not to mention the many mistakes I’ve made in my personal life. I am trying to eliminate that source of negativity.

I know today is Memorial Day, so I’m gonna keep this part brief, but my new attempt to be gentle with myself may result in some… unusual releases of fiction. Tenlyres is still going strong, but I am on the path to release a book or two unrelated to the Maker Mythos before I finish the second novel in that series. Not beating myself up. Being honest.

So, Memorial Day.

One of my grandfathers was a navigator on a bomber in World War II. He also got terribly airsick. I have concluded he and my whole family are very lucky he survived, because he would be flying over German-occupied territory to drop bombs with such airsickness he would have lie down to steady himself.

I know some of the statistics for survival rates for bomber crews in that war. I’d consider anybody who didn’t get shot down or wounded in the air to be pretty lucky. My grandfather could not do a whole lot to protect himself up there, but he navigated for the plane anyway. And the rest of the crew must have done their jobs too because they made it back home.

And over seventy years later, I’m here typing these words because I’m grateful. War is a terrible thing, but as long as wars exist there will be people who fight for their country. I’m not ‘rah rah’ about war, but I can be grateful for those who were willing to lay down their lives. This quote seems apropos at the moment.
“The military makes demands, which few if any other callings do… The whole essence of being a soldier is not to slay but to be slain. You offer yourself up to be slain, rather than setting yourself up as a slayer.”
– General Sir John Hackett

Tenlyres Chapter 18


Ilsa and Blue have joined with the Keeper of Tenlyres, who it is their mission to protect.
The Keeper has demonstrated knowledge of the Lyres and a mystical ability to heal wounds.
However, the forces of the Ayoch have surrounded them, and trapped them beneath the Central Lyre, along with a surviving force of Oshomi nomads. The siege is nearly over.
Escape is now or never.

Previous Chapter

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Tenlyres II - Chapter 18 lq

Ilsa and Lemuel climbed the tunnel until they reached the place near the top, where Blue crouched, peering over the rise at the steppe outside. Blue looked over her armored shoulder at them. “I don’t know what they’re waiting around for. They second army got here the same day as the Red Lector himself.”

She recalled the conversation she had overheard in the plant pile when Ferdinand had shown up at Palend’s manor. “Some of them work for the Gray Lector, and whoever that is, he isn’t allied with the Red Lector.”

“Lectors this, Lectors that,” said the flat voice of Siuku, the Keeper of Tenlyres, from behind Ilsa. “What cares do we have for the names they give themselves.”

Blue raised her eyebrows at Ilsa. The question on Blue’s face did not require mental powers to convey.

Ilsa nodded to the Keeper. “It could inform our strategy.”

“Divide and conquer, children,” said Blue with relish.

Siuku’s cold red gaze moved to Blue’s face, her expression unreadable behind her veil. “None of us are children.”

“It’s an expression of simplicity.” Lemuel frowned past Blue at the lines of Ayochian tents, now encircling the lyre. He looked up at the gleaming metal strings of the lyre. “Keeper, do you know which strings open which passages in the lyre?”

“Yes. But if we open more surface passages we will only have to guard them as well.”

“What about passages that go deeper into the lyre?” asked Ilsa.

“Few Keepers have ever gone below the highest chamber.”

“But it is possible, right?”

“Yes, priestess. It is possible, but it is dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Why?” She frowned. The possible dangers below could not be worse than the armies surrounding them already.

Siuku closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Our people tell stories of creatures trapped beneath the lyres, imprisoned there just after the beginning by the ancient spirits.”

“Wait,” said Ilsa. “The First Book of Hathani talks about something similar before the departure of the gods.”

“Perhaps your city writers are not all wrong. We call them Uzan, among our people, evil beasts that warred with the first of our people, when the spirits walked among us.”

“Suppose they’re down there. How could they survive underground for thousands of years?” Blue asked.

“Such creatures are not mortal in the stories,” said Siuku.

“But they might just be a myth,” said Lemuel.

“I don’t know about myth, but all living things die eventually,” said Ilsa.

“How optimistic.” Blue grimaced. “Got any other ideas to cheer me up?”

Ilsa shrugged. “We could wait underground until they starve us out. Then we would just lose everything while we smell our own filth.”

Blue’s red-rimmed eyes blinked. “Is that a joke?”

“I mean, we have to do something.” Ilsa turned to Siuku and Lemuel. “Right?”

“Agreed.” Siuku’s brow furrowed. “In fact. If we open all the passages, we might be able to use that confusion to escape when the Uzan emerge.”

“If they emerge,” said Lemuel.

“Scholar, do not doubt my words. They are below us, not far below now.” Siuku turned to the three Oshomi who had been keeping watch with Blue. “Go and prepare everyone to ride.”

“But the Uzan—,” said one of the men.

Ilsa shook her head. “They may be able to live forever, but I’ve never met any monster that couldn’t be killed.” She produced the pistol from one of her bonds. “Send up our steeds when it’s time to move,” she said.

The man bowed to Siuku. She nodded to them in reply. He and the other two Oshomi followed the passage down into the chamber below.

Ilsa did not like the implication of opening the lyre, but what other choice did they have? She peered over the slope of the passage, searching the Ayochian line for where they might keep their prisoners. Cass and Ferdinand and the Oshomi the Red Lector had captured were hopefully still alive. Either way, Ilsa has a debt to repay all of them, especially her fellow priestess.

She found a tent a few back from the line, directly across from the place where the far arch of the lyre connected to the base of the platform. Her eyes narrowed as she squinted, but she couldn’t pick out any sign of her friends.

Blue put a hand on her shoulder. “They’re there,” she said. “How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

Her friend whistled. “Let’s hope that luck holds.”

Hoofbeats and thumps of feet on stone announced the arrival of Siuku’s horse, Hailek, and Blue’s strider. Tirica Chollush rode in Blue’s saddle. She had recovered well after Siuku had sealed her wound, though days without sunlight had left her paler than before.

Ilsa turned to face the strings. “Everyone, get ready to ride. I’m about to open the gates.”


Ilsa drew her second pistol and loaded it, then crept up from the passage, staying low. The light of midday sun glimmered on the strings and felt warm on her skin. Winter might be truly over, Ilsa thought as she looked back and forth, scanning the Ayochian camp for signs of anyone watching. She saw none. She pressed her back against the wall beside the passage and aimed down her pistol’s barrel at the strings.

“Hit every string, and the lyre should open,” said Siuku from the passage.

Ilsa grunted and trained the pistol on the string farthest from her. The reflection of a scope glinted in the camp beyond the black stone of the lyre. She threw herself to one side, pistol free of her trigger guard. A bullet whined off the wall where she had just been crouched, high-velocity long distance round with Morhoenese propellant judging by the sound and smell.

“What the hell was that?” said Lemuel.

“Someone’s been waiting to take a shot,” said Ilsa without looking back. She stepped into the silhouette of the lyre’s arch, hoping the sniper wouldn’t have friends already lining up a shot in the blind spot. A low chuckle came from behind her and to the right. Ilsa whirled, one gun forward, the other still pointed at the strings.

A skinny black girl with frizzy hair stood beside the passage, her back to the stone and a pistol in one hand, aimed at Ilsa. She put her index to her lips, a shushing gesture.

“They call themselves the Brothers of the Black Desert,” said the girl in a Chogrumian accent. “Master Black Powder likes them.”

Ilsa scowled as she heard her father’s pseudonym among the mercenary companies. “Black Powder?”

The girl smirked. “Ozleji said you seemed not to like your father. Truth is, I really don’t care.”

“Who are you?”

“My name is Melinda. I’m Black Powder’s best apprentice yet. He’s never seen anyone shoot like me.” She twitched her wrist. A trigger clicked just as Ilsa started to move, but she couldn’t predict the direction of Melinda’s shot. The bullet hit the pistol Ilsa had aimed at Melinda in its back, just above Ilsa’s wrist and tore the weapon from her grip. The pistol skittered away across the lyre.

Ilsa snarled and swung the other pistol to fire at the girl. She’s a mercenary, obviously employed by Ayoch, like Ozleji Sammhar had been. Before Ilsa could fire a second bullet from Melinda’s pistol hit her in the back of the hand. She grunted in pain, but the gun’s barrel moved to within inches of Melinda’s young face. Where she meant to pull the trigger she could not find the strength in the needed fingers, and they remained stiff.

“Shit,” said Ilsa.

“Muscular toxins in the round. Paralyzes a local area around the bullet.” Melinda smiled, her pistol pressed into Ilsa’s chest. “I told him I was better than you.”

“You mean, my father?”

“Who else, silly?” The girl smiled at Ilsa, teeth bright and white. “I knew you would come out eventually and I’d get my chance to prove it.” Melinda cackled with laughter and lowered her pistol from Ilsa’s heart. She backed away onto the open side of the lyre. “Come on now, Ilsa, be good and follow me. I promise the boys won’t shoot you before I do.”

The pain in Ilsa’s wounded hand ran through her nerves like fire. She was used to bullets and blades, but the toxins hurt worse than that. Her mind pulsed with pain. She pressed her hand to the wall near the passage with a gasp. She normally did not keep her guns loaded because the bullets could detonate when summoned improperly through a bond. But in one hundred heartbeats Ilsa would have her chance to try it if this girl didn’t shoot her first.

“Ilsa, what’s going on out there?” asked Lemuel asked from the passage. “Blue says she can’t sense anyone else.”

“There’s a weapon bond out here. Stay where you are.”

“Don’t try reaching into your spirit, Ilsa,” said Melinda. “I won’t let you pull out another gun.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you won’t.” Ilsa gritted her teeth and stalked toward Melinda, still leaning on the wall with her open hand.

Less than fifty heartbeats to go.

Melinda laughed and waved Ilsa out into the open. She glimpsed a second scope in the light of day. She looked to be dead, even if she beat this girl. Forty heartbeats to go. Ilsa shuddered on her feet.

“My father trained you too, is that it?”

“I’m no liar. I’m the best he’s ever trained.”

“I haven’t met a lot of his other students.” Ilsa mustered up the strength to force her grimaced into a smile. She faced Melinda.  Twenty heartbeats. “He barely talked about the others when he trained me.”

“Well, he’ll be here soon. Not sure if he’ll be happy to find you dead. But I have a feeling he’ll forgive me.”

“You’re a bit of work.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Melinda’s lip curled.

Five heartbeats.

Both of Melinda’s pistols aimed at Ilsa. Four. Ilsa rolled her eyes. Three. “I’m not your rival.”

Two heartbeats left.

Melinda’s fingers inched toward the trigger. “Time to go, Ilsa.”

One heartbeat left.

Ilsa clenched her open hand.


She focused on the image of the pistol just as it had been, a firearm with a loaded magazine full of Dalite 5.6 millimeter rounds. Every detail, every piece of information about her ammunition swam in her head. Yes, she had never done this, but no, it was not impossible. She felt the pistol in her hand, stable, whole.

She let the strength leave her legs and gravity carried her to the stone of the lyre, even as she swung her arm up to fire. Melinda’s pistols roared and the bullets flew over Ilsa’s head. A gun cracked in the distance and a bullet ricocheted off the side of the lyre’s arch a few meter’s away from Ilsa and Melinda.

Her own bullet cut into Melinda’s shoulder. Melinda staggered to one side. “Better than I thought,” she said.

From Ilsa rolled to one side and fired again. The bullet slashed across Melinda’s long gray sleeve, cutting the cloth without drawing blood as the girl darted the other way.

Ilsa glared and staggered up to her feet. Melinda turned as if to keep shooting but then hesitated. Ilsa lurched toward her. Another sniper round cut the air, which made Ilsa step to one side to avoid it. The bullet missed. She didn’t think the snipers were aiming at her anymore. A loud note resounded in the air. Melinda and Ilsa stood, breathing hard, guns extended toward each other.

The sound of the lyre drifted beautifully through the air. Melinda stepped back from Ilsa.

“Black Powder—Master!” She called.

Ilsa turned toward the strings. A man in a black coat stood between the strings, points a long-barreled pistol with a cylindrical silencer around its barrel in each direction. Each time he fired, the bullets rang another note. Henry Vel, Black Powder, played every note on the Central Lyre. He raised his head and smiled at Ilsa through his carefully trimmed beard.

“Thank you for the assistance in finding how to play the lyre,” he said. “It’s good to see you, daughter.”

Ilsa glared at him, eyes burning. She raised her pistol to aim at her father. He had this coming, as he had for a long time. He holstered his twin black pistols in slings designed for their silencers.

Her eyes ran with tears of rage. “I should kill you.”

“If you want, give it a try,” he said. “But the lyre is about to open.”

The ground trembled beneath her and Ilsa realized his words were true.

A Bit of News

I’ve been distracted from blogging over the past week.

I’ve been figuring some stuff out for my life and my writing, and I’ve been preparing for a book launch party on facebook. It’s for a thriller novel called “Strong Medicine”, being released by an online acquaintance, Angela Meadon, and I am going to be hosting a few games and giveaways there on May 28th, so Saturday this week.

Here is a LINK if you’re interested in the party, which begins tomorrow.

I look forward to releasing a longer episode of Lore of the Worlds on Thursday, and another chapter of Tenlyres on Friday.

But I have many plans to push forward to order, so for now, I’m going to say goodbye.

Thanks for reading.

Tenlyres Chapter 17


Ilsa and Blue have joined with the Keeper of Tenlyres, who it is their mission to protect.
The Keeper has demonstrated knowledge of the Lyres and a mystical ability to heal wounds.
However, the forces of the Ayoch have surrounded them, and trapped them beneath the Central Lyre, along with a surviving force of Oshomi nomads and the scholar Lemuel Chollush and his sister, Tirica.
The Ayochians have captured other allies Ilsa and Blue met along their journey.
And now the Ayochians continue the siege of the Central Lyre.

Previous Chapter

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Tenlyres II - Chapter 17

A week in the darkened chamber and Ilsa grew tense. Yet, the Ayochians refused to storm the chamber beneath the lyre, and the Oshomi could not break out. At least the chamber had light, but what it lacked was any way out except for back up through the passage to the surface where the Red Lector camped.

Blue kept them from coming down the passage when she was awake, and the Oshomi could protect the entrance despite their tiny number because of the narrowness of the passage. Over the week, Ilsa had not been forced to shoot, even when on guard duty. Evidently the Red Lector could be patient.

She suspected that meant his sons had survived their wounds. The Red Lector struck her as the vengeful type, so she doubted he would be so passive if she had killed Kaij or Yunn.

The food the Oshomi had brought with them had begun to run out, even with disciplined rationing, though they had yet to eat any horses. Ilsa planted her hand against Hailek’s side. The wooly strider stood stable, but after today there would be no more food for him.

The siege approached an end.

Ilsa grimaced at the thought. She paced away from Hailek across the chamber toward the wall opposite the entrance. Lemuel caught up with her halfway there.



They had not said much to each other over the last week. Part of her did not like how much she wanted to talk to him, because this situation was deadly serious, and they still had friends under guard by the Red Lector’s troops. So far, Cass and Ferdinand and the Oshomi rearguard had not been executed, another sign the Red Lector did not have reason to feel vengeful.

Ilsa wondered if that meant the bodyguard, Ozleji Sammhar, might have lived through his wounds as well. That thought made her grit her teeth and wish the opposite. The man who had been trained by her father scared her too much. If the battle continued, she did not want to confront him again.

“Ilsa, are you alright?” asked Lemuel.

They had reached the wall of the chamber. She put her branded palms to the smooth stone, knowing the vibration of the Lyre ran through it all, but unable to feel the frequency.

“There has to be a way out.”

He nodded. “I keep thinking the same thing.”

She turned and raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re serious?”

“The structure of the Lyres is a lot larger than one is on the surface,” he said. “My studies indicate, at least under the Eastern and Western Lyres, there are tunnels going out in every direction from the Lyre itself.”

She frowned. “Looks like there aren’t any here, unfortunately.”

“That’s what’s maddening.” Lemuel slapped his shrunken fist into his other palm. “I don’t see why this place isn’t connected.”

Ilsa grunted, frustrated. “If we’re not connected, we’re not connected. What can we do?”

Lemuel frowned at the wall where Ilsa’s hands still rested. “That’s just it, though. I don’t know if we’re not connected. My theory is that there must be other tunnels from this chamber. When you played that note with your gunshot, it opened one tunnel, but that shot only vibrated two strings.”

Ilsa’s eyes widened as she considered the possibility, the hope Lemuel’s idea provided. “You think if we played more notes we could hope more tunnels?”

“I suspect that’s the case, yes.”

She pushed off the wall and straightened her back. “Only one problem. The strings are up there.” She jabbed her thumb toward the ceiling. “And so are the Red Lector’s guns.”

He shrugged. “They aren’t camped on the Lyre. Seems to me they have to sleep sometime.”

“There are enough of us to always keep watch, and there’s a lot more of them than there are of us.” Ilsa shook her head. “But this still seems like our best chance, and we’re almost out of food, so the sooner, the better.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the one passage open to the surface. A little orange light filtered down the tunnel from above, glaring in comparison to the dull glow from the luminous stones that illuminated the rest of the chamber. The sun was setting.

She frowned. “I’ll try tonight. Blue is on watch now, so she can help keep the pressure off once I go outside.” After weeks of riding across the plateau, being trapped in this bizarre chamber for a week had left Ilsa cramped and aching to move, and her only glimpses of the sky had been during watches. “Is your sister well enough to move?”

“She’s been ready for three days. It’s the Keeper who keeps saying she needs to rest.”

“I’ll bet Tirica loves that.” Ilsa’s voice dripped with irony.

“About as much as the Red Lector likes you now.” Lemuel gave an awkward chuckle.

“Right.” Ilsa started to walk back toward where the Oshomi had set up camp among their horses near the entrance of the chamber.

Lemuel followed at her side. “Are you angry with me?” he asked.

Ilsa halted, and turned to him. “Why would I be?”

“Well, I…” He sighed and lowered his eyes. “I’ve kept secrets about how much I knew. And then, turning the battle, I touched you.”

“Your secrets were things I wouldn’t even have asked you about. As for the battle, my heart would have frozen without you.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You have to do a lot worse than saving my life for me to be angry with you.”

He raised his eyes and their gazes met. Her fingers tingled on the shoulder of his coat, feeling the warmth of his body beneath the cloth. Something sparkled in the corner of his eye. Tears? He put his small hand on her hand. “Thank you, Ilsa.”

“It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not nothing.” He smiled and wiped tears away with his big hand. “Now look at me, blubbering.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not a soldier, but you rode through a battle. You’re not a priest but you found out more about the Lyres than any clergy member I ever met. You’ve done a lot of things you weren’t prepared for, so of course you’re hurting. It’s like you sprinted without stretching first.”

Lemuel’s shrunken fingers wrapped around her wrist, gentle, as if they had no strength at all. “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.”

“Used to be, I didn’t talk as much as I wanted,” Ilsa said, and realized it was true. “Hathanian clergy is all about the words. Every priest and priestess has their own.”

“Like, Cass told you, to ‘be red,’ right?”

“Yes, that was from one of her sayings.”

He nodded. “You’re a priestess too. So why didn’t you want to talk?”

“I was banished from Saint Banyeen’s Garden, in Dal.” Ilsa sighed. “I used to think that meant I wasn’t worthy of having words of my own. Of course, that never stopped me from carrying a scroll.”

“If we get out of this, we’ll all have stories.”

Ilsa squeezed his shoulder gently. “Right.” She released her grip. “Let’s find a way out of here.”

The Return of Tenlyres! And Quality

Tenlyres II launches its first chapter this Friday, both here, and at

On a less newsy angle, I am working on my process, as always, and while hanging out with a friend earlier today, I talked about this to a degree.

See, I’ve had a difficult time really catching aflame during my labors on more recent works of fiction. My friend had an idea today that perhaps if I reversed my focus, which has always been on numbers of words and books written, to focus on content and quality I could ignite a different kind of fuel to rocket me forward.

Worth a shot.

I will return on Friday with a chapter of Tenlyres.

Thanks for reading.

An Experiment in Alternation

So, last week I tried some binge-writing. It worked for about two days, and I enjoyed those days. However, after that, I lost a lot of the necessary excitement to continue. At the risk of not giving the steady-binge a long enough try, I have a new idea this week.

This week’s experiment…


So, if I can binge for two days on a project before I start getting distracted, the new plan will be to work for no more than two days on a single book consecutively, unless of course the story really takes me for a ride.

I was diagnosed with ADHD in my youth, and I definitely still suffer from those symptoms to a degree.

Perhaps this organized flipping between stories will allow me to succeed where I have been failing in the area of consistency.

For this experiment, I will be working on my main story 2-3 days of the week, and working on 3-4 other stories during the week. For novelty, I think these stories should gradually transition from one level of tone and conflict toward another.

So here are the stories I will be working on for the next three weeks for this experiment.
Monday: The Mangrove Suite – Near Future set on earth featuring alien blood that makes people psychic.
Tuesday, and Wednesday: Spurring the Beast – Book Two of the Maker Mythos, an Urban Fantasy series
Thursday and Friday: Tenlyres II: The Gray Lector – Part 2 of my ongoing guns and fantasy series, Tenlyres.
Saturday: Temple Theater – A fantasy with a lot of violence, corrupt deities, and mechanical steam-powered giants.
Sunday: A day off? I’m gonna leave this as a wild day each week, and day to cleanse my palate and then transition back toward the Mangrove Suite. If I work on this day possible books include ‘Devoured’ (A secondary world urban fantasy with a violent antihero for a protagonist), and ‘Haunted Symphony’ (A far-future space opera featuring reincarnated super soldiers, and mecha that are possessed by spirits from beyond), and Arsenal (A secondary world urban fantasy with apocalyptic stakes).

So, I have a big load of different stories, but all of them kick around my head fairly regularly.

Yes, you can see from my list of stories that I love the weird and the fantastic. Yes, I will never apologize for that.

I will also be releasing the next episode of Lore of the Worlds as a podcast later this week. So far, I’m quite pleased that I even released episode one, and there is nowhere to go but up from here.

According to my schedule, I have psychics powered by alien blood to write about. And I’m excited.

Thanks for reading.

Word Binge, Success?

I have been writing fairly well this week. Tuesday and Wednesday I did a lot of good words and loved the story as I went. Thursday (Yesterday) I felt the fatigue of the sleep I had been sacrificing all week, and I just felt like talking. Thank goodness, I was able to connect with two other wonderful writer people to chat and rejuvenate.

However, I did not write any serious words yesterday. I wish I could have found the energy, but at least I got more sleep last night. That brings us to the present.

I have not been writing 11,000 words a day, though my numbers have been pretty good, but I’m going to try again today.

In Rachel Aaron’s book, “2k to 10k”, which I have read many times, she discusses three elements she used for herself to write 10,000 words each day. Her three are, if I recall, Knowledge, Enthusiasm, and Time. Her book is great. I highly recommend it. However, like most writing advice it must be modified for each writer to allow for personal style.

I developed a few twists on Aaron’s format yesterday.

Knowledge for me does not mean an outline that restricts, which I think is similar to Aaron’s way of things. However, I have decided that the micro-outlining she recommends is not for me. Rather, I like to have several possibilities for the outcome of the major scenes, kind of like Steven King’s advice about writing from a situation, discussed in “On Writing.”

I’ve often called what Rachel Aaron refers to as ‘Enthusiasm’ something like ‘Joy.’ If I love a scene, a character, and the world everything works better. This one is pretty much the same as what she describes, I think.

The last one is Time. My greatest weakness right now is the amount of time I work. I managed over 7000 words in about 4 hours this week. But that’s all the time I’ve spent in the last three days. As a teen was diagnosed and I still have ADHD. I also tend to get antsy and worried when I something I know will occur later in the day, whether good or bad, gets closer.

My mission today is to spend more time writing. I have my hopes that I’ll get better as I keep going. I definitely need to get at least some social time in each day, and if I lose too much sleep I will feel it eventually. Everything seems to fit for today. So here I go.

Thanks for reading.