Author: Nicole Luttrell

I'm a speculative fiction writer. That means I write about dragons, ghosts and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships.

Falling From Grace, Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Grace leaned against the door frame between the bedroom and main room, watching Victor pack clothes into a bag. “Calvin thinks we will not be gone longer than a week, but I do not know,” he said, adding a leather pouch of dried meat to his bag. “I hate to give you a time because I do not want you to worry if we are later than that. Did you make that flat bread I asked for?”

“It is on the ledge above the fireplace,” Grace said, not bothering to stir herself to fetch it for him.

“Thank you,” he said, striding across the room to get it. “I got that new bar put on the door, but it is not going to do you any good if you do not use it. I cannot imagine anyone would fuss with you, but you never know.”

“I will be in the square with the other women most of the time, anyway,” Grace replied.

“But you will come back here at night,” Victor said.

“Do not go,” Grace replied.

She didn’t know what she expected him to do with this, but laughter wasn’t really a surprise. “Do not go? Calvin and I finally get Timur to give us some real work, and you are telling me not to go. Woman, have you lost your mind entirely?”

“This is death, what he is sending you to do. Marching into the Septan palace, dressed like a Calistar soldier? You will not survive, not a man going with you will.”

“That is foolishness,” Victor said. He stood, and clenched his fist. A blue shield of light manifested. They’d yet to find anything that could penetrate it. “I will come home, and so will Calvin. So will all of us going.”

“And what if you do not? What are the girls and Morgan and I going to do then, eh?” Grace whispered.

Victor was across the room in two strides. He swept her up into his arms, and his mouth found hers. “Darling, I have to do this. I did not become a Brother to raid food storage barns, and I will not do it anymore. Timur has given me a chance here to prove-.”

“Timur has given you nothing,” Grace hissed. “He has given himself a way to be free of you, Calvin, and every other young man who would defy him. He does not expect you to come back.”

“Perhaps not,” Victor said. “But I will.”

“Vicky, are you not ready yet?” Calvin called from outside.

“I am coming, hold on!” Victor replied. He released Grace reluctantly and grabbed his bag from the table. Grace followed him outside.

Calvin had already hitched his wagon. “Are you done crying over your woman yet?” he asked.

“Do not be jealous, just because I have one,” Victor laughed, tossing his bag into the wagon. “Where is Boris?”

“Saying goodbye to Nikita, still. We will pick him up on the way out of town,” Calvin said.

Grace decided to try Calvin next. She stood beside his seat on the wagon. “Calvin, think about this. What is the point of starting a war between Septa and Calistar? The aristocrats will just send poor sons to go fight for them.”

“But that is part of the plan,” Calvin laughed. “Do not worry your head, Grace. Look after the girls and Morgan, and we will be back soon.”

But Grace grabbed hold of the horse’s reigns. “What if none of you come home? What about Boris, leaving Nikita here with his babe?”

“Boris will come home,” Calvin said. “And so will I, and so will Victor. Do not be afraid, Sister. And let go of my horse, please.”

Grace released the reigns but didn’t move away. She felt shaken to her core, as Victor grabbed her up into a hug. “Stop fussing, woman,” he laughed, swinging her around. “This is a great mission.”

“And nothing is going to stand before this,” Calvin said. He clenched his hand, and a ball of light appeared. Unlike Victor’s, his light was no shield. It was a ball of energy that nothing could stand against.

“But what if Timur is sending you into a trap?” Grace cried.

At this, Calvin leaned down from the wagon seat to whisper in her ear. “That is the thing, though. He is, and we know it. When we return victorious, we will have a very, very different conversation with him about where our country is headed. And I do not think he will enjoy it.”

May, June, and Morgan crowded around the wagon, and Calvin sat up straight in his seat. June, the middle of Calvin’s children, had an ever messy braid down her back. Her brown dress was stained at the bottom with mud and at the knees with soot.

“Take care of each other, and stay out of trouble. We will be back in a week,” Calvin said.

“Do not tell them that,” Victor said, swinging into the seat next to Calvin.

“One week!” Calvin bellowed and clicked at the horse to send him on his way.

“Goodbye Da, be careful!” June called, waving at him. Grace joined the others in their farewells, feeling brittle. She watched as they rode to the other end of the village, stopping along the way to pick up Boris and a number of other men.

“Come on,” Grace said. “We might as well head to the square.”

June and May nodded, but Morgan said, “I am going to go hunting. The sun is barely up, I should be able to get some good meat for supper.”

“Oh really?” May snorted. “You are going to go hunting? And why would you waste the whole day like that, eh?”

“You ought to stay and help us weed the garden,” June said.

Morgan scoffed. “What do you need four people to weed the garden for? I will go and get us some meat. Grace, will you make a pie if I bring you a bird? Your crust is better than theirs.”

“I would need the goat milked,” Grace replied dully. “And I might need to churn butter, as well. Go and get your game if you can. Be careful.”

Morgan was gone in a moment to collect his traps and head into the woods.

“Might as well get the goat milked, then,” Grace said.

“You are not going to be the one this time, are you?” June asked.

“The one what?” Grace asked.

June sighed. “The one woman who cannot help but mope until the men get back. They always ruin the whole experience for the rest of us.”

Grace shook her head. She grabbed her bucket and went into the small enclosure next to the house where her goat resided. She was napping in the sun, but came fast enough when she heard Grace come in. Normally she would have been milked earlier, but Victor hadn’t had the time before he left.

“Are you going to stand there and complain at me the whole time I do this?” Grace asked, settling into her stool to milk the creature.

“Maybe. Why are you so upset, anyway? You have never been this way before.” June grabbed some hay from the pile next to the enclosure and started making a pile of it.

“You all seem to think that these men are invincible just because of a little magic,” Grace muttered.

A single scream rang out just as she was finishing with the goat. Grace only just managed to not spill any of the milk before running from the paddock. June was just a moment behind her.

“That is Yulia’s house,” June cried. The front door was wide open, and they could hear Yeva shouting for help inside.

Grace stopped on the threshold. Yeva was kneeling next to her grandmother’s chair. A cup of tea had fallen and shattered on the floor. Yulia was slumped in her chair, not breathing.

“I, I do not know what happened,” Yeva sobbed. “I just came in to check on her, and she was like this.”

“Was there something off in her tea?” June asked.

“I do not know. She might have stirred something in by mistake, look at her damned work table!” Yeva cried. She gestured to a table near the window, laden with herb bouquets and bowls. Always a thin wisp of a girl, Yeva seemed even smaller now in her fright.

“What am I to do, I am all alone now,” Yeva sobbed.

Grace considered the girl. She couldn’t remember saying more than a handful of words to her since she’d been born. She’d said enough to Yulia, screaming for her book back, for help, for anything the old woman might have been able to do for her.

“I was alone younger than you,” Grace said. “You will be fine.”

Yeva turned a tear stained face towards her, her eyes wide. “How?” she asked.

“That is not my concern. When Morgan gets back we will help bury your grandma. That is more than she bothered to do for me.”

Grace went back to her chores, leaving the girl no room to say anything more.

Falling From Grace is coming out tomorrow! Preorder it here now on Amazon.

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Grace, Chapter One

In a sparkling city of canals and magic, there is a prince named Victor. He is married to a strong headed princess, and they have two daughters who are the center of their world. Together they have fought monsters and men, and changed the course of their country, Septa, forever.

But before Victor was a prince, he was a common man. And he loved another, a girl named Grace. This is her story.

Prologue

Thirteen years ago

The night was black, the wind slicing cold. At a little house near the woods where creatures crept, scratched and howled, a girl sat in front of the door. She was barefoot, wrapped in a quilt, shivering. But she had to get out of the house for as long as she could stand the cold. The darkness and smell inside were too much for her.

Ma was coughing again, and sobbing. The sobs were so loud that Grace could hear them over the wind. A moment later they were stifled, and Grace could hear Yulia, the village’s other healer, talking. The wind was too harsh for her to hear her words.

Until she called for Grace.

Grace swirled around and pulled the door open. The wind caught it and tried to drag it out of her hands. She had to use all of her strength to close it.

“Come and help me,” Yulia cried. Grace’s ma was jerking in the bed, her body twisting and convulsing. Her Da, lying next to her was still during this fit, ghastly still.

“Come here!” Yulia called again. Grace ran to the bed. The two of them turned Ma to the side, as flecks of spittle flew from the woman’s mouth.

Finally, she was still. Her chest rose and fell, and her breath was labored. But at least the terrible seizing was finished.

“Good, good girl,” Yulia said. “Do not be running outside again. Get yourself to bed.”

“But, but Da,” Grace whispered.

“There is no helping him now. I will move him out of your ma’s bed, but you are not strong enough to help with that. Now off to bed with you.”

Grace retreated to her bed, and fell on it. Her da was dead. What would she and her ma do without him? She settled into her blankets, and tried to do as she’d been told. But she just couldn’t close her eyes.

Eventually she dozed, as Yulia stoked the fire.

Grace was never sure how long she slept, when she was woken someone walking past the foot of her bed.

She sat up, startled. It was Yulia, but she had her cloak on. And she was holding Grace’s ma’s book. The book of medicines and herb lore that had been her own ma’s legacy. It was black and leather bound. When it was closed, her ma tied it with a red ribbon. This now was missing.

“What are you doing, Mistress Yulia?” Grace asked.

“Rochelle next door is having her baby. I must go attend to her,” Yulia said, and turned to go with the book.

“Wait, but what about Ma?” she asked, struggling to get out of bed. “Yulia, what about my ma?”

But Yulia was gone already.

And a single glance towards the big bed showed Grace that there was nothing more she could have done for her ma anyway. Both of her parents lay still, their chests not rising.

And just like that, Grace was all alone. She thought at first that surely Yulia would return to help her, to tell her what to do. But she didn’t.

The fire was low, its warmth and light fading fast. Grace hurried to the wood pile next to the fireplace, and began feeding it logs. There weren’t many, and Grace prayed the few remaining would last her until dawn. With her parents now only husks that had been people, the thought of darkness was too much. She tried to think of good memories of her parents. There were many to choose from. But right then, she could only be aware of the ghastly lumps tucked into their bed. Grace huddled close to the fire and waited for Yulia to come back with her ma’s book.

She was still there, alone, when the sun came up.

The next day men came to take away her parents. One of them was Calvin, Rochelle’s man. He was also the da of May, June and Morgan, three little ones that Rochelle had occasionally asked Grace to help with in exchange for a few eggs or vegetables from her garden. He looked haggard, but was the only man to spare her any attention. “Little girl, are you hungry?” he asked.

“I, I do not know,” she whispered.

He gave her a gentle smile. “Maybe you can come and help with the children while Rochelle heals? We do not have much to spare, but I will see that you have something for your help.”

“Thank you,” Grace said softly. “Did she have her baby?”

Calvin’s face darkened. “I am afraid it was still born. The Sky did not smile on this village last night.”

A boy came in to the house a few moments later, Calvin’s little brother Victor. He was only a year older than Grace. “Calvin, Rochelle is missing. I cannot find her. Morgan is crying for her, I do not know where she could have gone.”

“Ah, damnation,” Calvin muttered. “Victor, do you know Grace? Maybe she can help you look after the little ones while I go and find that fool woman.”

Victor looked over Grace, her hair a mess and her dress stained. “Please, if you do not mind,” he said. “I do not know what to do with babies.”

“I can help, yes,” Grace said. “I will be happy to help you, Victor.”

Part One

The Septa Mission

Chapter One

The women of the village had a tradition when the men were off on a raid. They would collect together, anyone whose man was involved, and spend almost all day at the center square. The village had no inn, for who would want to stay there? They had no tavern, because no one had the extra coin to get drinks. There was a meeting hall for the Brotherhood, but the women weren’t allowed in there. So they collected in what they called the square, but was really just a clearing in front of the meeting hall. They set up tables, and brought out chairs. They’d do their washing communally, and share what little supper they could as well. Those with children would bring them, and the women would lend a hand in caring for them.

They collected together because it was easier to work with so many other hands. They collected together also because it was loud. And it was good that it was loud. Grace had never spoken to the other women about the matter, but she was sure they all would agree. When they were surrounded by other women and children, making noise, it was easier to forget that sometimes men didn’t come back from missions.

While that wasn’t likely this time, it was always possible. It was a simple enough raiding mission, taking food collected for the greedy aristocrats to redistribute to those who had actually worked for it. But one could never depend on even a simple mission going to plan.

Grace, now a woman grown, sat in a circle of chairs with a basket of sewing. Her thick, light hair was pulled into a tight knot to keep it from her face. May, now also a woman grown, sat next to her with a larger pile of simple dresses, tunics and breeches, muttering. She had her da’s ice blue eyes, and his height.

“Can you speak up?” Grace asked. “I do not know how you expect anyone to hear you.”

“What is the point if anyone does hear me?” May replied. “June certainly does not care that she has left me with all of the mending. She is off pretending that she will catch some fresh meat for supper. As though she could.”

“Do not fuss at her,” said Nikita, sitting on Grace’s other side. Her belly was swelled with her first child, and she was crocheting a blanket. “At least she took all the bigger boys out to the woods. They might not bring anything back, but at least it got them out of here for a while.”

“Sure. It got them running in the woods, shouting and scaring away all the game for the next moon, so the men will not be able to get fresh meat when they return,” May replied.

“Speaking of,” Grace said, as a sound caught her attention. She stood, still holding a shirt in her hand. The other women began to hear it as well. The grind of wheels on the road, the sound of horses. The men had returned.

Women and children stopped what they were doing, eager to greet them. Timur, the leader of the Brotherhood, came from inside the meeting hall. He was an old man with gray hair, but he still walked steadily enough.

“Ah,” he said, seeing the men. “My brothers, you have returned.”

Timur’s sons led the way, driving a wagon full of barrels and sacks. They were calling out to the women and their da, and couldn’t have been in higher spirits. Many of the men were the same, hurrying to set down their burdens and grab up their women and little ones.

Grace watched for Victor, Morgan and Calvin. She knew she shouldn’t have worried. They were three of only a handful of mages in the village, and their magic was powerful. But that didn’t mean something couldn’t happen.

But they were there, walking at the back of the crowd. Victor and Calvin were easy enough to see. Victor’s reddish blond hair was in a tangle around his face. His broad shoulders were slumped. Calvin, taller and broader than his brother, was looking at the ground rather than at the crowd. His son Morgan was thin, and appeared thinner still when compared to the other two. His fine blond hair was pulled back neatly, as it ever was. They came to May and Grace, but there was a dullness in their greetings.

“Gracey,” Victor sighed, and grabbed her up into his arms. He hugged her tight, and she returned the embrace. “I have missed you, my girl.”

“Victor, what is it?” she asked, pulling away.

Calvin released May, letting Morgan hug his big sister. He gave Grace a dark look. “Where are Yulia and Yeva?”

Grace tensed. “They are likely in this crowd somewhere.” As though she would know where that thieving old woman and her granddaughter were.

“Now is not the time for old angers. We lost Vlas,” Calvin said.

“Oh, oh no,” May gasped. Vlas, Yulia’s son and Yeva’s da, had been a good friend of Calvin’s.

“A guard for the aristocrats took him out as we were leaving the stock house. We must tell them,” Victor said.

May looked quickly at Calvin. “Da, do not say anything stupid to Timur.”

“Do not be telling your Da what to do, girl,” Calvin said, but it was muted. “The fool sent us on this raid knowing damn well the guards would be thick. He should hear this.”

“Yes, but maybe not with screaming in front of the whole village,” Victor said.

Calvin sighed. “I suppose there is some sense in that. Where is June?”

“Out hunting with the bigger boys,” Grace said.

“Foolish girl should be here, not distracting the boys in their hunt,” Calvin muttered. “Alright, Vicky, let us go and find Yulia and Yeva.”

Grace let May trail after them. She would have no comfort for Yulia. No sense being there when she found out she’d lost her son.

Timer was with his sons in front of the meeting hall. He cast his hand over the wagon, full of foodstuffs and goods. “Look at all you have brought us!” he called, striding into the middle of the crowd. “These goods will go to villages in need, instead of the bloated coffers of the aristocrats. And that is something well worth celebrating, do you not all think?”

The village cheered, at least most of them did. Yulia and Yeva were listening to Victor and Calvin. Grace saw Yulia stagger, and lean heavily on her granddaughter. Yeva, all of fifteen years old, didn’t look as though she could bear the weight. May helped the older woman to a seat, where she broke down into sobs.

Timur didn’t seem to notice. “I want to thank each and every man who brought this bounty back to us. Together, we brothers will do what the aristocrats will not. We will feed our people. We will clothe them. We will bring our country back from the brink of darkness. And someday, no more children will starve.”

“I wish he would shut up,” Morgan said, eyeing his da. Grace had to agree. Calvin was still standing over the sobbing Yulia, but his eyes were on Timur. His raging eyes. His hands were starting to glow blue, he was losing control of his magic.

“Brothers, we have fought a long and hard battle against the aristocrats. We have been ground down. Look at this, look at what they had kept in their store houses, stolen right out of the hands of the people. They leave us to starve, but we say no more! We will defeat them!”

Calvin turned, as though he would march up to Timur and tell him just what he thought. But May put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

She didn’t think to stop Victor, though.

“When?” Victor called.

The crowd hushed, and turned to see who had spoken. Timur, still all grins, said, “What was that, Brother Victor?”

“I asked you when would we stop the aristocrats. Because these little raids are not doing anything.”

“I would not call this mountain of goods a little raid,” Timur said.

“I sure as hell would,” Victor replied. “Especially when you consider what we lost to get it. Or did you not even notice that we came back here a man short?”

Grace darted through the crowds to get to Victor, to shut him up. But it was far too late for that.

“Stand back, young wolf,” Timur said. “Your passion is admirable, but you are aiming it at the wrong man.”

“You think so?” Calvin called. Apparently May wasn’t able to keep him silent any longer. “All we do, all we have ever done is raid! We are the Brotherhood of the Broken Chain, and we act like a pack of thieves! Why are we not attacking the aristocrats? King Kurtis is old and mad, surely he could not stand against us.”

“I will not send men to die attacking the capital, Calvin,” Timur said. “Not even your magic light balls are going to take that castle down.”

“Maybe they would, if you were not too much of a coward to let me go find out,” Calvin snapped.

The entire village froze. They looked from Timur to Calvin, with Victor standing at his back. They waited.

“What did you just say to me?” Timur asked.
“We all know you heard me,” Calvin snapped. “So how long will you treat us like a thieving crew, eh?”
Timur’s eyes narrowed. He looked like he was trying to work out a puzzle. Grace waited. She felt like a deer who knows a hunter has her in his sights.
“You, you young men might have a point,” Timur said. He nodded, looking them over. “Yes, I think you just might. I am older, of course. I have spent my life making sure our people were fed and safe. But maybe that is not enough anymore.”

Timur walked calmly up to Calvin, and put a hand on his shoulder. “You have such fire, such promise, young wolf. How about we see how far you can take that?”

Falling From Grace is launching on Friday! You can preorder it right now on Amazon.

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2024 Holiday Pep Talk

It’s the day after Thanksgiving as you’re reading this. It’s the Monday before Thanksgiving as I’m writing this. And it’s time, finally, to start celebrating the most wonderful time of the year.

In theory.

I have never felt less holiday spirit than I do this year, you guys. I cannot begin to tell you. I feel like Charlie Brown. There must be something wrong with me. I don’t feel the way I’m supposed to feel.

Of fucking course I don’t. It’s November 25th and the high for today is 51 degrees. No fault divorce is under attack in America, safe and legal abortions are in jeopardy. It’s about to cost more to buy literally everything and a wrestling promoter is about to be in charge of our country’s education. So yeah, deck those halls or whatever.

Frankly, I don’t think it’s fair to say things are about to get bad. Things have been bad, my friends. They’re about to get worse.

Now, as far as I see it, we have two choices going into the holiday season. We can say fuck it, drink our way through the holidays, and half-ass everything. Or, we can do whatever we can to bring ourselves and the people we care for joy.

Despite my bitching and (more than usual) swearing in this post, I plan to do the latter. Because this is not the first hard holiday season I have faced. And I have learned a crucial lesson from the losses and crises that I’ve survived.

Multiple things can be true at once. I can be sad and thankful. I can be scared and hopeful.

I’m worried about the future of my library. And I’m excited about all the events they have planned for the holidays. I’m afraid our grocery bill is going to balloon, and thankful that we have food in our house. I’m afraid for all of my friends in the LGBTQ+ community, and thankful to have them in my life. I’m worried about my husband and grandmother’s health, and happy I get to share the holidays with them.

This has been a hard year, personally and globally. But it hasn’t been all bad. I have lots of things to be grateful for.

My husband went to the hospital several times and we had some scary moments. But he is still here with me.

I relaunched Woven and published book five of Station 86.

I’ve experienced growth in my faith and have a better relationship with God than I ever have.

I have had a hundred beautiful, wonderful, wildly unexpected moments of joy this year. People have been kind to me, or I’ve had the opportunity to be kind to them in a way that enriched my soul.

My little hometown is becoming vibrant and alive. Rather than stores closing down, stores are opening up.

My witchy community is growing, and I am meeting sisters and brothers to share magic with.

We can hold both of these things at the same time, our sorrow and our joy. It is the only way any people have ever survived dark times. Being happy for the holidays doesn’t mean we don’t care about people suffering or that we aren’t suffering ourselves. Being sad about the state of things doesn’t mean we don’t feel gratitude for the good things and beloved people in our lives.

Be kind to each other, but more than that be kind to yourself. And don’t waste a second of your time on anyone who is trying to take your joy away from you.

Merry and Blessed and Happy everything. Find joy and solace in all the good things you can and all the good people around you.

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The power of finishing

As we near the start of 2025, I’m coming to two major endings in my writing career. I’m about to relaunch the prequel and final book in my Woven series (On December 7th). And, I’m working on the very last Station 86 book.

It’s going to be a while before I finish it. I’m still rough drafting it, and will probably be until at least January. But when it’s done, the series is done. And I’ve been writing this series for close to a decade.

Finishing a project this large is something else. I’m not even sure what kind of writer I am if I’m not writing Station 86. I’m not sure what I’ll do.

Actually, that’s a lie. I have another novel I’ve been working on for a few years and an idea for at least one other book. Don’t worry, I’m not shutting up or shutting down anytime soon.

As much as I’ll be sad to finish Station 86, it’s really for the best. Not just because the story has come to a satisfactory ending. But because it’s best for me, as a writer, to finish it.

Here’s why.

The endorphins

When I get to the point where I’m hitting publish on the presale for the current book, I cannot tell you what that’s going to feel like. The endorphin rush is always good, this one is going to be amazing! Why do I know that? It was amazing when I got to the first launch day for Falling From Grace, and it was amazing when I set up the presale this time too.

Finishing a project is the best. It feels so good. I feel so proud of myself. I kind of just want to run around and show everyone who even kind of knows me. The satisfaction, and even the relief that I made it this far. It is unsurpassed.

You prove you can do it

This speaks to the relief aspect I was talking about in the last paragraph. I’m not talking about proving that you can finish a project to anyone else. Not your mom, your eighth-grade English teacher, your judgemental coworker, or weird friend who loves to point out when you’ve failed. Stop being friends with them.

No, you need to prove to yourself that you can finish a project. And I speak from experience. When I wrote Broken Patterns, it was after years and years of starting novels and never finishing them. Getting distracted, getting too busy, getting bored with the story, getting discouraged. Basically, getting to a point where I didn’t believe I could do it, so I didn’t. This was a barrier that I needed desperately to break before I was going anywhere.

You’ve learned about every stage of writing

Writing a rough draft will not teach you how to rewrite. Only rewriting will teach you that. Rewriting a novel will not teach you how to do line edits or polishes. Only doing line edits and polishes will teach you that.

Spoiler, reading about doing those things won’t teach you much either. I mean, if you have no idea where to begin then reading about it will give you a starting point. But, like with most things, you learn by doing.

Getting a project from rough draft to completion will teach you every point of writing. More importantly, it will teach you how you process every point of writing. Writing is an art, not a science. How I revise my books will look different than how any other author does it. How you do it will look different too. You need to learn how your brain works during these different steps in the novel writing process. And you only learn that by, you guessed it, doing it.

You get to write something else

Please don’t get me wrong. I loved writing Woven. And I love writing Station 86. But I want to write other things. I have other stories within me. And I have faith that other stories will come to me.

Art is ever-evolving. If artists don’t try new things, they become stagnate. There’s a reason why series that run too long start getting dull. We stop becoming artists and start becoming producers. All the passion goes out.

I don’t ever want to lose the passion I have for writing. I am an artist, I want to make art. I can’t do that if I don’t finish the art I’m currently making.

You evolve

Every new project will teach you new things. You’ll learn new ways to tell stories, new povs, and new techniques. You will become a better writer, or at least a different writer, just by the practice of telling new stories.

This is what you want, as an artist. You don’t want to hit a certain level of competency and plateau. You want to keep learning new things and growing. You want your art to evolve.

At least, I hope you do.

I know we’re still in November, but I have a suggestion for a 2025 New Year’s Goal. If you’ve never done it before, finish a project. It doesn’t need to be a whole series or a novel. It can be a short story or even a poem. But get one project either submission or publication ready. You will not believe how much that will help you grow. Because it wasn’t Broken Patterns that proved to me I could finish a project. It was writing blog posts here, on a schedule. That’s how I proved to myself that I could do what I said I was going to do. And that is the real power of finishing a project.

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Falling From Grace is available now for preorder! You can get it now on Amazon.

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What dragons say about us

We are obsessed with dragons. And by we, I mean all of humanity. As we discussed when I talked about Beowulf a few weeks ago when I still had hope and joy in my life, we have been telling stories about dragons for most of humanity and certainly for as long as we have written stories down. Some of my favorite fantasy books revolve around dragons, like Dragonriders of Pern. When I wrote my own fantasy series, I knew I had to include dragons. Hell, it’s even part of my tagline.

I write speculative fiction. That means I write about dragons, ghosts and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the ghosts of dragons on spaceships.

Dragons are unique when compared to other cryptozoological creatures. We tell different kinds of stories about them. Compare this to something like a unicorn. We all love unicorns, too. But they almost always have the same sort of tales told. They’re majestic, magical, pure. Trolls are almost always stupid and at best a nuisance. Giants are almost always evil and eat humans. But dragons run the spectrum from brainless beast to diety. So let’s look at some examples, and then discuss why this might be.

The monster

This is easily my least favorite way to write dragons, as evil and terrifying beasts that devour people and destroy livestock. They hoard gold they have no actual use for and light up anyone close to their dark and dreary caves.

We see this mostly in older fiction, but in some modern tellings as well. Though, thankfully, this depiction has fallen out of fashion. Dragons that are nothing more than gold-hoarding bottomless eating machines just aren’t much fun.

The ally

The next depiction of dragons we often see is more of an ally animal. Like a horse, dog, rat, or any other animal that we’ve formed a partnership with. Think of Lockheed in X-Men. We also see this in Dragon Riders of Pern, where even when the riders are psychically linked with their dragons, they are still treated the same as deeply loved animal allies. Clever, for sure, but not really on our level.

The Equal

Finally, we get to the sort of dragon I prefer, and the one I wrote in Woven. The dragon is just as intelligent, if not more so, than humanity. We see this a lot in modern fiction. Or, at least fiction that’s come out in my lifetime. Dragon Heart is a great example, as are most D&D dragons. I love this sort because it seems to take humanity down a peg. It reminds us that maybe we aren’t as clever as we tend to think we are.

The god

Finally, we see dragons as diety. As above humanity, with superhuman abilities. My favorite example of this is in Avatar The Last Airbender, where fire bending is taught to humanity by the dragons.

Why?

Now, this is just my opinion. But, since I have been reading the genre for my entire life and writing in it for over ten years professionally, I happen to consider this at least an educated opinion.

I think how we write dragons is a reflection of how we view nature.

Consider some of the dragon types we talked about. The monstrous dragons lived deep underground, protecting treasures. Living in coal country as I do, that feels like an apt analogy for mining. The ally dragons are likely written by people who have close and loving relationships with their pets, or who admire support animals. Those who see dragons as having at least humanlike intelligence, if not more, probably have a deep respect for nature and don’t necessarily think we’re the smartest creatures on this planet. And of course, those who are a bit more pagan leaning would likely see God in the face of a dragon.

Overall, I think it’s a theory that works. We write dragons and how we see nature. We read about dragons that remind us of how we see nature. And I think that’s pretty awesome. Fiction is essentially using lies to tell the truth. We can’t always put into words what scares us, what makes us furious, or what brings us joy. We can’t always write about the mines, our connections with animals, or our fear of the natural world in a way that others can understand. But we can write about dragons, and that seems like something that we can always get behind.

But I want to know what you think. Do you agree with my theory? Do you think it’s ridiculous? Let me know in the comments.

Paper Beats World is a labor of love. If you love what we do here, please consider supporting us on Ko-fi.

Falling From Grace is available now for preorder! You can get it now on Amazon.

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Falling From Grace is coming in December

Once upon a time, I wrote a story about a boy who wove visions and a girl who spun light. About how, together, they changed their world for the better.

I love that story. But it had a few problems. Problems I only saw after writing three whole books about Devon, Lenore, Sultiana and Victor. All of my main characters but one were born into nobility and wealth. All of them were mages.

Now, that is all well and good. But it’s also a narrow view of the world. Most of us aren’t wealthy. I’m sure as hell not. Most of us are not gifted with such inherent talent that it cannot be denied, which I feel is the closest equivalent to mages in our world.

Some of us have to get by on working hard, saving money and learning skills.

So I wanted to write a story in the world of Woven about a regular woman. Maybe someone not gifted, or destined to do great things. A woman who chose to do great things instead, and shape the world around her through determination and courage.

This brought me to Grace.

You might remember Grace as the angry woman Victor left behind when he moved to Septa. And if you didn’t like her, I’m sorry. I never meant for her to be even a temporary antagonist. She had every damn reason to be angry. Wouldn’t you be if your boyfriend vanished and ended up dating some rich girl?

I needed to give Grace a chance to tell her own story. And in doing so, I told a little of mine as well. Because while I was writing this book, I was also discovering modern witchcraft.

Falling From Grace was first published in 2020. It was a terrible year for most of us, but at least Trump lost his election bid that year. But this time he won, and I think we need Grace again.

I think we need as many women and men as possible who are ready to fight against a mad king. We need witches, advocates and activists. And we need stories about them. So here is mine.

Preorder Falling From Grace here.

I loved writing this book. And I hope that you love reading it. It’s fun, sweary, irreverent and optimistic. I hope it inspires you to see some light in a dark time.

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It’s Missing Stitches launch day

I hate launching a book this week. I hate this week. This is what happens when you make a launch plan months in advance. Sometimes you have to launch a book when you’re fucking furious. When everyone you know and care about is furious and scared and unsure of what’s going to happen next.

But here we are.

And in a way, I’m kind of glad I’ve been relaunching Woven during these times. For one thing, it’s nice to have a project to take my mind off things. Also, I kind of think we need more stories like this one.

Missing Stitches, which you can officially get right here, is the story of a country ripped apart by a religious sect that would rather kill a woman than see her on the throne. It is the story of a jealous nobleman who is willing to lie, threaten, and make deals with monsters to keep a woman off the throne. Not because she’s a cruel or incompetent leader. But because she’s a woman.

Lenore has to fight a theocratic terrorist group to save her city. And that feels like it’s sort of relevant right now, doesn’t it?

So here it is. The Woven Trilogy is once again out in the world. It’s a wonderful story of people who don’t fit into the world making the world change for the better. I hope that you all get a chance to read it. And I hope that it helps at least entertain you as we try to get through the next four years.

Stay tuned, there’s more to come.

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Missing Stitches, Chapter Three

Victor looked down at his breakfast plate. There sat three soft-boiled eggs, sausage, toast with honey and butter. There was a hot cup of rich tea steaming next to his plate. There had been a time, when he was a poor boy growing up in Montelair, that a meal like this would have seemed an incredible feast.

He dug into his food with relish, ignoring the tutting sounds from his mother-in-law.

“I’m surprised that Stella isn’t with you, Sultiana,” Lenore said.

“She’s gone back to Coveline to visit her family,” Sultiana said, glancing up from her plate. “It was long overdue, I think.”

“Lenore,” Devon said, leaning across the table. “Can I ask you something strange?”

“What kind of strange?” Lenore asked, scratching something out on her date book vindictively.

“Well, Sultiana and I have been feeling something since we arrived,” Devon said, “something familiar.”

“You remember that we had a strange black substance attacking our border with Kussier,” Sultiana said.

“Hard thing to forget,” Lenore said.

“Well, whenever we would stand near that Black, we’d feel something,”

“It made me feel, cold. It reminded me of the feeling you get when you wake up from a nightmare that you don’t remember,” Devon said.

Victor sat his fork down. “Almost like you’ve lost someone, but you’re not sure who, and you can’t find them?” he asked.

“Like that, yes,” Devon said.

“I’ve had that feeling,” Victor said. “Usually at night, when I’m preparing for bed, or waking in the morning.”

“I’ve felt that way, too,” Lenore said. “But it’s always gone by the time I dress. I thought it was just the stress of everything going on.”

“It is probably just this whole mess,” Victor said, taking another bite of his eggs. “It’s hard to feel right about anything.”

But Sultiana shook her head. “It’s not that. This is too familiar to discount. I think we should all keep track of when we’re feeling this darkness. Look for patterns.”

“We can do that,” Lenore said.

The dining room door opened and a palace runner slipped in. “Prince Victor,” he said, setting a tightly rolled scroll next to his plate.

“Thank you, Lad,” Victor said, opening it.

Come to my office, soon as you can, it read.

Victor crumpled the paper, shoving it into his pocket.

“Is something wrong?” Lenore asked.

“Nothing,” Victor said, getting to his feet. “Just a note from the gardener. Slugs are getting into the olive trees in the garden, and he needs me to approve something or other to kill them.”

“And you’ve got to run off from breakfast to deal with slugs?” Lorna asked.

“Well, the head gardener is out sick, it’s just his assistant right now,” Victor said. “Anyway, killing slugs sounds like a fun gamethis morning.”

Lenore arched her eyebrow. The code word game was often used between the two of them. He hoped that it implied that he’d tell her what was going on in truth later. “Oh, go on, Love. The last thing we need is slugs getting into the orchard.”

Victor plucked her hand from the table to kiss her knuckles before leaving.

He made his way to the lower levels of the palace. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he heard raised voices down a hallway that led to servant dormitories. Hoping that whatever the spymaster had for him could wait, he turned to head in the direction of the disturbance.

Much to his surprise, he found Butrus face-to-face with a palace servant, shouting at each other.

“Hey!” Victor bellowed, hoping just to be heard over the men. “What in the view of the Sky do you think you’re doing?”

“Prince, this man just started shoving me!” the guard said. “He’s gabbling away in that foreign language, and I can’t understand a word of it!”

“Prince Victor, this man was screaming at his wife,” Butrus said in Calistarian. “Am I permitted to discipline him, or do you wish to handle it yourself?”

“Do you speak Septan, Butrus?” Victor asked, also speaking in Calistarian.

“A little,” Butrus said.

“And what led you to believe that he was yelling at his wife?” Victor asked.

“I, well I heard shouting, and he was with––”

“So you just barged in on who knows what? Where is this woman, anyway?” he looked past the men, into the room. There was a woman sitting on the bed, someone he recognized.

“Daisy,” Victor said.

The woman was pulling a cotton dress over her petticoats. Once she was dressed, she smiled at him. “How are you? You haven’t come to see me in a long while, Victor.”

“Well, my lady might frown on it,” Victor replied. “Everything all right? My friend seems to think you were in some trouble.”

“No,” Daisy said, “I had a nice time. All that happened was that Jimmy couldn’t find his boots, and he was scared of being late. We stayed up a little late last night. He was being loud, but not at me.”

She came to the doorway and fluttered her eyelashes. “You know none of Lulu’s girls let ourselves get treated wrong,” she said.

“Good girl,” he said, “Sorry your morning was disturbed. Give Lulu and her old man my best, will you?”

“If she won’t spit it back at me,” Daisy replied.

“James, find your damned boots. And let’s have no more scenes on work mornings, all right?”

“Yes, Prince,” James replied before hurrying back into his room, presumably to continue the search for his boots.

“Butrus, come with me,” Victor said. “Right now.”

Butrus followed after Victor as they headed toward the noble visitor’s wing. “You don’t speak Septan, and you thought it all right to barge into a man’s room and start making a fuss,” Victor said.

“The woman seems to be a friend of yours, did you want her ill-treated?” Butrus asked.

“You did not hear her explain that he was not even yelling at her, because you don’t speak Septan!” Victor said. “Butrus, I cannot imagine that Sultiana needed extra muscle, so why did she bring you along?”

“I am to be the new ambassador,” Butrus said, looking defiant.

“Because you are so levelheaded and diplomatic,” Victor snapped. “I will not tell Sultiana and Devon about this, and you will never let it happen again. If you think that a man in my palace is mistreating a girl, get a guard.”

Without another word, he walked away.

***

Talmadge Grace was sitting at her desk, sipping tea while she read over a stack of parchment. The office was barely recognizable since she’d taken it over. The desk was smaller than the old one, painted over with lacquer that made it glow red. The seats were plain but comfortable. The floor was swept clean around a blue rug that lay underfoot. A good lamp lit the room as there were no windows.

Talmadge herself was different. Her hair, which had been held back before in a messy braid had been cut. It was held away from her face with a steel clip in the shape of a bird. She wore breeches and a tunic with a cream vest, and good boots.

The most surprising change, Victor only saw when she looked up from her papers and stood to curtsy to him. After her bow, she stood straight and looked him in the eye.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” Victor said.

“No need to apologize, Prince,” Talmadge said, “This is nothing crucial. I just haven’t had a chance to sit down and talk to you since you’ve returned.”

“My fault as much as anybody’s,” Victor said.

“Well, it’s good that you’re back,” Talmadge said. “Both you and the princess.”

“I have gotten some idea of that, yes,” Victor said. He took a seat at the desk. “What is going on with this noble uprising?”

Talmadge shook her head. “Prince Joseph is the trouble, not anyone else. I know that Lord David is angry about his bastard brother’s lordship, but James has been a lord for quite some time.”

“Since King Lyonal’s days, from what I understand,” Victor said, naming his grandfather-in-law.

“Yes,” Talmadge said. “Lord Constantine siding with the prince is easier to understand. He’s always been one too fond of power, and if his daughter is married to Hank, he’ll have power aplenty. But still, it seems strange that so many of the common people have sided with them.”

“When I hear that someone has gained influence so quickly, I hear the sound of gold clicking,” Victor said.

“Generally I agree,” Talmadge said, “and it’s a possibility. I know that the head of the merchant’s guild is unhappy about the changes Princess Lenore’s been pushing for. The last thing he wants is foreign merchants flooding his markets. He’s not too happy about the women inheriting businesses either. I wouldn’t put it past him to throw some gold at the problem.”

Just then, what had appeared to be a solid wall behind Talmadge opened in the center, revealing a small door. A young boy, a chimney sweep judging by the soot in his hair, popped into the room. He froze when he saw Victor.

“It’s all right, Lad,” Victor said.

The boy hesitated for only another second before saying, “Miss, Prince Joseph’s at the front steps of the palace. He’s wanting an audience with Princess Lenore.”

“Lenore?” Talmadge asked, getting to her feet, “What does he want with her?”

“Perhaps he is going to apologize and swear his fealty,” Victor said, causing Talmadge to release a mirthless laugh.

“You’d better get up there and keep an eye on the princess. She’s bound to be too trusting of her uncle,” she said.

“But, Miss, that’s the other thing,” the boy said, “Princess Lenore and Queen Sultiana left. They went into the city.”

“They did what?” Talmadge cried. “Bobby, why didn’t you tell me?”

“That’s what I’m doing now, Miss,” the boy said, giving her an incredulous look. “I only heard that the other prince was here when I was already on my way.”

“Send someone to tail her,” Talmadge muttered. She was reaching for her cloak.

“I will go meet with Joseph,” Victor said. “I grow tired of this family squabbling.”

He hurried to find the king.

Samuel and Devon were in the family sitting room. “Does anyone know where those girls ran off to?” he asked.

“Lenore got an urgent message from the temple just after you left,” Devon said. “Sultiana went with her.”

“I find myself missing Anthony, just now,” Victor said.

“What do we think Uncle Joe’s here for?” Devon asked.

Samuel laughed. “You know your uncle. He’s probably going to come right in as though nothing was ever wrong.”

A guard came to the door. “Prince Joseph Mestonie,” he said, holding the door open for Victor’s uncle-in-law.

Like his older brothers, Joseph was a big man, with a small goatee and mustache, well-trimmed. He wore his dark hair to his shoulders and was dressed entirely in Mestonie blue, save his boots.

He also wore a sword on his belt. Victor wore no weapons, neither did Samuel. The only blade in the room, aside from Joseph’s, was on Devon’s belt.

“Joe,” Samuel said. “Get in here next to the fire, Man.”

Joseph stayed by the door, with two of his own guards flanking him. They both wore the same red owl on their breasts that Victor had noticed through the city. “Samuel,” Joseph said. “I came to see Lenore, not you.”

“Lenore’s indisposed,” Samuel said.

“You mean you’ve hidden her away,” Joseph replied. “What have you done to that girl, Sam?”

“What in The Creator’s name are you talking about?” Samuel asked. “Come in and say hello to your nephews. Lenore will be here when she can.”

Joseph cast a dark look at Victor and Devon. “These men are not my nephews. If you don’t release her, I’ll turn this palace upside down.”

Victor took a step toward him. “I do not think we have met. I am Victor Mestonie, Lenore is my wife.”

“My niece is not your wife, Peasant,” Joseph spat. “Samuel, I am at the end of my patience. You stand there, with your wife’s bastard son as though he’s yours. You allow this Montelarian commoner to hurt our Lenore. You allowed your true son to die, and for what? Did Octavian find out something you didn’t want him to know? Samuel, what are you hiding?”

Devon was on his feet. “What did you just say about me?” he growled. Victor was surprised. He wasn’t accustomed to seeing Devon stirred to anger.

“I said that you are a bastard, the son of some commoner your whore mother entertained,” Joseph said, “Now you’re sitting on the Calistar throne. You’re nothing but a farce. And you,” he turned to Victor. “You animal. I’ll see you gutted for what you’ve done to my niece.”

“You should be glad Lenore is not here,” Victor said. “The things you are saying about her brother may make her forget that she is a noblewoman. Let alone your insinuations about me.”

“You are speaking like a madman,” Samuel said. “Joe, have you been drinking?”

Joseph smirked. Victor felt cold. There was something wrong about Joseph, even more than his actions suggested. There seemed to be a coldness coming from him. Korhzik must have felt it as well, because he clung to Victor’s shoulder, crouched down with his ears laid back.

“If you’ve nothing to hide, let me speak to Lenore. Alone, so that she may speak freely to me.”

“I’m sure Lenore will be happy to speak with you when she is available,” Samuel said.

“No,” Joseph said. He turned from them, his guards hurrying to open the door. “Search the palace,” he said to them, “Everything from the tower to the cellars. I will find her, Samuel. And if you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you where you stand!”

Victor stormed after them, praying that Lenore was safe at the temple.

Want to read the rest of the story? Missing Stitches goes live on Friday! You can preorder it now on Amazon.

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After the election

If you’ve come here for answers, I don’t have them. Wiser people than me will have them.

I’m writing this on a dark rainy morning with too little sleep. I am depressed, sad, defeated. So please forgive me if this post isn’t as peppy as usual. I don’t need to tell you what it’s about. People all over the world are mourning with us.

I can’t believe we’re here again. We’re facing four years of a Trump presidency. Four years of fighting against a tide of hatred.

First of all, I want to say that if you’re not okay right now, that makes perfect sense. I will not be the one to tell you to buck up and get ready for a fight. I will not tell you that we can’t take our foot off the gas, that we have to act and act now. Because today, that’s too hard for some of us. Today I’m not leaving the house. Today I’m not pushing my book. Today I’m not doing anything except caring for me and the people around me.

If you need to sit in it, that’s alright. Sit in it. Come to terms with it. Go through all the stages of grief. Take the time you need.

Because eventually, we are going to have to fight.

We have to fight to protect our planet, trans people, drag queens, women, school children, libraries, education, the CDC, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, Muslims, Jewish people, Pagan people, educated people, the post office, books and literacy, the incarcerated, the homeless, veterans, unions and the fucking National Weather Service. I am sure I’ve forgotten some, so please feel free to let me know in the comments. I don’t forget because I don’t care, but because there are just so many things that are now in danger. My God, we aren’t all going to make it through the next four years.

I have limited power. I am not a politician. I am not a thought leader. I’m not even an influencer. I am a writer. I write my little stories about ghosts, dragons and spaceships. Sometimes I write about the horrors of the world. I imagine that’s going to become a little more common.

But let me tell you something I’ve noticed today. A trend on social media that you might have noticed as well. Maybe it’s just because I follow a lot of writers and speculative fiction fans. But over and over, I see the same comments.

We are the resistance. We are District 13. We are the Handmaids who rebel. We are the VFD. We are the kids in Hogwarts during Deathly Hollows. We are the rebellion.

In our darkest hours, we reach for stories for comfort. So I’m going to write my little stories and read my little stories. I am going to let them inspire me.

I’m going to light a candle for protection and say spells for those who are now in danger. I’m going to continue to do this for as long as I can. I’m also going to write more, both for myself and to help others in the best way I know how. I’m going to wear my PRIDE gear and my pentagram. I’m going to speak up every time I can and show up to protect the people in my community who need me. I am going to use my privilege as a white woman in a straight-appearing relationship to help who I can. I’m going to donate to food pantries because people need to eat. I’m going to do what I can to lighten others’ burdens. I’m going to write to the politicians who might still listen to us. I’m going to pray. I’m going to show up to protests. I’m going to show up to vote every time I have the opportunity to do so. I’m going to listen to marginalized people and do what I can to help them based on what they tell me they need.

And my God, I am going to make fun of Trump every time I can. Because I can’t do much, but I know it pisses him off when people, especially women, laugh at him.

I’m going to close this with some witchcraft book recommendations. Please feel free to add your favorite in the comments.

Lazy Witchcraft for Crazy, Shitty Days, by Andrea Samayoa if you need some help existing.

Light Magic for Dark Times, by Lisa Marie Basile if you need spells and rituals for healing.

Witchcraft Activism, by David Salisbury for when you’re ready to fight back.

Utterly Wicked, by Dorothy Morrison if you’re not opposed to hexing people.

Finally, let me leave you with some quotes from people smarter than me.

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

– Mr. Rogers

“Right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.”

-Martin Luther King Jr.

Leave something nice in the comments. I think we all need it.

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