Dragon Diaries - D is for Dohmnall - A to Z Challenge 2017 #AtoZChallenge

elcome to my contribution to the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2017:

Dragon Diaries

So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator (I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names, I have just run with how they make me feel, their sound on the tongue).

I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).

~

~

is for Dohmnall

Dohmnall remembers when hurling was a game played between whole villages, when matches would last for days and satisfy a good deal of man’s bloodlust with the list of injuries inflicted. He occasionally hankers after the old days, when his best rearing, fire-spitting stance embodied the raw nature of the game, but, actually, he quite likes humans and he’s happy that there are now much better odds his team will make it to the end of the game with them all in one piece.

After all his centuries, Dohmnall is still the mascot for the Ballydale village team, he has no ambition to spread his wings beyond the local league, where questions might be asked about a winged serpent cheering from the sidelines. Everyone from round about knows him, and he has been known to let the kids sit on his back to get a better view. He always lights the bonfire for the end of season celebrations no matter who wins the cup, and he has a very nice bed of camáns (signed by his favourite players through the years) to sleep on in the Ballydale pavilion, so, y’see, Dohmnall is a very happy dragon.

~

Birthday Treat

Wittegen Press

FREE
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“Weeeee!” Siobhan’s young, excited scream filled his ears as Dohmnall dived towards the ground and then whipped back up towards the sunset.

He flew the girl around in a circle over the hurling pitch one more time, loving the way she clung to his back and laughed in his ear, but it was getting dark, so then he began to descend, more gently this time.

“Aww, one more time, please, Dohmnall,” the girl begged as his intent became clear.

“I promised your mother you would be home before dark,” he replied, continuing on his way. “And you have your birthday party to get ready for.”

“This is more fun than any party,” Siobhan tried again, hugging him and pressing her cheek into the back of his neck.

“More fun than presents from all your friends?” Dohmnall chuckled.

“Yes!”

“More fun than jelly and icecream?”

“Yes!”

“More fun than blowing out the candles on your cake?”

“Yes!”

“Well then,” Dohmnall mused as he was coming into land, “maybe one more go.”

With that, he flapped his huge wings hard and his landing became another takeoff.

“Weee!” Siobhan cried as they soared back up towards the first winking stars.

~

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Natasha Duncan-Drake

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Sophie Duncan

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Dragon Diaries - C is for Casper - A to Z Challenge 2017 #AtoZChallenge

elcome to my contribution to the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2017:

Dragon Diaries

So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator (I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names, I have just run with how they make me feel, their sound on the tongue).

I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).

~

~

 is for Casper

When you’re only eighteen centimetres long and your scales are a gentle pink, it can be hard maintaining any kind of menace, but that has never stopped Casper from trying. He may have lived on Mrs Philip’s mantelpiece for twenty years, mistaken for a faux leather cigarette lighter (that strangely never needed its gas refilling), but Casper gets his own back by leaving the odd strange scorch mark around the living room, just to let the humans know who’s boss.

Casper has thought about leaving, after all, he is an independent dragon, but there are plenty of mice in the old farmhouse to keep him fed and he is rather fond of Mrs Philip’s ginger cake - if he could hoard it he would. From his vantage point on the mantelpiece, Casper is king of the living room, even the cat knows to (mostly) steer clear, so, all in all, he’s happy lighting the odd pipe.

~

The Prize

Wittegen Press

FREE
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Casper paced the length of the mantelpiece as, finally, Mr Philip’s footsteps disappeared up the stairs. He’d been waiting a good hour for the man to go to bed so that he could go in search of the last piece of parkin Mrs Philips had stored in a tin somewhere in the kitchen.

With long-practised efficiency,  Casper descended over the swirls and flowers of the ornately carved fireplace and dropped down onto the hearth. Rearing up over the brass fire surround, Casper surveyed the darkened room, ever watchful for that bloody moggy, who occasionally forgot her place,  or worse, the hound. All was still, so he hopped over the shiny metal and onto the hearth rug. His claws sank into the woollen fibres, making the rug quite hard work for such a small dragon and it was times like these that Casper wished his wings were big enough to carry him, but there was nothing for it but to scamper for the door jar where just a little bit of light coming down the stairs from the upstairs hallway still illuminated his way.

Stealthily, he poked his head around the doorframe to check the hallway. He hissed: there, on the bottom stair, was his enemy, the cat. There she sat, languidly licking her paws, and looking up at his sound. Casper spat a tongue of flame at her and hissed again for good measure. The cat stared at him for a moment. Then she went back to washing her paws.

His message sent, Casper slipped out into the corridor and, keeping close to the skirting board, against the dusky rose of which he was rather well camouflaged, he scuttled his way towards the kitchen. Tick-y-tack-y, his claws went on the rustic floorboards of the hallway as he scanned the enemy territory ahead.

All clear.

Before him was the wipe expanse of the kitchen linoleum, a dangerous place for a small dragon, but beyond lay such a prize! Checking left and right, Casper took a few deep breaths and then he was off. Zigging and zagging, ducking and diving, Casper dashed for the kitchen cupboard over which mrs Philips always hung a tea towel. Even in the dingy room, he could smell the damp smell of dinner’s washing up, and, heart hammering, Capser leapt at it. His claws hooked into the cloth a second later and, gasping with his effort, Casper began to climb.

One foot over the other, Casper refused to look down at the chequered floor that was getting further and further away, instead, he kept his eyes on the prize, the sideboard above. The tea towel was hooked into the unit drawer, so it was a bit of a scrabble over the last inch or so up to the granite work surface, and, puffing, Casper lay against the cool, smooth stone for a few moments.

Yet, up here there were all sorts of interesting smells: bread, freshly baked by Mrs Philips that day; leftover pie that had been packed away only a little while ago, probably now in the fridge; currant buns, Casper sniffed twice for them, they were his second favourite; but then  the distinctive ginger nip of the parkin assailed his nostrils.  Re-energised by the promise of delight, Casper righted himself and began his hunt.

He stalked past the breadbin; the smells were delicious, rich and malty, but they were not what he was after. He dallied a little in the space where the pie had been sitting that evening, his mouth watering at the suggestion of thick, dark gravy, but again, not his quarry, so on he went. Then he saw them, two tins decorated with flowers, side by side, the smells of baking coming from both. Lifting up onto his hind legs, Casper put his nose right up against the join of the lid and the body of the tin, drawing in a long lungful of scented air. Oh was it good, spices and rich fruit, but no ginger. With a little sigh of longing, but not enough to make him lift the lid, Casper dropped back down and then again to the next tin.

One whiff and dragon nose confirmed what prize lay inside: butter, ginger, syrup, nutmeg, cloves - parkin. Practically drooling, Casper put his front claws up under the lip of the tin and, with supreme effort, pushed upward. At first it would not budge as tin clung to tin, but Casper was rather too fond of Yorkshire parkin to give up so easily. Taking a deep, deep breath, he adjusted his stance, and then, shooting out a jet of flame at least three inches long, he shoved again.

The tin resisted, but Casper wanted that parkin, so, millimetre by millimetre, dragon beat metal. The lid burst off, drowning Casper in smell of neat parkin as it clattered sideways and came to rest leaning against the far side of the tin. Hooking his fronts legs over the edge of the round tub and then kicking his back legs, Casper dove into ecstasy.

He landed head first in soft, sticky goodness, instantly taking a bite. The rich deliciousness hit his tongue and, indulgently, Casper chewed. Rolling onto his back, he grinned up at the ceiling and swallowed. That is why he was suddenly blinded when the light came on.

Casper squeaked, but, from years of practice, froze as he heard Mr Philips muttering, “What on earth is going on down here?”

A shadow fell across his tin and Casper’s heart fell as a big face loomed over him.

“How did that get there?” Mr Philips asked, but he was asking himself, not Casper, who could only mourn as a hand came in and picked him up.

He whined as the glorious smells receded from his senses and hoped that Mr Philips would leave him the remaining crumbs clinging to his scales as his prize moved out of reach. Muttering to himself, as humans are wont to do, Mr Philips replaced the tin lid and stomped back down the hall. Dangling upside down from Mr Philips’ hand, Casper gritted his teeth and glared at the cat on the way past the stairs.

The cat looked back and then continued washing her paws.

~

For information about Sophie's books, sign up for The Wittegen Press Newsletter:

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Natasha Duncan-Drake

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Sophie Duncan

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Dragon Diaries - B is for Björn - A to Z Challenge 2017 #AtoZChallenge

elcome to my contribution to the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2017:

Dragon Diaries

So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator (I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names, I have just run with how they make me feel, their sound on the tongue).

I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).

~

~

 is for Björn

Björn is a groovy kind of guy. He’s been round the block a few times, done the whole Scourge of the Western Isles thing, burning down villages, stealing cattle, holding maidens hostage, but that’s all behind him now.

The last century or so had been one long spiral of depression, if he was honest, what with lots of people preferring to believe in quantum theory rather than dragons. Björn had retreated to the mountains, locked himself away in a cave and decided to hibernate until some more interesting peasants returned to the world. He hadn’t expected to be woken by a tinny thread of sound gnawing away at his ear.  He’d been ready to singe the arse of whoever had dared to disturb his rest, but as he’d stalked down the tunnel to the cave entrance, something strange had happened: first he’d begun to sway his head in time with the rhythm; then, as the tune got under his scales, his stalk had turned into more of a swagger. He hadn’t been able to help himself, but the time he burst into the sunshine outside his home, Björn had been in full strut.

The humans had run away, screaming in terror, but that meant they’d left all their equipment, including the transistor radio that was the source of the miraculous, uplifting melodies, and Björn had been hooked. He’d spent all that day and the days following bopping to the insistent tunes and, when the batteries had run out, he’d gone in search of more of what he then learned was called disco. Since those heady days of the 1970’s, he's been collecting vinyl, and Björn, all forty foot of him, has been a fixture on the exclusive club scene in Uppsala where the more unusual inhabitants of the old Norse lands can share a grove.

~

My My

Wittegen Press

FREE
Amazon | Other

It was dark and smokey in the club. A faint smell of sulphur on the air made Georg wrinkle his nose. Being a dwarf, he was used to the darkness of a mine, but here he smelt something else, he smelt dragon.

“Welcome, is this your first time at Ragnarok?” a fire spirit swooped down from her lamp and danced in front of Georg, her smile flickering in and out.

“Yes,” Georg replied gruffly, after all, he had dwarven reputation to uphold.

“Please let me show you to a table,” the sprite gushed and flitted around his head before leading off left between a troll chatting up a gygr.

Both females nodded to him as he passed by and Georg nodded back, rubbing the plaits in his beard self-consciously as he did so.

“Here you are, sir, can I get you a drink?” the fire spirit tripped around him as he sat down.

“Beer,” he returned.

“Of course, sir,” she seemed not to notice his shortness and flickered away to get his order.

Georg peered into the gloom, watching bodies passing bodies, wolfling sitting with serpent: this really was the neutral ground the adverts promised. Still, he didn’t quite trust it, and he sat stock still, watching and waiting, so, when the drumroll started he nearly jumped out of his seat.

The lights flashed over at the far end of the room, silhouetting a looming shape for brief seconds and Georg’s heart leapt into his throat: he had smelt dragon. He found himself gripping the edge of his table as the drumroll turned into a twanging rhythm: da, duh-duh, duh-duh,duh-duh; da, duh-duh, duh-duh,duh-duh. Georg bit his lip, this was really happening.

“Hello everybody!” a roar rumbled over the room and a spotlight lit a large red dragon seated behind a mixing desk..

Georg stood up rapidly, his chair going flying as a cheer went up over the opening line, ‘My, my, at Waterloo, Napoleon did surrender…’

It was true, it was all true. Georg grinned and began dancing. 

~

For information about Sophie's books, sign up for The Wittegen Press Newsletter:

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Natasha Duncan-Drake

Curse of a Banshee
Sophie Duncan

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Dragon Diaries - A is for Alard - A to Z Challenge 2017 #AtoZChallenge

elcome to my contribution to the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2017:

Dragon Diaries

So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator (I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names, I have just run with how they make me feel, their sound on the tongue).

I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).

~

is for Alard

To give him his full title, Le Comte D’Alard, has not been a dragon all his life. Until 1546, he was a nobleman in Brittany.  In that year, Le Comte married, a political alliance that turned out to be disastrous, mainly because his beautiful young wife revealed herself on their wedding night to be a witch intent on position, but not a husband. Le Comte awoke not as a human, but as a living statue, a three foot high replica of the dragon on his coat of arms.

Made mute by his new condition and only able to converse through thought with the woman who now held him prisoner, Alard found comfort in books. His wife indulged his passion and he amassed a large library, his hoard.

Although she has provided him with immortality, Alard’s wife could not deliver it for herself, and when she crossed one person too many, her castle fell. Alard’s books were taken as a prize of conquest and the handsome dragon statue went with them when the thieves found they could neither separate him from the books, nor the books from each other. From then on, Alard travelled wherever his hoard went, until, finally, they both came to rest in an English country house. Alard has been there ever since, his collection growing steadily with the generations, and, although the fine black paint of his scales has long since sloughed off, he is as content as he can be as he waits for day when he finds the key to ending his immortality.

~

Hope

Wittegen Press

FREE
Amazon | Other

The footsteps came from the back of his library and Alard opened one eye, loathed to uncurl from his comfortable position on the top of the ancient history stack, but checking just in case. It wasn’t visitor season, so he didn’t have to spend all day locked in a dramatic snarl on the plinth at the entrance to the library, but a member of the household finding their statue snuggling down over the scent of rare old leather might have been difficult to explain.

Not many people came this way, it was a bit dusty and away from the big windows that bathed the reading chairs in southern sunlight, so Alard hoped not to be disturbed. However, he was to be disappointed, because the soft pad of shoe on parquet floor came closer. He uncurled a little, flattening his long, slender body to line of the book shelf, relying on the shadows to disguise his position. Then he watched.

The owner of the footsteps rounded the end of the stack: a young woman, long dark hair flowing freely down her back, almost touching the waistband of her fashionably ripped jeans. Yet it was her eyes that Alard was interested in, since they scanned the area in a way that made him shrink back even further. He had only seen that kind of knowing once before in his life.

‘Where are you?’ the words slipped into his mind and it had been such a long time that Alard flinched in shock.

The young woman’s gaze zeroed straight in on his movement and he froze. Her stare widened for a moment - maybe she hadn’t believed the legends, but as she settled, Alard knew he had been caught.

‘Hello,’ she began again, a small smile playing at her lips.

Alard did not respond, old memories firing off all sorts of bad possibilities in his thoughts.

She stepped towards his vantage point. He backed off rapidly, claws the only thing stopping him from falling off the other side of the shelves.

‘I am not here to hurt you,’ she responded immediately, holding up a hand, palm first. ‘Please don’t leave.’

Alard hunched in place, his small wings wrapped protectively around his body as he failed to decide what to do. He felt something from this woman, he recognised magic, and that frightened him.

‘My name is Gemma,’ she carried on, lowering her hand and clasping it in the other nervously. ‘You are Le Comte D’Alard.’

‘You know my name?’ Alard could not help himself as he replied: his name had been lost for centuries.

‘I know you were once human. I know you come from Brittany. I know your wife did this to you,’ Gemma gushed, her thoughts almost falling over each other and then she admitted, ‘I have been dreaming about you - about us.’

‘Us?’ Alard checked, staring with dread into those knowing eyes.

Yet there was no malice there, he saw no darkness, no obsession with power, and slowly an emotion crept up on his that he had not felt in centuries: hope.

‘I want to help,’ Gemma told him. ‘I have to make it right.’

~

For information about Sophie's books, sign up for The Wittegen Press Newsletter:

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Assassin's Blood
Natasha Duncan-Drake

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Sophie Duncan

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A to Z 2017 Theme Reveal - Dun Dun Dun! #AtoZThemeReveal #AtoZChallenge

elcome to my theme reveal for the Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2017:

Dragon Diaries

Wittegen Press

FREE
Amazon | Other

So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator. I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names; for each one, I sat for a while, running it through my head, saying it out loud, thinking about any cultural connotations the shape of the name gave me. I thought about how they made me feel, their sound on the tongue, and then I decided who each dragon was.

Each day, I'm going to tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share a flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).

Good luck to everyone else doing the A to Z Challenge this year, I look forward to checking out the daily posts.

~

For information about Sophie's books, sign up for The Wittegen Press Newsletter:

We'll send you details of book releases, competitions and other news from our authors, BUT we WON'T spam you, or pass your details on to anyone else.

We will also give you 2 FREE ebooks just for signing up.

Assassin's Blood
Natasha Duncan-Drake

Curse of a Banshee
Sophie Duncan

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Guest Post: Creating an Alien Vampire - Abducted Life - New Release by Patricia Jospehine

Today, to celebrate the release of her latest book, a New Adult, Sci-fi Romance, Abducted Life, I am happy to welcome Patricia Josephine to my blog, and she's talking about

Creating an Alien Vampire

The dream I had that inspired Abducted Life was about a vampire trying to escape aliens. He had the cliché vampire traits like fangs, but for Abducted Life I wanted Savannah and Evan's looks to reflect the fact that aliens messed with their genetics to make them less human––especially in Evan's case. Not so much for Savannah. I had some ideas in mind and there were a couple real life creatures that really inspired me.

Alien vampires are real

When it came to Evan and alien vampires, I had one specific animal in mind: a sea lampray. Specifically, it's mouth. I wanted Evan's changes to be something he had to cover and in doing so would make him stand out in a crowd. It also had to be horrifying. He shrugs it off in the story, but it's not an easy change to cope with as he makes it seem.

As for the alien creature, what I had in mind was something aquatic. I imagined something like the opposite of whales which breathe oxygen, but can spend hours under water. These creatures can spend hours on land, but only breathe underwater and hold their breath when out of the water. But since Evan is human and breathes oxygen, he can't breathe underwater. If he had been a fish spliced with this creature that'd be a different story. ;) Also, imagine something with a body like a crocodile, but the scaly skin isn't as rough.

~

Abducted Life

Patricia Josephine

Savannah Janowitz’s perfect life was destroyed the night she and her boyfriend vanished without a trace. When she reappears a year later––alone––she’s a shell of her former self. Robbed of her popularity and her boyfriend, she has no memory of what happened to her. Savannah struggles to move forward as strange, new abilities manifest.

Evan Sullivan never gave extra-terrestrials much thought until the night he and Savannah were abducted. While Savannah’s memory was wiped clean, he remembers every horrific detail. Constantly reminded of the experiments that made him less than human, Evan hides in the shadows and watches Savannah rebuild her life without him. But neither can let the other go.

When their paths cross, Savannah and Evan finally see a glimmer of their old lives return. As they face what happened to them, they soon discover they aren’t safe. There’s more to fear than what’s hiding in the stars.

Available for 99cents at Amazon.

About the Author

Patricia Josephine never set out to become a writer. In fact, she never considered it an option during high school and college. She was all about art. On a whim, she wrote down a story bouncing in her head. That was the start of it and she hasn't regretted a moment. She writes young adult under the name Patricia Lynne.

Patricia lives with her husband in Michigan, hopes one day to have what will resemble a small petting zoo, has a fondness for dying her hair the colors of the rainbow, and an obsession with Doctor Who.

You can find her lurking on Twitter, Google+, Goodreads, and Wattpad. Find the latest news at her website or sign up for her newsletter. A link to all her books can be found here.

Book Review - Forensics: The Anatomy of Crime by Val McDermid

Forensics: The Anatomy of Crime by Val McDermid


I really enjoyed this book. Even though it's non-fiction, Val McDermid still weaves a compelling story of forensic science from its birth all the way to modern techniques and their both successful and over zealous use in today's courts.

Val takes us through the development of a selection of forensic techniques, including blood splatter, finger prints, DNA and more. Each technique is tested and presented with its pros and cons, and there are some interesting discussions about efficacy and also the public's perception of these different techniques. The book also investigates the role of 'the expert' and how a forensic scientist's approach to testifying can change the fate of a trial.

I think that the fact these forensics are discussed, warts and all, is what makes this book different from other books I've read on CSI. It brings them into reality, away from the glamour of TV police procedurals and into the real problems that face forensic scientists, and also their real passion for their subjects.

View all my reviews

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