by Monica Marier
Andrew steeled his courage. He knew he would in very big trouble for doing this. The world did not smile on eleven-year-olds who were all alone in the city at 11pm, especially if he were one of “The Meatheads.”
The “no trespassing”, “no soliciting”, and “keep out” signs hung on the gate of Number 23 Girton Rd. certainly didn’t indicate that Mr. Bates would be happy to see him in any case.
Rumours abounded concerning Mr. Bates, the neighbourhood’s bizarre recluse. Big Dan said that he was a murderer in hiding after escaping from jail. Others said he had some weird disease that he picked up in India or China that made his skin and hair turn paper-white. General consensus, even among adults who didn’t know he was listening, was that Mr. Bates was “weird.”
Andrew had overheard his mum one morning before school talking to Mrs. Canuddy. Bates was mad or on medication or both and his relatives had dumped him there when they didn’t want to care for him anymore. He was an “angora-phobic” (Andrew wondered what a fear of fluffy jumpers had to do with it) who wouldn’t leave the house. Mr. Bates paid for one of the neighbor lads to bring his groceries once a week and everything else was handled by post.
Andrew, of course, had different suspicions. Tonight he would find out if he was right. His hands and knees began to sweat as he approached the white door. He kept telling himself it would all be fine. If you’re wrong you just look like an ass and you run home.
But what if I’m right? He asked himself.
His hand trembled as he lifted the ring of the knocker shaped like the head of Mercury. Before Andrew could strike the plate with it, the door was jerked inwards by a very strong hand. Andrew sucked at his fingers as his eyes darted up to the pale scarecrow in front of him.
Mr. Bates was indeed pale, Andrew had only gotten a look at him from a distance, but up close it was even more apparent. He looked washed out, like the Star Wars t-shirt Andrew had accidentally spilled bleach on. Mr. Bates was the colour that Han Solo had turned. He was tall too; Andrew was the biggest boy in his form by four inches and a good 10 kilos and still Mr. Bates towered over him. Most chilling of all were his eyes. Andrew had knew lots of people with pale blue eyes, but Mr. Bates’ eyes were so blue they looked white. All and all, he looked like a man that had had every ounce of blood wrung from him like a rag.
Mr. Bates’ expression at first had been one of pure bewilderment. It had now gone through impatient to irritated.
“Well, what do you want?” he asked in a strained reedy voice.
Andrew could only stare at the man, dumb and ready to piss his pants. He’d never felt more stupid or alone as he had at that moment.
“Come to bother the creepy old neighbour?” sniffed Bates. “That’s very clever of you. Your parents must be so proud.”
At the word parent, Andrew was suddenly reminded of his mission.
“I know what you are!” he shouted at the pale man.
Bates stiffened and froze; he then thawed into a calculated pose of casual indifference. “And what is that, pray tell?” he asked lightly, but Andrew wasn’t fooled.
“I’ve been watching you!”
“Do your parents know you’re here?” asked Jeremy gruffly, trying to change the subject.
“You’re really pale, you stay indoors all day and only come out in the dark!”
“I have porphyria—it’s a disease. Sunlight doesn’t agree with me.”
“Animals don’t like your house, dogs try to break their leads, and cats and squirrels stay away!”
“I don’t like animals getting in my garden. I have a system to keep them away. Now what are you driving at?”
“You wear really old clothes and talk funny.”
“That’s because I’m a loony. Now b-bugger off,” said Bates stumbling over the swear-word, like it was something foul-tasting. It reminded Andrew of his Gran, which immediately set bells ringing in his head.
“You said you were old! You’re not a psycho, and you don’t look old. You must be still in your twenties!”
Mr. Bates paused here and didn’t say anything. Flustered, he moved backwards and tried to fling the door shut, but by then it was too late. Andrew had stepped across the threshold, his meaty pre-pubescent arms extended and locked, while his bulky legs were braced against the door sill. Mr. Bates seemed momentarily flummoxed by this turn of events and struggled uselessly against the boy.
“Who are you?” asked Bates in astonishment, still trying to push the door closed.
Andrew knew that now it was time to drop the bomb before his arms gave out. “Look! I know you’re a vampire, Mr. Bates.”
Bates’ stopped fighting with the door and stared at Andrew.
“Prove it,” said Bates in a thin hollow voice.
“I can’t, but I just know, alright?”
“Well, have a jolly fun time explaining your theories to the police then,” said Bates a grim smile on his thin lips.
“I ain’t going to the police, Mr. Bates,” said Andrew.
“Since you don’t have any proof, you have nothing to bargain with, so hold your blackmail threats for someone else, I’m not buying.”
“I’m not trying to take your money either,” said Andrew with a sigh.
“Then why are you here?” asked Bates harshly. His body was hunched defensively behind the door, his strange white eyes screwed up in loathing and suspicion.
“I need your help,” said Andrew.
Bates cocked his head to the side. “Me? You want my help? But I’m the big terrible vampire! Aren’t you scared?” he asked, still cringing behind the door.
“I’m not scared of a tall pale nancy,” said Andrew carelessly. “Look, I’m not looking for money, I just want your help.”
“Believe me, little boy, vampires don’t help anything,” sniffed Bates.
“I know that!” shouted Andrew, angry at being called a little boy.
“Then how did you ‘just know’ I’m a vampire, and what do you want?”
Andrew looked Mr. Bates square in the eye. “I know you’re a vampire because me dad’s one.”
“Your dad?” asked Bates in astonishment.
“Yeah. And I need you to tell me how I can kill him.”
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label novel. Show all posts
Friday, October 28, 2011
Friday, September 2, 2011
The Shooting Party
“So what the hell is a ‘cockadoodle?’” asked Kelly. His voice was muffled by the thick scarf wrapped around his face.
He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.
“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”
“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.
“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”
“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”
“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”
“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”
“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Git.”
“Ass.”
Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.
“That means we’re about to start.”
“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”
“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.
“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.
“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.
“Good fur?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.
“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.
“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.
“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”
“How?”
“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”
“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”
“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”
“Huh?” asked Kelly.
“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”
Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.
“PULL!” shouted Phelps.
There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.
“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.
“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”
“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.
“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.
“Jolly good!”
“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.
Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.
Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.
Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.
Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”
“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.
“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.
“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”
“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.
“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.
“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.
“He alright?” called Kelly.
“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.
“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”
"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.
Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!
He and Lynald were seated by the crumbling wall of an ancient stable on the edge of Leandir’s field, giving them a clear view of the tree-line. Lynald's cousins were behind similar half-walls and rocks in various states of disintegration. Their breath hung in the air as each man shivered in the freezing dawn. The sun was in hiding today and the pearlescent morning made the dying trees and mown wheat-stalks look tired and old. Kelly fought another wave of sleep as Lynald took another long pull at his flask of coffee.
“I thought I was on this holiday to recuperate,” grumbled Kelly. “How does freezing my bollocks in a field at six in the morning fit into that plan?”
“You’re getting out in the fresh air and taking exercise. That’s how,” said Lynald.
“That’s what walks and outdoor luncheons are for!” complained Kelly. He eyed the long rifles next to him warily. “You know I don’t like guns.”
“Come now, don’t be such a spoil sport,” said Lynald yawning. “This will be jolly fun.”
“You can have jolly fun, Ly-o. I’d rather stay in bed and read a book. Wish I’d brought one now. What’s taking so long anyway?”
“Would you just shut up for two minutes together? I’m trying to enjoy the morning and it’s rather hard with your constant stream of whinging.”
“Oh, pardon me for ruining your morning. Never mind that you’ve already ruined mine.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Git.”
“Ass.”
Just then there was a loud and rather wounded-sounding horn blast from the tree-line. A large orange cloth was being waved by Phelps the gamekeeper.
“That means we’re about to start.”
“You still haven’t explained to me what a cockadoodle is.”
“It’s a cross between a cockatrice and a dog,” replied Lynald.
“Good eating on ‘em?” asked Kelly.
“Of course not!” sniffed Lynald.
“Good fur?”
“No.”
“Then why are you hunting them?” asked Kelly.
“For the sport of it,” said Lynald with a snort. “Besides, it’s the one species in the forest these days that isn’t in danger of growing extinct. They’re a damn nuisance and they breed like rabbits,” said Lynald.
“Then why have a gamekeeper and fosterers?” asked Kelly.
“Oh, that’s one of Leandir’s little ambitions. He’s trying to improve the breed.”
“How?”
“He’s trying to breed a species of cockadoodle that can actually fly.”
“They don’t fly?” asked Kelly in astonishment. “Then how do we shoot them?”
“Ah, well, that’s the other reason for the gamekeeper and fosterers.”
“Huh?” asked Kelly.
“On your marks gentlemen!” came Cousin Leandir’s booming voice across the bare fields. “When you’re ready, Phelps!”
Lynald shouldered his rifle, but Kelly held back, desirous to see what was going on first.
“PULL!” shouted Phelps.
There were a series of twangs and simultaneously five feathery floppy creatures with beaks and long ears leaped into the air like they had been stuck with pins. There was a loud explosion as twelve rifles reported and clouds of smoke drifted across the foggy field. Kelly squinted, trying to get a better look at the proceedings when the wall next to him exploded. He felt a sharp sting on his cheek as he fell over backwards in his chair. Looking up, he saw a large bullet hole, the size of an apple in the crumbling stone wall.
“Nice shot, Cousin Algie!” cried Lynald in a dry unconcerned voice.
“Damn thing got away from me!” grumbled Algernon. “Alright there, Kenny?”
“Oh absolutely spiffing.” sneered Kelly under his breath.
“Tip top! No harm done!” said Lynald.
“Jolly good!”
“PULL!” shouted Phelps, and again there was a twanging sound and a chorus of gunshots.
Through his safe spot on the ground, Kelly took advantage of his position and watched at a low hole in the masonry. There were a few more explosions of mortar and crumbling brick, this time Kelly could see that every shooting station was affected. Shots were hitting walls and landing in the dirt several feet from their guns, and a few set a couple of trilby hats spinning. Most of the cockadoodle, apart from the two shot stone dead by Leandir, had landed without incident, waddling unconcernedly on the ground. Occasionally they were forced to leap out of the way of a gunshot, but they fluttered heavily back into place and to continue scratching at the frozen ground.
Kelly tried to get a look at the fosterers and noticed that they were all wearing very heavy leather clothes and wore metal helmets on their head, like jousting knights. At their feet were several hundred cockadoodle milling about and preening good naturedly. A fosterer would then seize a bird-dog in his leather gloves and load him into a device. The device looked something like a large crossbow or slingshot with a stiff leather compartment near the stock. The animal was placed in the compartment and a crank was wound. When Phelps’s cry of “PULL” echoed across the field, the fosterer pulled a lever and the bird was shot ten feet into the air to land with a soft feathery “plop” in the dust. The survivors waddled back to the other cockadoodle by the fosterers.
Whether there was food over there, or they sought out the familiar fosterer, or whether they simply liked being flung into the air was anyone’s guess. It was clear after the first six volleys that there was no imminent danger. Kelly judged that only 10% of them were doomed to die in this exercise, those being the unfortunate birds under Leandir’s keen eye. The kills by his kinfolk however, were esoteric at best and included trilby hats, a straw bonnet, a rifle barrel, a box of cartridges, a pocket watch, six clumps of sod, a folding chair, three walls, and a chipmunk. There was one moment of family camaraderie when all the men and ladies took up arms to decimate a burlap sack that had been caught up by the wind.
Kelly dodged away from his section of wall as another chunk of it was blown into powder and debris. The only sound that could be heard above the reports was the occasional “sorry.”
“Dear God, it’s like a war zone!” cried Kelly gripping his hat and lying in the dirt.
“Pretty much. Better vittles though,” said Lynald taking a pull at his flask of coffee. It was shot from his hand by a sheepish-looking cousin in the next “foxhole” struggling with the weight of his rifle stock.
“Sorry there!” he cried, dropping the gun causing it to fire into the air. There was a soft thump near Lynald as a dead squirrel landed on Kelly’s bowler hat. “You alright?”
“I’m fine, Neelan?” called Lynald sighing. “Just a tip: don’t point a rifle at anything you don’t want to die.”
“Right-o!” answered Neelan, shouldering the rifle again, backwards. There was another shot and when the smoke cleared one of the servants near the chafing dishes had keeled over.
“Did he just kill a man?” gasped Kelly.
“No,” said Lynald. “He just dove for cover the big baby,” sniffed Lynald.
“He alright?” called Kelly.
“He’s fainted, sir!” replied one of the servants attending to a young man whose face was the colour of cold porridge.
“Well pick him up and send him to bed,” Neelan said to him. “But none of you lot get any ideas about falling over like big nancies. The next man to go under is getting shot in the foot.”
"Bloody Elves," moaned Kelly and decided to curl into a ball unpon the dusty ground until they went in to lunch.
Like?> Read book one! Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is now available for pre-orders HERE!
Friday, July 22, 2011
MADAME BLUESTOCKING'S PENNYHORRID ON SALE NOW!
UPDATED NOV. 7 2011
At long last Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid is available for sale from it's publisher,Hunt Press.
CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!
 |
The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly are in print! |
Did you love Must Love Dragons? We know we did! Well, Monica Marier is back with a brand new series and it's now available for pre-order! As always, get it now before it comes out when the price goes up?
Madame Bluestocking's Pennyhorrid by Monica Marier
A Hope/Crosby style buddy-comedy in a Steampunk/Fantasy World!
Introducing The Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly: Blindsmen, Costermongers, Duffers, Dowsers, Factors, Fulkers, Legerdemainists, Limners, Noontenders, Machinists and makers of fine Wigs. One is a washed up, boozing wizard, one is a debonair walking disaster. They’re gentlemen of fortune who realize that the advantage goes not to the biggest hand, but the better bluff. Additionally that any landing you can walk away from is a good one, and chicks dig scars.
Can the pair of them stop arguing long enough to save the citizens of Poulipolis from a watery grave? How will they manage with a shifty working girl and a hardened police inspector dogging their tails? Follow the hijinks of the Dynamic Wingaurd & Kelly (and their blue dragon, Philomena) as they unravel clues in a mysterious underwater city!
CLICK HERE TO ORDER YOUR COPY IN PAPERBACK OR E-BOOK FORMAT TODAY!
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
BOOK 2 IS NOW ON SALE!!
UPDATED, 9/6/2011
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com
Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.
Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!
Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)
**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”
**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”
**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”
**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”
**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”
**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”
**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)
Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE
'Runs in Good Condition' by Monica Marier is now available in paperback and e-book formats from lulu.com
Linus is back from his travels with money to burn and a grateful family. Only now he finds himself swept up in a danger worse than dragons and kobolds: Politics. Nominated for Union President Linus goes toe to toe with crooked leaders, a tank of water, dancing slippers, pop singers, corsets, and even a werewolf or two. That is if he even passes the qualifying rounds… and if he can avoid planting his foot in his mouth every two seconds.
Whether you’re liberal, conservative, or nihilist, there’s nothing as impolitic as Linus Weedwhacker: Candidate at Large!
Praise for Must Love Dragons (Book 1 of ‘The Linus Saga’)
**“…A dungeon crawling adventure with heart and a sense of humor. Five stars all the way.”
**“Linus [is] 'John McClane in Middle Earth.'... a real page-turner”
**“A Fun Fantasy Romp! With great characters and terrific plot twists, this book was fun, from start to finish.”
**“It's a wonderfully witty book, that pokes fun at growing older, dealing with impudent newbies and wondering just how good were the 'good ol' days.'”
**“This is a beautifully written story full of truly likable characters.”
**“A fun satire of the classic 2-d fantasy character turned three dimensional… I'd recommend this to any humor/fantasy and especially any Pratchett/Discworld fans.”
**“It takes a good sense of humor as well as a stiff upper lip... Highly recommended.” ~ Midwest Book Review
ORDER YOUR COPY TODAY!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON(Kindle)
Still haven't read Book One, 'Must Love Dragons'?
You can order it here!
FROM LULU
FROM AMAZON (and Kindle)
FROM BARNES & NOBLE
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