Excerpt, Book 3

Gepetka, Prince of Gypsies

The road ended. It was not that the road was
particularly a good one. In fact, it was rugged, steep,
and, in places, nearly indiscernible as a road. However,
its termination in the Swiss Alpine village was abrupt
and distinct.
The village consisted of a tight cluster of four dozen or
so thatched houses, with a tidy but substantial
complement of outbuildings, set up against the banks of
a swift mountain stream. A narrow footbridge crossed
the stream, and only goats were visible in the meadows
that swept up to the rugged peaks on the other side.
It was the end of the road, but certainly not the edge
of the earth as he had been assured to find. With only
the slightest hint of disappointment, the Gypsy surveyed
the picturesque surroundings. The view was nothing
short of awe-inspiring.
The light mountain breeze murmuring through the
tops of the pine forest carried the freshest, coolest air
the Gypsy tinker had ever breathed. Having heard
rumor of the remote village at the end of the earth, he
had impatiently sought an excuse to explore it. He had
toiled to the place under the auspices of breaking new
territory in which to ply his trade. The truth was, he was
innately curious, and made the journey purely for the
sake of discovery. Though it was not what he had hoped
to find, he was delighted.
The thirteenth century was giving way to the
fourteenth, and the traveling tinker did not want to be
left in the past. The exploration of new places, people,
and experiences kept him regularly trading in unfamiliar
territory. So it was nothing new when he coaxed his
donkey to back the cart to align nicely with the ten
other carts that were parked parallel to one another.
Their tailgates all neatly pointed toward the village, and
so did his. The Gypsy's cart was only distinguished from
the others by its brightly-colored paint job.
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Noting that his donkey was the only one in sight, he
decided to leave her hitched to the cart rather than put
her in with the corralled oxen. He did not want the great
beasts to object to the interloper. Subconsciously, or
perhaps by experience, he also knew Gypsies were,
often as not, considered undesirable interlopers as well.
Satisfied with his cart arrangements, he began making
his way among the silent buildings. At that point the
weary Gypsy hoped to find a good meal and possibly
even some exotic nugget of truth. He had just begun to
wonder over the absence of inhabitants when the distant
cacophony of excited voices led him through the village
center. He wove around and between houses toward the
sound until he was suddenly at the edge of the open
square at the far end of the village. A stone building
much larger than the others stood across the crowded
square. He presumed it to be the church.
The sea of fair blond heads captivated his imagination.
The crowd was intent on something that was out of sight
to the Gypsy. Then a man stepped up onto some pedestal
and began making an accusation, gesturing angrily
toward a pole in the midst of the courtyard. The crowd
responded with equal enthusiasm as a woman was
thrust against the pole and bound. Bundles of dried
branches were piled waist deep about the woman and a
pail of melted tallow was sloshed over her and the
kindling.
The tall Gypsy's pleasure dissolved into revolting
horror. Quickly he turned to leave, but not soon enough.
The corner of his eye caught the motion of a hand
snatching the bonnet from the woman's head and a flash
of vivid red hair flowed into sight. Involuntarily he
looked back at the spectacle as a puff of wind whipped
the long flame red hair about the woman's face as if
prophesying her death.
He was momentarily transfixed by the proud, or
perhaps defiant, look on the woman's face. Her eyes met
his across the crowd and he felt as if she were
conveying some urgent message. His mind raced for
some kind of conclusion, but his ears only heard the
word “witch” chanted, then suddenly she was engulfed
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Excerpt, Book 2

A Gathering of Falcons
Death was imminent. Lord Clyde scowled at his left
hand as if it was the source of the crushing pain in his
chest. In the brief moment before slipping into the
shadow, the legendary warrior mused at the irony. Clyde
had so oft anticipated his demise on the battlefield that
he had never imagined he would die in the midst of a
foal pasture teeming with the vitality of new life. The
enormous man hesitated for several awkward moments
with one foot poised in the stirrup. Aborting the
attempt, he slowly backed away from the great beast
and, almost casually, leaned back against an ancient elm
tree.
Clyde and Tiny had made one last survey of the foal
pasture before their annual trip to the king’s Summer
Festival. There were twenty-four mares grazing
contentedly about the large field, with their foals
frolicking about as young horses tend to do. In the
distance stood the Worthington Estate in its redeemed
condition.
Tiny clambered onto his mount, but Lord Clyde,
gingerly clutching his left arm, half slid, half slumped to
the ground.
“Are you well, Uncle?” Tiny asked in alarm.
“’Twill be fine, lad,” Clyde answered thickly. “I’ll be
takin’ a little rest here. You ride on back to the house an’
tell Timothy I want him to come to me ... alone. And ...,”
he paused to laboriously catch his breath, “Tell me good
wife Gretchen ... I’ll be waitin’ fer her.”
                               *****
It was just past a month later when the memorial
tribute to Lord Clyde was held at the Worthington
Estate. It was attended by nearly every lord of the
kingdom and the entire royal family. Such affairs were
typically stuffy and painfully formal. However, because
King Lohman III had such a high degree of affinity for
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Clyde’s simplicity, formalities were relaxed and the
gathering became somewhat of a reunion.
Princess Sarah, chagrined by the missed opportunity
to record Lord Clyde’s life story, was renewed in her
determination to pen the history of each of those
assembled. She looked across the table to her father-in-
law, the king, and asked, “How is it that you and Master
Yomahito met?”
Lohman slowly swept his gaze from the far end of the
table up to those nearest him. His eyes locked with
those of the small man from the mysterious Far East. A
long moment of silent communication passed between
the two old friends. Then, as if to break the trance,
Yomahito said simply, “It was raining.”
The mists of reminiscence came across the king’s
eyes. He began to speak and the room fell to silence.
“Yes. It had been raining hard for days ...”
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Excerpt

Fourteenth Century
There was blood on the grass, lots of blood. The king's
page stood riveted with horror as he realized how much
of that blood had stained his boots. Involuntarily, his
eyes were drawn to the archer, some one hundred paces
away. As the archer deliberately drew an arrow into his
bow, the page felt as if he might throw up. The page was
a young lad, barely a teen, and could hardly be faulted
for his trepidation. The distance seemed insignificant to
the boy, for just moments before he had seen a large
soldier collapse in the same spot writhing in pain with
an arrow protruding from his thigh. It had been an
unfortunate accident, indeed, but the arrow had
inadvertently lost its fletching upon leaving the bow. The
tremendous odds against such a thing happening twice
in a tournament was no comfort to the lad. The
contestant had been disqualified, the wounded marshal
had been removed, the king had sent his page to
substitute for the marshal, and the tournament
continued as if nothing was amiss. The terrified lad
stood near the target in front of the thousands of people
who were watching the tournament. When the first
arrow hit the clout with a decisive smack, the boy
jumped and let out an unmanly squeak. Then, before he
could think, the second arrow found its mark and, as his
muddled head tried to remember the signal, the third
arrow struck, and at that moment ... the boy fainted in a
pile.
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Kingdom of the Falcon
The Summer Festival was, without a doubt, the
greatest event for the peasants of the fourteenth
century. The savory smells of roasting meat hung thick
in the still air. The competing aromas of fresh breads,
pickled fish, and ale, all mingling in the lazily wafting
smoke of cook fires, served only to stimulate the sensory
barrage. In the midway there could be heard the various
sounds of amusements as vendors hawked their wares,
minstrels sang ballads, and gamblers wagered on
virtually anything. It was the fifth day of the seven-day-
long festival and the main event was the archery
contest. The majority of the people were crammed
around the fairgrounds clamoring for a chance to see
the targets and contestants. The competition had been
spectacular, and the crowd was throbbing with
excitement.
It was the final round of double elimination and, as the
last two contestants stepped up to the shooting line, a
great hush fell over the crowd. The first, Miles, clad in
ceremonial armor bearing the image of the Bear, drew
his bow and sent his arrow into the fist-sized bull’s-eye.
The crowd cheered excitedly. He fitted the next arrow,
and again the crowd hushed. The second arrow whistled
the one hundred yards and stuck merely two fingers
from the first. The crowd cheered with enthusiasm.
Once again, the crowd hushed as he, with some
flamboyance, prepared and shot the third. It struck in
the bull’s-eye with its feathers almost touching the
second. The crowd cheered wildly.
Miles was accustomed to this kind of contest, as he
was the chief bowman in Lord Darrin’s army. He was the
undisputed champion of the northern province of
PenNel. He doffed his hat and bowed to the platform
where King Lohman, his lords, and other nobles
watched. Then he bowed with great panache to the
throng of peasants, and they yelled and cheered more,
some waving the miniature standard of PenNel.
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William was a woodsman in the service of King
Lohman, and had never even been to a festival prior to
this event. He felt more than a little out of place among
so great a throng of people, particularly so many nobles.
He was clad in the greens and grays that were
customary to his trade, for he owned no fine garments
or festive garb. He, indeed, would not have come to this
contest but for the ‘invitation’ from the king, who also
sponsored his entry fee.
Though William was out of his element, he was an
archer, the son of Archer, and he was fully accustomed
to shooting under stress. So, he nodded to Miles and
said softly, “Fine shooting, sir. I’m honored to compete
with one of such skill.”
Then he drew his first arrow and sent it into the direct
center of the bull’s-eye. The crowd cheered tentatively,
for, until that day, William was unknown to them. His
second arrow neatly clove the first in two before the
crowd was hushed and, in startled awe, they leaned
closer. Abruptly, before they could cheer, his third arrow
split the second, making the target look like some
bizarre flower. The marshal, who was but a lad from the
king's court, promptly fainted, and there was a stunned
hush for three heartbeats, then the crowd, erupting in
cheers, chanted, “Will-yum! Will-yum! Will-yum!” The
miniature standards of PenNel were discarded and the
Bear pennants were trampled under foot as the
peasants pressed hard against the ropes. Somehow, the
guards prevailed to hold the crowd back while William
and Miles approached the king’s platform.
Miles was accorded the silver medallion, which King
Lohman held high for all to see. The cheers echoed off
the city wall like thunder as the king ceremoniously
placed the red ribbon that held the heavy medallion over
Miles’ head.
Miles smiled and bowed skillfully as he accepted his
prize, which was a quite worthy reward. However, in his
heart there was a stain of bitterness, for he had never
been beaten before. His private chagrin was intensified
by the rash promise he had made to a fair maiden back
home, that he would bring her the gold medallion as a
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Time, Relativity, and Other Things Not Normally Related to Writing

It seems that I have, on numerous occasions, crossed into some kind of time warp, hyper-reality, or perhaps a parallel universe. I don't actually seek these pan-dimensional anomalies, but they tend to find me. So, as I reveal my heretofore secret superpower, you must realize you are getting a glimpse into an unknown world, the world that exists inside my head.

My nerd friends are all well aware that Time shares a relational perspective with Energy and Matter. It's as if they are intrinsically bonded together, yet each struggling for a greater market share of the equation. That's a metaphor summarizing Einstein's theory of relativity. It's also a pretty bad butchering of some brilliant science, but we're not too worried about that here.

What happens to me on these occasions of time surfing, if you will, is that in the measurable present time frame I sort of write a book. It's all in my head, but it can happen during the eight to ten minutes it takes me to shower. It can happen as I drive to work, or when I view an interesting artifact, or even when I am engaged (supposedly) in a conversation with someone. It's like my mind races off and does its thing and my body is stuck in real time.

I guess I'm glad I don't age that rapidly. That nasty little process is going fast enough as it is.

Here's the kicker, it takes months to put that ten-minute lucid "day dream" onto paper. It would be a great trick if I could write it as fast as it comes in. But at that speed the keys on my computer would melt down or even burst into flames.

So, the moral of the story is, there really is science to writing. It's just in an uncharted zone. Or, maybe that zone has actually been well studied and is part of a giant government cover-up. Or, maybe that hyper-reality is being monitored by nefarious powers who are preparing to use it as a portal to invade and subdue our planet. Or, perhaps there is a parallel reality that is accessible only to a limited few with superpowers ... and I'm one of them.

Or ... it could just be all in my head. But even at that, I just got three new stories.

It's October!

It's October and you know what that means? Cooler weather? Pumpkin-desecrated coffee? Colorful leaves?
No, well, actually yes. But those are not the important things.

This is the time of year to begin ordering Christmas gifts from small businesses. Let's see if I can come up with an example. Oh, hey, how about books from Inkling Publications? Yes, we are a small business and the more time we have to collate and ship orders, the better.

To give our shipping system a metaphorical size rating: on a scale of Taking Over The World With Technology to Scratching Pictures On A Cave Wall, we're about like Michelangelo painting a chapel. We're a bit slow, but we want it to be exactly right when it arrives.

The truth is, we are working on an online automated ordering system, but it's taking longer to get there than we expected. Even when that is functional, it will still require a loving human touch to package the books, and of course I will be happy to sign them if you wish.

And, in case you were wondering, books make superb Christmas gifts.

So, click the links below to decide which books you wish to purchase. Then contact us and we will get things moving.

Thank you!