I’ve included excerpts of the stories as well as the artwork and I hope you’ll enjoy both.<\/p>\n
All these interior illustrations are by Marge Simon.<\/p>\n
[\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”2_5,3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/12-One-More-Song-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”12-One More Song” admin_label=”One More Song Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n
Excerpt from “One More Song” by Eliza Chan:<\/strong><\/p>\n After Mira closed the door the selkie shed her skin, leaving the mottled grey fur in a heap like stepped-out-of work clothes. Mira handed her one of the many robes hanging on the hat stand and kept her eyes on her blue and green rug, only catching glimpses of the woman\u2019s bruises. There were purple marks the size of fingers on her legs and red, raised lines across her back. Mira blinked rapidly, her hands already clenched into tight fists as she tried to keep her rising anger from bursting its banks.<\/p>\n \u201cHow can I help you, Ms\u2026?\u201d Mira asked.<\/p>\n \u201cIona, just call me Iona,\u201d the selkie said, knotting the robe tightly at her midrift. She winced visibly and her eyes darted up. Mira moved to her drinks cabinet, deliberately turning her back so the other woman didn\u2019t have to look her in the eye.<\/p>\n \u201cI need help. I, my husband, well you can see his handiwork. I asked for a divorce, I tried to go to the police. They wouldn\u2019t take listen. Said I was only on a spousal visa so\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n Mira handed Iona the mug. She clasped her hands around the porcelain like it anchored her.<\/p>\n \u201cI assume he has some leverage?\u201d<\/p>\n The client nodded, tucking her hair back so Mira could see a ragged hole where her right ear should have been\u2014a void of darkness as if that part of her had simply ceased to exist. \u201cHe cut a patch out of my skin. I can\u2019t swim far, not out of the city at any rate, or I\u2019ll drown.\u201d<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”3_5,2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Excerpt from “‘Til Death is Done” by Chadwick Ginther:<\/strong><\/p>\n It was the end of the world. This<\/em> world, at least.<\/p>\n I\u2019d been sent here to save it. To stop it.<\/p>\n To fight.<\/p>\n And fight I had. I\u2019d never learned the world\u2019s name. Maybe it no longer had one; its name could\u2019ve been lost, cut up in the Rising when the dead started to walk, and eat again.<\/p>\n I could save this world\u2014every world\u2014from what waited in the dark. I couldn\u2019t fail. I had to show Her my gifts had found the right home. How many good people would have followed Her to Her cave? How many would\u2019ve accepted Her gifts? How many would\u2019ve made the Bargain.<\/p>\n I couldn\u2019t say. I\u2019d never know.<\/p>\n All I knew was I <\/em>had. And I wouldn\u2019t fail.<\/p>\n Who would\u2019ve thought, as I got lost in the woods, I\u2019d have stumbled into Her. Into this world, staring at the summit of Marrow Hill. There was no avoiding it. It drew the gaze like a black hole eating light. We\u2019d been trying to take it for years.<\/p>\n I\u2019d left my Sally back across an ocean of worlds, so far I couldn\u2019t find a memory of home in the night stars. Her locket hung against my skin; a small portrait filled the silver heart. The only silver I hadn\u2019t melted to fight the End King\u2019s army.<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/13-Till-Death-Is-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”13-Till Death Is” admin_label=”Til Death is Done Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”2_5,3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/14-Vestiage-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”14-Vestiage” admin_label=”Vestiage Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Excerpt from “Vestige” by Annie Neugebauer:<\/strong><\/p>\n Something lay on the sand. Small, maybe a foot and a half long. Slick and wet, although it was several feet from the incoming waves. Something alive.<\/p>\n Her eyes watered. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear the alcohol haze. She tucked the bottle back into her jacket pocket unopened. Morbid curiosity took her a few steps closer.<\/p>\n It squirmed. Definitely an animal.<\/p>\n Two more steps. She gasped. A face. The thing had a face. A little round face. A baby?<\/p>\n \u201cOh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck me!<\/em>\u201d she muttered to herself, dropping to her knees beside it. Why had she waited so long to check? Was it dying? Who leaves a baby abandoned on the beach?<\/p>\n \u201cYou poor thing,\u201d she cried, reaching to pick it up. At the last moment, she snatched back her hands. She leaned forward to get a closer look. \u201cWhat the\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n She scrambled back before her brain could fully process what she\u2019d seen. A pale face the color of the sand, but too flat. The nose didn\u2019t protrude so much as the whole face swelled forward at the mouth. The eyes were closed.<\/p>\n This wasn\u2019t a normal baby.<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”3_5,2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Excerpt from “Gift of the Kites” by Jim C. Hines:<\/strong><\/p>\n Jesse yanked the blue nylon string, swooping his kite toward his step-father\u2019s.<\/p>\n Kentaro dodged easily. \u201cToo broad a strike,\u201d he called, laughing. \u201cA true fighter kite would loop around and cut your line.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGet him, Jesse,\u201d cheered Jesse\u2019s mother, sitting in the shade on one of the picnic benches.<\/p>\n At twelve years old, Jesse felt a mix of pride and embarrassment at her enthusiasm. Flushing, he unwrapped a bit more line, sending his kite higher. He dove again, missed, then tugged the kite in a tight turn that nearly clipped Kentaro\u2019s kite. His mother whistled.<\/p>\n \u201cMuch better,\u201d Kentaro said, grinning. He pulled his kite through a long \u2018J\u2019 in salute. \u201cAmazing control from a plastic store-bought kite. You\u2019re sure you have no Japanese blood?\u201d<\/p>\n A shadow caught Jesse\u2019s attention. A black rectangular kite leapt from the horizon, corkscrewing through the sky. Jesse ran toward the fence, hoping to glimpse the kite\u2019s owner. His Superman kite followed like an obedient blue and red puppy.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat is it?\u201d his mother called.<\/p>\n Higher and higher the black kite flew. The string was invisible to Jesse\u2019s eyes, but given the angle, the owner had to be by the highway. The wind carried exhaust fumes to Jesse\u2019s nose.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a Buka kite,\u201d Jesse yelled. The black fighting kite moved like no kite he had ever seen. It flew and bucked like a thing alive.<\/p>\n Kentaro shielded his eyes. \u201cI see nothing.\u201d<\/p>\n Jesse\u2019s bowels grew cold, and sweat beaded his forehead.<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/15-Gift-of-the-Kites-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”15-Gift of the Kites” admin_label=”Gift of the Kites Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”2_5,3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/16-Surveying-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”16-Surveying” admin_label=”Surveying the Land Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Excerpt from “Surveying the Land” by BD Wilson:<\/strong><\/p>\n Looking up from the parchment, Robanni frowned. They should have been able to walk to the edge of the Plains uninterrupted now. They should have been able to finish this ridiculous waste of time, abandon their trespass of the land, and return to the office. He should not be staring at his master\u2019s bald head as Jekaar crawled around, face lowered like a bloodhound.<\/p>\n \u00a0For the first time in almost six years of employment, Robanni had no idea what the normally predictable man was doing. His hand twitched, causing an errant mark on the clean onion-colored surface of the parchment. He stopped writing, taking his braid in hand again. The quiet rasping noise helped stop his rising nerves, calming him.<\/p>\n Keethanval who guards the mind, otalidiel risan. Let mind find an answer. Natef istel.<\/em><\/p>\n \u201cSire?\u201d he said, watching the man on the ground. \u201cIs something wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook at this,\u201d Jekaar answered. \u201cCome here and look at this. Tell me what I\u2019m seeing.\u201d<\/p>\n Robanni rubbed the braid one more time before letting it go and then tucked the sheet of parchment and the quill safely into his satchel. He knelt on the ground next to his master. For a few moments he saw nothing, and then he blinked.<\/p>\n \u201cIs that\u2014?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes, yes?\u201d Jekaar prompted.<\/p>\n He took a breath. \u201cIs the ground glowing, Sire?\u201d<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row column_structure=”3_5,2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”3_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”]<\/p>\n Excerpt from “Rooks” by Dan Koboldt:<\/strong><\/p>\n For three weeks, Lord Matellan and I had watched the dark columns of smoke march steadily toward his estates. Two armies, one broken and fleeing before the other, left only devastation in their wake. It didn\u2019t matter which army was ours. They were both headed right for us.<\/p>\n For three weeks, I\u2019d cajoled and chided and cursed him to retreat to safety, with no result. He wanted to see the apple harvest through. Now the first harbinger of death and destruction had come, and faced me through the wrought-iron gate of Matellan orchards.<\/p>\n He wore a soldier\u2019s uniform, but the sun had bleached it of any color. The shirt was untucked, the sleeves threadbare. I couldn\u2019t help but notice his boots. Standard issue was a plain black boot, good leather but nothing fancy. This man wore fur-lined boots of expensive suede. Custom made, but poorly fitted\u2014and clearly not his.<\/p>\n \u201cLookin\u2019 for the lord \u2019o the orchards,\u201d he said. His voice grated against the placid morning air, like an avalanche down the side of a mountain.<\/p>\n \u201cLord Matellan will want to know who\u2019s calling,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n \u201cName\u2019s Rouch,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n It fit him, somehow, a thick name for this burly ox of a man. Fever-bright eyes glinted at me above a greasy unkempt beard.<\/p>\n I gave his uniform a pointed glance. \u201cWould that be Captain Rouch?\u201d I asked him. \u201cLieutenant Rouch? I don\u2019t see a badge of rank.\u201d<\/p>\n He smiled, showing teeth that had yellowed like old parchment through his beard. His eyes never changed, though. \u201cJust Rouch\u2019ll do.\u201d<\/p>\n …<\/p>\n [\/et_pb_text][\/et_pb_column][et_pb_column type=”2_5″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_image src=”https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/05\/17-Rooks-scaled.jpeg” title_text=”17-Rooks” admin_label=”Rooks Image” _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][\/et_pb_image][\/et_pb_column][\/et_pb_row][et_pb_row _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default”][et_pb_text _builder_version=”4.9.4″ _module_preset=”default” hover_enabled=”0″ sticky_enabled=”0″]<\/p>\n If you enjoyed these excerpts and want to read more, pick up a copy of Arcana<\/em> which is available now:<\/p>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www.rhondaparrish.com\/home\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/03\/ArcanaFrontCover750x519.jpg\")
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