This is the first of three parts to Chapter 1, “Strange Memories” – “Legend of Dragamere”. I am doing a full edit, and this is the newest version. The “Prologue”, which precedes this was posted on this site back in March.

Chapter I part 1 of 3

This is the first of three parts to Chapter 1, “Strange Memories” – “Legend of Dragamere”. I am doing a full edit, and this is the newest version. The “Prologue”, which precedes this was posted on this site back in March.

Chapter I part 1 of 3

“Strange Memories”

Tears stung Chelsey Reynolds’ face as she slowly turned the last page of the aged paperback book. Staring at the single rose on the cover, she imagined its sweet scent and could almost feel the pricking thorns. Her mind traveled back over the story repeatedly, envisioning the colorful yet tragic characters; it seemed so hauntingly familiar. How could it be, it was only a fantasy. Or was it? She loved the tales told of dragons and wizards, witches and spells, castles and their magic. Nevertheless, she knew they weren’t real, only someone’s vivid imagination. But this story had her mesmerized. Months passed—the story plagued her dreams and she battled with her thoughts; she couldn’t erase it from her mind.

***

Lakecrest, New Jersey

Sunday, July 15, 2007             

“Have you ever read something that overwhelmed you so much you couldn’t get it out of your mind?” Chelsey blurted out into the Sunday morning silence.

Sitting across the table, engrossed in the disturbing headlines, Neva was startled by the sudden outburst, the newspaper crinkling in her hands.

“Huh? Umm—no, not really, you’re the one with your nose buried in those books all the time—not me,” she replied from behind the newspaper.

Tapping her fingers vigorously on the table in frustration, Chelsey attempted to get her roommate’s undivided attention. Seconds turned into minutes.

Neva had finally heard enough. Quickly closing the paper, she set it down, folded her arms and stared across the table. “OK, OK, what’s going on? This isn’t like you at all,” she said, easing back into the chair, making it creak, wondering why her best friend was acting so short-tempered.

Chelsey coyly smiled, “I read a book that I thought was just a fantasy.” Leaning forward, her eyes growing wider, she continued, “But as it turned out, it wasn’t.” Chelsey paused, disappointed by Neva’s blank look. She watched as her roommate filled her coffee mug, inhaling the steam from the fresh brew. Her roommate stirred in a copious amount of sugar, all the while the spoon rattling the sides of the cup, acting as if she had all the time in the world.  Chelsey impatiently cleared her throat, but continuing undaunted, “It was the story of two people, each one born of the dragon.” Neva finally looked up.  Good!  She had her attention again.  Pausing for a moment, she looked down at the table and pulled up the sleeve of her chenille robe, “Do you remember when I got this?” she asked anxiously, pointing to the dragon tattooed on her left arm.

“Yes, I remember,” not exactly sure what Chelsey was trying to tell her.

“I didn’t know at the time, Neva, but after reading that book, it all made sense!” Her friend’s furrowed brow was her only answer.  It made me remember things that happened to me many times as a child. Physicians would come to the orphanage and examine me regularly. They were always fascinated with my eyes, and even though my vision was excellent, they implied there was something strange about them. I never found out what they were talking about,” Chelsey replied, visibly frustrated.

Neva looked closely into Chelsey’s dark brown eyes.

Reaching into her robe, Chelsey pulled out a small envelope and laid it on the table.

“What is this?” Neva inquired, and as she picked it up, she saw the unusual postage.

Chelsey reached out and grabbed her friend’s hand.

“Before you read it, I must tell you what I discovered. The castle at the end of the story, Dragamere, is not a fantasy. It does exist! The woman in the story had a dragon on her arm just like mine.” There was, at that moment, an almost indiscernible trace of burnt … something … in the air, as if the mysterious dragons had breathed upon their conversation. “I researched the ancient legends and one man’s name kept appearing in reference to them. That man is Malcolm Kinsley, and he lives in London. I have been in contact with him about it, asked him what he knew and this was his reply. You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I know this is something I need to do.”

“Do?  What do you mean ‘do’? Do what?” Neva wasn’t sure if she really wanted to know. She felt a sudden panic growing in her chest. Chelsey was her best friend. What was she up to now? Had she thought this through—whatever this was? Her feeling of apprehension grew, and a chill ran up her spine. And that scent of charred … something …

With caution, Neva removed the letter from the envelope and immediately noticed the stationery was very odd. The gray parchment was stiff, unlike normal writing paper. Embossed at the top of the page was a strange image—a dragon, encircling a pentacle; although it was unfamiliar, her feeling of foreboding magnified. Glancing back up at Chelsey, her best friend encouraged her to continue by nodding her head.  Looking back down, she saw that the handwriting was elegant, perfect in every way. “Are you sure I should read this, Chels?”

“Yes!” Chelsey replied bluntly, as she stood up and began to pace back and forth.

Neva swallowed hard and focused on the script.

My dearest Chelsey,

Concerning Dragamere, I can only tell you—yes, it does exist.

The story of Giselle and Gaddeon is much more than a legend.

Their story ended mysteriously when they arrived at Dragamere.

Do they still exist within its walls—it is possible.

An eerie tale of a curse placed upon them has come down through time as well.

The castle still stands, as it did centuries ago.

I have traveled to the castle only once, yet I could not enter.

Only those born of dragon blood are permitted inside its walls.

You say you are …

If you decide to come to England, I shall take you to Dragamere.

If you are permitted entry, you shall do so—alone.

Please inform me of your intentions.

Sincerely,

Your Honorable Guardian,

Malcolm Kinsley, Esquire

Unsure of what she had just read, Neva folded the letter and, visibly shaken, returned it to Chelsey. “Born of dragon blood? What’s he talking about?” Her eyes were wide with worry and wonder.

“I can’t explain it, at least not right now. That’s why I feel a trip to England is so vital, I don’t have the answers myself,” Chelsey replied as she sat back down.

“So, you are going?” Neva asked abruptly, clearly upset.

“Yes—as soon as I can wrap things up here. I’m giving my two weeks’ notice tomorrow, because I don’t know how long I will be gone.”

Neva rolled her eyes and replied strongly to Chelsey’s naiveté, “What do you expect to find, the answer to the mystery of what happened to them? Don’t be silly, it’s only a story—some writer’s fantasy.”

Chelsey rose from her seat, disturbed by her friend’s skepticism. “I have to go, for whatever the reason. I had hoped you would understand, Neva. There is something there; a connection exists, and I won’t rest until I find out what it is.”

“If you quit your job, what will you do for money?” Neva asked, hoping to shake Chelsey back to reality.

“Don’t worry, I have enough to last quite a while—I’m the thrifty one, remember?” she replied with a sarcastic smile.

Neva asked, slightly perturbed, “So what am I supposed to do about your half of the rent? I can’t afford this place on my own.”

Chelsey winked and smiled, “You could always get another roommate until I get back?  Two weeks is plenty of time to find one.”

Neva contemplated the suggestion as Chelsey walked out of the kitchen and out of sight. She couldn’t persuade her not to go, her mind was made up. They only had a few weeks left; this wasn’t the time for arguments.

***

The afternoon sunlight shone through the kitchen window, warming her, as Neva cleared the table and finished cleaning up. The day had passed in uncomfortable silence.

Chelsey stared into her full-length mirror and realized she did bear a striking resemblance to the depiction of Giselle. It was extraordinary! Her short dark hair, and dark eyes; fair-toned skin and sensuous body; everything was unbelievably similar. Her ears were pierced in exactly the same places, and around her neck hung a small, gold dragon pendant. The most prominent feature of all was the dragon she had indelibly placed on her forearm some years before. At the time, she had no idea why, but maybe now, that question would be answered. She stepped closer and stared into her own eyes. They looked normal. She looked closer, and suddenly she saw it. Faintly hidden within her own eyes were those of someone or something else, and they were strangely beautiful. Oddly, her image began to fade. The mirror grew foggy, and when her reflection reappeared, she saw an image she hadn’t seen before. It seemed to be calling to her, summoning her, but why? Suddenly, the scent of something charred returned.

As the image faded, and the scent diminished, Chelsey stepped back and wondered if all the strange occurrences were connected.

***

Monday morning began, and it seemed like all the others; however, this day would be different. “Neva—I have to go or I’ll be late. See you later!” Chelsey said cheerfully as she hurried out the door.

“Yeah, later …” Neva heard the door slam loudly.

The drive to work seemed endless. The stop-and-go traffic annoyed Chelsey as she finally arrived at the Lakecrest Inquirer office complex. The scent of newsprint paper and ink filled the air. Parking in her designated stall, Chelsey quickly walked across the lot and into the old brick building. She had worked at the local newspaper for several years. Working her way up the unforgiving supervisory ladder, she had finally become a first-rate junior editor. “Good morning, Allie, how are you this morning,” she happily inquired, walking casually into the office.

“Tired, but what’s new?” the newly-hired employee replied. Given the position as Chelsey’s associate, they had quickly become close friends.

“Well, I have something to tell you. You’ll probably have a new boss in a few weeks. I’m giving my notice today.”

“Why, what happened?” Allie asked, as her eyes widened with shock.

“I’m going on a trip and I don’t know if, or when, I’ll be back.” Chelsey replied swiftly.

“I thought you were happy here?”

“It’s a long story, and I can’t go into it right now. I have to see Mr. Riorden and tell him first,” looking over her shoulder toward the Chief Editor’s office.

“OK, but you’re not leaving here until you tell me the whole story!”

Chelsey smiled at Allie’s insistence, and the minutes ticked away slowly as they waited for their boss.

***

“Hello ladies!” said the well-groomed and handsome, middle-aged man entering the office. John Riorden was Chief Editor and he was never on time, reconfirmed as he glanced at his watch.

“Good morning, Mr. Riorden,” they replied in unison.

“Mr. Riorden, may I see you for a moment?” Chelsey asked politely, rising from her desk.

“Yes, of course, come in, before I get too busy,” he replied, laying his briefcase on the corner of his desk before sitting down.

Hesitant and anxious, Chelsey swallowed her nervousness, walked into the office and closed the door. “Mr. Riorden,” trying not to appear too excited, she said, “I really hate to do this, but I must give you my notice.”

He sat up straight in his chair, completely shaken by her statement. She was his best junior editor and he had hoped she would stay indefinitely. “Alright, but can you tell me why?” he inquired, his voice sounding a bit unsteady.

Chelsey cleared her throat, “Do you read, Mr. Riorden?”

Puzzled by her question, he answered, “Yes, I do, when I have time—why?”

With conviction, she said, “I read a book several months ago that I believed was only a fantasy, but it turned out to be something more—an old English legend. I contacted a prominent English gentleman that has confirmed it. Things have happened in my life that I can’t explain. This may be the key, and I have to thoroughly investigate it. I’m giving my notice, not because I don’t want to stay here, but because my trip is, at this time, uncertain. I don’t know what the outcome will be. I haven’t been myself in months—I hope you understand.”

“I don’t understand, but a reporter you shall always be! Investigate it! Your job will be waiting here for you when you return,” he regrettably stated, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, not sure what would come next.

“Thank you, but I don’t know what I will find—or when I will return.”

“I hope you find what you are looking for, Chelsey.  I wish you well,” he said, as he rose from his chair and shook her clammy hand.

Chelsey smiled, took a deep breath and turned toward the door. Two weeks, that’s all I have until my journey begins, she thought as she stepped out of the office.

***

“Alright—tell me!” Allie said anxiously as Chelsey closed the door.

“He was shocked, didn’t want to hear what I had to tell him, but I think he’s OK with it.”

Still puzzled by her friend’s sudden plans, Allie wanted to know the whole story. “Tell me, I won’t wait any longer …” she stated, leaning against her boss’s desk.

Chelsey disclosed all the details; the story seemed outrageous, but Allie listened without interruption.

“Better you than me! I wouldn’t go out on a limb like that,” she said emphatically as she walked back to her desk, “Good Luck!”

“I have to make my flight arrangements now, I don’t want to wait,” Chelsey stated. Turning back to her desk, she picked up the telephone and dialed information.

***

“Hello, I’d like to make reservations for a flight to London,” Chelsey stated, feeling the butterflies churning in her stomach.

“Yes ma’am. Your name first, please, and when would you be departing and from where?” the ticket agent’s drone-like voice replied.

“My name is Chelsey Reynolds. Two weeks. Saturday, July 28, from JFK, please.” Seconds passed, and the operator returned.

“Do you prefer First Class, ma’am?”

“No, that’s not necessary.”

Again the operator went silent, but returned quickly. “Miss Reynolds, you are booked in business class, British Airways Flight #114, departure from JFK, Terminal #7, New York City on Saturday, July 28 at 9:00 p.m., arriving at Heathrow Airport, London, England on Sunday, July 29 at 9:00 a.m. Is this reservation suitable ma’am?”

“It’s perfect! What time should I be at the airport? I’ve never flown before,” laughing at her response she thought how silly she must sound.

“Several hours ma’am, and since the attacks, it’s become very time consuming to pick up your ticket, have you and your baggage checked by security, and board. Once you have your ticket, someone will assist you. Do you wish a return ticket today?”

“No, this is a one-way trip. Thank you,” Chelsey’s heart beat rapidly as she hung up the telephone. Taking a moment to compose herself, she smiled to herself and looked up at Allie. “Now—are we ready to get to work?”

***

About the Author:

William Banks grew up in Texas, went to the Episcopal Day School and [...]]]> Griffin’s Quill enters into the realm of children’s fiction, creating a new posting category, and interviewing modern polymath, William Banks.  Read all about this fascinating author and Ollie, the endearing and adventurous cephalopod.

About the Author:

William Banks grew up in Texas, went to the Episcopal Day School and just knew that he would become a successful author. Grandchild to a printer and painter and child to a musician and radiologist, he wanted to combine the arts and riches. So, he drew comics and designed books and sold them to his classmates. William designed this book when he was 11 years old.

Style Sampling:

Excerpt from Ollie the Octopus:

Find out what happens to Ollie next! Get the book here.

Featured Author Interview:

Griffin’s Quill: As an eleven year old, you wrote, illustrated, printed, and marketed Ollie the Octopus. This is an amazing feat for an adult, much less a fifth grader! I remember the fifth grade. Those memories are not filled with literary creativeness but rather playground escapades. What role did your Grandfather play in generating this adventure? Did you learn to draw from his tutelage, or did your art, at the time, stem solely from grade school art class?

William Banks: I wouldn’t say that I “printed” Ollie as an 11-year old. I did write and illustrate the core story, and then reproduced the whole book 4 more times by hand, as I did not have access to a photocopier. I wanted to make a comic book that I could sell. So, after writing the book five times, I took four of them to school (keeping one for myself – a wise decision I think) and sold all four copies to my classmates. I thought I would have to somehow finagle them into buying the books, but apparently they (my classmates) really liked the books and bought them. I don’t think any of those originals ever survived, but you never know…

My grandfather played a key role in the development and illustration of Ollie’s first great adventure. He worked as a printer for many years, doing typesetting the old-fashioned way – with type blocks and using a printing press. Sometime during his life, he broke his shoulder. To retrain his manual dexterity, he learned how to paint. Whether he taught himself or took a course, I don’t know, but eventually, his style improved to a professional level. During his life he painted hundreds of paintings, some of which can be found in museums all over the northeastern United States, from Maine to Maryland.

I remember spending countless hours in his studio as a child, drawing and painting alongside him. One of my favorite memories of the time we spent painting together was from when I was 6 or 7 years old: we went to a local park in Southbury, Connecticut, where he liked to go draw, paint and think. I still have the painting I made from that day. It was my first watercolor painting where I actually tried to paint what I saw in nature. He loved it and had it on his wall for years. Every time I visited his house, I saw it hanging on the wall where he could see it while he painted his masterpieces. Honestly, I don’t remember my grade school art class at all.

So, when I started Ollie the Octopus when I was eleven, he showed me how to lay out the pictures and make sure that the words were lined up properly on the page, centered at the bottom. He taught me to first draw with a very light graphite pencil, then ink in the drawings with colors. It took me a while to get the hang of it, but with lots of effort, I did it. I have to admit now that felt pen on construction paper was a poor choice for art materials, because it doesn’t “age” well, but then I never thought I’d actually publish my book with a real publisher.

Griffin’s Quill: You have a truly amazing story behind the creation of Ollie. Stories like these are rare and provide others with wondrous inspiration. “Will my child create an everlasting treasure?” the readers will ask. Maybe, but one thing is certain. They will all remember the adventure if it comes not from an art class but from a caring loved one. Kudos to you and your grandfather! You’ve wanted to be an author since early childhood. Did your heart ever wander toward another passion? Did your brain ever try to talk you out of it?

William Banks: Actually, my heart wandered to several passions. That is why I’ve diversified my life so much. I wouldn’t say my brain talked me out of it, rather that it said “writing isn’t enough… do a whole ton of things and fill your day with many things.”

I’ve got many stories to tell about all my life experiences – and believe me, there are many – but as there’s not that much room to talk about them all in an interview, I’ll give you the abstract. Listing all my passions and paths I’ve followed, I’m a writer, self-taught computer technician, archaeologist, anthropologist, forensics specialist, classical linguist (ancient Greek, Latin and Egyptian), actor, trumpet player, clown (like the ones in the circus), storyteller, skater punk, bicycle racer, martial artist (karate, judo, tae-kwon-do and jiu-jitsu), security guard, night-club bouncer, computer salesman, computer game designer, role-player, lawyer, researcher, teacher, opera singer, and now publisher, media specialist, business consultant and web designer… in no particular order.

Griffin’s Quill: You’re right, that’s way too much for an interview – maybe too much for a single biography. I like the title, Biography of a Modern Polymath – Volume One. Until then, let’s talk about Ollie. One of your key selling points is interaction with the book. How can children participate in the story of Ollie the Octopus? What age group do you recommend?

William Banks: Ollie the Octopus has been reconifgured from the original “Felt Pen and Construction Paper” format into a fashionable modern coloring book. Children (of all ages) can enjoy reading about Ollie’s adventures while coloring in the pictures with their own visions as to what Ollie’s home and world look like. On the book page, we’ve posted some of the renditions of Ollie’s adventures as seen through the eyes of Ollie’s readers. We also want parents to scan in their kids’ works and email them to Safkhet (info@safkhetpublishing.com) to be posted on the page as well. We’re also considering the next storybook/activity book and how that story will unfold.

Primarily, Ollie’s adventures are appropriate for children from around 3 years (when they start really drawing) up to 6-7 years old. Of course, it’s fun no matter what age you are.

Griffin’s Quill: My own daughter just turned four. I think a place to showcase her Ollie artwork is a great idea. You just gained a new customer. I’m afraid you beat me to my next question, Will. I’ll ask a qualifying question then. Do you plan on developing a series of children books around Ollie? We think you should. Can we expect any new friends in Ollie’s adventures? A sibling perhaps?

William Banks: I do plan to write more children’s books surrounding Ollie and his adventures, because I think the idea of enhancing the original story behind Ollie is really fantastic. As I have a dual role in Safkhet Publishing (author and publisher – more on that later), I will have to schedule time into my calendar to actually sit down and write a new story. Going back to a previous response, with a dual role, I often find that I am spread very thinly over my different projects. But, my readers should never fear, as there is the possibility of a future Ollie activity book. I am sure that Ollie has friends about the ocean that he can involve in his adventures, but so far (as an 11-year-old), I hadn’t gotten too much farther than Ollie’s mom. Depending on a market analysis, though, I might develop a sibling into the story – maybe you can ask your daughter if she’d like to see a brother or sister in Ollie’s family, and what his/her name might be?

Griffin’s Quill: You are certainly targeting the right audience for your market research. Children are marvelous wonders, and, to take from a great American movie, you never know what you’re going to get. (Thank you, Tom Hanks!) Perhaps children could post their suggestions along with their art work. With the knowledge you may not have started yet, I’ll ask a follow up question. When writing new material, do you feel it will be difficult to reincarnate the child’s perspective you had when you originally wrote Ollie?

William Banks: I don’t think I’ll have that much of a problem getting into the frame of mind of an 11-year-old boy. I like to think that I haven’t quite grown up yet, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. J I am really good with kids, and can relate to them quite well. I have this funny story that goes right along this line: We (Kim and I) were visiting a friend and her son who at the time was 5 years old. While we stood in the kitchen drinking coffee, the boy came over to us and asked his mom if he “could play with the other boy”. When she asked which other boy, he pointed at me. We then went off and played his racing game on the Playstation for the next couple of hours. So, no, I don’t think I’ll have any difficulty relating to a boy’s perspective.

Griffin’s Quill: Ah, what a wonderful little adventure the two of you shared. I imagine you made that boy’s day, and it gave me a chuckle because I would’ve asked the boy the same question. It’s fun to play, and I make it a point to do so as often as possible, perhaps to a fault depending on who in the family you’re asking. Still, your affinity for overly animated and imaginatively arduous youth raises a comparative question. Are you primarily a children’s book author, or are you building a wordier fantasy world?

William Banks: I’m primarily a children’s book author when it comes to trade fiction. For my academic career, I need to write academic books and articles, but it’s not the kind of books I really want to write. I don’t really see myself writing the epic fantasies that you can find in bookstores these days. I’d rather have other people write those books and then publish them (more on that in a different interview), than do it myself.

Maybe the next Ollie book will be a bit longer, but then it will still be an activity book – maybe this time with puzzles, mazes and word games. Who knows? Though on that note, I think it may be difficult not to ostracize some of my readers based on development stage. Maybe if we mixed the activities or had different levels? Well, there goes my brain… coming up with new stuff all the time…

Griffin’s Quill: I think the idea of Ollie evolving into different levels is a great idea.  I can see the youngster, just learning to read and write, falling in love with a fun activity book about an octopus; then I see that youngster growing up and discovering a more mature Ollie toting more advanced puzzles and games.  One day, Ollie might even evolve into a young adult action figure with comic book quality artwork and story development while still bringing the familiar challenging activities reminiscent of younger years.  I think you’re sitting on an educational franchise, though I can’t begin to imagine how much work such an enterprise would entail.  I find that my writing preferences seem to grow and mature as I do, which is not saying much about my writing let me tell ya.  However, today I write about a man forced to take on a new life.  Earlier in my life, my characters were younger, more appropriate to YA.  Now that I have a family, I feel compelled to create a children’s book – after all, I read at least one a night.  Will you always be a stalwart author, helping shape the minds and interests of children, or do you think your writing will evolve to something else as you grow older?  Can you imagine a time when you no longer write?

William Banks: I imagine such an enterprise would require me to be a full-time writer, a position I gladly file right in with all the other things I’m doing. I think, though, that I would need a small team to delegate all the aspects of publication in order to focus on the writing aspect. It’s not rocket science (I’ll leave that to you) but certainly a lot of challenging work to manage all these things simultaneously.

I cannot imagine that I would quit being an author, innovator and publisher of books – and children’s books of course. As I am so much a child at heart, I think I’ll leave the adult writing to my academic life and leave my creative side to writing children’s books.

Griffin’s Quill: Enterprise – be it a small garage start-up, the fantastic space exploring vessel conceived by Gene Roddenbury, or the very real test article of the former Shuttle Program, they all require the actions of a team to be successful.  For what can one man do – without a Tardis?  Until then, we’ll have to settle for cramming what we can into each clank of the clock.  Now, let’s break away from the serious and explore the child within.  What’s the story behind Anglesey Abbey?  Is it just a quirky photo, or does it have a deeper meaning?

William Banks: Kim and I (and Mozart, of course) love to go to places and just walk around, looking at buildings, statues and gardens. We don’t normally go into museums, especially when the weather is great (and usually because the museums don’t allow Mozart). Sometimes, we find a statue that is particularly interesting, funny or just special. Once we found a statue of a sitting dog, representing some politician’s special dog. We had Mozart sit right next to this dog and pose for a picture. She sat so perfectly, it looked like she and the statue dog were carbon copies.

At Anglesey Abbey, a property of the National Trust – a charity dedicated to the preservation of historical properties around the United Kingdom, there is a huge garden with crisscrossing paths, open meadows, beautiful flower arrangements, manicured topiary and statues strewn about. One of these statues depicted a boy with his hunting dogs listening to the sound of the hunter’s horn. We thought it would make a great picture of me also listening for this magical horn, clearly embracing my playful and curious side. One a side thought, I normally think I don’t look good in pictures, but this one is definitely my favorite. I think, in retrospect, we should all be listening for that magical call that leads us to create, innovate and truly live.

Griffin’s Quill: The UK certainly has a great deal of history – and statues, plenty of statues, and squares with fountains and … What’s it been like to transplant yourself from the great state of Texas to the confines of Cambridge?

William Banks: Actually, not as difficult as you would think. I’ve always wanted to live in Europe, ever since I was a child. We visited Germany when I was a teenager, and I fell in love with the country then. Just after I graduated from Law school, my wife and I moved to Germany after a short year on the East Coast. We lived in Germany for 6 years, and then moved to Cambridge so that Kim could go to University there for a master’s degree.

I have to say, though, that the biggest difference between Texas and England for me is that in Texas, everything is big, wide and spread out. Here in England, everything is very “cosy” (read: not much space). Also, where I grew up, it was pretty commonplace to see big cars and trucks. I haven’t (honestly) seen more than one pickup truck in this country. People here are more apt to listen to pop culture music, whereas in Texas, the common form of music heard was Country.

Griffin’s Quill: A very bold and daring move to say the least.  I’m glad it has also been a rewarding one.  As a child, I dreamed of many things.  Some were erroneous, like dreams of driving a tractor trailer (no offense to the truck drivers out there – I just don’t do long distance road trips well).  Some I’ve attained; though they’re colors are duller when viewed through the eyes of reality.  Others were outlandish, mostly stemming from a desire to live out the adventures of Jules Verne – every one, and some I dream today with the same childish vigor.  What dreams have come: to you as child, to fruition, today?

William Banks: Well, for one, I got published, didn’t I? I enjoyed being a storyteller then (although I think my parents thought of my storytelling as escapist behavior). I’ve always wanted to sing professionally, and I’ve done that. I wanted to be the smartest person in my family – I don’t think I can judge that, but I do have the most degrees than anyone in my family – not that THAT is the end-all to education… I also wanted to be an astronaut, but that didn’t happen: I thought I could become an astronaut without joining the military… well, we know how possible that is.

Griffin’s Quill: You’ve been a busy little beaver, Will.  I’m guessing you get some interesting stares at your family reunions.  We share some dreams it appears.  You can probably guess which ones – singing isn’t one of them.  That dream was trampled by anyone around me with one good ear before it had a chance to root.

Being someone who prefers to view the world with a child’s eye, you should have fun with this question.  If your writing had the power to materialize around you, what would you do with it?  Would you alter the world we live in or pen a new one?  What would it look like once the ink ran dry?

William Banks: I’ve actually thought about this question before, but sometimes I think it is a GOOD thing that such is not possible. I’ve had other iterations of the same daydream: what would the world be like if I could cast magic spells like the ones in  Dungeons & Dragons (a pen-and-paper role-playing game), what would I do if there was 24 hours of Amnesty for all my actions, what would I change if I was rich (and I mean Bill Gates rich, not just a measly million dollars), what if this is the world of the Matrix (the movie) and we don’t know it, what if I could really fly (never pay for another airline ticket), what if I could teleport (never late to work again)…

If I could change the world with the flick of a pen, the world would be faster, brighter, cleaner and more technologically advanced than ever before. War would be a thing of the past; someone starts to get rowdy and I’d rewrite his history. I’d pen one where magic is real, dragons and fantasy creatures exist, a person’s dreams can come true, and poverty, hunger, violence and abuse would be only nightmares that no one would have to actually suffer. Cancer? Gone. Drug use? History. Crime? Vanished. Understandably, this may be a brave new world, where the Savage is cultured and the cultured savage (Aldous Huxley) or threaten to be a world of Big Brother (George Orwell), but then, I’d have the power and I’d use it so that THAT doesn’t happen.

Griffin’s Quill: Great answer, Will, with some heavy hitting references to illustrate your point.  Whoever the person was to coin the phrase ‘what if’, they were certainly a storyteller.  I like the part where you’d rewrite a rowdy person’s history.  It put me in mind of Total Recall (the original), but then I think Anakin Skywalker thought in a similar fashion and look what happened to him.  Thankfully, as you point out, our pens hold no direct sway over the world we live in, yet we can hope to leave a lasting impression on our readers, if we’re good.

Our pen’s can’t change reality, but if they could transport us to a new one, what destination would you set?  Would you chose to write in a past age or the next?

William Banks: I think that if we could go to a new reality on the spin of an ink nib, I’d set the destination to a medieval high-magic fantasy setting. It’s my favorite destination when I dream. I’ve loved it since I was 7 years old, when I first started role-playing back in 1979. I’ve also been an avid fan of history, so I’d stay with that. It also fits in with my ideas of how the world should work.

Griffin’s Quill: You started tossing dice and fudging character attributes a bit earlier than me, Will, but I wasn’t far behind.  I too love the old tabletop RPG.  Sometimes I think our dreams can be so cruel to give us a glimpse into a fantastic world only to snatch it away at the sound of a buzzer, but I wouldn’t give them up either.  As a history buff you should enjoy this next question, provided you know your movie history.  If you were the Time Traveler in the 1960 movie adaptation of “The Time Machine”, by H. G. Wells, what three books would you carry with you into the future?

William Banks: Well, admittedly I like the more sci-fi/techno version of The Time Machine from 2004 adapted from the original in 1960, which follows the book – essentially written as if the author IS the Time Traveller himself. I like Guy Pearce as an actor and think that Jeremy Irons makes a fantastic arch-villain. But, were I to be the Time Traveller, I’d take a copy of the Gutenberg Bible (just in case there isn’t a copy anymore – artifacts like the first mass-printed book need to be preserved), The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury (which, no matter how many times I read it, I always enjoy again and again), and (provided I can also bring a full box of pencils) a 1000-page book chock-full of empty pages — so I can write my own chronicles.

“Stuff your eyes with wonder . . . live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.” — Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Griffin’s Quill: Great choices, Will, although now I’m curious whether the Gutenberg Bible would get read or preserved.  I’ll leave the answer for the reader to ponder.  The Martian Chronicles is one I will have to check out.  A blank book, especially one with a 1,000 pages, is a wise (and fairly common) choice, though I must advise you consider a pen with a box of ink refills over a box of pencils.  Who knows what amazing adventures you might capture, or who you might share them with, for such is the blessing of an author.  With our blank books, we can all be the Traveler and journey across more barriers than just time.

I’ve enjoyed our time together, Will.  You’ve provided us with a delightful story of a child’s dreams, given us hope those dreams are attainable, and inspired us to soar toward new horizons.  I’ll just say thanks, now, and leave you to share your final thoughts with the readers.

William Banks: I’m not as concerned with whether that bible would be read as much by other people… I think having a really historical book that I could treasure and enjoy relating to other people (really great stories in there). I know that you’ve probably heard the “I’d take a blank book” routine before, but the advantage of a blank book is that not only can you write with in, but you can also draw in it. Furthermore, pencils I think are better because, if you run out of ink, your pen is useless. If you run out of pencils, you can use coal, graphite, chalk… there are plenty of minerals out there that are similar to mark paper.

Never lose your inner child. It’s one thing to take responsibility for your actions, and a totally different thing to grow up and forget what it’s like to be a kid.

Thank you, Ryan, for the interview. All the best.

Griffin’s Quill: Thank you for being such a great guest, an awesome publisher, and an all around good guy who we secretly implanted in the UK in a plot to understand their version of English.  Don’t forget to report back once in awhile.

William Banks’ Links:

William Banks’ publisher

William Banks’ Blog

Mailfus lay on the bare stone floor, curled into a tight ball. His eyes were screwed shut, spittle drooled from his mouth. A continuous moan filled the small cell, as he strove to free himself of the nightmares crowding his mind.

A former hire man, he’d reveled in intrigue and assassination, [...]]]>  

Mailfus lay on the bare stone floor, curled into a tight ball. His eyes were screwed shut, spittle drooled from his mouth. A continuous moan filled the small cell, as he strove to free himself of the nightmares crowding his mind.

A former hire man, he’d reveled in intrigue and assassination, all paid for by his patron Lord Weavergold. But his last kill had proved his undoing and he’d succumbed to the memory disease. His past plagued and tormented him, replaying his past cruelties in vivid detail, causing his conscience to remind him day and night of his evil deeds.

He’d sought fresh memories to cleanse his mind and free his psyche, but the Memory Smith had tricked him, proffering a dose of what Mailfus now knew to be Memorius Catastrophe, a potion that enhanced his existing memories even more. It had literally driven him out of his senses and he’d been brought here to the town’s asylum, condemned to spend his days in darkness and filth.

Silas Idlefort, the Memory Smith and father of Mailfus’ last victim, was to blame.  Mailfus’ clouded eyes flicked open. He stared into the darkness, remembering the warrior maiden’s beauty – a beauty he had destroyed with his ever-ready blade, slitting her nose, notching her ears and leaving her destroyed corpse for the crows. Somehow her father had discovered who her killer was and taken his revenge.

Mercy had been offered in the form of a potion, left at the asylum gates by a “well wisher.” Mailfus stared at the tiny bottle. It was filled with a green slime – poison – a release from the hell he now dwelt in.  The guards would not care. One less mad man to watch.

He snatched the bottle up, tore the cork free with his teeth, then swallowed the contents in one gulp. It burned through him. contorting his skinny body into a knot of agony. He felt the warm release of urine from his bladder, adding to the stench that already filled the cell. Rage coursed through him and his hands clenched, the overlong nails digging into his palms. An unholy strength brought him to his feet. He staggered towards the window, seized hold of the bars and screamed out his anguish.

The bars bent and twisted beneath his insane grip. A smile of triumph stretched his dry lips, causing them to crack and bleed. He didn’t notice as he wrenched the bars free. Breath rasping in his throat, he clambered through the narrow opening, determined to seek out the Memory Smith.

Mailfus ghosted through the castle, unseen, unnoticed, until he reached the portcullis. He ran across the drawbridge, expecting an arrow in the back, but gained the town unscathed. People parted before him, as he continued at a staggering run towards the street of artificers. He would not stop, would not rest until he’d killed the Memory Smith and regained his sanity.

*

In his gloomy shop, Silas Idlefort gazed deep into the scrying crystal. Colours swirled within its glassy depths. He watched them for a second longer, then leaned back in his seat.

‘It’s worked,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘The potion has imbued him with the strength to escape and cloaked him from the eyes of those around him.’

A dark figure stood at the back of the room, silent and watchful.

Silas stroked his grey beard. ‘You were right, mortal imprisonment is not enough. One day death will release him from his bondage, he should not have even a glimmer of hope.’

The Memory Smith looked down at his thin, blue veined hands, stained by the various potions that were his stock in trade. A finger touched a bottle standing on the counter. It held the dregs of a black liquid that writhed into separate drops, then congealed back into a viscous whole.

The presence at the back of the shop let out a breath that filled the room with coldness. It raised an arm and light glinted off the sword it held. Again Silas glanced over his shoulder.

‘I did my best to avenge you, but it was not enough.’

Not enough.

The words echoed in Silas’s brain. He bowed his head, staring at the bottle. Aqua de mort or essence of death. It brought back those who had crossed over the border into the dark land. Behind him the sword blade rose and fell. The Memory Smith’s head rolled free of his neck and thudded to the floor. His eyes, fixed on the smoke-stained ceiling, held a far away look.

*

The figure stepped back and waited. Its breath hissed from between its decaying lips, as it watched the shop door. The bell above it jingled. Mailfus staggered in.

‘Idlefort, where are you!’

He glared around, then his gaze came to rest on the Memory Smith’s decapitated head. He started to stoop over it, but stopped when a figure moved into the light. He looked up into the face with its eyeless sockets and split nose. Its thinning hair was tucked behind ears that had been notched. The armour, in which the decaying body was clad, was pitted by rust.

He didn’t even have time to scream. The sword rose and fell and Mailfus too crossed into the dark lands and what lay waiting for him there.

There still seems to be a certain kind of snobbery about self-publishing, or maybe a kind of jealousy surrounding writers who’ve taken this route. Granted some e books are appallingly written, which would indicate their authors are motivated by the prospects of making money and or gaining fame, so consequently sell [...]]]>

There still seems to be a certain kind of snobbery about self-publishing, or maybe a kind of jealousy surrounding writers who’ve taken this route. Granted some e books are appallingly written, which would indicate their authors are motivated by the prospects of making money and or gaining fame, so consequently sell the readers short by publishing utter and complete rubbish. Alternatively they’re so self-deluded they think they’re a literary genius and anything they write is bound to be snapped up.

That said, some really good writers, nay even excellent writers, are now emerging through the medium of self publishing. These are authors committed to giving their readers stories they can really get to grips with. Some nay-sayers accuse these writers of being deluded and “crap” at what they do, even when it’s self-evident this isn’t the case. Why the negativity? This brings me back to jealousy. Are these people the aforementioned self-deluded, who cannot bear to see their own work up against quality writing? Whatever the answer, self-publishing is on the up and up. Readers are not fools and will soon sort the wheat from the chaff. And has been proven, it’s perfectly possible to become a successful self-published writer and even travel the road from e book to mainstream publishing.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2012/feb/08/self-published-author-amazon-ebook

With you I found the sweetest peace
Anyone could ever hope to find,
You touched the deepest part of me
I will never erase you from my mind.

Our hearts were joined from the very start
The longing wish to never part,
For with [...]]]>

With you I found the sweetest peace
Anyone could ever hope to find,
You touched the deepest part of me
I will never erase you from my mind.

© 2010 Gretchen Steen

What’s your writing style? Fast paced, adventure? Gory horror, with long, slow terrifying plot lines, or just mayhem and murder? Does your writing reflect an in depth story, or light and frothy?

I like all kinds of writing styles, from chick lit to murder mysteries. Changing points of view [...]]]>

What’s your writing style? Fast paced, adventure? Gory horror, with long, slow terrifying plot lines, or just mayhem and murder? Does your writing reflect an in depth story, or light and frothy?

I like all kinds of writing styles, from chick lit to murder mysteries. Changing points of view don’t bother me, as long as it’s done well. First person, third person, if they’re done well then all are welcome as far as I’m concerned.

My own style is fast paced. I like colour, movement, sparky dialogue and lots and lots of action. I try to be lyrical both with my dialogue and narrative, which can lead me down the thorny road of adverbs and adjectives – but I’m getting better – honest. I also like to give my characters a hard time, so that by the time they reach their ultimate goal the reader can congragulate them and heave a sigh of relief on their behalf.

So what’s your style? Are you a romanticist, a poet or a mystic weaver of tales? Do you live and breathe the stories you create? Have you taken the time to develop a style? If not, why not?

Explore what kind of writer you are and what kind of writer you want to become, are they the same thing? When I embarked on my writing degree, I was certain I had a style and that I knew what I wanted to write; boy was I wrong. By the time I graduated my style had changed beyond recognition. It’s far from being perfect, but I believe I’m getting there.

Stylish – maybe. A writer – definitely.

Aracelis gasped by the strength, “not so hard Karen,” Aracelis said, trying to free herself from the grip.

However, Karen was stock still; eyes opened wide, staring into space. [...]]]> Aracelis looked up, the ring on Karen’s finger opened and Map came flying out, eager to be released. However, Karen’s grip on Aracelis tightened, squeezing tightly.

Aracelis gasped by the strength, “not so hard Karen,” Aracelis said, trying to free herself from the grip.

However, Karen was stock still; eyes opened wide, staring into space. And when the other two girls touched Karen, they could hear the voice…

Karen sagged down, a few inches, not falling, because the three girls were supporting her, “what happened?” Karen asked in a whisper, “my whole body is tingling.” The other three had concerned looks on their faces. Karen found her strength and stood up, a little woozy. She made eye contact with the three sisters, who were smiling and nodding.

Karen released her grip on Aracelis.  Karen raised both hands to look closer at them, starting to look closer. Her hand looked normal but, was…

She flexed her fingers and an odd thing happened; a mixture of rainbows and ruby reds were spreading over her fingers, on to the palm, wrist and forearm, past the elbow and migrating under her clothing, spreading over her whole body, “WOW…” Karen said, taking a deep breath, shaking her hands—as one does to shake off excessive water. The episode happened so quickly but Karen felt no pain. She could flex her fingers, just fine. Her body stopped tingling and felt normal, yet, a feeling of wearing a skin tight wet suit, she detected: it was pliable, molding to the contours of her body, she twisted and turned; had full body movement.  She looked to the others with a look, “what just happened?”

    The colors stayed, she felt light and energized. This second skin was prominent, shining brightly, she moved one finger, and with a gentle touch, tracing the odd colors that were on her arm, with a tentative grace. She pushed into her arm and the thin material had some give, and, when she backed off, her skin reformed. She began to inspect her body, it was everywhere. A hard shell she could feel but…

Karen examined her hands, shook her head and smiled. She giggled when the others looked closer, “That voice—that…spoke to you…” Aracelis started to say and stopped, looking from Karen to her sisters, “…the ancient ones.”

Karen continued giggling, a serious express broke out for a mere second, “strange voice, but I…I—understood every word,” Karen said in a whisper, “it said to wear this proudly. It will cause no harm and protect my skin without harm,” and she started giggling again.  SWEET…those gems in my hair just made me body armor, but why? Oh oh, that means there are some nasty… she stopped in mid thought, eye brows raising, looking for the sisters in alarm.

“Let’s test it out,” Aracelis said, “Map get some snow, let’s see if this thing works!”

“But this thing is going to protect me, RIGHT…!”  Karen glanced from her hand, back to the sisters and back again, making eye contact with Aracelis and Aglo, “…from what?”  She added in a near hysterical voice, eyes searching and hoping this was all a joke

Map stopped giggling and was off like a shot—a blur of movement—and was back, seconds later, with a bundle of snow in both hands, juggling it from hand to hand.

“Map, why are you doing that? Is the snow that cold?” Karen asked, watching Map do a little dance.

Map looked at Karen, winked, and plopped the snow into Karen’s hands; she could feel the sizzling heat as it touched her hands—like dropping bacon into a hot skillet—the snow oozing and spreading.

Wait—one second… this is not right. She thought.

Her hands remained cool; the snow, however, flowed as rivulets of motion, spreading down, coating her hands and the colors changing to slivers of diamonds, a mishmash blend of transparency, glistening prominently on a translucent wave of beauty. Karen was surprised; the snow was not cold, not burning with freezing, but warm.

“Hey, this…” Karen started to say, but stopped, performing the same dance Map had been doing; juggling the snow from hand to hand, because the snow was radiating off heat! Karen looked to Aracelis for an answer.

She dropped the snow and watched it float away. A strange expression on Karen’s face and the others started to guff.

“Ah it does work, what did you feel? Aracelis asked, clearing her throat. “Remember Karen—things are opposite here. Warm things are cold and cold things are hot! Just like the water and land.”

Karen blinked and looked at her hands, no damage. The armor thing that was protecting her hand felt warm but not burning. She raised her hands, out of an odd habit, and smelled them; a hot, dustiness, filtered into her mouth and she could feel the heat warm her breath. She held them to her nose and, in seconds, the heat dissipated. She inspected her hands again, flexing her fingers, “it was warm, and I could feel the intense heat, but, no burns see.” She held her hands out for the others to see and continued, “and the oddest thing, too. The voices returned and told me all is fine and not freak out, go figure.” Karen replied with a nervous chuckle.

The horrid nightmares
Some dreams do become,
Of unreal situations
Which leave us on the brink.

Falling from a cliff
Onto the jagged [...]]]> What makes us dream?
More vivid scenes than reality…
Why can we not remember
Upon waking from a fitful sleep.

© 2009 Gretchen Steen

It began as TD #9; it was the peak of the season. [...]]]> This piece is one that was submitted for the Alliance of Worldbuilders Anthology, which is still ‘in the works’. This is a true story. The image is from the NOAA - National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The white ‘x’ is home.

It began as TD #9; it was the peak of the season. Across the Atlantic Ocean, where would it go? We watched and we waited as it marched westward, it grew by the hour as it set its aim.

A little more than a week since its inevitable birth, it was now a tropical storm bearing down on the Caribbean. Nowhere to run as the storm approached, and no longer a tropical storm, it had grown to a hurricane, we called it “Ivan the Terrible”.

It passed the islands leaving a path of destruction, Jamaica, Dominican Republic, Haiti and Cuba unfortunately fared no better. It was a monster on the loose, an unforgiving menace and growing.

It had increased in size and its strength was horrific. It skirted the Florida Keys and made a quick turn. Into the Gulf of Mexico it marched. The radar was unbelievable. The storm was 400 miles wide, winds over 150 mph, a Category 5.

We watched and waited as it churned northward. We boarded the windows and packed our vehicles, turned off the gas and covered everything inside with heavy plastic, and fled our home that may not last. We traveled 900 miles to escape the wrath of this monster headed toward our door.

We evacuated as we were told, in an exodus of only northbound traffic, reaching Memphis hours before landfall. We got a room and watched in horror, continuing news coverage as the bands overtook the Emerald Coast.

Finally, in the middle of the night, the evil eye was in sight. It came ashore just west of home, the worst it could be. The storm moved inland quickly but its demise was not imminent. Moving northward the winds and rain continued to wreak havoc over the land.

We watched the horrendous news over and over again, two days passed and we headed home. We had travelled all the way to Memphis, Tennessee and off to our east, we could see the remnants as the storm pressed northward through Alabama. The caravans of help coming from the north drove alongside us, already making their trip. Hundreds of miles from our destination, the traffic going south began to crawl.

There was no news, just static to our ears. Was there anything left or had it disappeared? I rolled down the windows as I drove. The silence was eerie as I crept along. Debris littered the Interstate, the forests were bare…all GONE!

The smell of pine from the broken trees filled my head and made me see what Mother Nature was capable of. My heart sank as I thought of home. Would it be there or would it be gone?

As I approached the city, the traffic lights were ripped from their moorings, not lying by the roadside, they had just disappeared. Miles of power lines torn away, buildings ceased to exist, everything blown down in a strange pattern, laid to waste from east to west.

I turned down my street and avoided downed trees; a narrow path had been cut through the debris. Slowly I continued. I had to see what remained. Uprooted trees greeted my headlights and ghostly silence filled my ears.

The house still stood as we had left it, the roof was intact. The fence was gone and so were the trees. All pulled up and turned over, I could only see the massive roots towering above me. I pulled in the driveway and breathed a sigh of relief. We were lucky, or were we?

Daylight would bring the horrible truth, what we couldn’t see in the blackness of night. A tornado had spun through our yard during the storm and left its ugly path. Trees twisted and some completely gone. No water, no power and all the food spoiled.

Weeks would pass as we survived, in this nightmarish condition. We sat in gas lines for limited fuel, patrolled by armed military guards. Don’t butt in line, or you’d be staring down the barrel of a well-aimed gun. Food and ice lines we sat in for hours and miles. Each day we’d wait for two bags of ice per car and a box of MRE’s.

The community baseball fields served as refuse deposits. Caravans of trucks, all shapes and sizes would fill with debris and dump in this central location. It held four baseball diamonds and two football fields, plus vendor and spectator accommodations. This whole area was piled four-stories high, and they still needed more space.

We finally regained service, water, electric, and telephone the end of October.

It was a nightmare that I will NEVER forget. Hurricane seasons come, and every year we wait. I never gave it much thought until September 16, 2004, when “Ivan the Terrible” came to town and showed us all who was boss.

~~~~~

Hurricane Ivan made landfall just west of Gulf Shores, Alabama at approximately 2:45 am EDT on September 16, 2004, with maximum sustained winds of 130 mph. Gulf Shores, Alabama is 45 miles southwest of Pensacola, Florida where I lived at the time. The worst area of a land-falling hurricane is the northeast quadrant, which went directly over Pensacola.

I spent most of my life in the Northeast. I didn’t give hurricanes a second thought. We had frigid cold, blinding snowstorms, crippling ice storms and the dreaded “Nor’easters”.

For a long time now, even before Ivan, I had a deep respect for the weather … an uncontrollable force that reminds us of who really is in charge!

© 2009 Gretchen Steen