As an up-and-coming writer, I have only a little work to show in the short story department at this point. One is published in an anthology, Beneath the Twin Suns, which is available in eBook and paperback on amazon. "The Thief and the Sorcerer's Jewel," is a brief tale set in a Bronze Age world that is not our own.
I am creating a series of short stories set in Haral, the same world as my upcoming novel. The following is an excerpt from a tale of Ninshuel:
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Witches, they call us. They fear our magic almost as much as death. Almost, but not quite. Our teas and liquors and balms save their lives and so they call on us.
Our cures sometimes cause pain. Sometimes they fail. Death is not easily defeated and the healer is blamed as much as praised. But these are not the only reasons they fear and loathe us.
Most of all they shudder at the thought of being under a curse, of seeing demons in their dreams, of having their crops wilt and wombs shrivel. Where does our spellcraft come from? Will calling on our powers anger the gods?
But we did not ask for these powers and we venerate the goddesses and gods with them. Our own wombs have shriveled and none of us bear children. It is our private doom but even that adds wood to the fires of their trepidation.
I am creating a series of short stories set in Haral, the same world as my upcoming novel. The following is an excerpt from a tale of Ninshuel:
# # # # # # #
Witches, they call us. They fear our magic almost as much as death. Almost, but not quite. Our teas and liquors and balms save their lives and so they call on us.
Our cures sometimes cause pain. Sometimes they fail. Death is not easily defeated and the healer is blamed as much as praised. But these are not the only reasons they fear and loathe us.
Most of all they shudder at the thought of being under a curse, of seeing demons in their dreams, of having their crops wilt and wombs shrivel. Where does our spellcraft come from? Will calling on our powers anger the gods?
But we did not ask for these powers and we venerate the goddesses and gods with them. Our own wombs have shriveled and none of us bear children. It is our private doom but even that adds wood to the fires of their trepidation.
