Tag Archives: Speculative Fiction

The Coronation Tour

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Secret History Thriller, Historical Fantasy, Supernatural Thriller,
Speculative Fiction.

Date Published: 28/01/2019

Publisher: Matador

 

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It is 1761. Prussia is at war with Russia and Austria.

As the Russian army occupies East Prussia, King Frederick the Great and his
men fight hard to win back their homeland.

In Ludwigshain, a Junker estate in East Prussia, Countess Marion von Adler
celebrates an exceptional harvest. But it is requisitioned by Russian
troops. When Marion tries to stop them, a Russian captain strikes her. His
lieutenant, Ian Fermor, defends Marion’s honour and is stabbed for his
insubordination. Abandoned by the Russians, Fermor becomes a divisive figure
on the estate.

Close to death, Fermor dreams of the Adler, a numinous eagle entity, whose
territory extends across the lands of Northern Europe and which is
mysteriously connected to the Enlightenment. What happens next will change
of the course of human history…

The Coronation tablet

 EXCERPT

This is an excerpt from The Coronation by Justin Newland. 

It’s the closing scene of Chapter 2, The Fear of Famine. 

It’s from the point of view of Marion Grafin (or Countess) von Adler and takes place in her home in Schloss (or Castle) Ludwigshain.

 

She found the officer in charge, a middle-aged, thickset man, with hair sprouting from his eyebrows, and his hands. “What are they doing?” she demanded. “Where are you going with all that food?”

Smart in his uniform, as well as his attitude, the officer replied, “The Russian Army needs transport and supplies. They are mine to requisition.”

“Not again,” she complained. “Two years ago, the Russian Imperial Army barracked an entire regiment on my estate and we’ve barely recovered.” 

“I know nothing about that,” the officer said. 

“You can tell your men to stop.” 

“I will not,” the officer said flatly.

She tried a personal approach and asked, “Who do I have the honour of addressing?”

“Captain Stepan Gurieli of the Guzinskiy Hussars at your service,” he said, clicking the heels of his boots. 

As she watched the Georgian soldiers load sacks of potatoes, wheat, corn and carrots onto the carts, Marion had an awful, sinking feeling. This was terrible. Without food, her people, her estate, could all crumble into dust. She tried again. 

 “This is the last day of the harvest. If you take everything, my people won’t survive the winter.”

“This is for the victorious Russian Army,” Gurieli said with a snarl. 

“Famine gnaws at the soul,” she pleaded with him. “At least leave us something!”

“These are my orders,” the captain snapped back. “If you don’t like them, take up the matter with the Governor General of Königsberg, or better still, Elizabeth Petrovna, Empress of all Russia.”

She kept her own counsel on that one. 

A younger officer – a lieutenant – joined them. He was the one Konstantin had been berating. He had a slight build and rounded shoulders. Marion particularly noticed his gleaming emerald-green eyes and, protruding from beneath his cap, strands of curly red hair. 

“Your report, Lieutenant Fermor,” the captain said. 

“The men have gathered everything they can,” the lieutenant replied.

“Good, then prepare the column to leave,” Gurieli said. He bestowed on Marion a smug grin and strode towards his dapple-grey horse. 

The monster was going to steal her people’s harvest. There was so little time to save her people. She had to stop him. She darted in front of him, arms outstretched, blocking his way. 

Mouth agape, the captain stepped back, evidently as surprised as she was by her impetuous action. 

“Get out of my way – or suffer the consequences.” 

Breathing hard, her heart pumping, she glared at him. “Please. Don’t steal our harvest!” 

The captain leaned forward and barked, “Don’t prevent me from following my orders!” 

She chose her next words carefully. “This is cruel, vindictive and contrary to the teachings of Our Lord!”

“Bah!” he scoffed. “I don’t care. The Lutheran Church is full of heretics anyway.” 

Silence gripped her round the throat. Fear bared its claws.

“What about the little ones?” she pleaded. “Don’t you have children, Captain Gurieli? Leave something for them, I beg you.” 

“Blame it on that odious King Frederick of yours,” the captain replied, tapping his riding whip against his thigh. “Because of his hubris, my countrymen – and yours – die horribly on the battlefield. I’ve seen hundreds lose their limbs. A whole generation is amputated. So many fatherless families. Don’t preach to me about children. Be thankful I’m leaving you your lives!” 

“I will not let you leave my people to starve!” Every word was like a peal of thunder.

“Get out of my way, you whore!” the captain hissed. 

Hans rushed forward, shouting, “How dare you address my mother like that!” 

“Who is this suckling babe?” Gurieli laid on the scorn.

“I’m not a child, I’m a man,” Hans snapped. 

What happened next seemed to do so in slow motion.

The glint of a blade in the sunlight. Hans’ overhead thrust parried by Gurieli. The dagger falling from her son’s hand spiralling through the air. Gurieli knocking the boy to the ground and plunging his foot on his chest, then lifting his riding whip above his head. 

She flung herself into the trajectory of the whip. 

It ripped her cheek and stung her with a shooting pain the like of which she had never experienced. Her knees trembled. With the sheer force of will, she urged herself not to move, nor wipe away the blood trickling down her cheek. 

Otto and the young lieutenant rushed towards the captain. 

“Stop right there!” One fiery glance endorsed her command. 

Defiant like a granite mountain before a storm, she stared into the captain’s eyes.

“Move out of my way, or I’ll have to…” Gurieli said.

The captain raised his whip hand and she winced, expecting another strike. A moment passed. Nothing happened. She opened her eyes. The captain and the young lieutenant were grappling and grunting like a couple of great bears. Hans got up from the ground and she flung a protective arm around him. The lieutenant twisted Gurieli’s hand, forcing him to drop the whip. 

Gurieli pulled away, shouting, “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” 

“You struck a lady! Call yourself an Imperial Russian officer? You’ve dishonoured the regiment!” the lieutenant replied. 

“This is the foreigner’s true colour!” the captain stoked the flames. “White – like the flag of surrender! You’d have our great mother country bow the knee to Prussians!”

 The lieutenant unsheathed his sabre and slashed it against the side of the captain’s head, severing his left ear in one swift, clean blow. The ear landed in the summer dust. Blood oozed down the captain’s neck, turning his crisp white uniform a sanguine shade of scarlet. The captain stroked the wound, examined the blood on his hand and licked it. His face transformed into one of unadulterated fury. 

“You’ve done it now, little Lieutenant,” Gurieli snarled. “You are under my command. Your precious uncle isn’t here to cosset you.” 

The cut on her cheek seared right through her. Waves of pain beat against her legs. She felt dizzy and leaned against Hans. 

The lieutenant took a step back and bowed his head. He seemed to have realised the gravity of his action. In a grovelling tone, he said, “I-I’m sorry, Captain.” 

“You will be. Here, bite on this!” The captain pulled out his sabre and drove at the lieutenant, who tried to parry the thrust, but Gurieli ran the lieutenant through the side. She cringed at the squishing sound of the sword piercing his flesh. Gurieli withdrew the sabre and blood spurted in an arc, colouring the sandy ground in a hot crimson stream. 

The lieutenant slumped to his knees, clutching his side, blood squelching through his fingers. The captain walked round him, planted a boot on the lieutenant’s back and kicked him to the ground, face first.

No one moved. Everyone was in shock. 

The lieutenant lay in a pool of blood oozing into the yellow sand, as flies descended on the banquet. Nearby, the captain’s horse, feeling the ambient tension, deposited a large volume of stinking excrement onto the forecourt.

“There, Gräfin.” The captain’s voice ascended the heights of mockery. “There’s food for your people. From the horse’s arse!”

Marion clung onto Hans’ arm, to prevent him from going back into the fray and stop herself falling over in a heap.

The adjutant stumbled over to where the lieutenant lay stricken on the ground, his life oozing out onto the gravel. 

The captain barked at him, “Leave him!”

“He’ll die, Captain Gurieli,” the adjutant replied. 

“He struck a superior officer, an offence that bears a grave punishment. Do you want to suffer the same fate?”

The adjutant frowned and shook his head. 

“Then pick that up!” Gurieli pointed to his bloody ear. 

“Yes, Captain,” the adjutant murmured.

“And that.” Gurieli pointed to his whip. “Now let’s leave this accursed place.”

Gurieli led the column off – taking with them most of their horses, carts and wagons carrying the bulk of the estate’s winter food supplies. They left behind fear of famine, a pile of steaming horse shit and a mortally wounded Russian officer. 

Once she made sure Hans was unhurt, Marion acted quickly. “Find the doctor. This wound needs cauterising. Bring the lieutenant inside.” 

Otto picked him up by the armpits while Konstantin grabbed the boy’s feet. They hauled him as far as the entrance of the Schloss, where a barrel of a man with a face pitted like the full moon, stood on the steps. Few survived the smallpox, but he had. Arms folded, he blocked their way.

“Alexander,” she said to him, “let them pass.” 

The huntsman ignored her and lanced the boil of his opinion. Pointing to the stricken lieutenant, he snarled, “Him, he’s Russian scum. They raped our women and our land. They left him here to die. If it were me, I’d do the same.”

“We’re trying to save his life,” she replied. 

“What life? He’s not worth it. His soldiers stole our food and our peace of mind. What we gonna feed him on? Berries? Grass? Nah. I see real life in the woods. The beasts of the forest knows the way of things. They’d leave him to die. Not thee, though, Your Excellency. You wanna feed our enemy with food we ain’t even got!”

She glared at him like a Prussian Medusa, willing him to turn to stone under her gaze. “Listen to me! That man doesn’t even know who I am, yet was prepared to lay down his life for me and my son. What more can you ask of a friend, so how can he be an enemy? Now move!” 

While the huntsman beat a calculated retreat, she knew it was a temporary respite. The fear of famine crawled into people’s lives like vermin and was as equally hard to remove. 

 

 About the Author

Justin Newland

Justin Newland is an author of historical fantasy and secret history
thrillers – that’s history with a supernatural twist. His
historical novels feature known events and real people from the past, which
are re-told and examined through the lens of the supernatural.

His novels speculate on the human condition and explore the fundamental
questions of our existence. As a species, as Homo sapiens sapiens –
that’s man the twice-wise – how are we doing so far? Where is
mankind’s spiritual home? What does it look or feel like? Would we
recognise it if we saw it?

Undeterred by the award of a Doctorate in Mathematics from Imperial
College, London, he found his way to the creative keyboard and conceived his
debut novel, The Genes of Isis (Matador, 2018), an epic fantasy set under
Ancient Egyptian skies.

Next came the supernatural thriller, The Old Dragon’s Head (Matador,
2018), set in Ming Dynasty China.

His third novel, The Coronation (Matador, 2019), speculates on the genesis
of the most important event of the modern world – the Industrial
Revolution.

His fourth, The Abdication (Matador, 2021), is a supernatural thriller in
which a young woman confronts her faith in a higher purpose and what it
means to abdicate that faith.

His stories add a touch of the supernatural to history and deal with the
themes of war, religion, evolution and the human’s place in the
universe.

He was born three days before the end of 1953 and lives with his partner in
plain sight of the Mendip Hills in Somerset, England.

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Twitter: @Matador

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Souls Blitz

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Speculative Fiction
(Fantasy, Science Fiction, and Horror mix)
Date Published: August 4, 2020
Publisher: Mictlan Press
 
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There’s magic and mystery around every corner, if you know where to
look…
This collection of eleven short stories from fantasy and science fiction
author Terri Bruce explores the hidden corners of our world. Blending
fantasy, horror, magical realism, and folklore, these tales will delight,
mystify, and unsettle. Unicorns roam the New Hampshire countryside disguised
as a biker gang. Portals to other worlds hide on commuter train platforms.
And be careful of what really lurks at the bottom of those quaint wishing
wells that dot the countryside. Strip away the veneer of everyday life and
dare to see what lies just below the surface.
 
About the Author

TERRI BRUCE is the author of the paranormal / contemporary fantasy
Afterlife series, and her short stories have appeared in a variety of
anthologies and magazines. She produces hard-to-classify fantasy and science
fiction stories that explore the supernatural side of everyday things from
beautiful Downeast Maine where she lives with her husband and various
cats.
 
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Available from all major book retailers, including all international Amazon
stores.
 
 

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Do the Dead Dream? – Blitz

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Speculative Fiction
An Anthology of the Weird and the Peculiar
Published: October 2017
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Do the dead dream?
Dive a wreck that was never there, in the waters off Bimini . . .
Meet a young girl who debates with rooftop monsters . . .
Dine at a tiny café teetering on the edge of oblivion . . .
Take refuge from a downpour in a gas station from nowhere . . .
Discover the real reason behind migraines . . .
Encounter a love gone bad before it ever existed . . .
Explore the emotional remains of a woman’s not-quite-dead past . . .
Follow a WWII airman plummeting through flak-filled German skies . . .
Edgy.
Unnerving.
Not quite right.
These are but a few of the surreal, the weird, and the peculiar you will encounter in a realm few willingly tread…with or without the lights on.
Early Reviews
“F. P. Dorchak writes like a hot-rodder heading toward a brick wall. Edge of your seat entertainment! I pondered over each of these stories long after I’d finished reading them. That’s what great writing is all about!” – Dean Wyant, Co-Founder, Hex Publishers
 
 
“A collection that folds upon itself like a Möbius strip. A twisted landscape of the humane, the weird, and the fantastic.” – Mario Acevedo, Author, University of Doom
 
 
“Stylistically edgy and willing to muck around in the darker corners of life, the stories in Do The Dead Dream? are both bold and gritty. Readers looking to be soothed and reassured about the human condition, seek elsewhere.” – Mark Stevens, The Allison Coil Mystery Series
 
 
“F. P. Dorchak’s anthology—a collection of forty-five short stories—spans decades and showcases the author’s wide-ranging talent. With tales that are at turns engaging, suspenseful, twisty and often slyly humorous, Dorchak focuses his penetrating gaze on those things we too often take for granted—and makes us laugh or shiver in the doing. Reading Do the Dead Dream? takes you across a threshold into a Kafkaesque world where anything can happen; if Rod Serling were still on Planet Earth, he would be the first to offer his voice for the audio version.” – Barbara Nickless, The Sydney Parnell Mystery Series
 
 
“So reminiscent of the Twilight Zone! Imagine a story between light and shadow, between science fiction and superstition, between what you know about horror, and what horrors one can only imagine. Gritty and beautifully crafted, Do the Dead Dream? is the sort of collection readers will enjoy story after story.” – J.A. Kazimer, Author of CURSES!
 
 
“From the surreal to the all too real, F. P. Dorchak’s stories delve into the realms of the mind, otherworldly beings, loves lost, and the fickle nature of death. With a little bit of everything, this collection of stories will haunt readers long after they’ve closed the book.” – Shannon Lawrence, Short Story Author, Blogger, The Warrior Muse
 
 
“Do The Dead Dream? is a masterpiece. F. P. Dorchak effortlessly weaves the real and surreal into twisting, epically personal stories. “Etched In Stone” and “Tail Gunner” challenge what we know as real and yet are completely human tales of love, loss, and camaraderie with incredible resonance. This is a collection of the highest order from a supremely talented author.” – Kevin Ikenberry, The Protocol War Series
 
 
“F. P. Dorchak’s short stories take a look at the world in an inside-out, rarely visited way. These are neither happily-ever-after tales nor ghost stories solely meant to creep you out. They are worlds that can be deliciously understated like dreams of dreams, as enigmatic as time warps, and as unexpected as falling in all directions at once. We meet werewolves and undead and people whose past lives bleed through. These tales are nostalgia-meets-a-future with nighttime borders that hint something is not quite right, each one putting the reader in a graying state between sleep and wakefulness.” – Karen Albright Lin, WritersLaunchPad
 
 
“F. P. Dorchak blurs the lines between reality and the paranormal with his vast collection of unnerving tales that are sure to keep you up past midnight.” – Joshua Viola, Denver Post bestselling author
 
 
“From a dangerously precocious little girl who befriends gargoyles to a conventional guy who discovers (first hand) an invasion of mind-blowing creatures, F. P. Dorchak offers up a collection of horrifying short stories in Do The Dead Dream?, which he delivers with an inimitable, unique voice. The reader accompanies Dorchak’s characters’ bizarre experiences that manifest as rapid-fire flashes of thought-pandemonium . . . as would naturally occur under such unnatural circumstances. Just when you think the path is headed in an obvious direction, Dorchak jerks the road out from under your beliefs to find yourself suddenly drawn along a most unexpected thoroughfare.” – Jan C. J. Jones, Executive Producer/Writer, FOREST ROSE PRODUCTIONS, LLC, A Journey with Strange Bedfellows
 
 
“You may think you’ve read it all, but F. P Dorchak’s “Do the Dead Dream?” will test the limits of your imagination. Picture Stephen King as a mad scientist, mixing bits of Night Gallery with a generous helping of Black Mirror, a dash of Altered States, a pinch of metaphysics, and a healthy dose of surrealism. Dorchak takes you forward and backward in time, puts you in the cockpit of a plane, plunges you into the ocean, and ushers you into other realms you never expected. Buckle up for a unique and unforgettable ride.” – Paul Gallagher, Writer/Editor, Blogger, Shadow & Substance
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Excerpt
 
Homecoming
2000
There comes a time in everyone’s life when you must face the music.
To think back to your childhood . . . when you were basically not held accountable for much. Those were the fun times, happy times! Happy and carefree. Life was your amusement park!
You had no real responsibilities, aside from school and a few chores. If you had a bike, you were mobile and that meant freedom! The world was literally at your feet! And the challenges! Nothing went unchallenged! Everything was suspect, from your home to your school. You’d try to get away with as much as possible, testing the system. You’d steal that candy bar just to see if you could get away with it . . . stay out later and later on dates.
It was all part of being a kid.
The excitement of being a kid!
But then things begin to change about mid-way through high school.
Slowly but surely more responsibility was layered into your life. No longer did things remain just mere “unaccountable challenges” . . . and if you later became one of the few to go to war, you witnessed the atrocities of mankind. Things that seared your soul with an intense anger and hatred.
Sadness.
It was anger at the cruelties and callousness of conflict. At how the Human Condition could inflict torture—mental or physical—upon another. You wondered how could such things be? How could—can—people be driven to perform such atrocities—horrible, unspeakable acts upon each other.
How God could allow such things.
But it was and is real . . . and won’t ever go away.
The worst part is that it isn’t just confined to wars: it breeds . . . finding other ways to manifest . . . unleash itself. War (you find) just becomes a convenient excuse.
And while you’re in the middle of it all, you may find yourself thinking back to a particular girl you knew . . . before you left and everything went crazy. You think back to when you and her were an item.
Inseparable.
In love.
You think back with a sadness that bites deep. You think back to when you told her not to worry . . . you’d be back.
She says, well what about all the others who’ve said the same? You look her in the eyes and tell her—with all seriousness—that you’re different.
Yes, you think back to that time . . . and how you began to doubt your own words. She was the one you really cared about.
You remember that when that night was over so was your relationship. No one said anything, but you both felt it. And it wasn’t that you would necessarily never come back . . . no that wasn’t it. It was the waiting . . . and what you might become . . . .
She never wrote to you and you never wrote her—well, maybe once. You did write her that one time just to let her know you were okay. But that was it. When there was no response, you knew why.
There was no animosity. It was just something that had to be.
But you did come back . . . all limbs and mentality intact. At least you think so. Maybe you are a little rougher around the edges—there was no part of your being that was not bruised from your “experiences,” “they” call them—but you were still you.
That boy who’d gone off to war.
So you found your way to her place, that lone porch light still on the way you remember it. You knock at the door . . . her father opens it. Looks outside. He looks right through you as you stand before him . . . then he solemnly turns around without saying a word and reenters the house, head slumped miserably forward.
You, however, straighten yours up more.
You’re prepared.
Couldn’t be more prepared.
You turn back to the street . . . your thousand-yard stare catches you off-guard . . . recall the firefights . . . the carnage . . . the smell of death and destruction . . . but also the life you had before the war . . . before . . . before you’d changed . . . .
It seems you stand there for an eternity.
Then a hand reaches out for you.
You turn.
She stands before the door, face to face with you.
You’re knees buckle.
Something inside you unhinges.
Tears . . . pain . . . in both sets of eyes.
You weren’t the only one who’d changed.
You thought you’d forever lost her . . . and she you. Sure, she had her “experiences” (“they” call them) while you were gone . . . but she’d always held you closest . . . never really wanted to let you go. You see it in her eyes. Feel it in the electricity between the both of you.
You were back . . . and so was she.
Back for you.
Gently you take her hand. Together you both turn . . . and hand-in-hand step off the porch . . . and vaporize as your feet hit the path leading away from one life . . .
Into another.
About the Author

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F. P. Dorchak writes gritty speculative fiction. Frank is published in the U.S., Canada, and the Czech Republic. His novels are Voice, Psychic, ERO, The Uninvited, and Sleepwalkers, and his first anthology, Do The Dead Dream? won the 2017 Best Books Award for Fiction: Short Stories. His short stories have appeared in the off-the-grid The Black Sheep; You Belong 2016, Words and Images from Longmont Area Residents regional anthology for 2016; The You Belong Collection, Writings and Illustrations by Longmont Area Residents regional anthology for 2012; Apollo’s Lyre. Frank can occasionally be reached in séances, and his website is www.fpdorchak.com.
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d4 -VIRTUAL BOOK TOUR

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Speculative Fiction 
Date Published: Jan. 31, 2015
Publisher: Cinnabar Press
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A clairvoyant young woman finds her visions of the future to be a nuisance, until she discovers that she is hardly unique. An entire group of seers has learned how to profit from their knowledge in ways that Ariel has never considered. Another group is obsessed with using their talents to understand a dark future they cannot ignore.
An alliance with either crowd looks dangerous, given that they both seem a little crazy. There is no possible way to help them both. Worse yet, each group is convinced that Ariel is more than a potential asset; she’s the one thing that they must have in order to fully succeed.

About the Author

Sherrie Roth grew up in Western Kansas thinking that there was no place in the universe more fascinating than outer space. After her mother vetoed astronaut as a career ambition, she went on to study journalism and physics in hopes of becoming a science writer.
She published her first science fiction short story long ago, and then waited a lot of tables while she looked for inspiration for the next story. When it finally came,  it declared to her that it had to be whole book, nothing less. One night, while digesting this disturbing piece of news, she drank way too many shots of ouzo with her boyfriend. She woke up thirty-one years later demanding to know what was going on.
The boyfriend, who she had apparently long since married, asked her to calm down and  explained that in a fit of practicality she had gone back to school and gotten a degree in geophysics and had spent the last 28 years interpreting seismic data in the oil industry. The good news, according to Mr. Cronin, was that she had found it at least mildly entertaining and ridiculously well-paying  The bad news was that the two of them had still managed to spend almost all of the money.
Apparently she was now Mrs. Cronin, and the further good news was that they had produced three wonderful children whom they loved dearly, even though to be honest that is where a lot of the money had gone. Even better news was that Mr. Cronin  turned out to be a warm-hearted, encouraging sort who was happy to see her awake and ready to write. “It’s about time,” were his exact words.
Sherrie Cronin discovered that over the ensuing decades Sally Ride had already managed to become the first woman in space and apparently had done a fine job of it. No one, however, had written the book that had been in Sherrie’s head for decades. The only problem was, the book informed her sternly that it had now grown into a six book series. Sherrie decided that she better start writing it before it got any longer. She’s been wide awake ever since, and writing away.
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