I really, really want to write some more adventures for Gennara and Sharronne, the futa centaur, and I have some ideas I’ve been scribbling down. But, before I embark on any new projects, I absolutely must finish the ones currently running.
I’m currently working on the third installment of “Wonderlust”, titled “A girl for tea”. Naturally, it has the famous Mad Tea Party – only, with my special, Wonderlust twist. There is much else, besides, of course, but in the meantime, enjoy a little excerpt from the tea party.
Apologies for missing a post last week, but I spent most of last week battling the worst toothache I’ve ever had in my life.
I got an emergency dental appointment, where it turned out that I’d cracked one of my back molars pretty much all the way through the crown. So, out it came.
So, I’ve had a week of mostly guzzling painkillers, and watching TV. I binged on The Haunting of Hill House.
I’ve loved the Hill House mythos ever since watching the ’63 movie of The Haunting (I always thought the ’73 film, The Legend of Hell House was based on the same novel, but it turns out it was a separate novel, by Richard Matheson).
The Netflix series is beyond excellent. It’s incredibly spooky. The device of having multiple ghosts hidden away in the shadows and backgrounds of every episode is particularly effective: once you realise, you end up carefully watching every scene, with the effect of keeping you constantly on edge.
Episode 6, with its use of extended takes (up to 15 minutes long), was particularly impressive.
Some of the most picturesque places on this island, like Port Arthur, are haunted by the past, distant and recent. Sarah Island’s wild beauty is haunted by the memory of the time when the entrance to its harbour was named “Hell’s Gates” by the unfortunate men who knew only too well the truth of the sobriquet. There are other giveaway names dotted around the island, like Gibbet Hill.
Even the most mundane locations contain eerily jarring remnants. At a local service club, the cold storage at the back of the kitchen looks odd and archaic, for good reason: it was originally the solitary confinement cell, when the building was a local lockup. The chill lurking behind its thick oak door seems not entirely natural.
Recently, though, a whole new window onto our haunted past has begun to come to life: reminders of a time when nearly all the common folk ardently believed in spirits and witches — and took measures to guard against them.
Well, not a lot has been happening, this past week. I haven’t been able to put as much time as I would like into my fiction, so the centaur futa story has only crawled forward, but at least I’m on the final chapter.
So, here’s another preview, just to keep you all posted.
This is the second of Dominic Piper’s Beckett novels, and the third and last that I read. I’m not entirely sure why I didn’t read them in publishing order, but the fact is that there’s nothing to stop you picking up any of these stories at random, and diving right in to Daniel Beckett’s London.
Daniel Beckett is as intimately familiar with the streets of London as Sherlock Holmes, without the cerebral aloofness; as hard-boiled as Philip Marlowe, without the nihilism; and even more successful with the ladies than James Bond, without the casual indifference.
Like Kiss Me When I’m Dead and Femme Fatale, Death is the New Black is a dazzling detective thriller. The mystery is engrossing, from the first pages, the villains are truly evil, without being cartoonish, and the stories are bursting with truly memorable characters.