"The Plague"

To "celebrate" the fact that I'm sick this week, I am posting a SNEAK PEEK from my second novel, Season of Madness, in which a plague wreaks havoc on Evershade:

(Unedited excerpt)

A white squirrel staggered toward the Stone River. He paused, wavering in place as he looked skyward. The act of craning his neck threw him off-balance, and the squirrel fell backward, landing roughly in the grass. He lay there for a moment, confused, before rolling over to his front and pushing himself upright.

The squirrel stumbled onward, his feet finding a little-used path that dipped into a shallow ravine. He followed it down to the bottom, then began the steep upward climb, slipping more than once. When he reached the rise on the other side and stepped out of the grass, a great expanse of tiny stones opened up before him. The squirrel set both hindpaws on the stone and paused. A ripple of recognition passed through his eyes for the briefest of moments, but that was quickly replaced by the madness that had taken root in his mind.

He stumbled his way across the Stone River in the twilight, mouth agape and drooling. When he reached the grass on the far side, he stepped into the opening where the trail picked up again. The ground sloped suddenly downward, and he immediately fell tumbling into the ravine, rolling down the trail until he came to a stop at the bottom. The faint path was noticeably wider here, and he was lying in the middle of it.

Struggling to his feet, he cast another shaky glance at the sky before continuing on. He wandered the wrong direction at first, the wider part of the trail confusing him. When he found his way blocked by a wall of grass, he stood in place a few moments before turning his body and walking a different direction. By sheer chance, he eventually found the path again and followed it up the slope to a wide meadow.

An unseen force had taken hold of the pale squirrel, driving him to wander in search of he knew not what. But wander he must, for the only word his mind felt or understood was “go.”

"Season of Crows" available now:

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney/dp/1633731537/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-of-crows-prix-gautney/1124763398?ean=9781633731530

Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney-ebook/dp/B01M3PW03L/

The Tragedy of Change

None of us can escape it. Change in this universe is as certain as death. But I have recently witnessed a change that is personal to me and causes a great deal of sadness.

The locations mentioned in "Season of Crows" are based on actual locations near my home--the High Field, Torzeria, Cedar Grove, Evershade, the Crow Kingdom, etc. They are part of my daily journey to town.

I don't know who owns the fields and woods, but one of the owners has recently destroyed a location that was pivotal to the plot in my novel. Ash discovers a great red-tail hawk dangling from silver vines, and his interaction with this predatory bird changes the fate of Evershade entirely. The farmer, unfortunately, has leveled the bushes and scrub cedar that grew along the silver vines, and the vines themselves have been removed. A large pile of cedar branches sits near the road now, much of it having been burned.

It is difficult for me to see one of the locations that literally changed my life being altered in such a way. Does this man know what he is doing to me? Of course not. Does he have a right to alter his field? Of course he does.

I just hate to see this particular change happen. Yes, Evershade is still there and, yes, Torzeria still stands, but I will always regret the loss of Oxl's silver vines and the path that led back to Evershade.

I think in my next book series I will simply invent a location to prevent my heart being ripped from my throat...

 

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney/dp/1633731537/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-of-crows-prix-gautney/1124763398?ean=9781633731530

Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney-ebook/dp/B01M3PW03L/



"A Dark Decision"

Excerpt from "Season of Crows." A vengeful mousemaid hatches a wicked plan...

(Links to book below.)

The banished mousemaids, Aster and Thistle, made do in the little grove of trees amidst the sea of grass in the neighboring field. There, the two mice had weathered much of the drought, surviving on bitter grass seeds and last year’s dried rose hips that still clung to some of the wild rosebushes.

Aster had ignored the signs of drought. Upon entering the grove, the two mousemaids had discovered a little pool of water trapped beneath a limestone outcropping. Instead of rationing it, Aster had drunk the water greedily. She hadn't counted on Thistle drinking as often as her, given her complaints about conserving water. And now they were in a fix.

As she slurped the last few drops of water from the stone pool without offering any to Thistle, she carelessly wiped her whiskers and belched loudly. Thistle shot Aster a look of disdain, which Aster returned.

“What’re we going to do now?” Thistle asked. “That was the last of the water.”

“Obviously.”

“Well? What’re we going to do?”

“We’re going to shut up and think, that’s what we’re going to do,” Aster replied, glaring.

She watched the stocky mousemaid turn her body away from her and slump in her usual pout. Aster sneered. Stupid fat mouse.

“We could go look for the Fray,” Thistle said at last.

Aster scoffed. “I ain’t going to look for it. I don’t want nothing to do with Evershade or its water.”

“Well, I don’t want to die of thirst,” Thistle retorted.

“You go by yourself, then, and see how long you last without me.”

“Without you? You’re the one that got me in this mess!”

“Me? You tricked that timid little ghost of a mouse just as much as I did! Blame Roan, if you want to blame someone. He banished us. Or blame the king. He told Roan to banish us!” Aster spat back.

Thistle shook her head and buried her face in her paws.

“Those goody-goodies, thinking they’re all peaceful and perfect. They’re just a bunch of cowards. Especially that snail. Hiding in his tree, showing his face once or twice a season. He shouldn’t even be king! He can’t run or climb like us. He can’t even gather food. He can barely move at all!” she snarled.

The lanky mousemaid sat in silence for a few moments, listening to the harsh voices of the crows across the field. Their croaks and caws pierced the thick, humid air. Aster shifted her weight and peered through the undergrowth in the direction of their noisy chatter.

At the end of the field to the east rose up a dark forest of slender, closely packed trees. They towered tall and gangly over the yellow grass that separated them from the little grove where the mousemaids sat. Aster stood and walked to the edge of the grove, gazing out across the field at the forest beyond.

“The Crow Kingdom,” she mumbled. She had always heard talk of the Crow Kingdom, but she had never actually seen it.

Aster studied the black trees in the distance, transfixed by the plan hatching in her head. Somewhere in her mind she noticed that Thistle had followed her to the edge of the little grove and now stood looking at her. Aster turned and leveled her gaze on the short, ugly mouse, a malicious smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she sized up her follower.

A most disturbing scheme to exact her revenge on Evershade and its goody-goody inhabitants seeped into the darkest corners of Aster’s mind like a disease. She turned away from Thistle and stood frozen in place in a sort of trance, eyes hardened, a wicked grin morphing her features into the face of absolute evil. The crows were the answer. They had been the answer all along—she had just been too dim to notice. But would they listen to her? She sneered.

Thistle and Willow and that little ghost mouse listened to me. Surely a bunch of dumb birds will be no trouble.

Aster stood taller, puffed up with her own sense of superiority.

Yes, they will listen to me. And the community of Evershade will be brought to its knees.

 

 

 

Paperback: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney/dp/1633731537/

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-of-crows-prix-gautney/1124763398?ean=9781633731530

Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney-ebook/dp/B01M3PW03L/

Book Plug

I have gotten lazy about advertising my book these past few weeks. Well, life has been filled with many other things of late, and marketing has dropped below transitioning my daughter to her new room, removing clutter from our home, cleaning up the yard at my father's house, exercising to lose unwanted weight, and researching paleo recipes. So, I'm plugging my book in my blog this week.

"Season of Crows" is the first book of a pentalogy. I recently emailed the edited copy of book two, "Season of Madness," to my editor and am expecting publication later this year. I am now writing book three, "Season of Storms," and will spend tomorrow writing/typing with two other authors in the bowels of our wonderful local library.

An unusual fact about me: I write everything by hand. I don't like or trust computers, and I have seen other authors weep in frustration because their computers fought with them every step of the way.  The pen I use is a G-2 Pilot gel pen, and it's like writing with butter. I love it! When school comes around and supplies go on sale, I buy up several spiral-bound notebooks, and these become my paper of choice.

Although I now spend my days alone because the kids are in school, I can rarely write at home. The phone rings, the chicken get attacked, and the laundry is always calling me. "Season of Madness" was written almost entirely at Subway in our local Wal-Mart. I cried while writing some of the scenes, and that means I was crying in Subway. In public. For everyone to see. Sigh...

"Season of Crows," which is available in ebook and paperback at several sites (including Amazon and Barnes & Noble) took quite a long time to write. After writing the first half of the book, a tragic thing happened in my life, and I experienced eight solid months of clinical depression. The second half was written after that terrible period, so the book as a whole took much longer to produce than the second book.

Things have finally evened out for our family. Now I just need readers to give my book a chance. I wrote "Season of Crows" with middle schoolers in mind, but a number of adults have read and enjoyed my book as well. I am asking for readers of any age to give my book a shot. Librarians, teachers, fantasy fans, cosplayers, parents, kids, grandparents, anyone and everyone--give my book as a gift if it's not your type. Below are links to the paperback and ebook versions. And I would appreciate a review on Amazon when you have finished reading it. I review every book I read. It's important to the author who poured their guts onto the page.

 

Paperback:  https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney/dp/1633731537/

 

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/season-of-crows-prix-gautney/1124763398?ean=9781633731530

 

Ebook: https://www.amazon.com/Season-Crows-Evershade-Prix-Gautney-ebook/dp/B01M3PW03L/

"Drought"

Excerpt from "Season of Crows." The drought settles on the land.

Mr. Barkwhistle had deepened his pond as much as possible, slinging layers of mud onto the banks and the exposed rim of his dam. And then one day he stopped. He grasped a large branch underwater to steady himself and floated motionless at the bottom of his pond, listening for a sound that had been his constant companion for so many years. He closed his eyes and turned his head slowly this way and that, hoping with every fiber of his being that the sound would find its way to his ears. But all he could hear beneath the dark waters of the pond was the noiseless void of stone cold silence.

Grimly, he let loose the branch and paddled along the bottom of the pond, following the gentle slope to the eastern edge where the Fray fed into it. Rings of thick ripples spread in all directions as the large beaver’s head broke the surface. He hauled himself out of the water, waddled up to the mouth of the little brook, and sat in the scorching sun to look upstream. The beaver grunted and made a clucking sound with his tongue.

The Fray was gone. The water that had fed his pond for so long had stopped running altogether, and now only a murky, stagnant puddle and damp patches of gravel dotted the streambed.

He shifted his weight heavily and looked across the dark waters of his little pond. “So, it begins.”

 

 

A New Adventure

Instead of posting either a story or an excerpt from "Season of Crows," I am simply going to announce that today I will begin writing the third book of the Evershade series, tentatively named "Season of Raging Waters."

Two author friends and I have recently begun holding write-ins at our local library. We bring our computers/notebooks (actual spiral-bound notebooks) and take a break from laundry, house, kids, phone calls, chickens, cats, and dogs in order to actually get something accomplished. And, hey, it's working. The three of us happen to be women, though we have a man in our larger group, Mid South Writers. 

It's amazing to me what women can accomplish when we close out the world for a few hours, when we put our dreams ahead of our home and family for a short time--it's astounding what wonders we can achieve. We craft entire civilizations and put our characters in impossible circumstances, then find a way for them to escape alive and relatively unscathed. Or, as in my case, we sometimes kill our characters. (Sorry, kids--killing my characters irks my daughter, and my son pointed out that there is death in the first paragraph of "Season of Crows." I didn't realize it until he mentioned it.)

It makes me wonder how many astronauts and oceanographers and chemists spend their days tied to a stove. How many professors and steel workers and engineers find themselves on the wrong end of a diaper for most of their waking hours? And how many presidents and prime ministers spend their days tossing fruit snacks and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets in their shopping cart?

As a general rule, women tend to sacrifice their own ambitions in order to allow others to follow their dreams. I say let's ALL sacrifice for our families and our homes--husbands, wives, AND children. Rather than burdening one person, when the sacrifice is shared it allows everyone in the family to pursue their dreams and discover what they were always meant to be.

So, today I will not wash clothes. I will not cook or sweep. I will not babysit the chickens. I will embark on a journey into another reality, and I will relish every moment of it.

 

"Peer Pressure"

Excerpt from "Season of Crows." Petal, the white mousemaid with creamy tan patches scatter across her fur, experiences pressure from others to copy them.

 

As the days grew ever hotter and stickier, Petal became so well-adjusted to life in Evershade that she frequently embarked on short excursions alone. She visited the Vaults for an acorn pot of mushroom soup ingredients and half of a black walnut. She made several trips to the stream for fresh water, and she even braved the critical eye of Maple with a visit to the bakery to compliment the plump mouse on her fruit ’n nut bread, which secretly pleased Maple so much that she gruffly sent Petal packing with half a dozen honeywheat rolls and a braided apple ’n onion loaf.

It was on one particularly hot morning that Petal came upon Willow and her friends cooling their paws in the creek. Willow was dangling the bonnet Ash had made for her down her back.

“Petal!” Willow exclaimed when she saw the pretty young mousemaid approaching.

“Hello, Willow. I see Ash finished making your hat. It looks lovely.”

“It is, isn’t it? Thank you for asking him to make it for me.”

“You’re welcome, but Ash is the one to thank. He made it well,” Petal replied.

“Yes, Willow, you should thank him,” one of Willow’s friends said, her words dripping with hidden meaning.

The two young mousemaids with Willow were the same ones who had accompanied her at First Harvest. The one who had spoken was taller than Willow and lanky, a permanent look of displeasure with the world and everyone in it etched across her face. The second mousemaid was the shortest of the trio and stockier. She glared at Petal suspiciously from behind the taller mousemaid.

“Petal, these are my friends. This is Aster,” she said, gesturing to the taller mousemaid, “and this is Thistle.”

Neither mousemaid attempted to greet Petal and instead stood staring at her for a few uncomfortable moments.

Petal cleared her throat.

“I love your markings. It’s called ‘tipping,’ isn’t it?” Petal asked, trying to get them to open up.

A wicked smile played at the corners of Aster’s mouth. She regarded Petal coolly. “Why, yes, it is. It is called tipping.” Aster's face morphed into a sinister mask. “Oh, I have a wonderful idea. Thistle, Willow, why don’t we show our new friend, Petal here, how to tip?”

Willow’s eyes grew wide. “I don’t know....”

“Quiet, Willow. Don’t you think tannin would look beautiful against such pale fur?” Aster said, taunting her friend. Willow said nothing. “What—are you afraid everyone will think she’s prettier than you?”

“No,” Willow said sullenly.

“Do you think Ash will think she is prettier?” Aster sneered.

“No—that’s not it at all!”

Petal looked from Willow to Aster and back again. The conversation made her uncomfortable, but she could not think of a polite way to leave.

“I think tipping is very interesting, and it makes all three of you look beautiful, but I’m not sure that tipping is for me.”

“Of course it is. Everyone does it. Even Ash did it,” Aster said. “You do want to fit in, don’t you?”

“Everyone has been so nice to me—I feel that I already do,” Petal replied, feeling as though she was being lured into some sort of trap.

“They’re just too embarrassed to tell you the truth. But I’m not. If you want to fit in here, you have to tip. There's no other way.” Aster rose to her full height and gazed down at her triumphantly.

Petal considered this carefully. It was true she didn't quite feel that she completely fit in because of her coloring. And tipping was almost a rite of passage by the sound of it. Besides that, she did admire the markings that Willow and her friends bore. It might be interesting to have her fur a different color for a change.

“I suppose it would be all right,” she said hesitantly.

“Mint!” Aster said as Thistle chuckled behind her. “Why wait? I have a pot of tannin in my burrow you can use. Come on.”

Before Petal could change her mind, she found herself being led away from the Fray where Willow, who watched them go, stood in place as a hint of fear rippled through her eyes.

High above, another set of eyes stared down at her from The Corridor.