I began "telling" myself stories at 12 or 13. When I was a few years older, maybe 16 it occurred to me that if I wrote them down, then I would be able to go back and re-read them later.2. Which book introduced you to Speculative Fiction?
Firestarter by Stephen King3. Do you have an all-time favorite book? What about it makes it your favorite?
I have favorites in several genres, so I don't know that I'd be able to chose just one. The one that I've probably gone back and re-read the most times is The Forgotten Beasts of Eld by Patricia A. McKillip. (And it makes me cry, every single time.)4. Which author and/or book inspired you to start writing?
No specific author or book. I have read things that were so wonderful, they made me aspire to write something that would have that kind of impact on someone else. I have also read things that were so bad, I felt there was no reason I couldn't do better :)5. What would you say is the most important lesson all writers should learn?
Be true to yourself. You can take classes, listen to and apply advice from others, outline every bit of your story or go from the seat of your pants - but regardless, don't lose your own voice. No one can write what you can.6. Of the entire publishing process, which would you say is the most difficult aspect to endure?
Probably rejection. It is difficult to spend long hours writing something, putting a part of yourself in it, and sending it out to another person only to have them say they don't want it, don't like it, etc. Publishing is a business, and tastes are subjective—but it still stings to get that rejection.7. From where did the inspiration for your submission arise?
My story is based on The Selkie Bride. I have always been fascinated by stories of shape-changers from the sea who could live among people and then return to the ocean. There is a bittersweet condition in so many of those old legends that the selkie is held in human form against their will because their seal-skin has been stolen from them. Inevitably, when the seal-skin is recovered, the selkie will return to the ocean, even if there is true love between she and her human mate.8. If applicable, did you have a favorite character (to write) from your story? If so, what sets them apart from the others?
I also have a passion for post-apocalyptic fiction, and I was curious to explore what might happen to a diminishing population of selkies after human beings have poisoned the world in some great final war.
Naia is the main character of my story, and definitely my favorite. I enjoyed exploring what's left of the human world through her eyes, and the fact that although she has come out of the sea for a specific purpose, she could still come to love the people she meets.9. On what projects are you currently working?
I have a novella (another post-apocalyptic piece, sort of) that I've been working on over the last few months between other projects. Also, the first of a trilogy of "epic" fantasy novels which includes shapeshifters, war against an evil that is apparently unkillable, and the unexpected relationships that can thrive between people who are so disparate. Between all that is the real life stuff, that so often takes precedence—even when I'd rather be writing :)
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ROSE BLACKTHORN lives in the high mountain desert of Eastern Utah with her boyfriend and two dogs, Boo and Shadow. She spends her time writing, reading, being crafty, and photographing the surrounding wilderness. An only child, she was lucky to have a mother who loved books, and has been surrounded by them her entire life. Thus instead of squabbling with siblings, she learned to be friends with her imagination and the voices in her head are still very much present.
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THE cold, autumn gusts ripped across Salem’s port, stirring the angry waters, stirring the angry spectators gathered before the gallows—gallows which had not, until this day, been used since the Trials several years back. Men, women, children—all bore hateful eyes and twisted faces. All bore a deep-seeded fear of the woman before them; they watched and seethed, anger building like fire fed by the winds, waiting for answers, for closure, for justice—for the devil’s death.
Constance Archer stared at the sea of faces; she despised all of them, save two—two faces that weren’t supposed to be there. Her daughters, Rhiannon and Rowan, hid in the small grove of trees, but she could still see their watery, green eyes piercing through the shadows, their stares stabbing their fear and pain and confusion into her. They weren’t supposed to see her like this. With the gag still tightly secured about her mouth, however, her muffled pleas for them to leave went unheard.
Where was their grandmother?
Constance’s fiery locks were drenched with tears. Her heart ached. For them, for herself, for her husband, Jacob. She shouldn’t have let the rage overtake her; she knew that now, now that it was too late.
“For the crimes of witchcraft, how do you plea?”
Even though the thick rope around her neck made it difficult to escape it—to forget—the reverend’s voice jolted her back to reality.
“Not guilty,” Constance replied through the gag, unsure if her plea was understood.
“Executioner, please remove the gag from the accused.”
The reverend’s statement was cold. They had known each other since they were children, but he was but a stranger now as he stood before her. He was once so compassionate, so caring—what had changed?
The executioner approached Constance with apprehension; she soon understood why. Despite the black hood covering his face, his scent—sweet, woody, musky, like freshly-sawn wood mixed with perfume and sweat—immediately revealed his identity: William Black. He removed the gag with haste and stepped across the gallows with a speed she hadn’t witnessed him have in years.
How fitting that the town adulterer would be the one to hang her. She wondered who the woman had been, the one whose scent lingered on his clothing and skin. Surely it wasn’t his wife, Catherine.
It couldn’t be.
She had killed her, in a way, the memory of the act flooding back to her nearly causing her to faint. Seems Catherine and her husband didn’t understand the meaning of marriage; then again, neither did Jacob (apparently). Catching him with Catherine was the most heart-breaking of all.
Wyatt Thatcher cleared his throat. “Mrs. Archer—your plea, now that we can hear you.”
Constance stared at her old friend, pain and tears welling in her eyes. “Not guilty.”
“If not for witchcraft, how do account for the brutal way you murdered Catherine Black? Surely, you were possessed,” countered Reverend Thatcher.
“I didn’t murder Catherine Black. As I told you all before, she was attacked by a beast.” She wasn’t lying, but she wasn’t telling the whole truth. The truth wouldn’t save her, and she couldn’t have her daughters hearing it. They weren’t supposed to be here, but calling attention to them now would only make matters worse.
“You’re the beast!” a woman’s voice sounded from the throng.
“Witch!” said another, followed by her husband’s jibe, “You’re Satan’s whore!”
Reverend Thatcher held his hand to the crowd; without a word, they fell silent. It wasn’t their first execution; it probably wouldn’t be their last. His attention turned to the defendant, but his eyes remained downcast, staring at the rough wood of the gallows as if it were the most interesting sight he had ever beheld.
Constance knew why Wyatt Thatcher wouldn’t look at her, knew he couldn’t show a hint of weakness or compassion for her lest he be hanged, too, for sympathizing with the Devil. Satan was in Salem Village that day—no doubt about that. But it wasn’t Constance or Reverend Thatcher. The Devil stood in the crowd, reflected in the eyes of every spectator. His hunger bellowed in their calls, their taunts, their glares, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until her limp, lifeless body waved in the autumn winds like a banner for their tainted justice, a flag of their blood-stained victory over evil.
Wyatt’s hardness broke, even if for just a second, Constance the only witness to the silent tear soaking its fleshy path across his regretful face. “And please explain to us why you were covered in her blood.”
“I’ve told you all this before, Wyatt...” Using the reverend’s first name stirred a wave of gasps from the crowd, forcing her to pause. “I carried Catherine into my house to try to stop her bleeding, to prevent her death.”
That was a lie; it was what she wanted everyone to believe, but it had been all for naught. It had only sealed her fate.
“And what of your husband’s disappearance?” An icy gust of wind blew through Constance’s locks of red hair; with it, Thatcher’s own coldness returned. “Did you use witchcraft to dispose of his body?”
“My husband was attacked, too, his body dragged into the orchard by the beast.”
That was a lie, too. She couldn’t tell them the truth—that she had, in a fit of rage after seeing Jacob and Catherine naked in the orchard, cursed her husband’s appetite for flesh. The curse had gone horribly wrong...
"Brilliant change-up on the new flood of "Fairy Tale Twists". If you're looking for something that can suck you in right away, this book is definitely it. The collection of short stories makes sure you never get bored with the story or writing style." ~Jett Murdock / Amazon review
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| cover art by Luke Spooner |
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| Romania. In a train. Henri Cartier-Bresson, 1975 |
\sə-ˈli-sət\
1. to ask for (something, such as money or help) from people, companies, etc.
2. to ask (a person or group) for money, help, etc.
3. to offer to have sex with (someone) in return for money
