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What’s Happening?
To say things are busy wouldn’t do life justice at this point. I have another collection in trade paperback in the ongoing “The Short Fiction of David Niall Wilson” series. A Taste of Blood and Roses collects short vampire fiction, werewolves, and some creatures that are neither, but that didn’t fit as well into the other collections. Here’s what you get in this one:
“A Candle in the Sun” – This novelette became my first novel, This is My Blood
“Flash Fiction” - Inspired by a blog post about a crazy fan by vampire author Nancy Kilpatrick
“Bloodstained Glass” - Dedicated to artist Lisanne Lake who painted the cover for This is My Blood
“Miracles in the Night” - One of the things about living forever - is keeping it new.
“Smiling Eyes and Haunted Face” - The first “erotic vampire” story of several
“To Dream of Scheherazade” - There had to be a story about tattoos, have you SEEN me?
“The Subtle Ties That Bind” - First published in Poppy Z. Brite’s anthology Love in Vein II
“A Taste of Blood and Roses” - If anyone can be a werewolf - ANYONE can be a werewolf. A love story.
“The Death-Sweet Scent of Lilies” - A possible history of Vlad Tepes - and Dracula
“Against His Bitter Judgment” - A short sequel, of sorts, to the novel This is My Blood
“The Sound of Drums” - Cargo cults, the US Navy - First commercial publication
Hickory Nuts and Bones is now available everywhere through Ingram distribution. This book got a off to a wonky start, so anyone willing to order it through their local library or bookstore would be a huge help. While A Taste of Blood and Roses covers a lot of my career, the newest and hopefully best is in this new collection, so I’m trying to give it a push.
For fans of urban fantasy, the first book in The DeChance Chronicles, Heart of a Dragon, is free at Bookfunnel. You need to sign up for the newsletter to get it, but since you are reading this, you can sign up there and get the book and when I import the addresses, yours will just be ignored for already being there. I would appreciate anyone sharing the link to that landing page. Spread it far and wide!
Here is something from me to you as the holidays draw near. I wrote this for a contest that involved a writing prompt. It’s very short, and it took me down the rabbit hole of professional mourners.
They Died, and She Mourned
The man died, and she mourned. Money stolen from the fallen, leeched from the poor, paid for her grief by the hour, bought tears and pain and screams. She learned their faces and their names, took their money, and drew them close. Her mourning was a show for those who remained, but for her it could not have been more real.
She sat by candlelight, recording their lives and loves, their deaths, and those they had caused. Rich men, all. None who would have given her the time of day, their families so numb to the world they brokered the grief of his passing through her, rather than experience it.
Her rooms were paid for by the deaths of men whose passing left fortunes and fame, and nothing else. Portraits on the covers of forgotten magazines. Brass plates removed from doors and recycled. Possibly to bullet casing that would end others just like them. Empty men, drained of life and inflated by greed, forgotten by anyone they ever claimed to love, except in dry-ink signatures on checks.
She sat before her one window and stared out at the skyline with its spires and flickering lights, teeming masses of rats running mazes for masters they did not even understand that they served. She shivered. She felt them dying, slowly. She sang softly to prevent the chattering of her teeth.
She sewed. Tears trickled down her cheeks, dampening spools of brightly colored thread in her lap. She'd unraveled it carefully from garments worn by the dead. She'd stolen it, bartered for it, bought it from relatives who thought she was motivated by the same greed that fueled their lives. They were light, she was dark. Life, and death, were rainbows.
In a casket across from her a dead man had lain, face on display. Family, colleagues, enemies, all had offered charms to attract his shiny, empty luck to themselves. Then they'd walked away, and she'd sat alone with his empty shell.
They'd given her one of his scarves, assuming she would sell it on the street. It had unraveled easily. Now she watched the stars, and the city, and she worked her needle in and out, tight, intricate stitches. Sometimes one color, then another. As she worked, she dreamed. She drew the dead man's soul in tear-stained thread.
He'd owned the poor. Entire neighborhoods sucked through middlemen and women, had fed his wealth. They spoke to her and guided her hands. Their lives were colors, some bright, some dim. She was paid to mourn the rich. She mourned these others for free. Their pain burned her veins. She stitched them into patterns and wove their sorrow into a memorial to one man's ugly life. That theirs would not be wasted, she preserved them. She worked until they grew silent.
She would find a child in need, cold and poor. The pillow she created would cradle their heads and feed their dreams. It would drink their tears.
They died, and she mourned.
What I’m Reading
Currently reading: Blood of the Witness Tree by J. C. Vande Zande – picked it up from a post on Bluesky, just so you know that some of us actually buy and read one another’s books. About 20% in and enjoying this one.
Still making my way through The Essential Bukowski: Poetry – There is a poem in this book, The-History-Of-One-Tough-Motherfucker – that really hit me. He loved cats… so I found common ground.
What I’m Watching
We are watching Pluribus now. That is powerful TV and so well cast. Apple TV continually presents higher quality programming than most of the other streamers.
We finished all available episodes of The House of Guiness, which is compelling, well done, and not at all what we expected.
We watched Death by Lightning, which was also well done, educational, and a good shift from our usual style of show.
Tonight we started a very old show with only two season – Rabbit Fall. It’s jarring how different shows are from 2007 to now.
What I’m Listening to
Twice as Dead by Harry Turtledove. This is a cool noir mystery novel set in a fictional LA with vampires, talking cats, and one hard-boiled PI with a hint of snark. The narrator does the characters very well, but my one issue is I don’t believe his voice for the main character fits. It grows on you over the course of the book, but I think it called for a bit more Humphrey Bogart than is offered. I’m just over halfway done with this.
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