The following publishing advice is based on my own experiences and those of my clients. I hope you find it valuable and encouraging, even if it changes your expectations.

I’ve written and published 6 books, and I’m working on my seventh. I’ve guided many remarkable people through the process of telling their remarkable stories, and served as editor, typesetter, cover designer, web developer, and marketer. I love writing, publishing, and book design, but the least pleasant part of my work involves delivering “straight talk” that has popped many a shiny bubble. My experiences in publishing have been overwhelmingly positive, but I routinely hear from writers who have made expensive mistakes. Others are frustrated and stuck in the writing process. The good news is that with a bit of research, the right resources, and a few reality checks, problems can be avoided. You probably can’t do it yourself, and you probably can’t do it for free, but you can publish an excellent book and find the process rewarding.

Here are few snippets of writing, book design, and publishing advice:

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Of course it sucks; that’s why it’s called a “rough” draft. Keep writing.

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Many great books are terrible products. Many terrible books are great products. Write for the marketplace or write because you have something to say, but know where your book lies on the spectrum between art and business. Adjust your expectations accordingly.

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Some writers struggle to generate ideas. “What will I write about?” Trying to have an idea is like trying to fall asleep. It doesn’t happen until you stop trying. But once you do fall asleep, a river of ideas flows through your head—characters, settings, conflicts, colors. Sit at your keyboard. Close your eyes. Take a deep, slow breath. Write something—anything. Don’t judge it. Don’t worry if it’s “good.” You don’t have to use it. Hold the pen for God. Just write something. You don’t even have to know consciously what it’s going to be. You may have to try this exercise several times before you “let go enough to flow.”

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Given the low profit you make on an individual book and the quantity you have to sell to break even, it’s difficult to justify the costs of editors, typesetters, and cover designers. But given the time, care, contemplation, determination, and love that go into writing a book, it’s as difficult to justify presenting your book in any way that undermines the value and sincerity of the ideas it contains. Excellence is not always practical, but mediocrity contaminates everything it touches.

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Explore the world of punctuation beyond the typewriter. Learn about emdashes and endashes and small caps. Learn how to use the split ruler in your word processor. Understanding the fine points of how to translate your ideas into text will empower you as a writer and encourage your editors and typesetters to buy you chocolate.

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Everyone forgets how to use a semicolon correctly some time between graduating high school and the time they begin to write their first book. As I work on my own 7th book and edit those of my clients, I still find myself researching correct usages on the Internet. How should I hyphenate this? Is this word hyphenated or compound? Now that you have a use for all that boring grammar stuff, you’ll learn it quickly and enthusiastically—if you pause to look it up.

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You may be a capable writer, but you’re too close to your work to be objective about it. Even professional editors hire professional editors. You’ll never regret working with one. It’s essential to get quality writing advice and publishing advice. A good editor can give you both if they’re familiar with your genre.

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Don’t pay anyone to be your publisher. Real publishers pay you. Paying someone to be your publisher is like paying someone to take a vacation for you so you can stay home and work. If you’re going to self-publish; do it yourself.

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Accepting a “free” ISBN means whoever gave it to you is the publisher of record. Yes, ISBNs are an overpriced rip-off, but that’s the cost of doing business. You get what you pay for.

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Thousands of writers get suckered by vanity presses because they don’t do a simple Google search. Look up a vendor on predators and editors before you sign up for the “silver package.” Heaps of information are a click away and yet, writers continue to dive in head first in the dark without seeking readily available publishing advice.

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Typesetting a book with Times or Helvetica is like eating unflavored gelatin for dessert.

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Book layout and typography is one area where self-published books can be superior to trade books, but few authors bother to leverage this advantage. Big publishers print 30,000 copies of a book, so they use tiny type, narrow margins, and tight leading (line spacing) to save big on ink, paper, and shipping costs. If you self-publish and have the luxury of printing one book at a time, don’t design your book to imitate the compromises and limitations of mass production.

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Don’t write in a vacuum. Join a critique group. Not only will you gain valuable insights from others, you’ll learn by scrutinizing their work and figuring out how to articulate what’s wrong with it constructively. You’ll also clean your book up significantly before you submit it to an editor—which saves time and money.

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If you want to publish traditionally, research the information that agents and publishers want answered in a query letter. Usually this information includes who your target readers are, how you’ll communicate with them, what similar books have sold well, how your book is different from these without being too different, what your marketing strategy is, etc. Write a book that offers compelling answers to those questions. Consider calling agents to ask what’s hot. Get some publishing advice from people who publish.

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Forget formulas. Every book and every author is different. Your prejudices for or against any particular type of publishing will only prevent you from embracing the best solution for you. Self-publishing is not a consolation prize, and a traditional publishing contract is not necessarily prestigious or lucrative.

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Traditional publishers reject excellent books every day. Don’t question your writing ability just because the publishing establishment doesn’t see your property as marketable. A well-crafted book may be too esoteric to sell or it might appeal to too small an audience. Respect publishers for doing this; they’re in the business of selling books, and they have to move product to survive. This doesn’t mean you stink as a writer.

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Everyone wants to sell books and make a lot of money, but writing a book is an adventure and a learning experience. So is publishing. Enjoy the journey. Very few books sell—even trade books—but writing a book and releasing it into the wild is no small achievement. Some kinds of success can’t be measured on a spreadsheet. Be sure to celebrate yours even if a friend has to pay for the dinner.

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Big publishers are book sellers. They produce a new catalog of 90–120 books every quarter, and they push these to a huge distribution network of physical and online stores. If you have one or only a handful of books in your “catalog,” consider how you—not your book—can be “the product.” If writing a book on a particular subject establishes you as a subject matter expert, revenues from speaking, consulting, and contracting will likely far exceed retail profits from selling books. And that’s okay.

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The world is full of advice about book promotion. “You have to have a blog and a Facebook page and a Twitter account and a Pinterest page and ….” The list is as endless as the sea of people out there screaming, “look at me.” Before you transform yourself from a first-rate author into a third-rate, overworked marketer, be sure you’re ready to commit to posting regularly, engaging with viewers who comment, building a mailing list, and managing the myriad other chores that will amount to hours spent not writing. If your book is marketable, consider engaging a book publicity firm to define and manage the best channels for you. Otherwise, set up an Amazon page and a personal website—then go back to writing. Nothing makes a worse marketing statement than an abandoned blog.

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Crowdsourcing sites seem like a good deal for cover design, but they make you the judge of a design contest. If you have the design experience to distinguish between a comfort-inspiring cliché and an innovative graphic statement, to judge whether or not the typefaces used on your cover fit the time period of your book, and to tell whether the placement of text and the ink density of the images will dovetail with your printer’s specifications, you might get away with it, but … a real cover designer will read (at least most of) your book, and will come up with appropriate visual storytelling to communicate its essence to readers. A professional designer makes informed choices about typefaces, colors, layout, and other aspects of design—and will be able to explain the basis for all of them. I see self-designed and crowdsourced covers every day that authors are proud of, despite the fact that they’re amateur in every respect. If you’re not a designer and can’t afford one, at least solicit a critique on a designers’ forum. What you can’t see might kill your book.

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If you spend 1000 hours writing a book and 1 hour learning about the publishing business, your odds of success will be 1:1000.

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A professional will take 8 hours to read your book and another 2 to write a substantive review. Any moron can write, “5 stars; loved it,” but a real review burns up a lot of professional hours. Don’t send unsolicited free books to “qualified reviewers” unless you want to flood the market with one-cent “used” copies of your book. Don’t be afraid to pay for a review. Do you think the NY Times book reviewers work for free? If you want a free review, be prepared to write one in return.

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Hire editors and designers to work with you directly. A “one stop shop” may sound convenient, but usually, it means someone is marking up the services of someone you don’t engage with personally. Skip the markup middlemen and use the same budget to hire professionals at professional rates.

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Read. Read. Read.

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Write. Write. Write.

After your heart is ripped out of your chest, the world feels black and white. Like an old depressing movie about smoking cigarettes and drinking whisky. I want to tell you something. I want to tell you how I feel. Most of all I want you to understand something.

Do you know what you've done? I do not believe you do. In some twisted way you think you singlehandedly destroy everything you touch. You don't.

Having a woman from your past yelling at me and telling you what to say, that is not the actions of a man. Not giving me a chance to understand is not the actions of a man. I never wanted to fix you. I wanted you to fix yourself. I just wanted to love you and be loved back. I believe that everyone is capable of love. Even you. Even if you don't think so yourself. But I've seen you love. You love the sea. I can see it in your eyes when they glance over the horizon. And even if you just said you loved me because you think that's what I wanted to hear, I know that you can love, and you will. Maybe you will never love me, but that is not the point here.

I wish I could look back at our time together and feel joy. I could see us together. I really could. I fell for you so fast and I didn't mean to.

I don't understand American culture. It is possessive and weird. You did not disrespect me, you messed up. If you didn't want to be with me just say so. Do not talk about not being worthy. Who is? I know I'm not. I am a cheater, a liar, I use people when I get the chance. I am not a good person. I try, but life is hard. Even for me, even though I've not lived as long as you.

I've constantly been told I'm not good enough, not beautiful enough, that I'm a waste. I am not wanted. Now I'm in a good place, or at least I hope it's going to last. I am still in love with you. At the same time I hate you. You never gave me a fair chance.

And just like that its gone. But you know what? When people give me shit, I will use it as manure and grow. You might have broken my heart, the pieces that are left of it anyway. I am afraid that this is going to make me bitter. I am afraid that I'm not going to believe in love and its awesome power. However, I'm going to try my best. I want to find my Aragorn. I thought it might be you. But like all fairytales they end.

King midas

He was unlike the kings before him

He fell in love with his shadow

He was obsessed with the mirroring effect

Of being born beautiful

He was born

With pure golden locks

And deep seated blue eyes

Broad shoulders

A

Tight lipped smile

He admired beauty

He admired his own beauty

He had His heart covered in a gold case

Because he saw no need to love

Because they only love that mattered

Was the love he received and was given

He feeds on hearts

He sucks the blood out of broken down hearts

He´s teeth sharp and precise

Curved

And jagged

And yellow tipped

Rings around

His gums

His mouth

Dry

And saliva dripped

And gushing with blood

his spine curved

Bones spiking out his back

Horns

Stabbed in the cracks of his brain

His talons

Newly sharpened

Ravenous

Smile

Cunning

Glance

He tricks

The shadow

With

His mirroring personality

He scared his own demons

Because his own demons

Were him

He sunk

Deeper

Into his thoughts

He became so obsessed with mirrors in the castle

He became a mirror a reflection of power and obsession

And the hunger for palpating veins

Slithering down his throat

He hungered blood

He craved flesh

He desired beauty

He thrived on attention

He lived through the souls of the dead

He embraced his disastrously demonic attire

He killed his advisers because he saw the no need to heed the warning of self-absorption of self

And slowly he became the monster he feared he was deep in side

Lonely and ugly

All because he fell in love with his shadow he became so obsessed with pleasing himself he lost himself in the shadows of the wall

And became a ghost of his former self

A single town with a lot a stories. Ville D'Incendie Congelés means Town of Frozen Fire. Quite appropriate. There are Witches, Wizards, Vampyres, Angels, Demons, Werewolves, Nekos, Fairies, Pixies, Humans and others living in this town. With such a group, there is bond to be trouble.

To keep the trouble at a minimum, there is the Preternatural Police Department. The department head is a Wizard. The main desk officer is a human. The main investigator is a Fairy. They have no qualms about hiring any kind of person as long as they are not criminals.

Across the street is the most popular cafe in town. Heaven's Cafe. The cafe is run by a family of vampyres and witches/wizards but they hire all kinds. The owner is Charlotte Hölle, a teenage vamp-witch. Her brother is the cook and their parents are hosts. They have a werewolf waiter and an angel musician.

Down the road is the inn, run by the Buch family. They are werewolves, but extremely friendly. They welcome all visitors with open arms.

The apothecary on the next street is owned by Charlotte's twin Cherise and her husband Nostramos, a demon. They love meeting new people, but be careful, Nostramos is easily jealous of anyone flirting with Cherise.

Down from the apothecary is the local library and next to that is a book store. Both a ran by the Howe's, witch/wizard cousins of the Hölle's and relatives of the Preternatural Police Department head.

The town comes together for the local school system. They love their children and support them in all their endeavors. Every school sporting event, the whole town shows up.

Local issues are mostly between the Vampyres and Werewolves most of the time. Fairies and Pixies don't get along well but they tend to ignore each other. Angels and Demons will sometimes fight but Angels prefer peace for the sake of the town.

Now, this town may have some troubles but they are peaceful compared to the rest of the world. Out there, Humans attack everything that is different. Werewolves spy on Vampyre councils. Demons bring hell to earth while Angels fight them. Witches and Wizards try to bring peace but often fail.

There are no religions, food is the same as you'd find in this world. This is a fantasy realm.

    "Here," she said, pressing a key into my hand, "in my mother's home in Nohr, there's a chest. Some things you should have."

   "Embla ..." I started to push it back, but she closed her fingers around my fist. 

   "Don't be a fool, Sigrek," she said with a wry smile. "I'm not sure I have too many words left. Yet you'd prefer to waste them on what ... politeness?" she laughed until she coughed, and coughed until the blood pooling at the corners of her lips spilled onto her cheek. I wiped it off and held her face closer to mine. 

   Dark as pitch and swifter than wings, a volley of arrows hissed towards us. I raised an abandoned and stained shield over our heads, and felt their heads hammer into it. Why had they sent us, such a small force, charging into their longbows? The number of our men running back from the slaughter could be counted on one hand. 

   Fall back! Fall back! Fa--

   "They're getting closer, Sigrek," Embla winced, her grey eyes glimmering with that calm knowing, tinted by mischief and wonder, as if she understood an underlying secret to everything that made living a game, that made dying entertaining. It was not a brave face, an expression to mask her fear for embracing the end. It was the look she always carried. When I glanced at her, when I spoke to her, or even after I kissed her. That was what made it so damnably difficult to see it in that moment, and what convinced me that I should've been the one gasping for air through a hole in my lung the size of an arrow shaft. Life was never so appreciated before I met her; she showed me how. 

    The ground shook with the maddened stamping of hundreds of the Gilded getting nearer. I didn't raise my head above the trench of bodies, just kept my eyes on hers, hand trembling in hers, my words caught in her throat. She raised her hand and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. 

    "I knew you were foolish. I didn't think you were stupid. You're not going to die now that I gave you my key, will you? Run, Sig."

    Retreat to Commander Vandor! Retre-- the shouts were silenced by ragged, blood-muddled grunts, not that his commands were going to be of any use to the fallen. 

    I am not certain what I was trying to utter, only that I had hours of things to say and a handful of moments to speak them. What came out was a garbled sob and breath. Her name, the entirety of it, I managed to speak through stutters. It perplexed me, because it sounded more than anything, as if I was begging her for something.

   "Say goodbye to me, Sig. You can. I love you, but you know that." Her hand tightened around mine, and the fingers that had laced my hair back now gripped my cheek, slick with blood. 

   "N-n-no. I c-c-c--"

   "Sigrek, please. For me."

   Another volley. An arrow managed to pierce through the thinnest edge of the shield, stopping just short of my head. Another dug into the dirt by my heel. My throat desired nothing more than to scream. I looked away from her. I needed to compose myself if I was to say anything at all. The advancing army was pressing closer, but they wouldn't risk running down their own men with arrows. Their swordsmen hadn't started into a dead sprint just yet. I still had time. 

    Time is more dreadful than any army. It seemed to be the puppeteer of everything I hated in that moment. 

   "Embla, I love ..." Her hand fell away from my cheek. "Embla?"

    Her eyes were staring into mine, but there was no recognition, no flicker, no glimmer. Just stagnant orbs of grey, a crooked grin and a stiffened hand wrapped around mine. What then whispered from my lips, what came as quiet as the first winds of springs, are words I'll never speak nor write again. There are some memories that do not deserve to be shared with anyone, then there are the memories that we will seldom relive, for fear that they lose their substance, diluted by the frivolity of passing recollection. That moment was gusted by a sharp, chilled wind, its silence pierced by hailing arrows. 

    I pressed my lips against hers and ripped myself away. 

    I pocketed the key and tore off a second shield from another body.

    A whole line of the enemy's Gilded archers nocked their arrows and loosed, their men spread as far as the valley was wide. I held the shields up, caught their steel, and sprinted back towards our first lines of defense. Six of our battle mages greeted my view. For every one of them, two men carried massive bulwarks to protect them, deflecting arrows in the same fashion I was, inching them closer to the enemy.

    After every few beats of sprinting, I crouched as small as I could and held the shields up to deflect the incoming volleys.

    Behind me, enemy swordsmen scrambled over our corpses in a flood of scarlet cloth and gold-tinted armor. I was close enough to see how their expressions grew bolder tramping over them, how Embla was folded beneath the heaping mound of the dead.

    Through tears and denial, numbing fear, I sprinted down a field that seemed to stretch ever longer beneath my feet. A lone archer without bow nor sword, rather two shields, stumbled over scattered limb and strewn armor, blood and bone stamped into the earth, caught between two armies. The closer I came to my allies, the farther behind were the corpses I belonged to. They asked why I had not fallen, too.

    In range, in range! Casters, archers, on my mark! High Commander Vandor's voice rang. Hold ... hold!

    I tripped and jerked the shields back up as I heard the telltale hissing, before rising to run, only to stumble over more arrows stuck around every fleck of dirt around me. 

   "Sigrek, Sigrek, duck!" a familiar voice shouted at me, one of the elves holding the bulwarks. I saw the mages step from outside the protection, the six of them with outspread arms. They didn't seem to care for me. Behind them were our archers, a line of them kneeling, the second standing above them, their arrows drawn. Everything was pointed at the enemy, coincidentally, it was pointed at me.  

   Their swordsmen were closing in. In a few more breaths, if I stopped running, they'd be on top of me. But the warlocks' hands sparked with iridescent colors, luminance dripping from their fingers, while the arrowheads reflected that same vibrancy.

   Loose! 

   I ducked, this time holding a shield towards my own men. Scalding heat passed over my back, whirlwinds of icicles, torrents of shadow, wind and earth, and singing steel cut the air above my head. I rolled onto my back and watched a spectacle that was from neither dream nor nightmare, for there was nothing so surreal as the horrific splendor of wanton bloodshed. Spells rained, painting resplendent hues of lacerated flesh and armor melted from magma, accented by a chorus of screams, the snapping of bone and the shattering of spells against runed shields. Where their incantations failed, the arrows succeeded, cutting into the chainmail and unprotected necks of the Gilded's warriors. 

    I watched as a ball of magma the size of a boulder slammed into the chest of a man, sending him before he could scream for the pain, into a cluster of his allies that smoldered beneath the boiling heap. I watched a more agile soldier of the Gilded storm though the fallen, raising a runed shield to deflect a spear of ice into incredible, showering sparks of harmless and diffused energy. His courage bolstered, he sprinted faster, only for an onslaught of arrows to delve into the unarmored crevices of his arms and thighs.  

    The mages, much like the archers, needed time to summon another wave of attacks. A brief stillness settled over the field while more enemies clambered over the mound of corpses. I took the opportunity to rush behind our ranks. As soon as I was behind the first line of archers, another flurry of devastation was unleashed.

   As I looked back behind the safety of a bulwark, I saw none from my brigade had escaped.

   Hold your positions! Casters, prepare another barrage! Archers, fire at will!

   The warlocks' glowing fists guttered and rejuvenated as the energy throbbed with their words. One of the practitioners caught my eye as I passed by. She was snickering to herself through vicious incantations, smiling, nearly cackling, as she tossed out agony in mesmerizing creations of infernal ruin. 

    I walked until I was well past the long lines of our bowmen, no longer fueled by the adrenaline, but befuddled by the deafening realization. How could I have been so blind?

    When our scribes write about the skirmish for Luna Valley, will they describe how the Azure Cloaks sacrificed one of their own brigades as bait? I wondered this as I approached Commander Vandor on his stag, after I met his eyes and found a guilty confession in them, a confused frustration. It was a glare that told me I wasn't supposed to survive, not anymore than Embla was, nor anyone else in our unit.

    "See to Arms Master Fredrick," he ordered. "Get outfitted with another bow and sword. You fought well, but the battle is scarcely over."

   "It is, though, isn't it?" I asked, glancing at the slaughter. "It was all a ruse. We were--"

   His gloved hand slammed into my cheek. I stumbled into the arms of a few swordsman watching the interaction. "Now isn't the time for insolence," Vandor spat. "Get your gear and return to ranks. Now!" Commander Vandor didn't waste anymore of his time regarding me, just returned his gaze to the mayhem.

    "Easy now, Sig," Amor muttered to me as he hauled me to my feet. "Victory is at hand, but the bear's still grizzly as always. You fought well." He gave me a toothy smile and squeezed my shoulder. All the arrows in his quiver spent. His eyes told me he had much more to say, but that now was not the place to say it. 

    I mumbled some thanks and stumbled through the ranks.

    The six warlocks with us weren't only masters, they were the doyens of their craft. Their names were known by enemy and ally alike; each of them worth a hundred or more of us. 

    Over the course of the next few days, I pieced together what had led to the uncharacteristic slaughter of my brigade, followed by the unfathomably successful slaughter of the Gilded's forces. 

    The Gilded's reconnaissance had been purposefully mislead. Some of our divisions across the country carried decoys to trick their scouts into thinking they were heavily defended, while we dressed our divisions' warlocks in normal infantry uniform, lending the appearance of being vulnerable. Sure as the dawn, they trusted their scouts and sent a substantial force meant to crush our encampment in Luna Valley.

    But our division couldn't have simply advanced on them. At the first sight of destruction magick, entire armies will retreat and regroup to discern a better strategy for approaching the opponent. Commander Vandor knew, despite trusting their scouts, that their own officers would want more substantial evidence that they could attack with little retaliation. He needed to draw the enemy so close that by the time they were aware of the trap, it had already consumed them. 

   So our commander gave them that evidence. A full brigade of ours, sunken into the dirt by an unholy amount of serrated arrows. We were a token of good faith, nothing more. A calculated risk, a transaction. He used our blood to play into their confidence.

    Now here they were, in our grips, writhing.

    "Commander Vandor sent me," I explained to Frederick. Light from conjured flame illuminated the inside of his tent. He was sitting at his desk, quill scratching against parchment, not at all distressed by what was said would be 'a close battle' to the infantrymen.

    At the sound of my voice, his head snapped up. Frederick's expression didn't attempt any falsehoods, portraying only shock ... inspiring only horror from me. A long lock of his black hair fell over his face as got up. The surprise wore off from his face, leaving only a grim countenance. "How many of your brigade returned?"

    "Only me."

    He nodded and fell silent. He turned away, giving his attention to a pile of bows and quivers on a separate table. "I'm assuming then, you've been sent for replacements. How much weight do you draw? Eight, seven stone?" His question was detached, a feigned concern. His long, sharp nose and high cheekbones, along with the sharp curvature of his jaw, remained utterly still as he processed the fact that I was still alive. 

    "Eight."

   He rifled through the bows and found one before pairing it with a quiver and passing it to me. "Only sevens and nines left. This one's a seven."

    "You knew, Frederick."

    Again, he nodded, but this time he didn't turn away. "All the officers did," he admitted.

   "And?"

   "And what, Sigrek? What do you expect me to say?" He dared to be dismayed that I expected a response from him.

   "You ... were my friend. Or at least I thought as much," I scoffed. "The fool I was."

   "Sigrek, I--"

   "This morning before we marched, when I looked at you, why didn't I see something betraying the secret you held? No flinch of remorse, of guilt? What was it that so compelled your silence, that allowed you to look in the face of someone meant for death, with no thought to warn him?"

    "The Gilded are ruthless. We had no choice but to counter with that same ruthlessness. Luna Valley will tip this war in our favor. It has already! Just look!" His hand pointed toward the plumes of smoke rising from the cinders of the Gilded's incinerated forces.

    I belted on the quiver, equally infuriated as I was dazed that he could be so callous. I began to walk away, but stopped. My fingers found fletching, and before I could think what I was doing, I had an arrow nocked and drawn, the arrowhead trained between his eyes. "You're no ally, nor friend to me. You sent me to my end and here I am to confront you, and all you can do is summon up words of practicality? Tell me, why I shouldn't kill the people who sought to kill me?"

    "It's not as simple as that. You know that war turns lives to numbers. Please, put that down."

    A tear slipped from my eye. "Not us. The Azure Cloaks don't throw lives to dust ... didn't." My hands trembled, and the arrow shook while my grasp dared to loose the tension. "Not one of you warned us!"

    "If one word of it spread amongst you, it would have all been for nothing. The plan would be forfeit, the battle perhaps lost. We have been losing this war, Sigrek."

    "And what would you have done?!" I screamed, letting the arrow loose just to the right of his head. "Falling like cards in a game of dice? Would you give yourself so simply?! A sacrifice for a meager gain?"

    Shouts of victory started to spread amongst the clangor of  swords. Swordsmen rushed into the fields to finish off the wounded and push the Gilded into a retreat that would lead into a slaughter in the woods. 

    Frederick's eyes were wide as moons after the arrow had nearly shaved the tip off one of his long, pointed ears. The arrow had torn clean through the canvas of his tent, catching a stack of parchment on his desk along the way.

    "For pity's sake, I'll give you ..." I wiped my face, "I'll give you one chance to reconcile any shred of humanity you might have."

    "I am only an arms master. My words count for nothing. I fought them, but the other officers were utterly convinced there was no other way. That--"

    "Enough!" 

    Frederick ears and eyes fell toward the ground. He held his head in his hands before raising bloodshot eyes to meet mine. He was only two years my senior, blessed with fulfilling a role that required little combat from him, rather the organization of contracted blacksmiths and the arming of our infantry. Still, we trained together for a time, traveled together for years, and spoke at length regardless of the illusion of authority his position often lent him. 

    "You truly have nothing to say for it, do you? For betrayal? For the merciless sacrifice of your own people?" I thought aloud, my voice growing dim. "Did you think, then, this morning would be the last time you looked at me?" I wondered.

    "I'm sorry, Sigrek."

    I held up my hand to stop him, still bearing the two-fingered glove of an archer, its leather stained with Embla's blood. I turned until my heels faced him. But before I walked away, I found words slipping from my lips, oddly collected, cold, and calm. "Were it not for the present circumstances, I would have buried that arrow in your skull and saved one for each of the other officers. I don't wish to speak to you again, and I advise you avoid me just as well ... for your own sake. Put my head on a spike for saying so, at least I've spoken my truth."

    When he didn't attempt to respond, I walked away.

    Behind me, the sky hemorrhaged with the cries of the dying, the shouts of the victorious, the commands of the cowardly. A silence deepened in my chest and fell from my lips in steady breaths of resolute hatred, a callous and unperturbed desire for retribution, at whatever expense it would ask of me.

To be unhappy...

Most say it's bad.

I say it's fire, the sort that burns in your belly.

The same fire that got the Titanic halfway across the ocean and right into the middle of a gigantic-fucking-ice-berg.

What drives a man more than complete misery?

Where he goes, that's tough to say.

But the point remains.

"Oh no," Porter thought. Space itself twisted and folded. One minute ago, Porter worked on the interferometer on the Icarus probe. Commander Jensen had been clear on the matter. Only the interferometer mattered. Porter let go of his powered screwdriver, which drifted towards the edge of the anomaly. The space-time lensing enveloped the tool like a rock dropping into a pond. Porter shook his head in anxious disbelief. "I must be high, please just let me be really, trippin' high!" 

"Come again, Lieutenant" his radio crackled. 

"Please, just tell me someone slipped me LSD in the air supply," Porter responded. 

"Lieutenant, ah..." Porter noticed. Commander Jensen had been stumped exactly once before. Birthday cakes inspired by the Aliens movies did not sit well with that guy. 

"Either I am high," Porter said - no begged. "... or I may have accidentally set off the wormhole generator." 

"Lieutenant, it's called a quantum-foam-generator." 

Porter sighed. The ripples the screwdriver had made faded along the edges of the wormhole. He could fire the RCS thrusters on his suit. He could scream in panic. Or pray to god. But the wormhole was forming and it would engulf anything within a kilometer. Porter felt like a ball rolling in a roulette wheel. 

"Lieutenant, your bio-metrics are going wide," Commander Jensen said, his voice icy calm. A voice so calm it sounded more appropriate in the company of divorce lawyers. And who in their right mind described bio-metrics as wide anyway? Porter sighed again. Porter's tombstone would read "LOST IN SPACE" under his birthday and date of death. His dad would grunt in disapproval. Porter's rebellion had been signing up for engineering college. 

The wormhole widened, filling Porter's field of view. So this is how I end, Porter thought.  

Mickey slammed his walker’s pick axe into the ground, finally dislodging the stubborn piece of subterranean cliff face free. It roared as the rocks holding in place gave way and it tumbled below shattering to thousands of pieces. The avalanche of rocky debris following it lasted for several minutes. And it began moving its way to the left, right where Mickey had anchored his walker.

He quickly manipulated the controls to break free from his anchors. He fired the aged boosters of the vehicle to the cargo lift he’d used to get himself down here. As his mech started to settle he pressed the transmit key on his radio, “Ok, pull me up! This whole place is coming loose!”

A brief delay spanned the time between his radio call and the creaky lift’s gears started struggling to raise upward in defiance of gravity. Before he was halfway up the avalanche was settling down and was well below him. He turned around and popped the cockpit hatch of walker and took in the beauty blue sky above. The light was not generous with its presence due to the fissure he’d been digging in. But eventually the sun’s warmth smiled on him as he was brought back heavenward.

As his walker’s torso cleared the lip of fissure the drill chief called out to him, “Caused a hell of a ruckus this time, didn’t you, Mickey?! Why don’t you be a little louder next time?” The late-forties man called waving around a hammer to mockingly nail down his displeasure.

“I can only give you one miracle a month, chief. So that’s it,” Mickey said as he pointed his hand downward.

“Oh yeah? Somethin’ good then?”

“Maybe. I briefly glimpsed a metal hand sticking out of the dirt down there. Might need to dig it up a bit, but it looked good,” Mickey replied.

“What color?!” Chief Durham asked excitedly as Mickey’s elevator ride came to a halt.

“Hmmmmm…” Mickey tried to remember. It was dark down there, so he’d have guessed a red one. Instead he said, “Green, I think.”

“Dawww!” Durham shouted and threw his hammer on the ground. “You’re good for nothin’ you know that?!”

Mickey nodded, “I know I am. That’s why you keep me around.” Mickey's little lie would be a surprise to the Chief who had been looking for a replacement arm on his equally ancient mech.

“I ‘keep you around’ because you’re the Queens’ cousin! I ain’t got a choice!” Durham shouted as Mickey rolled his eyes and turned his walker away from the dig site. A recovery crew was already lined up and ready to make the journey down in there.

Mickey walked his machine over to one of the parking stations. It clanked and clattered its way over yet the ride remained pretty smooth for the short walk. He dismounted the part war machine, part labor machine, as it settled; the ancient micro-fusion reactor began its cool down process. Mickey keyed in his locking passcode on the old mechanical keyboard, for which some of the keys had popped off long ago. Of those missing some were his fault, some were just the outcome of what the wear that accompanies war.

Gonna need a new one soon, the atrophy of a machine being stuck buried under the ground for a few centuries would do. Mickey mused.

He landed somewhat off balance on the packed dirt beneath his feet. Quickly recovering he went over to the tent where food was prepared and served. Getting in behind the short line and shuffling his way forward, he grabbed one of the medium-sized brown bowls. He'd been down in the fissure for over six hours trying to break free that rock face; now was definitely the time for chow.

"Hey Mickey!" someone a couple spots ahead of him shouted. It was Brandesca - a tan-skinned, black haired native to the southern continent named Eloway. "Heard you break that rock free, finally. I never doubted you!"

Mickey smiled and jerked his head upward in acknowledgement, "Yeah? How much you bet on me?" Mickey offered the gambler a knowing smile.

"Got two free meal cards for Asa's back in the Capital - figure I owe you one!" Brandesca smiled, holding one of the tickets up.

Mickey raised a triumphant fist, "Thanks a ton! Don't take liberty without me! And don't win too much, people will start to think we're running a racket."

"Never. And too late for that last part," Brandesca called over his shoulder as some of the daily soup ration was poured into his bowl.

Mickey shook his head but couldn't shake the smile. Truth be told his life was a life of hard labor but, in some respects, it was an easy life and not because he was related to the Queen. He'd not been in a battle in over two years but that was more because of the war with the Allied Nations of the Bassik Regime was starting to settle down a bit. Some were even whispering of peace being on the horizon.

Peace? In our time? It'd be a miracle. Mickey thought silently. To say such things aloud was tantamount to treason - there would be no peace, or talks of peace, unless made by an official representative of the Queen in an official capacity. Any other utterances were a good way to get tossed in a jail. And, in Mickey's case, have his hard-won and well-tuned walker taken away from him, regardless of his familial ties.

Under salvage laws if you unearthed one of the ancient vehicles - be it a tank, or walker, or one of the rare but highly prized mobile artillery platforms - you got to keep it if you laid claim to it. The problem was that you had to offer a minimum of a six-month contract to use it in service to the Queen and Land. This could be anything from civil construction to front-line combat duty or, as in Mickey's present case, salvage work. The clause in this contract was that the all two-hundred personnel of the whole salvage team could be rotated into combat duty. In exchange for the possibility of additional danger the contract was only needed for four months.

That meant, with the three months he'd already put in for his service this year, he'd be able to take liberty for the rest of the year. He'd take Brandesca up on his offer to visit Asa's then probably head east to go back home. Truth be told Mickey was a homebody. He liked his walker and the freedom it gave him, but he truly liked being out and about in the countryside on his own. He hated the public attention being the Queen's cousin brought him so he down-played it as much as he could. He took no favors. His father had always told him to be his own man and that meant not leaning on the crown.

It was also one of the reasons the salvager's life was so appealing: he go to see new places in, relatively, small groups. A crew of 200 was small compared to a full order battle army of 3,000+ personnel. With the added benefit that no one from the other side was shooting at you and no one from your side was threatening you with infantry drills in the hot desert sun.

Mickey sat down at one of the benches set up outside the food tent across from Brandesca. "So whatcha thinkin'?"

"What abouts?"

"About the Bassik. Think they're going to make another big push?" This was Mickey's way of getting around asking if the Bassik would surrender, which could be construed as indirectly suggesting peace. Using this wording he could always defend himsely by saying he was waiting to find out when he could next look forward to some combat time.

Brandesca shrugged, "Dunno. They've been quiet for a long time now. Getting past four months now - makes you think that they're up to something."

Mickey nodded. The unspoken comment was that the Queen's government hadn't made any official overtures of discussing a cease fire or formal truce to end the war; hence, that meant that another offensive by one side or the other would be soon.

"You think those Larries up in the Angel Pass are scheming? Last I hear there was an awful lot of them up there," Mickey posed.

"And what do you know about the Larries?" spoke the voice of the woman beside Mickey: Mirshella. Her great grandparents had been Larenthal immigrants to the Monarchy of Queensland. Being a partially descendant Larry she was the defacto authority on them.

"Not much. Just the scuttle that goes around," Mickey said taking a slurp of his soup.

"Mhm," she eyed him. "They're up to something, I'd bet. The Larries are too aggressive. They'll be chomping at the bit for a fight."

"Yeah but ain't nothin' up there," Brandesca objected.

"Nothing we know about," Mirshella replied.

"You think they've found another cache of the Ancients' weapons?"

Mirshella shrugged, "More likely they're gathering to draw off our attention, I think. Larry doesn't like to come at you head-on you see, he likes to trick you. I would guess they're meant to be our distraction while the Bassik come rolling in from elsewhere."

Mirshella had a keen understanding of the Queen's enemies simply because she'd studied her ancestors' history. No one, however, dared to think she wasn't absolutely dedicated to her home of Queensland. She'd been honored as a Queen's Patriot twice - even saw action in saving the Queen's entourage a few years back when a Bassik ambush tried to assassinate Her Majesty. No one had the grounds to question Mirshella, regardless of her ancestor's birth place.

Mickey slurped up another spoonful of his soup as Brandesca responded, "I hope our contract is over by then."

Mickey nodded and Mirshella gave a slight nod too, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one else could hear her as she whispered conspiratorially, "I just hope this shit ends soon. Ten years for a war is far too long."

Mickey growled a "Mhmm" around his hot soup while Brandesca gave a discreet thumbs up. They'd all known war their teenage to adult lives. They'd all hoped for peace. They just couldn't say anything to openly express that desire.

Treading unbeknownst in every mind, a lurking shadow without figure. Ethereal, fantastical, a character of the mind, his existence is whispered into the crevices of the world. At the dawn, so it is. He remains elusive in the fabrics of fiction. 

As the beams of life start to emanate across the horizon, his shadow begins to take form and solidify. His imminent presence brings a cloud of dread. As the first icy breath tickles the back of your neck, he steals the irretrievable, leaving only the black knife that pierces you. It is poisoned, spreading its cold, ruthless venom to every fiber of your being. You see him clearly for the first time; an enemy is born. 

You live with the mark of his darkness for some time, before once again you feel the crawl of his fingertips along your spine. The knife drives with familiarity this time, but just as raw, just as agonizing. The animosity turns to ache, capitulation, despair. He is the victor, and you fall slave to his musings, hypnotized by the prospect of finality. He turns you against his opposer, and now a new hatred, a new rivalry forms; he is now your savior from all that is wrong. But he passes by you, leaves you to the pain, the turmoil, as you await his rescue. You beg and plead into the heedless night for the nameless stranger to offer his companionship, to vanish into his domain.

No word, no whisper of his whereabouts. You must move on and let his shadow fade into the distance. For he does not offer comfort. He is distant and cold, fraught with purpose. Let him diminish into the recedes of the universe, you will come to know him in time. When dusk sets in, his figure will loom larger, more vivid, more tangible. No knife, no enmity, an embrace awaits, familiar and welcome, as equals you become with a final breath.