Author Archives: Copperfield

About Copperfield

Since 2000, The Copperfield Review has been a leading market for historical fiction. Copperfield was named one of the top sites for new writers by Writer's Digest and it is the winner of the Books and Authors Award for Literary Excellence. We publish short historical fiction as well as history-based nonfiction, poetry, reviews, and interviews.

Writing Historical Fiction Part 3

Read all about it. 

Track down as many primary sources as you can—sources written or created during the time period you’re studying: journals, diaries, autobiographies, news film footage, interviews, photographs, speeches, books (both fiction and nonfiction), research data, even art. I still remember the afternoon I spent at my local university library looking up old newspaper clippings from the early 20th century when I was researching Victory Garden. It was fascinating to see what had been written between the years 1917-1922, the days when the women’s suffrage movement, World War I, and then Prohibition were happening. I was also fascinated to see how propaganda was used then, which wasn’t so different from the way it was used during World War II. Here’s a funny thing you learn when you’re researching history: the more things change, the more they stay the same. I even enjoyed reading advertisements from the period because it gave me a sense of the culture then. On the surface everything appears so naïve and innocent in the early 20th century, the Coca-Cola ads, the blemish cream ads, the shaving cream ads, especially when compared to today’s commercials, but looks can be deceiving. Reading primary sources gives you a finger on the pulse of the times. What were people thinking and feeling then? As writers of historical fiction, it’s our job to find out so we can share it with our readers. These days, you don’t even have to go to the library because you can find a lot of primary sources online. Whether you find the information online or in the library, this type of knowledge about the culture of the era will add a lot of depth to your historical story.

You can also read secondary sources such as books by historians, biographers, and social critics about your time. Read other historical novels set during the time too.  Read it all. Even if most of the information doesn’t end up in your novel (and most of it won’t), it’s knowledge that will act as a backbone for the information you do share in your story. What you know will inform your writing, and the more of an expert you become through your research, the more expertly you will carry your readers into your chosen historical era. As writers of historical fiction, it’s our job to paint the scene of days gone by for our readers to visualize and understand. The more of an understanding we have about the era, the more interesting we can make it for our readers.

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9 Tips for Submitting to Editors

After I was invited to speak at the Henderson Writers Group, I had to decide what I had to offer that was useful. As the executive editor of The Copperfield Review, an award-winning literary journal for readers and writers of historical fiction, I realized I could offer tips on how to make submissions stand out so they had a better chance of being published.

Most writers write with the intention of being published. Not all writers. A few years ago I taught a creative writing workshop for adults in California and I had a lovely older lady as a student. She was taking my class because she wanted to write her life story for her grandchildren and she wanted to write it well. But most writers want to submit their work to magazines, journals, agents, and book editors so they can be published.

Every day writers give editors many reasons to say no to their submissions. If you can help your submission stand out from the crowd, in a good way, then you can increase your chances of getting a yes and being published. Here are my best tips for submitting to editors.

Don’t…

9. Cc every editor you’re submitting to in one email

Most editors understand that writers are sending simultaneous submissions, meaning that writers are sending their work to several journals at a time. Even so, it’s important for writers to take the few extra minutes to send a separate email to each individual editor. It looks more professional, like the writer cares about presentation. Cc’d submissions look lazy, quite frankly, and other editors I know agree with me. Every time I’m included in a cc list with other editors, inevitably a few of the other editors will email me and ask “Did you see that email?” Then they’ll follow the question with something like “What a jerk!” or some other expletive I won’t include here. I don’t look too closely at cc’d submissions, and neither do other editors I know.

8. Misspell the editor’s name

7. Confuse the editor’s gender

Make sure you spell the editor’s name correctly, and check to see if the editor is a boy or a girl. If I had a dollar for every time I received an email addressed to Mr. Allred I could have bought out Borders and prevented it from going out of business. I’ve seen my name as Allston, Allen, Allan, and every other variant of All— you can think of. On The Copperfield Review The Staff page, my name is there, spelled correctly, and you can see at a glance that my gender pronoun is ‘she.’ It’s the same for other editors or agents—the information is on their websites. Just three weeks ago we received a submission addressed to “Dear Sirs.” There isn’t a single “sir” on the staff of Copperfield. That submission was laughed right into the no-thanks file. Details are important. Really.

6. Resubmit a new version of your work 

Whether your work is accepted or rejected, don’t resend a new version to the same editor. If your work was rejected, it wasn’t right for that editor for various reasons. It isn’t anything about your talent or even that particular story. Different editors have different preferences, that’s all. Keep sending the story out to different editors. But don’t send it back to the same editor, even if you’ve reworked it—that is, unless the editor has specifically said to send it back after you’ve made revisions.

That goes for work that’s been accepted too. It’s happened where we’ve accepted a piece for publication and then the writer says something like, “I’ve reworked my story. Here’s the new version.” If we accepted it, then we thought it was fine. We don’t need a new version. At Copperfield, we stopped accepting new versions because we were doing twice the work—formatting the original we accepted, then formatting the new one. Now on our guidelines it says writers need to send in the version they want to see online since what they send us (if it’s accepted) is what’s going up. Send in your best stuff the first time, and that will make the process easier for you and for the editors.

5. Forget to let editors know your work has been accepted elsewhere

I took a quick poll of a few editor friends of mine. I asked them what their number one pet peeve was concerning submissions, and every one said they’re most annoyed when they choose a work for publication and then find out the work has been accepted elsewhere.

The issue isn’t that the work has been picked up by another journal. Nearly every editor I know is a writer too, and we’re thrilled when other writers are published whether it’s in our journal or someone else’s. The problem occurs when we aren’t told a submission is no longer up for consideration. At Copperfield, we spend a lot of time reading and rereading every submission we receive. If authors don’t tell us their work has been accepted elsewhere and we spend time considering their work, we’ve just wasted hours, and, like many of you, we don’t have hours to waste. A simple e-mail is all it takes. No long explanations required. But it is expected, professional courtesy to let editors know your work is no longer up for grabs.

Do…

4. Send in your most polished work

I’m a writer too, and I know what it’s like to be eager to be published. It takes discipline to keep reworking a piece until it’s polished and ready to submit, especially since the revising process could take weeks or even months. You don’t need to rush the submitting process. Literary journals, agents, and publishers aren’t going to disappear (maybe publishers will disappear if you believe what you read).

Run your work by a critique group. Take writing classes. Read some great short stories and examine their greatness. Develop an ear for well-written dialogue. Unwieldy or unnecessary dialogue is a common problem in submissions we see at Copperfield. Give yourself time to grow into the writer you want to be. I know we live in the “I want it now” era, but there’s no rush. You’re on no one else’s timetable but your own. Make sure your story is the best it can be before you send it off to editors.

3. Proofread your queries and submissions

It’s important to proofread for typos and other boo-boos. It goes back to showing editors, agents, and anyone else you’re submitting to that you’re serious about writing. You’re not sending in something you wrote off the top of your head, and you took the time to read and reread to check for mistakes. Sometimes it’s hard to catch your own mistakes because your eyes see what they expect to see, and they expect to see what you meant to write. Maybe you meant to write ‘she’ instead of ‘the’ but your finger went to the right instead of the left and…you know how it goes. And spellcheck, while a great tool, isn’t perfect.

It’s helpful to have another set of eyes proofread your work for you. Whether it’s a friend with a firm grasp of language and spelling or you hire a professional editor, someone else will often catch those pesky typos before you do, and that will help you create a professional looking draft most editors will be happy to consider.

2. Read previous editions of the journal/publication to see what they publish

Sites like New Pages or the Literary Magazines page from Poets & Writers are great resources for finding journals that publish stories like the ones you’ve written. When I first started writing historical fiction I searched for journals that published that genre, but I couldn’t find any. As a result, I started my own—The Copperfield Review. With so many journals online these days, it’s easy to click through their stories to see what they like to publish, and it helps to whittle down your list of possible submissions.

The Copperfield Review is a journal of historical fiction. You’d be amazed at the countless submissions we’ve received over the years that were not at all historical in nature. Writers waste their time sending their non-historical submissions to us. That’s one more rejection letter they wouldn’t have received if they had checked our website. Even a cursory glance would show that The Copperfield Review is a journal of historical fiction.

If you write science fiction, seek out science fiction journals. If you write mystery, humor, romance, inspirational, literary—whatever it is, there’s a journal out there that publishes it. Send your work to those journals because you’ll have a better chance of being published. And if such a journal doesn’t exist, start your own. It worked for me.

1. Follow the submission guidelines exactly as stated

As a writer myself, I understand that sometimes submission guidelines seem petty, even vindictive—you know, a way to make writers more miserable. What does it matter if it asks for a third person bio? What does it matter if I send in seven poems at a time instead of three? But those guidelines exist for a reason, and editors notice if writers don’t follow them. You’re going to have to trust me on this.

Maybe the problem is the word guidelines, which sounds more like submission suggestions. The guidelines exist because the editors need some semblance of sanity, a method to our madness, to help us weed through hundreds of submissions per edition. For example, we don’t accept file attachments because we caught viruses when we did. We only accept three poems at a time and we have a word limit for fiction and nonfiction because we’re a tiny staff with day jobs, families, and other life obligations. We ask for a third person bio because books, newspapers, and magazines use third person bios. I understand that to authors it might not seem like a big deal whether they send in a bio in first or third person, but it makes a difference to us as we put each new edition together.

For writers who want a one-size-fits-all file that will work as a submission for fifty different journals, I’m afraid that’s not likely. Submissions that follow the guidelines are the ones we look at seriously for publication. Writers careful to follow our specific guidelines at Copperfield are showing us that they take their writing seriously, they care about presentation, and they’re making the process easier by giving us what we’ve asked for. All I can say is a hearty “Thank you!” to those writers.

It isn’t so hard to send in a strong submission. It boils down to being professional, sending in your best work, and following the guidelines. If you can do those things, the sky is the limit for your writing career.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Join Meredith online at www.meredithallard.com.

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Writing Historical Fiction Part 2


2.  Be as specific as you can when researching.

When you’ve chosen your time period, or when your time period has chosen you (as it occasionally happens), then it’s time to narrow your topic to a workable size. This is particularly true if you’re dealing with a vast subject, like the American Civil War, for example. To research the entire war would be too huge of a project, that is unless you’re Shelby Foote and willing to dedicate 20 years of your life to the task. There is simply too much material to shift through. If you can narrow your focus to something like a single event, a single year, or a single battle then the research will be far more workable and not as burdensome. When I was researching my American Civil War story I kept my focus on one regiment during the last year of the war. That is still a sizable topic because a lot happened during the last year of the war, but the fact that I was concentrating on a single regiment helped me from falling too far off the track. It was easier to search specifically for the information I needed to tell my story since I knew exactly what I was looking for.

Sometimes, however, it’s hard to narrow your topic if you’re not really sure what years or which events your story is going to cover. That happened to me when I was researching Victory Garden, a story set around World War I and the woman suffrage movement. As with the Loving Husband Trilogy, which is centered around the Salem Witch Trials, I knew very little about the World War I era. I have this odd habit of coming up with story ideas set during times I know little about, but for me that’s part of the fun of writing historical fiction—learning about the history.

For the suffrage story all I had to begin with was a vague idea that I wanted to explore the difficult fight for women’s right to vote. To begin, I did some general research to get some sense of the era. As I learned about the time, I was able to get a clearer sense of how the events would fit into the fictional story I was weaving about a woman involved in the suffrage movement. After I did enough general research I was then able to focus my attention on the specific aspects of woman suffrage that intrigued me. With a lot of reading and even more notetaking, I discovered that I wanted my story to take place between the years 1918, when WWI ended, and 1920, when women finally received the vote. Through more research, I learned that Prohibition was an important factor in American society around the same time, too, and that gave me another angle to work with. Soon (as in a few weeks into my research) I was able to see my fictional character Rose Scofield moving around these true-life events between the years 1918 and 1920, participating in the suffrage movement, watching friends come home from the war, going to Prohibition meetings (though she may not have been happy about what she heard). I wish Boardwalk Empire and Downton Abbey had been around then. These TV shows could have helped me get into the spirit of the times as I was writing.

Even when you are interested in the era you are researching, the task of digging through piles of information can seem overwhelming, not to mention tedious. But if you are genuinely intrigued in the era and do some preliminary research, you can narrow your topic to a workable size. Once you have your topic whittled to a workable size, then you are making your research time purposeful and even enjoyable. Yes, I said enjoyable. Or am I the only one who loves to read about history and take notes. Anyone? Anyone?______________________________________________________________

Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Join Meredith online at www.meredithallard.com.

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Writing Historical Fiction Part 1

As the editor of The Copperfield Review and the author of seven historical novels, I’ve been asked to teach classes about how to write historical fiction. I’m often asked to share my best tips for writing in that genre. Here they are, starting today with Part 1.

1.  Write about an era that fascinates you. 

This is similar to one of my tips for writing a first draft: write what you must write. An historical novel is a project that could require months or even years of research, so you need to write about a period that can hold your interest for that long.  Most writers of historical fiction choose their historical period based on a long-time interest in the period and that is a good way to start.  Writers who are fascinated by Victoria’s England feel compelled to write about ladies in corsets and men in waistcoats and find great joy in describing those details to others.

It’s usually best not to pick a time period for your novel out of a passing fancy. If you’re writing a novel set around the French Revolution but don’t find the details or the people of the French Revolution particularly interesting, then your project is in trouble because you’re going to avoid the research with every Excuse you can name. No one wants to spend their time reading about something that bores them. But if you’re fascinated by the French Revolution and the events of that time, then you’ll look forward to digging through the archives, flipping through the index, and skimming for important details as you search for the next big clue that will help you fit the pieces of your story puzzle together.

On the other hand, it might happen that you develop an interest in the era you have chosen to write about. I came up with an idea for a story set during the Salem Witch Trials, which oddly enough happened to be a time I knew little about. Though I had never had much interest in that era prior to my crazy story idea (my only experience with the 17th century witch hunts was reading The Crucible in college and watching the movie with Daniel Day-Lewis about ten years ago), I did become fascinated by the frightening happenings of the time through my research.

Whether you’ve chosen your era from a life-long interest, or you develop a fascination out of your research, you need to enjoy the time spent in your chosen era. You’re going to be there awhile.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Visit her online at meredithallard.com.

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Productivity for Writers and Other People

By Meredith Allard

It’s interesting to me to see how conversations change over time. Not so long ago everyone was praising multi-tasking as the best thing ever. Hey, I can write the world’s greatest novel while reading blogs while checking every new email the moment it pops into my inbox while keeping track of every ping on Facebook and Twitter while walking the dog while doing my taxes while binge watching Netflix while juggling watermelons while yodeling to the tune of “O Solo Mio.” At the end of the day I’d wonder why I hadn’t written more. Had I really lost an entire day watching cat videos on YouTube? Then I realized that I didn’t want to spend more time working. I wanted to get more done.

Around this time, I started seeing articles about how multi-tasking may not be all it was cracked up to be. We weren’t putting all our attention and talent into any one task; as a result, we weren’t working to the best of our abilities because our attention was too scattered. Enter the discussion about productivity.

I think the reason there are so many articles about productivity is because so many of us are struggling with the same issue—how do we work more efficiently so that we’re getting more and better work done in less time? Here are a few tricks I’ve learned lately that have helped me stay focused while I’m working. I wrote this post from the point of view of a writer hoping to steal back some of her precious time to get more writing done, but I hope anyone who is having some concerns about their productivity will find these tips useful.

  1. I changed my homepage for the Internet.

Since I’ve had the Internet in the mid 1990s I’ve used AOL as my homepage. My email address is through AOL, so by using AOL as my homepage I could check my email as soon as I logged online. But you know how it goes…there are the news links, the entertainment links, the books links, along with any other links that might catch my eye. Once AOL and The Huffington Post joined hands, I was done for. I’d spend an hour reading blog posts and getting no work done in the process. Was it fun? For sure, though there were definitely times when I was wondering why I was reading about celebrities I didn’t even care about. I had just wasted an hour I could have spent getting my work done.

About three months ago I changed my Internet homepage to my own website. That might sound a little self-serving, but it helps me in two ways. First, I can do a quick glance at my site to see if there are comments I need to respond to, which I can often do in under five minutes. Second, there are no news feeds to distract me so I’m able to get right to whatever it is I need on the Internet. Yes, I have to click on one or two more links to get to my email, but it’s worth it to me to skip over the distractions.

  1. I check my email twice a day.

I check my email in the morning to see if there’s anything imperative that needs seeing to, and then I check my email at the end of my work day to see if there’s something that came in since the morning. That’s it.

  1. I removed the Facebook and Twitter apps from my phone and iPad and stopped all social media notifications.

Now the only way I can access Facebook and Twitter is to log in on my computer. This extra step helps to scratch the itch that used to lead me to check my social media pages every five minutes to see if someone posted a new cute cat photo. I check Facebook and Twitter twice a day, quick scans to see what others are up to and if there’s anything I need to respond to, which, again, I can usually do in less than five minutes.

I also removed all social media notifications. I no longer get instant pings whenever I get a new email or message on Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest. When I was getting the notifications everything else stopped until I discovered who sent the message and what it said. One day, in a burst of wisdom, I realized that most of the pings were about things of extreme unimportance. I decided that I wanted to focus my attention on things that are important so I turned off the notifications, and I don’t even miss them.

  1. I schedule my Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn posts.

I use Hootsuite to schedule my posts on Facebook, Twitter, and LinkedIn. It takes about an hour to schedule a week’s worth of posts, and then I’m done and don’t have to search every day for what to post on social media.

  1. I started using Google calendar to schedule my daily tasks.

For years I used paper and pencil notebooks and planners, but in my new wish to downsize my belongings (I love Marie Kondo’s books about decluttering) I’ve become totally electronic. Google calendar is heaven sent. It’s free, and all you need is a gmail account, which is also free. You can share your calendar with others, or you can keep it private. So now I know each day what I need to accomplish.

For example, today I had several tasks to tend to: complete my word count for the first draft of Down Salem Way, write this blog post, and find five sites to advertise Her Dear & Loving Husband, which is once again free. When those tasks are finished, I’m done with my work for the day, which is always a good feeling. Knowing what I have to do helps me stay focused. When I wasn’t keeping track of my daily tasks I just floated about looking at stupid stuff on the Internet because I was never sure what to do next so I’d go back to those cute cat videos on YouTube.

On a side note, I also find that it helps to know exactly what I’m looking for when I go onto the Internet. Right now, I’m back to researching the Salem Witch Trials for Down Salem Way, and I’m also looking for places to advertise When It Rained at Hembry Castle and Her Dear & Loving Husband. I have those tasks on my Google calendar too so I know what I’m searching for. It stops me from going back to (you guessed it–the cute cat videos).

  1. I turned off the TV.

The TV is not completely gone because I do love my Netflix and Amazon Prime streaming. For years, even if I wasn’t watching a show I had the TV on acting as background noise. Now the TV is off, as in off off, with a blank screen and everything. I started listening to music because music always helps to get my creative juice flowing. I’ve also started listening to podcasts because I realized I’d rather listen to some intelligent conversation than some TV show I don’t care about, and I can listen while I work. Rather than distracting me, the podcasts tap into my inquisitiveness about the world and they help me think, which is always a good thing.

My podcast tastes are pretty eclectic, like everything else about me. I love podcasts about writing and the publishing industry like Joanna Penn’s The Creative Penn. As I’m learning more about productivity, I’m also learning more about how to be centered and healthy in this crazy world of ours so I listen to Shawn Stevenson’s The Model Health Show and Pedram Shojai’s The Urban Monk. The School of Greatness with Lewis Howes is also pretty cool, and Shambhala features talks by famous meditation teachers in their podcast Meditation in the City. I recently discovered the History Chicks’ podcast, a great listen for a history buff like me.

  1. I had to learn to stop checking everything everywhere.

We’ve all heard of the social ill the Fear of Missing Out (affectionately—or not depending on your point of view—known as FOMO). I was right there with everyone else, checking my social media every five minutes, worrying that what was going on over there was more important than what was going on over here. Also, because I’m a writer I was constantly checking my stats on my website and my book sales. Why did I sell more books on Wednesday than Monday? How come this book’s sales have slipped? Why did this post get more views than that post? I’d check my Amazon sales page five or six times a day, as if things were going to be that different between 3 and 5 pm. And then when things were the same I felt disappointed that some magical sales boost hadn’t happened.

Not only is this kind of constant worry exhausting, it isn’t productive. When I was worried about book sales or website stats I should have been writing. There was some time there when I was a writer who wasn’t writing—or at least I wasn’t writing as much as I could have been. I was so concerned about all these other aspects, some of which were beyond my control, and you know what? They don’t matter. Sales don’t matter. Website hits don’t matter. The only thing that matters is how I feel about what I’m doing. I was allowing other people’s perceptions of me (or even worse, my own perception of other people’s perceptions of me) to affect how I felt about myself, and that, my friends, is never a good thing.

As a result, I put myself on my “no checking stats” rule that I live by to this day. I no longer check my Amazon, BN, or Kobo sales pages. I no longer check to see how many page views my latest blog post has. My one exception is that when I’m running a promotion I may check my book sales pages to see if the promotion is worth its weight in beans, but otherwise my Amazon page is a no-go. Because you know what? My books are going to sell as many copies that day as they’re going to sell whether I’m compulsively checking or not. Why make myself crazy and waste time in the process? Yes, it does takes some self-restraint to go from checking 10 times a day to zero times a day, but it is possible. If you’re not able to go cold turkey like I did, maybe try checking just once a day and see how that goes.

  1. I started paying more attention to my health.

There was a time in the not-so-distant past when I wasn’t eating well. I was eating and drinking way too much sugar, and my exercise habits had all but disappeared. As I’m working toward becoming a more productive writer, I’m also learning more about health and wellness (mostly from the afore mentioned Model Health Show podcast from Shawn Stevenson). I’ll have more to say about this in a later post, but for now I’ll say that whoever you are, no matter what your profession, you have to get up and move. You have to put healthy food into your body. You have to drink more water. The better you feel, the more productive you’re able to be because you’re healthier. It’s hard to be productive when you feel lousy. Do what you can to help yourself feel better.

I am definitely getting more work done in less time. I’m no longer wasting time—or, more accurately, I’m wasting far less time. I still spend more time on Pinterest than I need to, but hey, no one’s perfect. For the first time, I’m writing two books at a time, which is something I’ve never been able to do before. By whittling away at time wasters and finding ways to streamline my work time, I’ve been able to get more done. From now on, instead of multi-tasking, I’ll be focusing on productivity.

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Maharanis: The Lives and Times of Three Generations of Indian Princesses

Written by Lucy Moore

Published by Penguin UK (2004)

Review by Rosemary Johnson

 

Jit asked Indira why she looked so sad. If she was about to be married, he said, she ‘should be over the moon’.

‘I’m miserable because I’m getting married,’ she replied.

‘Well, why don’t you marry me?’ came Jit’s response.

The year is 1911 and the location the Dehli ‘durbar’ to celebrate the coronation of King George V. Jit (or Jitendra) is the second son of the easy-going, westernised Maharaja of Cooch Behar, a small province in north east India.  Indira is the only daughter of the Sayajirao Gaekwad, Maharaja of Baroda, who has just insulted King George by bowing once, instead of three times – and turning his back on him – when paying homage at the durbar ceremony.  Although otherwise liberal and forward-looking, Sayajirao and his wife, Chimnabai, have arranged for seventeen year old Indira to be married to the rich, thirty-five year old Maharaja Madhavrao Scindia of Gwalior, in full knowledge that she would be his second wife and live her life behind the purdah curtain, in the zenana.

So far, so Bollywood.  But this is history, not chicklit. Shenanigan followed shenanigan, the lovers egged on by Jit’s mother, Sunity Devi, friend of the British Royal Family and daily celebrity fodder for the British newspapers.  The Indian princely families could not resist the high life in Europe: gambling, horse racing, balls, cricket, polo, motor cars and alcohol – particularly alcohol.  Jit would die of alcoholism, together with his own and Indira’s brothers.

Lucy Moore’s Maharanis: The Lives and Times of Three Generations of Indian Princesses recounts the lives of three generations of princesses in Baroda and Cooch Behar.  One of the strengths is Lucy’s full descriptions of life in purdah.  When Chimnabai, then aged fourteen, arrived in Baroda as a bride, her carriage was curtained, so she saw nothing and nobody saw her.  Zenana women never saw the outside of the buildings in which they lived. They watched, intently, everything that went on in the palace, but their lives inevitably gravitated inward, taken up with squabbles amongst themselves. However, without giving away any spoilers, Indira would never suffer purdah, although her daughter, Ayesha, chose partially to enter the zenana when she became the third wife of Jai, Maharaja of Jaipur – because she was madly in love with him.

This book covers the period in which Indians challenged British rule.  All the princes supported independence, but without appreciating the extent to which Nehru, Gandhi and the Socialist-inclined Congress Party, which, at various times, courted the USSR, were opposed the existence of Indian aristocracy.  With the zenana becoming a thing of the past, Ayesha, a gutsy lady, becomes involved in politics, vigorously opposing Indira Gandhi, with whom she had been at school.

The writing style is occasionally rambling and occasionally difficult to follow, perhaps because we are unaccustomed to Indian names and places, but Maharanis is a well-researched and honest account of an emotional period of history.

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Rosemary Johnson has contributed to FictionAtWorkThe Short Humour SiteMslexiaLinnet’s WingsCafeLit, and Radgepacket.  Her work is based in reality, with a strong human interest element.  Although much of her work is humorous, she has also written serious fiction, about the 7/7 Bombings in London and attitudes to education before the Second World War.

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Susan L. Leary

Fraipertuis

 

Scenes like this were common:

planks ready for building but having endured the opposite,

heaps of rubble

heaped as if intentional, life in black

and white.  Everywhere, aisles of human remains:

three and four story buildings,

the walls entirely

blown out,

so all that’s erect is construct and vague ideas of former activity,

for you, that of female souls,

a mother in the center of the living

room, her hair gathered in a handkerchief and knotted

at the nape, bent over a coffee table

about to dust it.

Walking through, you are young

but act like old men, carrying not guns or boots or medical

supplies, but the threat of self-made noise:

hand to pocket,

sole to gravel,

breath to atmosphere,

and later,

at an abandoned starch factory, its makeshift tables in wait of bodies,

the flickering of candlelight.

It is the first night,

but nothing about this is dress up:

no curtain raised, no recognizable transition,

only room made as someone is rushed in,

buttons torn,

flesh reached,

an artery clamped

with immediate improvisation, everyone crouched

knees-over-boots,

heads huddled,

not getting it yet, none of you, how, pushing morphine,

you are to become a prop of comfort,

the kind that

accompanies casualty.

So I’m wondering how,

later, it gets decided—and by later,

the span of a few days: who will wear the wig,

or hold the cane,

what to do with the detective hat,

or the one with, glued to its brim, looks to be a fabric daisy,

the petals exaggerated,

these things, as soon-to-be artifacts of your horseplay,

first noticed

from inside the government-marked box,

seeking exit,

so that among the crates and others boxes

and bags,

piled high, of grain, that box

tilted,

slightly, on its axis,

abandoned during the heavy fire in such a way—sticking out

and settled in,

though separate from the ruins—that guaranteed

your audience.

And yet, penciled on the back,

Company C actors of the 325th Medical Battalion—famous

among the locals,

and flipping it

to you and three others—yourselves

yet costumed,

it disappears, any reason, for you to be in Fraipertuis.

This image, there is no implication of war,

only camaraderie without context:

guffaw, grunt, bellow, the last leaning in, his leg kicked back

for effect,

as if home, grabbing a drink, something funny

just said,

nothing feigned in the ritualistic man-hoot of insider knowledge,

the slap of the counter,

or that quick brute contact,

so as to not pass that threshold where men are no longer themselves

but men.

Then the clang and ricochet of the glass:

cheers before tomorrow,

when midday, you will bring to life Tec Sergeant Seebeck

and Pfc Webb, no script, no devising,

no hunt for substance, only parody—artless

is its material, and to even notice,

artless—

so that out there,

what’s left of the city your stage,

a slab of cobblestone intact,

its people, who, you have only imagined, crawling from their graves

to rejoice in a scene in which you are you

but your comrade,

knowing, for the first time, what it’s like to be known,

without knowing

that you are.

A scene in which you are neither of these people:

not a soldier, not a man who will take his own life

when he returns home.

______________________________________________________________

Susan L. Leary is a Lecturer in English Composition at the University of Miami in Coral Gables, FL.  Her recent creative work is forthcoming in After the Pause.

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The Foundry Lad

By Amy Wood

I don’t know who the old fiddler man is. I like him, I think. But I don’t know who he is.

He plays every day; rain or shine, snow or wind. Whether the skies are blue or grey, he’s there, same place, scraping away on his worn out fiddle with his worn out bow. Why he plays in the poorest part of town, God only knows, he can’t be hoping for much more than a ha’penny or two.

I often look at him as I pass by, how old is he? His face is lined enough to have seen at least seventy winters, I reckon, but his eyes are always bright. He sometimes sees me and winks as though he knows what I’m thinking – that he’s old enough to know better than to expect the poorest mice to pay for music when they can barely afford bread.

There’s a hole in his trousers, over his knee. The bottom hems are frayed and his boots were ancient when I was born. But somehow the old fiddler man seems like he ain’t poor, not like the rest of us. The look in his eyes ain’t the same, no despair in him. He’s different.

It’s a Tuesday when for once the sun shows its face and the warmth changes the streets into playgrounds of sparkling puddles left over from last night’s rain. Women gladly send ragged children to play in the road and they go without a fuss; the puddles don’t stay bright for long.

The long tramp up the hill from my little mousehole of a house to the foundry leaves my knees burning. Each day it seems I climb a mountain just for the privilege of wearing myself out for twelve hours but with the sun on my back, it’s not so bad.

Children yell and splash and one kicks me a ball, wasn’t so long ago I was one of ‘em, another scruffy urchin more at home on the street than inside four walls. But time is cruel and like everyone else, I grew up. With three brothers and sisters to help feed, I ain’t got time for being young. I kick the ball back and keep on climbing.

At the top of the hill I stop for just a minute to get my breath. The view down ain’t much to inspire a man but it’s where I come from and some strange part of me wants to be proud of it. Tumbledown houses pile on top of each other, tiny streets wind around them, brown ribbons through the maze but there’s no lustre to ‘em. No silk ribbons here. This part of town lost its sparkle years ago, so far, the people are too tired to worry about getting it back.

All of a sudden it makes me sick: the poverty, the neglect, the disgust of those born more fortunate. I want to rage and shout, to do something, anything, to show the high-born folk who look down their noses at us that we are more than just rags and dirt. But what can I do? Nothing, same as always. The sun’s lost some of its warmth, I pull my thin coat tighter and turn away from the view down the hill.

The old fiddler man’s sitting in his usual spot as I turn the corner by the foundry. His cap is more battered, his coat more worn, his boots cracked and dirty. But he smiles at me as I pass and plays a little jig. The thousand lines on his face crease up into something kindly. Inside me, something breaks and wants to cry.

On the cobbles in front of him, the old man has his usual scrap of canvas, his collecting tin. There’s a fair few coins there, he’s done well, even with it being early in the day. Perhaps folk are feeling generous, maybe the sun’s done ‘em good.

I realise I’ve stopped, I don’t want to walk down the lane to the foundry, I want to stay and listen to the old fiddle scrape out forgotten songs. The warmth comes back into the morning and it’s as intoxicating as Ma Bellow’s illicit gin.

The old man looks at me and nods, just a slow up and down of his head. No smile now, his eyes are sad. He plays something soft and melancholy, impossibly lovely. I stand and let the notes wash over me, there’s precious little time in life to just be still and I know I should be moving now but the fiddle talks to me, sings at me, catches me deep inside and doesn’t let go. How long I stand there I don’t know, could be hours, days even. Those soft notes are too lovely to walk away from. But all things must end and I find myself standing in silence, staring at the old man’s wrinkled hands.

When I draw breath it tastes like the sweetest of honey cakes, the air in this bit of town ain’t so good sometimes but today it’s warm and thick as soup, a delight to every sense. I let it settle down into my lungs like pipe smoke, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

The smile comes back onto the old man’s face and the jig slips from his fiddle again. A woman passing by, not more than twenty but worn down by her lot in life, suddenly beams and skips a step or two. I don’t dance but when I make my feet move and head down the lane, it’s with a lighter heart than before. As I reach my destination, I look back over my shoulder, the old fiddler man is just visible, his bow flying up and down, his cap bobbing in time with the music.

Usually I feel defeated, exhausted by the time I reach the foundry, but today there’s a lightness about me that even the blazing metal and crashing machinery can’t shatter. I take one more breath of sweet, blossom-flavoured air and close the foundry door.

Twelve hours later I’m free once more and the sky is the faded blue of early twilight. There’s a chill blowing in on the breeze and the sun of earlier is forgotten. Folk hurry past me, heads down, coats pulled snug. A washed-out day moon hangs in a corner of the sky, it looks tired but determined to show its face regardless.

I stumble over cobbles and mutter curses to myself; I’m tired. Children run screaming past me but I’m too old and spent to join in their games. Each step is hard work, one foot in front of the other is an agony of concentration. My ears buzz from the foundry noise and I try to blink away a headache.

After an hour or two – or maybe it’s only a minute – I reach the old fiddler man’s corner. He’s still there, as I expected. I pause nearby and drink in the music but this time he ain’t playing for me. A little girl stands in front of him, not more than four, her short legs chubby and round, socks falling down as she twirls. Her dress is patched, homemade and old but to her it’s the greatest of gowns. Round she goes, eyes squeezed shut, little hands reaching out for the partner only she sees.

The old man taps the rhythm, quick and sharp. She never misses, each change in note, each stroke of the bow sends her flying, little feet barely touching the ground. Her bobbed hair is a dirty halo as she twirls. A tiny Cinderella, squeezing every last drop of joy from the music and savouring it as only the innocent can. She’s beautiful. I feel old and irrevocably broken.

Eventually the old man draws out one final note and lets it melt away into the evening. The little girl faces him, chubby hands on hips, brows drawn into an outraged frown.

“Another one!”

The old man laughs and shakes his head. “Tomorrow.”

It’s the first word I’ve ever heard him say, but little Cinderella ain’t surprised. She smiles and bounces over to fling her arms round his neck, holding him tight.

“Early tomorrow?”

A nod from the old man.

Satisfied, little Cinderella lets go and backs away, humming to herself and dancing a step now and then. As she turns to go, the old man whistles and points at the coins on the canvas at his feet.

She smiles again and shyly picks up a penny. At a cough from the old man she takes another two. Nodding, he plays a jaunty tune as she skips away, her treasures clutched tight to her chest. I watch, spellbound.

His eyes are on me before I can escape. The gentle tune of earlier is in the air again, slow and lovely, wrapping itself round me. I sway on my feet, it’s been a long day, I should be getting home. Blinking takes an eternity, my eyes stay shut of their own accord and it takes everything I have to force them open. When I do, the old man nods and changes the tune. It’s still soft and low but the melancholy has gone, it’s a quiet ghost of the merry jig little Cinderella so enjoyed.

I’m too tired to dance and even if I wasn’t, I could never match the little girl for sheer unassuming joy, but the music does me good. A glow within me builds and spreads and I’m all the better for each note. Just as before, I barely notice when the old man stops playing, I go on staring at the fiddle, reliving the gentle loveliness in my mind.

Eventually, I rouse myself and remember where I am. Time to go home, the chill is setting in more and I’m shivering. My teeth chatter and the colder air hurts my throat as I breathe.

I suppose I should say something, thank the old man or tell him how wonderful his music is, but I can’t find any words. I just stand, frowning at my own incompetence, until he presses a coin into my hand. His fingers are warm, like sandpaper worn down to almost-smoothness. He smiles and pats my arm.

“For your mother.”

I look down, there’s a tanner, sixpence, in my hand.

“I can’t—” I begin, but he shakes his head.

“You can,” he says, very soft and very sure. “She danced as well. Take it.”

The bow settles back onto the strings. I stare at the sixpence. Is this what he does? Is he some kind of toff, come to the poor part of town to give away his wealth? If that were true, he’d be mobbed, folk here know the value of coins and I’ve seen fights over pennies. But nobody glances the old man’s way, everybody trudges on, heads down, with eyes for nothing but their own struggle.

Whatever the old man’s playing now, it puts me in mind of green fields and swooping birds and gentle breezes ruffling through trees. I ain’t seen real green fields but the once, sunday school trip, it was. Can barely remember what grass smells like. But his fiddle makes pictures dance in my head and it almost breaks my heart when I look at the poor town I call home.

“Who are you?” I ask.

He looks up at me and smiles a bit. The bow dances on the strings, dances like the little girl, my mother’s waiting for me at home, he said she danced as well, my mother ain’t never even whistled never mind danced, perhaps I should ask her about the fiddle and the music—.

I close my hand around the sixpence. The old man’s smile grows as his notes dip and swirl around me.

The sun’s slipping under the horizon by the time I make my legs move toward home. Brilliant reds and pinks streak the sky, staining the faded blue. Might be a nice day again tomorrow.

Each step I take closer to home, the more the old man seems like something out of a dream, almost forgotten already. When I reach my tiny mousehole I look at the sixpence. Gentle notes echo in my ears; swooping birds on breezes of music, rolling hills and perfect skies, flowers and trees and all things good. I remember the little girl, her eyes tight shut, twirling and turning, little Cinderella.

The world seems less grey as I step through my door. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day.

______________________________________________________________

Amy Wood is a British writer whose stories feature in Opening Line Literary ‘Zine (Sept. & Dec. 2014), Flashdogs: An Anthology (Dec. 2014), Spelk Fiction (22 Jan. 2015), Flashdogs Solstice: Light & Dark (June 2015), Twisted Vine Literary Arts Journal (December 2015), Magnolia Review (January 2016), Flashdogs: Time (2016), The Galway Rewiew (Feb. 2016) and Short Fiction Break (2 June 2016).

She spends her time trying to write amid family life and wondering where she left her knitting. Also coffee, because it’s basically a foodstuff by now and words would never happen without it.

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Rumors of War

By Tamar Anolic

When Prince Konstantin Konstantinovich entered his father’s study in the Imperial palace of Pavlovsk, he found his father standing at the window, staring out. It was April, 1914, and spring was just starting to find its way into St. Petersburg. The sunlight that flowed through the window was a pale light, but it was not as pasty as the Grand Duke Konstantin’s countenance. Prince Konstantin sucked in a breath when he saw how ill his father looked.

The Grand Duke heard his son gasp and turned from the window. “Ah, Kostya,” he said. He gestured for his son to sit. Konstantin settled into one of the comfortable chairs facing his father’s desk, inhaling the smell of his father’s cigars as he sat. “Are you still corresponding with Pilar of Bavaria?” the Grand Duke asked.

Sometimes, Konstantin wished his father didn’t have such a good memory. “Yes, I am.”

“And still no talk of marriage?”  the Grand Duke pressed. “I thought you were interested.”

“I am interested,” Konstantin admitted. “And I told her as much.”

“But?”

But I’ve heard the same talk of war as you have. Some say Russia could mobilize her armies as early as next month.”

The Grand Duke sighed. For a moment, he stared out the window again. Then he looked back at his son. “I don’t think the mobilization will come that early, and yet my fear of war hangs over my head like an anvil. You realize that if Russia’s armies moved across Europe, they would be marching against Germany? You and Pilar would be on opposite sides of the conflict.”

The thought chilled Konstantin. “But if I brought her here as my wife, would that guarantee her safety?” he asked. “Or would it just leave her a very young widow?”

The Grand Duke did not have the time to answer before both he and Konstantin heard footsteps at the door of the study. A second later, Konstantin was glad to see his brothers Oleg, Igor, and Gavril come into the room. They took seats next to Konstantin, and the room was quiet as the four young men eyed their father, who continued to stand at the window, staring out.

Then Ioann, the family’s oldest brother, slipped into the study, holding his four-month-old son, Vsevolod. The baby stared around with big blue eyes. A tuft of black hair stood straight up on his head. Finally, the Grand Duke turned from the window and smiled at the sight of his only grandchild. Ioann smiled back and hugged Vsevolod to his chest. The Grand Duke watched them for a minute before he held out his arms for the baby.

Ioann handed Vsevolod to his father and sat in the one remaining chair in the room. The Grand Duke sat at his desk and rested Vsevolod in his lap. Then he looked at his five sons and sighed. His pain was obvious. Konstantin felt himself tense up and saw his feelings mirrored in the anxious expressions on each of his brothers’ faces.

“By now, you all have heard that Europe seems to be moving towards war,” the Grand Duke said. “If it comes to that, I doubt Russia could avoid fighting.”

Konstantin and all of his brothers nodded.

“But Nicholas himself doesn’t want to go to war,” Gavril said of the Tsar. “He thinks Russia has a long way to go before its railroads and other industries can support a war.”

“I agree with him,” the Grand Duke replied. “But the passions of our countrymen, and of our fellow Slavs, are running high. I’m not sure Nicky could keep Russia out of war, even if he were opposed to it.”

“What about the Duma?” Ioann asked, naming the nationally elected congress. “The Duma has the final say over whether we enter the war. If both it and Nicky are opposed, perhaps Russia will remain neutral.”

The Grand Duke shook his head, his disdain obvious. “The Duma consists of nothing but politicians that bend at the slightest wind,” he said. “If people are clamoring for war, the Duma will make sure it happens, regardless of whether it’s good for Russia.” The Grand Duke shook his head. “The country needs strong men that stick to their principles, like Peter the Great.”

“Nicky is no Peter the Great,” Konstantin heard himself saying. “Peter could have kept us out of war. Nicky won’t be able to.” Everyone in the room looked at him.

Gavril in particular glared at his younger brother. “Are you disloyal to the Tsar?” he asked.

“I’m just saying what I see,” Konstantin mumbled. Then he looked Gavril in the eye and spoke more clearly. “I am as loyal to Nicky as you are.”

The room became silent, and Konstantin fancied he could see the tension in the air mingling with the sunlight that was still coming through the window. Then Vsevolod began to fuss, and Ioann stood up to take his son from his father. The Grand Duke did not object, but an intractable sadness filled his eyes. The expression remained there as Ioann took Vsevolod into the hall and handed him to his wife, Princess Elena.

From inside the study, Konstantin watched as Elena took her crying son and disappeared down the Palace’s long hallway.  “I’m sorry, Papa,” he said as Ioann returned to the room and took his seat. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s not you that’s upsetting me, Kostya,” the Grand Duke replied. “It’s the prospect having all five of you march off to war.”

“And yet if my country calls, I can only reply,” Oleg said, and Konstantin was grateful for his words.

The Grand Duke’s eyes welled up with tears as he looked at Oleg. “You are the most talented, artistic and poetic of my eight children,” he said. “Your loss in this war would be the greatest.”

“Relax, Papa,” Ioann said. “War hasn’t even been declared yet.”

“And yet I feel its rumble in my bones,” the Grand Duke replied, standing and going back to the window. “We are headed down that path. All of Europe is.”

Konstantin, Ioann, Gavril, Oleg and Igor looked at each other uneasily. Then Konstantin rose and joined his father at the window. “It will be alright, Papa,” he said, putting a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Truly it will be.”

But Konstantin’s reassurances were of little use. He watched his father’s jaw clench and unclench. Then, despite the Grand Duke’s efforts to the contrary, tears ran down his face. “Five of my sons marching off to war,” he said. “I should never have lived to see this day.”

__________________________________________________________________________________

Tamar Anolic has been fascinated by the history of Imperial Russia for over fifteen years.

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Steel

By Daniel L. Link

Grigory turned to find the source of the laughter, the pain in his knee forgotten. A man was running his way, rifle in hand. He froze. The wheels of his cart came to rest between cobblestones, but he held on, rather than raising his arms in the air.

“You there,” the guard gestured with the rifle. “Don’t move.”

A passing man lowered his eyes and hurried away.

The guard’s smile was broad, white puffs of steam escaping with each chuckled exhalation.  His exuberance puzzled Grigory, who didn’t see anything in the cold, drab day that should have him in such good humor.

“Let me see,” he said, pointing the rifle at Grigory.

This time he did put his hands up, but the guard waved the gun again.

“The cart,” he said. “Let me see in the cart.”

“It’s just potatoes.” Grigory took one corner of the burlap tarp and yanked it back to reveal half a cartload of potatoes, with a small child nestled in the middle. He gasped.

“Ha!” The guard shouted triumphantly. “I saw her sneak in there.”

He was right, it was a girl, no older than eight or nine, her dark hair cropped close like a boy’s. She looked to Grigory, her icy blue eyes filled with dread.

“Out with you, now.” The guard grabbed her by the tunic, and Grigory heard fabric tear as he wrenched. “Good job, comrade. We’ve been looking for her all week.” He turned to the girl. “Come, girl. The Cheka will want to talk to you.”

A chill went through Grigory. He couldn’t fathom why the secret police would be interested in one so young, but he knew he should stay out of it.

“Wait,” Grigory said, unsure what he was doing. “This isn’t the girl you want.”

“No?” the guard said, eyebrow raised.

“No, she can’t be. She’s a friend. She helps with the potatoes.”

He didn’t let go of the girl, just stared at Grigory, incredulous.

“Sir, believe me. She sleeps in there sometimes, but truly, she’s the daughter of a friend who died in the war. She helps me in exchange for food. We help each other.” He added, “I have a bad knee.”

“What’s her name?”

“Nika,” he said, blurting out his youngest sister’s name.

The man demanded the name of his dead friend. That was easy; Grigory had many dead friends.

“If you’re lying to me,” he said. “I’ll return, and you can both hang.” He pointed to the palace, where the nephew of the Czar once lived, that formerly proud symbol of his country now corrupted by death and ruin.

“Why?” Nika asked when they were in Grigory’s cottage. “You risked everything to save me.”

“There has been enough killing. Besides,” he said, sitting by the hearth and poking the fire, “I could use the help.”

For a solid month they worked close together and Grigory found he liked her company. Nika never offered her real name, but she told him she was wanted for theft and that her parents had been killed by the Reds.

“Where’s your family now?” Nika asked.

“Dead,” Grigory told her. “Everyone. My father, brother, and I all fought in the Great War. Alexei died, but Papa and I came home. Then, it was war with the Bolsheviks.”

“You’re a White?” Nika asked. “Like my parents?”

“I’m not anything. Red, White, it’s no matter. My father was a Cossack, and he was killed by the Reds. My mother and sisters starved, and I escaped. Now, I grow potatoes.”

On impulse, Grigory pulled a metal band from his pocket.

“This was my sister’s. It’s all I have left of my family,” he said rolling the band between his fingers. “I want you to have it.”

Nika’s eyes were wet as she put the large ring on her finger.

“Keep eating,” he laughed. “It will fit in no time.”

“Is it iron?”

“No, steel. It’s much stronger. There is an old proverb. ‘The same hammer that shatters glass forges steel.’ Have you heard it?”

“No.”

“The world needs more blacksmiths, and less broken glass, that’s what I think.”

“Can anything break steel?” Nika asked, admiring it.

Grigory nodded. “Hunger.”

The trees were bare, the wind off the Oka biting, signifying the end of autumn. On the way home from market, Grigory let Nika go ahead while he pulled the cart alone. The remaining potatoes were small and shriveled, making the load light.

He watched her run, swinging a stick, laughing. Her hair was longer and she had put on weight. She was hardly the girl Grigory had first brought home. He smiled.

At the end of the bridge, two guards approached, one grabbing her by the neck, shouting. Grigory dropped the cart and ran to her, his aching knee screaming.

“Officer,” Grigory said. “Perhaps I can help.”

“Perhaps you can,” the guard said.  He turned to Nika, tightening his grip. “Is this the man?”

“Yes,” she said. “This man is a traitor,” Nika pointed her stick at Grigory. “A fascist Cossack dog.”

“Well done, little one,” the guard said, then gestured to the man beside him. “Seize him.”

Grigory didn’t fight as the man took him by the arm. “Why, Nika?” was all he could say.

“Her name’s Anna,” the guard told him. “This girl has sniffed out more of you Whites than the Cheka. Good work, child.”

He saw no emotion on her face as he was dragged toward the palace, no sign she felt anything except the nervous twisting of the steel band on her finger.

______________________________________________________________

Daniel Link is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and novels. He lives in Northern California with his wife, who supports him in his obsessive writing. Twitter: @DanielLLink

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