Wednesday, June 25, 2014

Wytchfire is out!


At Ball State I worked with a number of people far more creative than I could ever hope to be. Without a doubt, the one who gave me the most Little Debbie snacks was Mike Meyerhofer, an accomplished poet, fiction writer and memoirist. Knowing I'm a fan of the fantasy genre, Mike let me read his works-in-progress. I can honestly say that I enjoyed my friend's books as much as I enjoy reading George R.R. Martin, Jane Yolen, and Ursula LeGuin. In fact, I consider The Dragonkin Trilogy superior to many successful fantasy books. You can read my review of an earlier copy of Wytchfire here.

This summer, Wytchfire opened to universal acclaim. You can purchase a Kindle copy from Amazon, a NOOK copy from Barnes & Noble, or a Kobo.

Before you buy, check out the Prologue below. (Last word: I LOVE Fadarah.)

Prologue

Fadarah turned his tattooed face toward the granite walls of Syros, greatest of the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains. He held the reins of his horse in one fist as he settled back in the saddle and took in the sight. Mid-morning light crested the city’s crenellated battlements, shone through its white banners sewn with crossed longbows, and cast long, taut shadows over a forest made not from trees but from the raised arms of trebuchets. The sun burned in Fadarah’s eyes, but he did not blink. He was, after all, a Shel’ai. What was the sun, if not fire?

But the soldiers arrayed in vast columns behind him were Human, and they winced as the sun climbed higher into the clear, cloudless sky, blazing in their faces. Those men knew what all good fighters had known since the dawn of time—to fight with the sun in your face was madness. Courage and armor meant nothing if you could not see.

Still, when Fadarah ordered them forward, the Throng obeyed without question. They had nothing to fear from Syros’s archers and murder-holes, her broad battlements and stout, sealed gates. No, the Nightmare would take care of those.

Fadarah removed his gauntlets with deliberate slowness. Then he raised one fist and loosened his fingers. Tendrils of wytchfire burst to life above his open palm. The violet flames coursed the length of his arm. He felt a familiar, roiling heat. Though it titillated his senses, it left him unharmed. Those soldiers closest to him were merely Human, though. They blanched and drew away, already perspiring from heat as much as fear.

Concealing a smirk, Fadarah shouted, “Send forth my Nightmare!”

Fadarah rose, standing in the saddle of his huge, oxblood-colored horse. Even without his armor and the wytchfire coursing from his fingers, men might have fled at the sight of him. He stood at least seven feet tall, broad shouldered and muscled like an Olg, with intricate blue tattoos covering his arms and shaven head.

As his order took effect, his men reacted uneasily. Twenty thousand strong, bristling with spears and drawn blades, and clad in armor, they still feared magic. They feared Fadarah. But more than him, they feared the Nightmare.

Fadarah could not blame them. He feared it, too.

He closed his fist, extinguishing the wytchfire, then seized the reins of his horse so his soldiers would not see his hands shake when the Nightmare came forward. Even after so much time, even knowing that the Nightmare had once been a man—a friend—Fadarah could not entirely quench his fear. He clenched the reins of his horse until his knuckles turned white as the pupils of his eyes. Despite the bloodmare’s training, the horse would have panicked had Fadarah not sent a paralyzing jolt of magic into the beast’s mind.

Pity no one can do that for me. The Nightmare drew closer.

Fadarah heard shouting, even weeping, and sensed a wave of terror rolling through the ranks of his usually well-disciplined army. The men of the Throng had all seen the Nightmare at least once; many of them were Nightmare’s ragged, wheezing breath filled the air, scalding it with heat as from a blacksmith’s bellows. The beast faced the sunlit city. The harsh breathing grew louder, resounding with some awful sense of anticipation, like an attack dog anxious to slip its leash. For a long time, nothing moved. Then, Fadarah gave the order. The Shel’ai released their mental control. The leash came off.

Cries of panic spread across the high stone walls of Syros. Some of the city’s defenders fled and dropped their weapons, abandoning their posts. Others found their courage and leapt into action. The Nightmare closed to within bow-range. Along the granite walls, hundreds of bowstrings shuddered. A broad, dark cloud rose against the sun.

The cloud bristled with enough arrows to shred an entire battalion of horsemen. Yet not one of them hit its mark. Hundreds of wooden shafts burst to cinders just before they might have struck, ignited by the intense heat rising in waves off the Nightmare’s body.

Barreling through a blizzard of ash, the Nightmare continued its charge.

Syros’s archers admirably managed three more volleys, but even their final, closest volley burst to cinders. Then, they did something even Fadarah had not anticipated.

All along the walls, men tipped great, sloshing cauldrons over the battlements. Water fell in fast, clear braids, flooding the plains at the base of the walls, transforming the earth into a swamp.

Fadarah smiled. “Clever,” he admitted grudgingly.

The Nightmare hurtled forward. Its burning body met water, and steam rose in thick, gray clouds. For a moment, fog swallowed the high walls of Syros. Even the flaming Nightmare momentarily vanished in the hissing mist.

Fadarah heard cries of alarm, different from what he had heard before, and tensed. He used his magic to heighten his senses and extended his mind into the ranks behind him. He saw the problem right away. None of the conquered cities had ever tried this tactic before. The soldiers of the Throng feared it might work. With the Nightmare gone, they might have to fight with the sun in their eyes after all.

Then they heard the sounds. They echoed across the Simurgh Plains. Screams. The crack of ancient granite. The great shudder caused by tons of stone tumbling to earth. Then more screams.

Gods forgive us. Although the fog blocked Fadarah’s sight, he could guess what was happening. He thrust his two-handed sword toward the sky. Sunrise flashed down its steely face like blood.

“The walls are breached! Syros has fallen!” He pointed his blade at the city. “Follow me!”

Raw exhilaration flooded his body. He led the charge himself. The army hesitated only a moment then roared to life and streamed after him. Cavalry, pikemen, archers. Shel’ai. All followed the Sorcerer-General as he rode toward the fog-shrouded city. Then the mist parted.

Syros’s entire central wall was gone. Broken, blasted stones littered the plains. The gates had been reduced to puddles of wet ash. Dead men scattered the earth: archers, men-at-arms, Syros’s reserves. Horns blared frantic declarations of surrender from the sections of wall left intact. No one had the heart to fight. Left with no option, armed men threw down their swords and surrendered, half expecting the Throng to cut them down anyway.

They didn’t.

With the Nightmare gone—vanished—and the walls breached, Fadarah’s soldiers greeted the survivors with pity. Throng captains sheathed their weapons and coordinated efforts to aid the injured, to prevent widespread rape and murder. They did not do this out of some rare inclination toward compassion; they were simply following Fadarah’s orders.

Fadarah himself took no part in this. Instead, he watched as the twelve Shel’ai emerged, exhausted, from the ruins and fog. Dust and blood stained their bone-white cloaks, but their hoods were still drawn closed. It would not do for Humans to see the expression on their faces. But the men of the Throng were too busy looting or tending to injured, shocked prisoners to pay much attention to the twelve Shel’ai. So no Human saw what Fadarah saw: a thirteenth cloaked figure slumped amid the others, supported on each arm by one of the twelve. Iventine...

“Take him back to the camp. Hide him. Let me know if his condition worsens.”

The other Shel’ai nodded, too tired to speak. As they passed, Fadarah caught a brief glimpse of Iventine’s face. Ghastly, sunken cheeks. Wild, blood-shot eyes. He turned away.

By the time the Sorcerer-General retired to his tent, the sun was setting. He had sheathed his greatsword, for he no longer had the strength to hold it, but he took care to stand upright and breathe easily before his Human servants. He calmly accepted a goblet of cool wine then dispassionately ordered them away. When they were gone, he slumped into a chair. The ominous armor that made him look so imposing weighed him down incredibly, much too heavy for a Sylv.

But I am not a Sylv. They made that clear. He touched the tapered points of his ears. Then he attacked the complicated lattice of straps and buckles holding his armor in place, casting it piece by piece to the ground. This morning, he had watched in the mirror as his servants helped him don his plate mail: breast and backplates, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, and other pieces he could not name. The mirror had been left in place. Fadarah used it and removed the armor by himself. Doing so took a long time, but with each piece that fell, relief flooded his limbs. Half done, Fadarah flexed his fingers and massaged one sore shoulder. Then he studied his reflection. The Sorcerer-General’s expression turned bitter.

The same blue tattoos that covered Fadarah’s face and hands also covered the rest of his body, which was thickly muscled, as his father’s must have been.

My father. Fadarah grinned sardonically.

His mother had been Wyldkin, one of those few renegade Sylv who lived beyond the majestic forests surrounding the World Tree—not because they were forced to, like those born with the dragonmist, but because they wanted to. She and her husband made their home somewhere between Sylvos and the land of the Olgrym. What exactly happened next, Fadarah did not know. But he could guess.

Wyldkin often ran from Olgrym, but sometimes they were caught anyway. The Olgrym must have slaughtered his mother’s husband. Fadarah imagined them torturing him before devouring him raw. But that was nothing compared to what they did to his mother.

Fadarah shuddered. The Sylvs still told stories of female Wyldkin who kept small knives sheathed on the inside of a thigh—not for fighting but for slitting their own throats if the only other option was being taken prisoner by Olgrym. Fadarah did not know if his mother had carried such a knife, but he often thought that if she had, she should have used it.

True, he barely remembered her, but his mother must have been strong. She’d survived the Olgrym, hadn’t she? She even escaped and returned to the Sylvs. There she gave birth—not to the child of her husband, the Sylvan baby she must have prayed was growing inside her—but to a brute. A half-Olg. Worse, he had the dragonmist in his eyes!

An abomination on two fronts.

Fadarah shook his head. His mother might have killed him to spare her own disgrace; she didn’t. They lived in Sylvos instead, alongside the Sylvs. But even as a child, Fadarah sensed their suspicion. Their hatred. He sensed how it all must end.

Fadarah winced. He shook himself and then drew his sword. A fine length of exquisite kingsteel, fixed to a handle wrought of dragonbone. Many times, Fadarah had considered falling on it, just to end his torment. But that time, he quickly cast the sword aside. He knew he could not do that. His people needed him. Not the Sylvs, not the Olgrym, but the Shel’ai.

“My... people.”

Fadarah laughed. He laughed for a long time. Then he wept. He pressed one hand to his mouth, not wanting anyone to hear. Still, his tattooed body jerked as though he were being stabbed.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Feedback from the Teachers - Summer 2014

I'm a teacher trainer for Seoul's public schools, and recently I have been getting amazing feedback. There's nothing like knowing your work makes a difference.

The evaluations included a cartoon version of myself, created by my coworker Lauren Price. This helps the trainees place names with faces.

Here are evaluations from a workshop on creating a learner-centered classroom:























These are the evaluations from a workshop on using literature in the EFL/ESL classroom:


















I love my job. 

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Book review: Wytchfire by Michael Meyerhofer


If you are sick of waiting for George R.R. Martin to finish A Song of Ice and Fire, I recommend Wytchfire, the first in a planned series of fantasy novels by Michael Meyerhofer. With strong, multidimensional characters and a conscientious inclusion of groups not often seen in the fantasy genre,  Wytchfire succeeds at telling an exciting, page-turning yarn without ever feeling like a guilty pleasure. 

Wytchfire is set in a complex fantasy world with elements of King Arthur myths, Japanese feudal period fantasy, and Dungeons & Dragons. The story opens as the main character (with his sexy protagonist name: Rowen Locke) leaves the Lotus Isles, having failed to become a Knight. The Isles are a sort of academy for Knights in training and failure is a major theme throughout the book--particularly poignant during this Great Recession.

The first part of the book resembles Robert E. Howard's Conan the Cimmerian stories in that the main character is a sell-sword concerned with little but his next meal and mug of ale. This freewheeling hundred-or-so pages, though light on plot, were my favorite part of the book. Meyerhofer uses Rowen's homelessness to explore his rich fantasy world; the scenes feel episodic and lightly connected in the tradition of the early twentieth century weird tales.

Soon, the plot kicks in. A huge horde of sorcerers and mercenaries is devastating one city after the other, led by a half-orc half-elf caster whose entire muscled body is covered in tattooed glyphs. His name is Fadarah, which means father. Sounds like the best D&D character ever, right? This antagonist serves as a sort of Magneto for the misunderstood, outcast mages. He adds a level of badass to every chapter he's in and serves as the novel's Big Bad, but like Magneto he has a woobie backstory that endeared his cause to me.

Despite some parts' freewheeling feel and the world's expansiveness, the book is tightly plotted. The last third of novel abounds in twists which I usually did not see coming. Meyerhofer follows the logic of Chekov's gun. (To avoid spoilers, don't look up that reference before reading Wytchfire.)

Meyerhofer's prose is simple enough for the YA crowd but can still entertain this over-thirty fantasy fan. In many ways Wytchfire's prose is better than the later George R.R. Martin novels: Meyerhofer doesn't repeat a single thought through his characters' minds ad nauseum, unlike Martin. At some parts the way Meyerhofer informs us of a character's homosexuality or sexual enslavement to another were subtle enough for Hays Code-era Hollywood. I thought the writing would be improved through a blanket moratorium on exclamation marks, and my Kindle edition had a few typos ("dragonkinDragonkin") but otherwise the novel is well-written.

The fantasy and sci fi genres have become increasingly diversified since the all-white and mostly-male worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien and T.H. White, and it is now customary to include earthly races within the fantasy human race (e.g., George R.R. Martin's inhabitants of the Summer Isles, Orson Scott Card's planets of earthly ethnicities, and Skyrim's Redguard). Meyerhofer makes a point of including the diversity of this world within his fantastical one. Characters entering Wytchfire through Meyerhofer's equal opportunity policy include a female Asian knight, an obese Black merchant, and a homosexual dwarf sellsword. Wytchfire includes the types of characters that should be included in all depictions of fantasy.

Actually, Meyerhofer's commitment to social issues extends beyond populating his novel with underrepresented groups. A major theme running throughout the novel is the abhorrence of rape. At one point Fadarah, the Big Bad, stops a rape in progress. (Ah, Fadarah. If there's any justice in the world we'll see some Wytchfire shipping soon.) Meyerhofer hints throughout the book that the sexual enslavement of children is widespread in the world of Wytchfire. The novel never glamorizes rape nor uses it to comic purposes; within the novel, as with life, it is a violent act which forever scars its victims. Meyerhofer's treatment of sexual violence is another reason Wytchfire never felt like a guilty read, but a feminist take on violence told from a male perspective.

Wytchfire occupies the same space in the fantasy hierarchy as Tad Williams' best novels: deeply fantastical, they reflect elements of our world while still providing an escape. Like Williams' works, it probably won't convert someone who isn't already a fan of the genre. For veterans of fantasy novels or games, Wytchfire is a satisfying read: a complex land populated by interesting characters. I'm looking forward to the second in the trilogy.

Wytchfire by Michael Meyerhofer: ★
Read it or read the first chapter by clicking here.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Japan Part 1: Tsushima Island

PREAMBLE: APOLOGY

I'm sorry that I haven't updated this blog in so long. The Mr. and I moved from Dongtan to Seoul. We now live near Sadang station in Seocho-gu. I'm sure you've never heard of Seocho. It's about 10 minutes away from Gangnam-gu, which you surely have heard of.

You know how people from suburbs tell people they're from the nearby big city? The Mr. and some of our neighbors tell people we live in Gangnam. I do not like doing that. People think it's so affluent. It's like saying you live in Beverly Hills when you really live in Culver City.

Anyways ... I'd like to write about Japan. The Mr. and I together have now been to Tsushima Island and the Osaka-Kyoto area together. This will be a two-part blog post.

Tl;dr version: The people are nice but Japan's just too expensive.

TSUSHIMA ISLAND

In May we went to Tsushima Island over a long weekend, taking a train to Busan and then a ferry to Tsushima. The ferry made me physically ill. As my husband used his conversational Korean to make friends and drink soju and eat dried squid, I quietly vomited into the available bags. Other passengers were also sick, sitting on the floor of the ferry and appearing to nurse migraines. I hate ferries.

This was our first view of Izuhara, the southern city you sail into from Busan:

Izuhara port

Tsushima was absolutely worth the sea sickness. 90% forest, Tsushima is a verdant, peaceful island with friendly people who said "Ohio gosaimas!" to everyone they pass. It is also a picturesque slice of Japan at a fraction of the cost.

Torii in Izuhara

In Izuhara, we found a gorgeous Shinto shrine. I've been to Japan three times now, and Shinto shrines are always my favorite thing about Japan. As a nature lover, I love the recognition that nature is our portal to the sacred and the sublime.


Shinto shrine in Izuhara

In Tsushima we saw the Japanese reverence for nature as well as the peculiar weirdness the Japanese are famous for. Here you see cartoon baseball players, the Fukuoka Hawks, on a large carton of sake. It's a particularly egregious form of marketing a vice to kids, like Joe Camel and Guinness's cute toucans.

"When I grow up, I'm going to drink the cartoons' sake!"

We ate at a small izakaya and watched a Hawks game on a little TV. 

This was during my husband's muttonchops phase

Rice & vegetables

That evening the Mr. and I explored the Izuhara nightlife, which is almost nonexistant. We walked down nearly abandoned streets, catching glimpses of traditionally-clad Japanese women and Tsushima cats, both of which disappeared into doorways and darknesses before I could snap a picture. 
Izuhara alley 


We stayed in a very small but comfortable hotel room. We had to wake a very old woman who had trouble walking in order to get our room. Without the Mr.'s rudimentary knowledge of Japanese we would have been lost.

The Mr. and I traveled north on the highway to Hitakatsu, the port which brings you back to Busan. The highway from the southern part of the island to the north is incredibly picturesque. 

The pristine middle part of Tsushima

In Hitakatsu, we had trouble finding a hotel room. All the rooms had already been reserved. We had a problem, but the locals were incredibly helpful. After intense discussion which the Mr. and I couldn't follow, one called her friend, Mitsugi Tsuji, and we stayed at his B&B in a tatami mat room.

Tsuji-san's house


Linguist Ashley enjoying the view from our room

We loved Tsuji-san. He entertained us, fed us, and sheltered us for 24 hours for only 10,000 yen. He took us "shopping", driving around the town to his fishermen friends and picking up fresh seafood and steaks for our yakiniku dinner. Afterwards Tsuji-san left the scraps out for the hawks to feast on.

Outdoor yakiniku

We watched sumo matches on his TV and talked as best we could (he speaks a little English) until it was time for sleep. In the morning we had one of the most delicious and filling breakfasts I've ever had in my life. 

Coffee, tofu, sausages, fish, egg, tomato, salad, miso and rice

On the second day Mitsugi Tsuji took us around the northern part of Tsushima sightseeing. We went to a lookout spot where you can see Busan on a clear day, then a forest hike, and finally to a local park where he is employed as a caretaker.

A forest path leading to a waterfall

The lookout point

Mitsugi Tsuji's B&B ranks as probably our favorite B&B ever. If you are ever in Hitakatsu ask the locals if they know his phone number. Try to stay with him. You won't be sorry.

Mitsugi Tsuji and the Mr.

The Mr. and I speak of Tsushima with reverence. We loved it. We thought that since we had such a great and affordable time in Tsushima, we would also love the rest of Japan. To be continued ...

Mitsugi Tsuji's B&B: