I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the AND HE SHALL APPEAR by Kate van der Borgh Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Kate van der Borgh

Pub. Date: October 1, 2024

Publisher: Union Square Co.

Formats: Hardcover, eBook, Audiobook

Pages: 336

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/AND-HE-SHALL-APPEAR 

From a mesmerizing new literary voice comes a story of obsessive friendship, chilling powers, and untimely death for readers of dark academia classics like If We Were Villains and The Secret History.
 
An unnamed narrator arrives at Cambridge University in the early aughts determined to reinvent himself. His northern accent marks him as an outsider, but thanks to his musical gifts, he manages to fall in with his wealthy classmate, Bryn Cavendish.

A charismatic party host and talented magician, Bryn enthralls the narrator. But something seems to happen to those who challenge or simply irk Bryn—and they aren’t ever the same again. 

The narrator begins to suspect that Bryn may be concealing terrifying gifts under the guise of magic tricks. As the tension between them grows, a harrowing encounter is followed by Bryn’s death. 

Alternating between their time as students and the narrator’s return to Cambridge years later, where he fears the ghosts of his past are waiting for him, And He Shall Appear performs an astounding slight-of-hand that throws every version of the story into question.

This propulsive novel about the dark power of privilege will haunt readers like a familiar piece of music with endless iterations.

Excerpt:

Nobody is afraid of the past. What we’re afraid of is the past  coming loose. We’re afraid that it might free itself from where  we left it and, like a lengthening shadow on an empty street,  slip silently after us until we feel it brushing at our heel. 

I can’t prove what happened between him and me all  those years ago, behind those exalting college walls. Nor can I  prove what’s happening now. But plenty of truths defy physical evidence. Yes, we can make claims, but could you prove to  someone that they were the best friend you ever had? Could you verify your regret at how terribly you let them down?  What about your fear, your implacable, immeasurable fear  that they will never forgive you for it—never forgive, and  never forget? 

Before I met him, I’d only had one experience I couldn’t explain. Something that happened when I was a child. It surprised me, because it wasn’t like the stories we told as we sat cross-legged behind the dilapidated science block, hidden from the dinner ladies who circled the asphalt like blue rinsed sharks. In our Ghost Club tales—about the spirit that  crept between the row of sari shops and the big Tesco, about  the creature that stalked the wasteland where, long ago, the  cotton mills stood—the fear was clear and sharp, like sherbet  on the tongue. But what happened to me was hazy, as if it  existed at the very edge of understanding, of reality. I remember it like this: 

I was sitting up in bed, wrapped in my ThunderCats  duvet, peering at the shapes made unfamiliar by the dark. In the corner, my music stand leaned like the mast of a sinking ship, next to my battered clarinet case and a neglected  football. On my chest of drawers my action figurines stood,  all—I knew without being able to discern their faces—with  their gazes turned toward me. The silence felt a long way  from morning. Something had woken me, I realized. Not a  sound. A feeling, maybe. 

There was someone in the house. 

I had never been a brave boy, and there’s no denying that I felt deeply frightened then. But I also felt a low, irresistible pull. While I was terrified to discover whatever  was moving in the night, I was somehow more afraid of not seeing it. Which is why I rustled softly out of bed and  stepped soundlessly out of my room. 

When my eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, I looked  toward the bedroom at the end of the landing. Through  the door, open just a crack, was my mum’s sleeping body,  reflected in the mirrored wardrobe, made sickly by the  light of her clock radio. There was no spectral figure  floating beside her, no maniac raising a flashing blade. No  movement but for the rise and fall of her chest with each  unconscious breath. 

I moved on to the bathroom. The streaks of moonlight  on the tiles, the faint smell of bleach—all this made the  space feel strangely antiseptic. My tongue became sticky at  the thought that I might discover a figure stretched out in  the bath, its clawed hands ready to curl around the candy striped shower curtain. But when I edged forward and  peered into the tub, there was only the dripping shower head dangling like a hanged man, gazing sightlessly into the blackness of the plughole. Bare toes plucking at the cold  vinyl, I reversed out of the room and back onto the landing. Clutching the banister, I descended the stairs (stretching myself over the final step, which, for reasons I couldn’t  articulate, I never liked to touch) and made my way into  the living room, where the battered recliner hunched in the  corner and the rug reached tasseled fingers across the floor.  Fearful of what I might see, or perhaps of what might see  me, I left the lights off as I padded across the carpet, peeking  behind the sofa and beneath the coffee table as I went. The  house, unremarkable during the day, was peculiar in the  gloom. It crouched and whispered behind my back. When  I looked toward the curtains, drawn tightly across the bay  window, I had the vertiginous sensation that what was  behind them was not normal, and that if I opened them and  looked out into the night I might see something other than  the usual pebble-dashed terraces, the ordinary, overgrown  gardens. Approaching the window sidelong, I took the edge  of one curtain between my fingertips. Peeled it delicately  from the glass. From the darkness beyond emerged a face,  so close I could see the shadows under its eyes, and I would  have cried out had my breath not seized in my chest—but  the face was only my own, reflected ghastly, and beyond it  the street, empty and still. 

Nerves thrumming, I carried on, past the dining table  piled high with laundry ready for ironing, past the sagging  spider plant and its crisping fronds. Finally, into the kitchen,  lit only by the faltering street lamp outside. On my left was  the sink, where metallic drips landed on sauce-crusted pans,  overseen by the stained kettle and crumb-dusted toaster.  

Opposite these was the cooker, flanked by cupboards of  plates and bowls, chipped mugs and old jugs, and empty jam  jars. As ever, there was the smell of damp cloths and cooled  cooking fat. But beneath this, something else—something  organic, like freshly turned soil. There, straight ahead of  me, the door leading into the little pantry, with its panel of  frosted glass. 

And someone behind it. 

I froze. Stared. The silhouette was blurred but for small,  dark rounds where its fingertips pressed on the glass. Its  head swayed from side to side, a serpentine movement that  made me shudder. I wondered whether it—whatever it  was—could see me in the darkness. Whether it could hear  me, or smell me. 

The important thing was to avoid alerting it to my presence, to stay perfectly still while I worked out what to do.  How did it get there? The door behind which it stood was  the only way into the pantry, the only way out. Perhaps, I  thought with a shiver, the thing had always been inside and  we’d simply never known. 

As I stood, it rapped hard at the door. 

I skittered backward, terror thrilling through my body,  my legs charged with the impulse to run. I wanted to call  my mum. But still I felt that grim, reckless need—urgent  now—to stay, to see it for myself. Taking a moment to  slow my breath, I forced my feet toward the door, my body  hunched as if braced for impact. Inhaled, exhaled. 

I clasped the door handle, turned. Pulled. 

Waiting behind the door was my father. But he wasn’t  the right age, not the age he was when I last saw him, the age at which he died. He was a boy like me, maybe ten or  eleven. Instead of being florid and riddled with spider veins,  his cheeks were now fair and dappled with freckles, while  his strawberry blonde hair was styled neatly in a short-back 

and-sides. He looked like a character from an Enid Blyton  book, like he did in the black and white photos I’d once  found in a disintegrating carrier bag. Alongside my terror,  there came a confusion of feelings: anger for everything  that had happened, relief that the person I’d thought was  gone was, in fact, not. Here was a chance to speak to him  again. But it seemed strange to call another child Dad, and I  found myself fumbling over how to say hello. I felt babyish  then, standing mute in my too-short pajamas, and I thought  perhaps I might cry. He didn’t notice. He looked past me,  into the darkness that hung deeper in the house. 

Then, somehow, my mum’s hands were on my shoulders, her voice soaring over my head. “Can I help you?” she  asked him, her tone blandly tolerant, as if she were speaking to a very old person or a salesman. 

They stared at one another. Then my dad opened his  mouth, so wide that it looked as if he might dislocate his  jaw, as if he were letting my mum inspect his teeth. Then  he reached out, would have touched me had Mum not  drawn me sharply backward. I realized that she didn’t recognize the person in front of us. 

I wriggled, straining to see her face, but she only held me  tighter. I called out: Don’t you see who it is? Look at the eyes. But with a swipe, Mum slammed the door and dragged  me out of the kitchen. My feet skidding on the linoleum,  I started to scream. There was the shadow, still shifting, restless, behind the door, with nothing to do but keep waiting to be let in. 

When I told them, the members of Ghost Club were unimpressed. “So it was a dream?” one said. 

“Well,” I said. “Sort of, but—” 

“So it’s not true, then. Not a proper ghost story.” I wondered how to explain that this dream world had  contained a jagged tear of reality. “But it really was my dad.  Coming back.” 

“How’d you know?” 

“I know.” 

“But how?” 

“I just do!” 

“What did he want, then?” 

I shrugged. I hadn’t understood my dad even when he  was alive. 

“So your dad,” whispered one slow learner, the know ledge arriving in her head like a long-delayed train, “is dead?” That afternoon I noticed children whispering and pointing. Some gave me extra room as they passed, as if I were  carrying a population of head lice or a virulent strain of flu.  Later, I found I’d been nicknamed—in that on-the-nose way  of primary schoolers—Spooky, and I resolved not to talk to  the others about my dad again. 

Some time later, puzzling over my dream, I asked my mum:  If a person was born with no legs, would their ghost have no  legs too? Rummaging in the fridge, she said she supposed  so. But what if, I went on, someone was born with legs but lost them in an accident? If they came back as a ghost would  they have legs or not? I remember staring down at my boiled  egg, at my toast soldiers queuing for a dip, trying not to look  at the pantry door. My mum handed me a glass of orange  squash and told me I was being a very morbid boy. 

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Why wouldn’t an  old man revisit his loved ones as his younger, stronger self?  Why did we assume he’d spend eternity with arthritis in  his fingers and a bend in his back? And if I died (because at  that age I was still convinced that death would happen to  everyone but me), would I get to choose my own eternal  form? Or would it be chosen by God, by the Devil, or by  something else? 

I thought of the silly little boy I’d been only a few years  ago: the one too scared to cross the road by himself, who  couldn’t sleep without his ladybird night-light. I couldn’t  stand to be like that forever. Even worse, what if my mum  spent eternity as a child too? How, in the afterlife, would  she make my favorite sandwiches, crisp-and-ketchup, with  the crusts cut off? She wouldn’t be allowed to use a knife. 

I also worried that the dream might come back. It hadn’t  been scary as such—not a proper nightmare, scrabbling at  the walls of a well or shambling down a twilit hospital corridor. But it had sunk beneath my skin, left a memory like a  bruise. On the edge of sleep I sometimes jolted myself awake,  thinking I’d heard that knock again. Perhaps he’d be a teen ager this time, or a baby wailing in a Moses basket. Perhaps  he’d be a pensioner with eyes dull as an old fish, his mouth  puckered, older than he ever became in real life. And, who ever he was, perhaps my mum would still slam the door shut. 

I’d almost forgotten about the dream when it returned, in  my final year of university. But, this time, when I stood in  that spectral kitchen gripping the door handle, I knew that the person behind the door wasn’t my dad. It was someone else, someone more recently lost to me. Thankfully,  in the moments before the door shushed open, I forced  myself awake. 

As I lay sweating in the aftermath of the dream, I wondered: Which version of him had been waiting for me  behind the rippled glass? Would he have appeared as my  best friend? Or my worst enemy? 

While I’d never known the meaning of the original  dream, I understood this new one all too well. It was a  warning that he wasn’t gone for good. Maybe one day, terribly awake, I’d catch an uncertain glimpse of him shifting through a crowd at a train station, or I’d pass him at a  pedestrian crossing in the driving rain. Perhaps I’d find him waiting in the stairwell outside the flat. Who would he be,  then? Would he return to me as the tortured soul or the  scene-stealing showman, the conqueror or the conquered? 

I didn’t know. But I was sure of two things. He would  definitely come back. And when he did, he wouldn’t bother  to knock.

About Kate van der Borgh:

By day, Kate van der Borgh is a freelance copywriter, and by night, she’s usually composing or playing music. She grew up in Lancashire and went on to study music at Cambridge, so there’s a reasonable amount of her in her narrator—including the fact that she was a pianist and reluctant bassoonist. She has, however, never had reason to suspect that her best friend has occult powers. Her short fiction has been published by The Fiction Desk, and she’s a graduate of Faber’s six-month Writing a Novel course. She is based in London.

Website |Twitter (X) | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of AND HE SHALL APPEAR, US Only.

Ends October 15th, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the VALOR WINGS by Sam Subity Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Sam Subity

Pub. Date: September 17, 2024

Publisher: Scholastic Press

Formats:  Hardcover, eBook

Pages: 288

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/VALOR-WINGS

A thrilling WWII adventure that reimagines the evacuation of Dunkirk… with dragons!

May 10, 1940

Everyone in Iris’s small English village avoids the dragon in the woods. Everyone, that is, except for Iris. She knows Galahad would never hurt her–she’s been caring for the dragon since he lost his mother when he was a baby. When Galahad is accused of stealing military rations, Iris strikes a bargain that will spare Galahad’s life… but send him off to the war brewing in Europe. Soon after, she receives news that her brother is among the troops trapped in France by the advancing German troops. Refusing to give up hope, Iris devises a desperate plan that will either save both her brother and her best friend–or end in disaster.

Meanwhile in Belgium, Max’s school day is abruptly interrupted by some terrifying news: The Germans have invaded his country. He and his grandmother are forced to flee for their lives west toward France where they hope to find safety. But when they are separated after a German attack, Max must continue the treacherous journey on his own.

Across hundreds of miles, the stories of Iris and Max steadily converge toward an explosive conclusion that will change them both forever. Along the way, they each must find the inner strength and resolve–the valor–to do the impossible. Author Sam Subity blends history and fantasy to tell a story like no other–an exhilarating adventure about the power of friendship, hope, and courage.

Excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE 

IRIS 

England, May 1940 

Each day Iris woke before dawn to milk the cows, feed the chick ens, and leave breakfast for the dragon. A half dozen fresh eggs— or  sometimes a couple more if she thought they wouldn’t be missed—  placed on a tree stump near the edge of the forest. Iris liked to save  this task for last so that she could lie in the tall grass and watch.  Because oh, what a thrill it was to watch! 

The dark wood bordering her family’s farm would fall silent  as if the whole world had frozen in hushed anticipation. Even the  fog that silently crept in each night from the sea appeared to cease  curling lazily through the trees. 

Today was no different. Iris held her breath, not wanting to  break the spell. 

Everything watching. Waiting. 

Something stirred in the grass nearby. As Iris turned toward  the noise, a huge form loomed out of the grass and barreled into her  from the other direction. Iris tumbled over and found her shoulders pinned to the ground. A pair of large golden eyes stared down  at her. 

The eyes of a dragon.

Iris exploded in a fit of laughter. “Galahad! Get off me, you  big brute!” 

The dragon snorted puffs of smoke in a harrumph of protest. Iris wrinkled her nose and waved her hand in front of her  face. “Ugh, what in the world did you eat for breakfast?” The dragon made a small rumble in the back of his throat. “Fine. You’re a glorious creature of unmatched beauty and  odor,” she deadpanned. “Now get off me.” 

Satisfied, Galahad shifted his horse- sized bulk. Iris got to her  feet and brushed herself off. The dragon curled his body around  hers and gently nudged her toward the stump, gesturing with his  snout at the eggs. 

“Oh,” Iris said, “you want me to eat them?” She lifted her nose  snootily in the air. “Well, sir, ladies prefer our eggs cooked.” Galahad spat a small fireball. The eggs instantly burst into flame. “Galahad!” she chided playfully, and hurried to put out the  flames. Shaking her head, she stared down skeptically at the charred  lumps. “A little too well done for my taste, I’m afraid.” Then, becoming more serious, she stepped toward the dragon.  “What would you think about another flying lesson today?”  Galahad started to turn his head away, but Iris gently reached out  and guided his snout back so that their eyes met. “You can do it.  I’m sure of it. You’re only . . . a little afraid. I know. I am too.” She suspected that Galahad’s fear largely stemmed from being  orphaned at an early age and having no older dragons to teach him  dragonish things. His body already bore a few bumps and bruises  from his previous unsuccessful attempts at flight. 

But Iris refused to give up. As Galahad had grown older, she’d observed him watching other creatures with wistful interest.  Ducks flocking together. A herd of sheep grazing in quiet community. She sensed that he longed to be among his own kind. Which  was why she continued to gently persist in their lessons. She realized she was a poor substitute for another dragon to teach him. But that was just the problem. There were no other dragons. For centuries, a herd of dragons had lived in the forest near  her village. However, conflicts with humans had forced them to  gradually depart for the wilds somewhere far to the north. By the  time Iris had been born nearly fourteen years ago, all the dragons  were gone. All except for Galahad. Iris believed that teaching him  to fly was the key to his following the dragons one day and reuniting with his herd. 

The creaking of an approaching wagon pulled her out of her  thoughts. 

“Galahad, quickly!” she said. By the time she turned around,  the dragon had already disappeared into the forest with barely a  rustle of leaves. 

“Ah, there you are!” 

Iris’s shoulders relaxed. It was only her older brother, Jamie.  He and her father were probably the only ones who didn’t think  she was crazy for befriending a dragon. Most everyone in their village had enthusiastically bid good riddance to the dragon herd. As  well as blaming dragons for the occasional goat or sheep that went  missing, dragons were widely considered to harbor disease, and  worse, foul magic. 

Iris had her doubts about the former, but she knew the latter  to be utter nonsense.

The rising sun framed her brother’s strong form as he  approached in a rickety hay wagon pulled by their mare, Juniper.  The horse neighed warily as they drew near, scenting the dragon. 

“Easy, girl,” Iris said, running a hand along the horse’s neck. “Been playing with your dragon again?” Jamie asked. He  looked her over closely as if expecting to find her missing a limb. “He’s not my dragon,” Iris protested. “Galahad belongs to no  one but himself. And besides, he’s perfectly harmless.” “Well, in case it’s escaped your attention, your once- little  hatchling is now a beast as big as a horse. With sharp claws as long  as a man’s fingers. Oh, and he breathes fire. So forgive me for—” “Your extreme pigheadedness?” Iris knew her brother adored  her, but even so she felt it to be her sisterly obligation to point out  his lack of reason where her safety was concerned. 

Jamie cocked an eyebrow at her. “If you’re done pouting,  Dad’s asked me to go down to the village to pick up a few things.  Thought you might want to join me.” 

Iris’s face lit up. “Oh, can I?” She scrambled onto the wagon,  letting her feet dangle off the back. The village was one of her  favorite places, with all its little shops and wonderful smells. It all  held precious memories of her mother and the hours Iris had spent  exploring its delights with her. It was almost as if her mother’s  gentle spirit still wandered those cobbled streets. 

Soon they were winding down a lane lined with trees blooming in the late spring. After a long gray winter, the whole world  seemed to burst with hope in greens and pinks. So it felt strangely  out of place when a regiment of British soldiers marched by in their  plain brown uniforms.

Her heart squeezed with worry when she noticed Jamie’s head  turn to watch the troops. “Remember, you promised me you’d stay  to help with the farm,” she reminded him. 

“I remember,” he said, nodding slowly. “It’s only, I can’t help  but feel that I have a duty to help our country too.” Something in her brother’s voice made Iris’s heart pinch, but  her thoughts were soon interrupted by the clack of their wagon’s  wheels on the cobblestoned lanes as they entered the village. The  tightly clustered shops and buildings with their shaggy thatched  roofs always reminded her of squat old men sitting shoulder to  shoulder. Eventually, they neared the central square and came to a  stop. Iris hopped down from her perch and turned in a slow circle,  trying to decide where to go first. 

She felt her brother’s hand on her shoulder. “Try not to cause  too much trouble this time?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, so you’re already forgetting what everyone called the  Great Pig Parade last spring?” 

“Those pigs were being treated unfairly.” 

“It’s a butcher’s shop. That’s . . . kind of the way it works.” He  turned and strode toward the feed store on the corner, calling over  his shoulder. “Maybe try avoiding the butcher’s this time? And  meet me back here in an hour?” 

Iris nodded, then quickly crossed the street, already enraptured by the smells wafting toward her from the bakery. She stared  into the window at the rows of warm bread and sweet rolls. The  shelves weren’t even half-full. It was a sight that had become all too  familiar with the war rationing.

She continued down the street, ignoring the “dragon girl” a  few villagers muttered under their breath as she passed. At last  Iris arrived at her favorite store: Pickwick’s Fine Books. When  she stepped inside, the store’s owner, Mrs. Pickwick, turned from  where she was shelving a book and smiled. 

“Hello there, Miss Iris!” she said cheerfully. 

“Hello, Mrs. Pickwick!” Iris replied, relieved to find a friendly  face at last. She paused and breathed in the aroma of old books.  The small store was stuffed practically floor to ceiling with them.  Her skin tingled with excitement as she thought of the adventures  waiting within their pages. 

“I just happened to receive a new shipment this morning,” said  the bookseller, pointing to the box she had been in the process of  shelving. “You’re welcome to take a look if you like.” 

“Oh, if you don’t mind?” Iris said, crossing toward the box. “Not at all. In fact, I imagine the water is nearly ready for my  tea. Would you like some?” 

“Yes, thank you,” Iris mumbled, already lost in studying the  spines. She caught the word Dragons on one and quickly slipped it  out of the pile. Opening it, she saw that it was a children’s book.  Page after page was filled with illustrations of dragons soaring  through the air, carrying riders on amazing quests far away. Maybe,  she thought, if I showed Galahad some pictures of dragons flying— 

Suddenly, a loud clanging noise broke the morning quiet. Iris  jerked her head up in surprise. She recognized the sound. It was  the church bell by the village square. But it shouldn’t be ringing at  this time.

Something was wrong. 

Racing out the bookstore’s front door, she could clearly hear  another noise mingling with the gonging bell: a dragon’s scream. A flame of fear ignited in Iris’s chest. 

Galahad was in trouble.

About Sam Subity:

Sam Subity loves writing stories that explore the magic and wonder of being a kid and is thrilled to share his debut novel with readers everywhere — both the young in age and the young at heart. When he’s not writing, you might find him running the trails of Northern California, where the endless, winding miles past fog and ocean inspire stories of adventure and mystery. Or he might be mowing his lawn. Because that’s what adults sometimes have to do. But in either case, he’s very likely imagining himself fighting mythical creatures or at the prow of a Viking dragon ship, feeling the wind and sea spray on his face. His greatest hope is that in reading this book, you too were in some small way transported to another place where for a little while you could exchange the ordinary for the extraordinary.

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of VALOR WINGS, US Only.

Ends October 31st, midnight EST.

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the THE MAGICAL JOURNEY OF JOHN AND ADELE by Ancius M. Murray Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Author: Ancius M. Murray

Pub. Date: January 28, 2024

Publisher: Troubador Publishing

Formats:  Hardcover, Paperback, eBook

Pages: 280

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/THE-MAGICAL-JOURNEY-OF-JOHN-AND-ADELE

John and Adele have been together for over two decades and have a son. Their relationship has been on a downhill trajectory for many years.

One evening, en route to their annual holiday destination, they run out of fuel in a remote location. To whom can they go for assistance? Suddenly, in the darkness, their lives take an unexpected turn. They meet three mysterious but benevolent strangers who offer to help them. In observing Adele and John, they pose to the couple an unusual challenge that seeks to address the core problems in their marriage. John and Adele find the proposal odd but intriguing. While it may have advantages, it could be risky and dangerous. But unresolved emotions and unhealed wounds, as well as long-buried memories can also have hazardous and unpredictable consequences. Will they dare to accept this challenge or not?

This unique novel, while aimed at taking a fresh perspective on relationships, is uplifting, relaxing, and is meant to be enjoyed.

The story of Ancius M. Murray 

– An Irish-Lithuanian trio using collaborative storytelling to provide a  toolkit for improving relationships

HOW THE AUTHORS MET

Marija and Mary Catherine were nominated by the Lithuanian and Irish governments to  attend the prestigious French Government School to study public administration in  Paris. At the same time Darius was working on his doctoral thesis in the Commission for  Atomic Energy there. They came together at an international reception and a strong  connection was formed. Each of them had an interest in cultural exchange outside of  their work and this cemented their friendship.

DECIDING TO WRITE

When they had finished their studies, they returned home but still stayed in regular  contact. They had a strong desire to work on an interesting artistic project as a team,  again outside of their professions. Twelve years later, inspiration struck. They hit on the  idea of writing a novel together. They would write a story about an ordinary couple  deciding to address once and for all the very serious problems in their relationship. 

Everyone has observed couples who are no longer happy in each other’s company.  Many separate without realizing the potential of their relationship and are quite often  left feeling very sad or bitter. The writers were sensitive to this and felt they had  something to say on the subject. 

But at the same time the three writers wanted the story to be soothing and pleasant,  where the characters’ only stress was confronting their own relationship. The dream-like  context of the novel supports them in this goal, but the readers have no idea if the  couple will stay together. 

THE WRITING PROCESS 

The next step was embarking on the practical aspects of this writing project. Linguistic  considerations were to the forefront. The authors used French as their working language  in speaking to each other on Zoom since the friendship between them had been  established in that language, and then wrote in English. Editing and developing a  recognisable and relaxing literary style was their challenge.

All three wrote simultaneously in diOerent countries with a general theme decided on in  advance. The writing was done on weekends and evenings after work. Sometimes they  travelled to each other’s countries to bring the chapters together and read to each  other. They analysed everything together line by line to be sure it represented the ideas  they wanted to communicate to the reader.

Darius was the designer of the novel’s setting and gave direction on chapter content. He  was also responsible for the computer work and all the technical details concerning the  manuscript.

Marija’s expertise with legal texts assisted greatly in avoiding repetition and in creating a  smooth, believable narrative. Making sure that character motivation was clear and  logical as well as in line with toolkit guidance being provided was her domain.

Mary Catherine provided the descriptions of nature and the scents and sounds  perceived by the characters. She created the emotional atmosphere for the different  scenarios in the story and reviewed the literary style evolving within the text. 

This work has lasted four years.

It was definitely not an easy task. They experienced writers’ block, as well as obstacles  in the story route. Sometimes they found it difficult to find a way through for the  characters to the novel’s conclusion that was meeting everyone’s expectations.

Then, after a break in the work and coming back to it with a fresh perspective, one of the  three writers would suggest a new direction that would resonate with the other two. That  was when they felt the magic of combining their contributions and moving forward, as  any single author would who pens a story and has no doubt of its value, direction, and  purpose.

Some chapters of this book were written individually by each author. After reviewing  them together, they were incorporated into the main story. Other chapters written as a  group were knitting sentences word by word into the tapestry that is now their novel,  ‘The Magical Journey of John and Adele’, a mixture of mystery, fable, and relationship  guide.

Excerpt:

1 

In the Dark 

The beams of two headlights crossed the darkening sky which  hung over the motorway. An old silver hatchback streamed  through the hills rising towards the mountains, and through  sparse woods. The traffic emerging from the city had been left  behind hours before, and occasional passing cars were the sole  sign of human civilization in this remote countryside. 

Two passengers in their late forties, a man and a woman,  

were travelling in the car. Their boredom and the silence  between them seemed to be in tune with the monotonous sound  of the raindrops that were beginning to fall from the grey sky  and onto the windscreen. A brochure on the back seat, depicting  a luxurious spa nestled in a sunny mountain valley, seemed in  sharp contrast to the dull and dreary atmosphere inside the car. 

“John, there should be a filling station in a mile or so,”  

said the woman. “Are you sure we’ve enough fuel to get to our  destination?” 

“Don’t worry, Adele,” the man replied automatically, obviously lost in thought. Then, looking at her, he said  mockingly, “Why don’t you just tell me the truth? You want to  stop to buy some useless trinket, like a fridge magnet for your  endless collection, or one more coffee mug that says, ‘I love  Paris’. You want to do that, don’t you?” He smiled sarcastically. 

Adele did not want to venture further into territory that would lead to an unpleasant argument. She turned her head to  the window. 

Ten miles later, John took an exit heading to the mountain  

road. “Look, there we are. Only fifty miles before we reach the  paradise promised in your precious brochure,” he announced in  a bored tone. 

They continued to drive, observing the still, melancholic  

landscape. The disappearing light as the sun set made it seem  even sadder and more forlorn. 

Adele leaned towards John and looked at the dashboard.  

“Hold on, doesn’t this small yellow light mean that we’ll run out  of fuel soon?” she asked. 

“Don’t worry,” John said once again, firmly this time. But he  

was unable to hide the anxiety in his voice. 

The steep and winding road seemed to be intent on  

exhausting the worn-out car and its nearly empty petrol tank. A  second light, this one red, lit up on the panel. 

“Damned car!” yelled John. “This old engine burns petrol  

like a monster!” 

“John, I told you we should have filled the tank at the last  

station we passed! Why is it always like this? Can’t you deal with  a simple problem? You fill the tank; you drive the car!” Adele  crossed her arms and fixed her angry gaze on the road. 

“This so-called ‘simple problem’ could have been solved  

if you hadn’t dragged your feet over buying a new, more fuel efficient car, and despite us getting several very good offers, you  didn’t want to sell this thing!” John cut in, unwilling to admit his  negligence in not planning ahead for petrol. 

He accelerated, determined to continue the journey to its end. But the end came more quickly than he had planned: it  came at the next corner. The car spluttered several times before  John managed to pull it into a small area off the road. Then it  stopped still. They had run out of fuel. 

About Ancius M. Murray:

Ancius M. Murray is a collective pen name for an Irish-Lithuanian team (a physicist, a lawyer, a creative writer) who met by chance, and collaborated on this novel over the course of four years.

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