Well, we have exciting news for everyone! It’s been three months since The Clockwork Caterpillar has been put on sale. And we’ve got a special announcement for it. We’re discounting the digital copy of the story to $0.99! That’s right, just $0.99! It’s less than the price of coffee. I assume. I don’t actually know the price of coffee anymore. I walked into Starbucks once and now I’m on welfare.

The discount only lasts for two weeks, however, so don’t sleep on this once in at least three month deal! As an aside, two weeks is the exact same amount of time that I’ll be on vacation. So, unfortunately, this is the last you’ll hear of me until August. And then the International is happening so you’ll probably hear about that soon after. Hope you like your Dota 2 news!

Oh, I should also add that this discount is (to my knowledge) only available on Amazon. Both the American and Canadian site should have the discounted sale price. I’ll link them below for convenience:

 

Canada

America

Just to clarify, this is only for the digital version. The hard copy is still the original price. But hey, if you’re normally a page turning enthusiast but have recently been considering what all that back-lit screening fuss was all about, then now is the best time to try it out!

And for those who are going to or have already made a purchase of The Clockwork Caterpillar, perhaps I could convince you to just scribble a few of your thoughts on whatever platform you made the purchase? As a self-published author, it is hard to get exposure and the algorithms used to link customers with other products they like rely partly on customer feedback. You can be part of something big by helping to spread the word and start a movement over The Red Sabre series!

It’s like being your own digital pioneer! And there are even pirates to avoid in this cyberspace!

And just a final word of praise. I’ve really appreciated all the support and love from you guys for this release. It really means a lot to hear so many enjoying the tale of Felicity and her crew in the wild frontiers.

May your rails always be clear and profitable!

Alright, I’ll admit this is a misleading title but I’m just so excited to share some news with everyone. First, it’s May which means my month of crazy writing is over! As such, hopefully my posts can be a bit more regular. Sorry for the inconsistencies.

Second, we have some more great news concerning our latest release The Clockwork Caterpillar! If you’re a fan of Concerned Newscaster #1 in this Stellaris’ trailer for Apocalypse then you’ll be excited to know we’ve snagged the incredibly talented and immensely charismatic Felicia Valenti to read the first chapter! It’s broken into three parts and available on our Youtube channel.

Yes, we have a Youtube channel! Tell your friends. Tell your relatives. Tell your friends’ relatives! We’ve loaded it up with a bunch of free content so you can enjoy the world of Athemisia and see all the colourful characters fighting on the rugged frontier.

You can find the first part of our pseudo-audiobook-but-not-really-we-wish-we-had-more-money right here!

So, yeah, that’s the news. I’m sure we’ll have some more rants, raves and rambles coming up in the coming weeks so thanks for staying tuned. And if you’d like to hear more from Felicia Valenti you can check out her Youtube channel here as well. She has video game covers and she’s been in a podcast for indie game development in Toronto and could very well be in an upcoming video game coming to stores near you!

My second novel, The Clockwork Caterpillar, should have released by now. Links to the digital copies on Amazon can be followed here and the digital Kobo link can be found here. Last week I posted the first half of the first chapter. Here’s the second part. The rest can be found in the book itself! Hope you enjoy.

* * *

There was the briefest of hesitations: enough pause to make her rebelliousness known. But the weapon dropped nonetheless.

In one quick motion, Hopkins’ boot sent the weapon tumbling over the edge of the bridge into the great beyond.

Felicity cried out, making a useless grab. As she shifted her weight, Hopkins struck her back, sprawling her across the bridge as her hat tumbled loose. She coughed and groaned as he hunched over her.

“You see, life out on the frontier ain’t a simple thing. Some men got to do what they got to do. You take some jobs other folk ain’t. You get a name that some ain’t like. But as I tell you, you live and better than the rest. That’s all that matters.”

He grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet with a yelp.

“And sometimes you get some blood on your hands. But this land ain’t for the weak. Take a look on them hills. They’ve been bathed in the stuff. Always been since them savages learned two stones smashed against each other creates an edge that could paint in crimson. You either fight and live or you get put into the ground to pay the earth her due.”

He pulled her to the bridge’s side, forcing her upon its razor edge. Her arms flailed, fingertips clutching for ribbed steel. He held her tight by her knot; her head pulled uncomfortably back. Her eyes could only see the top of the canyon. Its dark line wound as far as the eye could grasp.

“You can hear the groans of all them stiffs. First was them savages with their constant fighting and hollering. Then them kuli’s in those junks they sailed across the waters with long nails and shaved tails like rats fleeing a sunk ship. Got them cities digging right into the coast all the way up to the mountains. Been nothing but sieged for generations.

“This land is a harsh one.”

He pulled her back, throwing her to the bridge’s planks. He stood over her like a rancher evaluating a lame mule. He half-smiled, watching her fingers tighten around the boards. But she did not move as he crouched.

She coughed and he turned his head, losing her words in the distant cry of an eagle.

“Hunter’s on the wing,” he grinned, reaching down and grasping her chin. He turned her face to look in her eyes, noting with amusement the fierce glare. “So what were them pretty last words you wanted?”

“Should have come willingly.”

He raised a hand to strike her, but thunder cracked against the canyon walls. Hopkins turned to the sky, searching for the phantom storm, but a clatter off his shoulder pulled his attention. One of the barrels landed upon its side, rolled along the wood and bounced against the discarded tools. Hopkins spun to his feet, taking a step towards the wayward vessel while berating its clumsy handler.

Just as unexpectedly as the barrel’s descent, the ruffian fell to the ground. Unlike his parcel, he didn’t move as a dark pool stained his shirt.

Hopkins’ strangled criticism drowned in a second sharp clap.

“Sharpshooter!”

The warning worked its way down the line as bodies dropped behind what cover they could. Eyes scanned the skyline, searching the craggy sides around them for the source. Hopkins dropped to the planks of the bridge, but as he fumbled his revolver, Felicity scampered to her hands and knees. She snatched her hat, fitting it squarely on her head.

“Kill her, fools!”

But the gunmen were slow in loosening their shots. She leaped over a pile of iron girders, pressing tightly against their backsides. The metal sang with the ricochet of bullets. One wayward shot struck the barrel Hopkins had saved and he felt his heart still.

“Stop! Idiots! You’ll hit the kegs!”

It took a few seconds for his order to carry. That floppy hat poked from its cover and regarded both Hopkins and his escort with equal disdain. Hopkins slipped away from its side least another stray shot catch it. He noticed the barrel’s lid had slipped loose. A thin line of black powder traced back to the body of its fallen owner.

A sullen silence filled the bridge.

“So what’s the plan, Hopkins?” Felicity called, her voice ringing clear in the respite. “Things be a little dire unless you’re going for a final stand.”

Her head poked again and the outlaw’s pistol fired. But the shot was off the mark. Hopkins lay on his stomach, hand still shaking with the thought of that barrel exploding. He turned like an engorged snake, inching towards his steed standing obediently at the edge of the bridge. If he could get mounted, surely he could seek escape along the old mule trail into the canyon and away from the sharpshooter’s angle.

But before he could get far, the sound of iron shoes striking wood drew his gaze. All eyes on the bridge turned to its far side. A rider bounded towards them without a single shot to greet him. None dared their cover least they invoke the sky’s wrath by providing a clear line.

The stallion drew upon them with flanks glistening from sweat and exhaustion. Upon the back was a hunched young man as ridiculous as he was stylish. His hair was slicked and immaculately placed. A crisp suit with full breast pockets, polished shoes and a high banded collar clasped about his slender frame and was tailored professionally to his cut. Aside from the light dusting, the clothes were peculiarly clean compared to the rest of the bridge’s visitors. His was a guise more fitting the busy streets of old Rhea Silvia than the rough plains of the frontier. It was as if the Lord had plucked him from across the ocean and dropped him at the very edge of the wastes.

Hopkins leveraged his pistol and released a preemptive shot, dispelling the paralysis holding fast his compatriots.

At such a distance, the shot was too wide, but it served as the vanguard of an entire swarm. The horse cried, kicking at one shot that found mark in its flank. It bucked and knocked its rider free. Frightened and directionless, the beast made the only sensible decision and fled. Its owner scrambled for cover behind the scattered rubbish.

“What are you doing?!” Felicity called.

Crawling on all fours, the gentleman dodged and wove amongst the barrels and wood piles.

“Reinforcing! It appears your lovely self is in quite a bind.”

There was no telling how many of her men remained. Hopkins abandoned all subtlety, emptying chambers to cover his escape.

“Toss me your pistol!” Felicity cried.

“Where’s yours?”

“It got misplaced.”

“Misplaced? After all of your lecturing?”

“Schroeder!”

Her tone was weapon enough and Hopkins pressed up against a thick girder fearing a discharge. He waved for his hands to move and flank them. But the craven snakes shook their heads, hunkering further within their cover despite their clear advantage in numbers.

Hopkins shouted at the closest spring calf and when his head shook a second time in defiance, Hopkins deposited a lead ball in his brainpan as payment.

“Kill her!” Hopkins scream. “Or I’ll kill you!”

There was reservation as the outlaws debated between the untamed they knew and the ones they didn’t amongst the rocks.

A pistol tumbled through the air and bounced, twirling along the planks until it came to an abrupt stop well short of Felicity’s position.

“You throw like a girl.”

“But I love like a man!”

Hopkins raised his jittering firearm towards the lonely weapon. This was an opening. If she stepped out to retrieve it, he could strike her down. He followed the slow inch of her wide hat as it worked along the beams. Then, a large hand reached out and he squinted in concentration. He squeezed, trying to keep the shaking of his arm from reaching his fingers.

The shot missed, but the arm retreated.

“I hope you are satisfied.”

“I’d rather Pacal.”

“My captain, you wound me!”

“At least he can throw!”

It happened before Hopkins expected. From the newcomer’s cover flew a hammer, catching the stranded pistol and sending both skittering to Felicity’s waiting arms.

There was no hesitation.

Felicity dashed to the fallen barrel, popping out the chamber and removing the bullet. Hopkins raised his pistol for a second shot, but the woman kicked the barrel away. It tumbled across his sight.

She fell to the ground but not from a strike. She held the cocked hammer close to the stretching black line of powder and pulled the trigger.

The spark was so brief as to be almost invisible. The flame from the discharge ate the powder greedily, rushing up its twisting path like a frenzied lizard. It popped and hissed as its rolling parent fed it a direct course to the huddled gunmen.

Hopkins’ heart stopped as he saw her game. He flew from his cover—the sharpshooter be damned. Little else pressed upon his mind as he scrambled for the horse. Others shouted and ran. Most were too late.

They fell like pegs hammered into the rail by a grand, unseen hammer. Those that weren’t struck down were caught in the blast.

The explosion was spectacular. A great geyser of splintered and burning wood mixed with charred metals into a hailstorm of deadly debris. The force of the blast knocked those closest to the ground and sent Hopkins tumbling roughly into wood and dirt. He coughed, gasping for the air pounded from his lungs. He looked towards the bridge.

The planks burned fiercely and the steel shook and groaned. Burning wreckage fell like the Lord’s divine wrath. Some of those fiery pieces caught other barrels.

The fireball was spectacular. Metal girders bent before its majesty. The bridge twisted like a loosened rope. Its death rattle shook the canyon itself. The fate of the Glorious Belt Bridge was sealed. Like lips of a parting mouth, the structure peeled back to reveal the gaping maw of the canyon’s throat. Greedily it drank the wreckage, swallowing whole tools, towers, supports and bodies indiscriminately.

Hopkins scrambled to shaking feet as the floor beneath him buckled. He lurched forward, tossing any useless fool who fell across his path backwards into the abyss. He heard the pitying cries of his horse and he made for it with single-mindedness.

The woman’s shout followed his heels.

“Schroeder!”

He dared a glance. Dislodged steel beams tumbled across the collapsing surface, striking those clinging against boards tilting at unnatural angles. The supports gave out in rapid succession and the well-dressed man stumbled in his attempts to keep pace with the woman. He fell and she stopped to grab him as both bodies threatened to spill over the edge.

It would be the perfect shot. Hopkins paused, looking between the horse and the hunter. He could plant a bullet right between her shoulders and be done with them both. The survivors of his gang ignored the vulnerable pair, tripping over themselves as they sought firm footing. Hopkins raised his gun, tasting blood on his lip.

But he felt the earth shudder beneath his feet and his eyes carried across the widening gap between him and his promise of pay. He shoved his pistol into its holster and ran for the sure deal.

His horse was stamping madly but, mercifully, had not taken flight. He grabbed her reins, shouting obscenities as he pulled harsh on her head to reestablish dominance. He was just checking the latches on the saddle to ensure they had not shaken loose in her frenzy when he heard the crunching of gravel.

He caught a flash of brown coat and floppy hat before the woman was upon him.

His fingers instinctively wrapped about the handle of his pistol. But the collision with the ground jolted the weapon from his grasp as the two bodies entwined in the dirt. He struck with boots and she lashed with knees and elbows. He managed to plant a solid kick to her side. She was knocked from him. He crawled through the dust, snatching up his pistol.

She struck like lightning as he turned. The trigger squeezed and the muzzle spat. Felicity grunted as the bullet caught her leg. But her assault continued unimpeded. Fists lashed. She struck again and again. Each knuckle was like a jagged rock pulverizing Hopkins flesh. Her hand gripped his in a struggle for the firearm. In the contest, the weapon spat and Hopkins shrieked as the stray shot tore his shoulder. With his strength sapped, Felicity tore the gun from him. Her punches didn’t abate, however. One strike caught his jaw and his head snapped back, meeting the earth in a shattering impact. He cried. His arms raised uselessly to stem the onslaught.

“Clemency, I beg of you!”

Miraculously, it was granted. Felicity stood, grabbing his fallen pistol. Hopkins’ face was a burning storm of pain and heat. He felt thick liquid upon his skin and reached fingers to a nose that bleed profusely. Numerous cuts oozed hot sanguine over his swelling bruises.

“Stand.”

He simpered. The toe of her boot pressed against his chest as air fled him.

“Not so pleasant, ain’t it?” she asked while he wheezed. “To think all them folk you saw fit to string or worse. It will be more than a pleasure to watch you dance before the noose, you pathetic pond-sucking parasite. Now stand!”

Hopkins sobbed as he lifted to one knee. Felicity’s command grew more stern, but he only shook his head.

“Stand!”

“I can’t!”

Great unseen fingers wrapped about his torso as Hopkins was lifted effortlessly upright. He stumbled. Turning, he found a massive specimen of a man wrapped in thick muscles beneath a wide, golden frame barely contained within worn clothes. But though his dress lacked remarkability itself, he was bedecked in odd adornments. Around his wrists and ankles were thick roped bracers, a trio of deep purple feathers covering their length. The tendons of his hands were highlighted with bright ink running along his knuckles and well beneath his sleeves. A clatter of polished green rocks etched in the shape of round, stylistic faces jangled from his neck. Each head was deformed with massive tongues, large ears or great almond eyes. A strange mantle rested about his shoulders fashioned from brightly dyed cloths woven into intoxicating patterns and fringed with tattered coloured feathers.

And over one shoulder was slung a marksman’s rifle.

“Baax ka waalik, captain. Fine day for catch.”

Felicity smiled at the southerner.

“Fine shooting, Pacal. Couldn’t help notice you shaving things awful close.”

“Forgiveness, captain. Had to pay Kukulcan respects. But you Zaccimi touch.”

She looked at her leg and the wound which spat blood. She shook her head.

“I’ll be fine. Best see to Schroeder, though.”

“I shall yet live!” Only now did Hopkins see the suited man seated upon the brink of the new precipice, nursing his ankle while looking thoroughly less respectable than when he arrived. “But your sun will not visit anywhere it has not travelled already. How about we get these two back to the surgeon and see if we cannot postpone their visit to the Lord’s gate for another day.”

“Ain’t hardly nothing,” Felicity protested. “T’was you who nearly died in that explosion!”

“You have your story, captain, and I have mine.”

“Should have let you drop.”

“And lose a visage like this?” Schroeder smiled. “I believe there is scarcely a replacement in all of Athemisa or beyond.”

“Surely, the Graces would weep,” Felicity sighed. She turned to Hopkins, pulling loose a knotted handkerchief. “Now if you don’t mind rightly, I’m going to need to ensure you don’t try biting off your tongue and choking to death before we get you back all nice and sorted.”

Just a reminder to everyone that the official release date for The Clockwork Caterpillar will be April 5th. You can preorder The Clockwork Caterpillar digital version from your favourite digital storefront. The Amazon link can be found here. And this here is the Kobo link.  Today we’ll be taking a look at the first part of the opening chapter. Enjoy the preview and don’t forget to keep your eyes on the store for the release!

* * *

Chapter 1

 

“There ain’t but two kinds of folk in this world: those who have and those who have not.”

The smell of gunpowder stung Hopkins’ nose as he rode into the wilds. The blood on his coat was barely noticeable beneath the dust layered over it like a thin sheath. Pounding hooves behind him echoed as righteous thunder on the wind, and he cast weary eyes over the motley crew. Despite the steely looks, strapped pistols and stained knives, they had flinched at the executions. They had betrayed their hardened composure and revealed themselves for the spring calves they were.

Theirs would be as little valued than as sustenance for the wolves.

This was a harsh land and it wouldn’t broker the meek. Strife was its master and only those of obdurate fortitude could hope to bring it to heel. Few could claim such power. None could hold it.

Many tried, of course. The first were the Castilleons. Their explorers, seeking the riches of the Jade Empire across the globe, stumbled upon this untamed world. They leveraged the superiority of the old countries to break the will and bones of the savages. Blade and pistol saw huge swathes bow their beaten, beaded heads. For their ruthlessness, the Castilleons were rewarded with riches unimaginable. The treasures brought back were more than mere gold. Consequently, the attentions attracted by their discoveries were not restricted to the mercenaries.

Hopkins twisted in his saddle, directing his provisional crew over the rocky crest. They came from all walks: displaced farmers, failed merchants, persecuted faithful and opportunistic blackguards. They were driven by their masters from the Old World hoping that mere bodies alone would stake their claims on this bountiful soil. But even in this vast new expanse, the old empires found little room for cohabitation. Their conflicts spilt across the ocean and demanded their discarded citizens to die in their names.

Many balked, showing the limits of power those distant crowns possessed here. Only the Thyrians brought righteous fury in response so—even as the Castilleon colonies crumbled beneath the revolts of its natives—the Thyrian throne’s expansion into the unclaimed territories was unmatched. But the wider the throne’s reach, the greater the gaps grew in their control. Many fled to the frontiers, their reasons as numerous as their origins. Hopkins himself hardly recalled the life that birthed him. So long had he survived this land that the old places had all but faded to a bad memory. The only thing that haunted him was what little with which he began.

And though they were greenhorns, the men and women at his command were testament to his successes. Laws were only good for those that could enforce them. For the rest, there was profit to be made by crushing those too feeble to enforce the will of the magistrates. Hopkins regretted the years toiling in service of others for scraps when there were greater bounties to be gained by working for oneself.

That he was to be rewarded now for such simple mayhem felt a cheat. And with the amount promised, he found it hard not to imagine how it would be spent. Perhaps he would hire his own crew and purchase one of those magnificent steam engines which cowed the savages before its ferocious iron cattle-catcher.

Or, even better, he could steal his own for a fraction the cost. All that would be needed were capable hands he could beat into a ruthless outfit.

These ones, though, would do until the bridge. And then Hopkins would teach the promising few that less hands make for fatter wallets. There was a way business was conducted beyond the coastal settlements. Things were simpler. Hopkins had but one tenet that held true; no matter what befell his path, he would never end with less than he started.

And Hopkins would not be disturbed by the bodies that lay between him and that dream.

The road tore towards a canyon so ripped into the red rock that it formed a great gash across the flesh of the earth. Scarlet was the soil which spilt forth. It was the blood of the land and it seeped down its sheer banks, drowning the scrub and sickle trees hanging over precipitous nothing. The savages said the place was cleaved during the formation of the world and forever would it bleed so long as man raised hand against his own.

They would treat it as a cautionary tale instead of a guide.

Hopkins spurred his steed forward in anticipation. But the mare gave a warning cry. Her nostrils flared with some foreign scent. He reined her to a gentle canter as eyes darted amongst the craggy stones. His hand purchased the pistol at his side while the other signalled the crew. This was not his first ambush.

But no rifles cracked as he rounded the crest. The bridge rose steadily into sight and Hopkins fixated on the prize.

There she stood.

She was as still as the great canyon’s sides: unflinching and eternal. Her long coat caught about her, snapping with the hunger of a starved dog. The great brim of her hat fluttered as though it meant to catch freedom in the crystal blue sky. Her fingers held true to the cold steel and polished wood of the longrifle’s simple stock. The hammer lay cocked. The flashpan was primed. A single long braid pulled behind her with the dying veracity of an old battle standard prepared for its final stand.

Was this all that impeded the end of his escape? Hopkins had been told the job would be easy. True to form, the cache offered little resistance. The few guards were easily overcome. And now, nary but a girl pretending at vigilante justice was all that remained between him, precious freedom and a handsome reward on the opposite side.

Hopkins raised his pistol, giving a shout as he kicked his horse into a full charge. The others followed.

Still she stood with nothing but the wilds gathered around her. She sought no shelter amongst the worn ropes and weathered wood giving over to burnished steel. Temporary towers stood unmanned, their simple cranes and suspenders groaning in the wicked breath of the canyon. The Glorious Belt Bridge was undergoing a remarkable transformation as its forgotten timbers were recast in fresh iron beneath its cocoon of scaffolding. Lines of new posts and beams ran its sides like great, sleeping pupae. Someone had expensive interest in expanding a crossing that none had used in decades.

Someone else, however, had more expensive interests in seeing that its construction was never completed.

The waggon rattled behind in its attempt to keep pace. Beneath its roped cover banged barrels filled to the brim with reserved gunpowder. There was enough black dust to keep a frontier state supplied for four months. Or enough to send the entirety of the Glorious Belt Bridge to the waiting arms of the Lord above.

She did not falter with their arrival.

Hopkins’ cry rose above the hooves. Horses shook their heads as riders pulled upon their reins. The group came to a stumbling halt as Hopkins grinned at the unshakeable darling who squared off against the half-dozen armed outlaws falling upon her.

“You’ve got guts. I give you that,” Hopkins called.

The terrific mare of bright chestnut fur and proud dark eyes stepped forward and shook her head menacingly.

She fingered the trigger of her rifle. “Dirty Hopkins.”

The broad-shouldered ruffian twitched scraggly whiskers. He poked the tip of his muddied Boss of the Plains perched upon an untamed and brown streaked straw mane. A single thread of faded yellow wound about it, but whatever noble prospects it once bespoke were tarnished by the blood speckling the fabric. His arms—draped in buckskin—crossed and the tens of dangling trimmed fringe fibres waved their little cloth fingers in the breeze.

“Don’t think we’ve met.”

“Ain’t had the pleasure ‘till now.”

He surveyed the bridge for foul intentions. But there was only the woman and a construction site in dire repair. He led his horse to the side, looking over the edge.

Far beneath cut a trickling blue stream like a child’s discarded ribbon. The great stone walls rose up on either flank. In both directions drew the exposed red and pink wound. Only the most distant peaks were tinged white as they crawled towards the sky. And nothing else crossed its expanse save for this great metal and wood monstrosity. If there were others, they would be faint motes amongst the rocky shadows. Had they clung unseen to the underside of the bridge, there was no expeditious way for them to scramble up its side.

Hopkins raised a hand to his hat, pressing the brim further up his face. He had seen misplaced courage before—even from the fairer sex when they felt pressed against the walls of their frontier farms—but nothing like this.

“And what brings a fine specimen such as yourself so far into the wastes? Ain’t a proper place for a little thing like you. Ruffians about, I hear.”

“Surely, I hope.” The rifle faced the rider.

Hopkins smiled, turning back to his gang. A few had followed in drawing their weapons. He barked at the rest. Immediately, four outlaws dismounted, pulled the canvas across the vehicle’s back and fetched the large barrels from its end.

“You got gumption. Ain’t necessarily a blessing.”

He leaned back in his saddle, wholly unperturbed by the weapon. When she didn’t respond, he gave her a questioning nod of his head.

“You got a name to that face?”

“Ain’t one that matters. But if it’s required, you may address me as Felicity.”

And that appellation made him lean forward in his seat.

“I’ve heard of you.” Lips curled back to reveal a row of rotted teeth. “One of them hunters and runners scratching a living on them ships between empires.”

He looked up and down the bridge.

“But I ain’t see no ship.”

“There’s two ways we play this. You come willing or you come roughly. Either way’s ending the same.”

“And where we be heading, my dear?”

“You gone and made some folk irate. Falls on me to bring you back to them.”

“Aiming for a bounty?” Hopkins smiled. “Well ain’t that a thing. And you going to do it all on your lonesome?”

He regarded the cowled men as they dragged their payload towards the bridge’s supports. Felicity finally acknowledged them, her eyes hardly bothering with the pistols by their sides.

“Only got business with you. They’re free so long they ain’t done nothing unlawful.”

Hopkins laughed. He swung one leg over his saddle, dropping from his horse and taking a few testing steps forward. His snakeskin boots thumped against the wood as he drew closer and closer without a single discharge from the rifle’s barrel. He heard members readying firearms and setting along the side angles. Hopkins rested a callused hand on the rifle’s top, pressing the weapon’s muzzle earthward.

“I ain’t tell if you’re bold or just full of aethers. I reckon you can turn your cute little hat around and walk away from this and I ain’t have to bloody your pretty little face.”

He could smell her now. This was no perfumed lady or pioneering immigrant. She smelled of sweat and grease. There were smudges of gunpowder staining her cheeks. Though her olive skin was radiant, it was scratched and marked with edges of scars creeping from her collar. And her eyes were hard as she raised them to meet his. There was not a trace of youthful brashness within their dark pits. They were cold and they were empty.

Hopkins hadn’t removed his hand from her rifle and he gave a quick tug, trying to yank it from her. But her grip held and she pulled back, the barrel slipping through his fingers. Before she could raise it, however, Hopkins struck. The back of his hand connected with her cheek fiercely. She fell from her stance for the first time.

She raised the rifle, but warning fire kept her from pulling the trigger. The outlaw grinned.

“It’s a wonder folk like you still manage a living. There can only be so much coin running unregistered shipments off the schedules. You want my advice? You got to look elsewhere for a scratch.”

He jabbed the tip of his pistol into her chest, causing her to wince as he grasped her shoulder.

“Now, I ain’t going to ask again. You better drop that little smokemaker of yours.”

 

I have exciting news to share with you world. We have an official release date for The Clockwork Caterpillar! Felicity and crew’s daring adventure will be hitting a digital shelf near you on April 5th. But wait, there’s more! For those most excited, you can preorder The Clockwork Caterpillar digital version from your favourite digital storefront. Since I’m a bit of a Luddite, I’m only really familiar with two: here is the Amazon link (Canadian version but it should be on the American store as well) and here is the Kobo link.  We are also on Apple and Barnes and Noble too. As for physical copies, those will be available for order on April 5th so if you like getting something a little more leafy in your hands, the time is almost nigh!

To celebrate, I’m going to give a little more insight into my creative process.

Writing a novel is a lengthy endeavour, and with so many parts and pieces to keep in mind, it’s both easy to lose motivation and lose sight of what makes the story special. I find having a specialized playlist keeps me focused. Usually this is music I listened to while creating the idea behind my novel. Sometimes an idea starts from one song and from there I’ll try to find music that accompanies or mirrors it. More often than not, I’ll look for music that really captures the feeling of a certain place, character or theme. As these get cobbled together, a cohesive identity begins to form between the songs.

This identity is much easier to remember, especially when I have the music to help me. Each song carries the reason for its inclusion: whether that be a particular lyric or chord to which I’ve tied a creative association. This playlist I’ll listen to while I write my story so later when I return for revisions and editing, I can load it up and get right back into the proper frame of mind. And even when I write up to a wall, I can sit back and chill to the songs that brought me there. This often gives me new ideas so no writing block lasts for very long even if it’s been months since I’ve last looked at my story.

So, in this post, I’m sharing some of the songs that inspired me for The Clockwork Caterpillar. This isn’t my entire song collection, of course. I’m just sharing a couple and the reasons for their inclusion. Feel free to check them out. I suspect, since music is such a personal taste thing in the first place, it might be hard to envision the same things I do when I hear them. But maybe you can get a glimpse of those golden fields, snow-kissed mountains and lonely engines.

Johnny Cash – Hurt

I knew that The Clockwork Caterpillar was going to draw on the mythos and mystique of cowboy culture. So finding some country music seemed eminently important. There’s a snag, however, which is I don’t generally like country music. It’s a little out of my regular listening sphere and its qualities aren’t ones that appeal to me. There are, of course, exceptions in every genre. And I recalled hearing Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire while doing warehouse work and enjoying it for what it was. Oddly enough, it is Cash’s cover of Nine Inch Nail’s Hurt that really did something for me. There’s a fantastic melancholic twist to a song otherwise focused on crippling drug addiction. Cash’s trembling, aged voice turns something pretty narrow into a rather wide reaching song about the collapse of one’s own world at the end of their life. This pervasive sense of ruination pervades The Clockwork Caterpillar. Hurt is great for setting an important atmosphere to the story.

The Silent Comedy – The Well

The Silent Comedy have some great “southern” sounding songs but it’s The Well that really got that deep south vibe that I really wanted. But it’s not just a setting note that The Well strikes. Its focus on spirituality and one’s personal relationship with the institutions of faith play important sub-themes in The Clockwork Caterpillar. The colonials certainly lean heavily on faith in order to survive against the uncountable hardships of the frontier. But more to the point, The Well speaks of the moral bankruptcy within these institutions. Membership alone does not equate to purity. Banks, mayors and politicians can all be immoral and still pray at the church for all the good prayer alone will do for you. Righteousness sans action is valueless and this sort of conversation is certainly a meaningful one for people who are often themselves reduced to criminality. The rejection of authority and still making it on one’s own kind of sums up the entirety of Felicity’s crew.

Spring and Autumn – Legend

This is one of the first songs to hit The Clockwork Caterpillar playlist. And for good reason since Legend is basically the beating heart of the story to me. It’s combination of banjo, metal and Chinese kind of encapsulates the world. It’s a bizarre medley of disparate elements all pulled together to accomplish what they couldn’t individually. While the other songs might be a bit pessimistic in their tone or outlook, Legend is that note of hope which the characters strive to achieve. Mostly, however, it’s the banjo and Chinese.

Benny Goodman – Sing, Sing, Sing

There’s no hiding the fact that, despite writing about loss, corruption, abandonment, exile and hopelessness, The Clockwork Caterpillar is still meant to be a high adventure. Thrills, chills and death defying action provide the reader a grand spectacle as they travel with Felicity through her many trials and tribulations. I mean, this is a story about train pirates; it’s ultimately meant to be a whole lot of good fun. Sing, Sing, Sing is the quintessential swing song from the 1930s. Benny Goodman is practically a king of the genre. The enthusiasm and energy of that era is the exact energy I wanted as Felicity battles angry natives, duplicitous Jaders, villainous pirates, immoral tycoons and oppressive governments.