Esqwith’s Passing Place is a bar that sits on the edge of many realities and is part of none.
It is a place people stumble into some times and tell stories.

Stories of auguries cast in kitchens by Victorian arcanists. The last survivor of an end of the world. The sister of Medusa, in a charity shop in Cheem. A herder of books who was once someone else. The final proof of god on a world of endless sunlight. Men in Dark Tweed and strange things in the Thames. The divine Sibel in a goth club in Streatham. The infatuating Miss Maybe, Quizzels and how to Quiddle them. As well as other tales of nothing, hungry things and a tale that no man knows.

So anyway, that’s it, my new anthology is out there in the world. I can put it to bed, it is done, all that’s left is marketing to try and get people to consider reading a copy. In terms of being the writer this is now a finished project, cast out into the cold uncaring world.

I hate the marketing part. I never dreamed of been a marketer. Writing is my passion , my dream, my desire. Spending my time trying to convince people to buy books isn’t and never has been.

So why should you buy a copy of Auguries of Euryale, because it is full of good stories, stories that will make you laugh, cry, think, smile, wonder and hurt a little in that good way books can make you hurt a little. If you read this blog from time to time you know how I tell stories. If this is your first timer reading my blog , hello…

You should buy a copy of this anthology, I promise it will not break you, though I can’t promise it will not try. There are more than a few very personal stories in the collection, though I am not about to tell you which ones they are. Any book is am open window, if the writer has done their job right. There is always a little blood on the page, a slither or two of the authors soul between the bindings. If your not leaving the odd open wound out there then are you even trying to say something real.

There is a lot of fantasy, Urban and otherwise, in this anthology. There is also a lot of darkness and humanity, which is often the same thing. As well as life and death, as the two are linked. Bits of me inhabit every story, sometime mere slithers, in some though, aspects of my souls are laid bare, if you care to look closely.

Not all the stories are personal in that way, but in all of them the red on the page isn’t ink.

In the very first story in the anthology Lucifer Mandrake, my Victorian arcanist, casts an augury, and in doing so explains why the only thing that matters is the casting is blood.

Shed blood for an augury, shed blood for the page.

I have other stories to write, other tales to tell, more blood to shed. These are now told and the blood is ingrained in the pages. Euryale guards her temple, the last survivor climbs the hill, the Men in Dark Tweed are waiting, the final proof of god sits between the light of four stars on a planet called midnight, the book herder waits for the rustle of pages, the Sibel calls her coven to dance around the stone, and Miss Maybe has a most unsuitable suitor. All the while no man waits for the daughter of the sea.

I don’t do marketing, there is no blood in marketing, the blood is already shed on the page.