Today I'm featuring a new release from one of my favourite publishers, Kristell Ink, an imprint of Grimbold Books. The theme is... well, the clue is in the title. It's choc-a-bloc with stories and artwork from some really terrific authors.

Here's the blurb - Felinity, noun, plural fel-in-ities. 1. The quality of being cat-like. 2. A divine being, a cat.

Grimbold Books is proud to present our first Kristell Inkling, a collection of feline inspired flash fiction stories written by authors from all around the world.
This collection celebrates what we regard as the most important factor when writing: write foremost for pleasure. The stories showcased in this book are full of laughter, grit, odd contraptions and a lot of fur, with a loud purring nod to our beloved genres of science fiction and fantasy.
From A.F.E Smith’s unique twist on Schrödinger’s cat, to Joel Cornah’s world-jumping old queen, from Clare Neilson’s steampunk creation to Tina Closser’s dragon fighting dreaming kitty, these alternate feline worlds are bound to delight sci fi/fantasy readers and cat lovers alike.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

A.F.E SMITH is an academic editor who lives in the south east of England with her husband, her young son, and thousands of books. When she’s not writing speculative fiction of various kinds, she enjoys the usual things: watching films, eating snacks, solving complex mathematical equations. She has never owned a cat, mainly because she knows she’d end up a pawn in its bid for world domination.

C.N LESLEY lives in Alberta with her husband and cats. Her three daughters live close by. When she isn’t writing, Elizabeth likes to read and to paint watercolors. She is also a keen gardener, despite the very short summers and now has a mature shade garden. Once a worker in the communications sector, mostly concentrating on local news and events, she now writes full time.

RACHAEL BROWN is a fourteen-year-old student from Norfolk. Her interests include art, animation, gaming, history, reading, seventies rock music, drama, and of course writing. She is intensely passionate about English and writing, and thinks it is a real pleasure to be included in this anthology, especially since her stories (whether short or long) tend to be rather bizarre and odd with a zany feel.

PAIGE CLOSSER attends school in small town in the American Midwest. She loves to read Percy Jackson novels and make loom band charms. When she’s not busy with those pursuits, or practicing violin, she likes to think of stories. The story in this book may or may not be based on her two cats.

CHRISTIE RAMPERSAD is a medical student who began her writing in poetry, with selected works appearing in Danse Macabre and Pens on Fire. Now, as she transitions to fiction, she is thrilled that Nine Lives Later has placed joint- third in the Kristell Ink Feline Flash Fiction Competition and found a home in this anthology.

DAVE CROSBY is an affable gentleman, as much as any American can be “affable” (or “gentle”, for that matter), living in a Heaven-forsaken area of California known as Fresno. He has a humanities heart and mind, living in an ex-banker’s body, so he has made a living with bankerly number-crunching all his life, but has lived with reading, writing and music. He published a short story in 2013, Rain Over Ghaidhealtachd, set in Ancient Scotland, in the anthology Magic Creatures from Celtic Mists, has written another tale set within a moonlit night in Jamaica, Last Touch, and hopes to publish his first novel next year, an exciting thriller set in San Francisco, called Bringing Home the Good War. He thinks kindly of his two sons, Glen and Ted, who have given him much inspiration in his work, especially the novel.

JESSICA FROST is a medical student with a love for literature. For her, writing is a much-needed break away from science and studying! She can be found on Twitter: @ MissInkweaver

CLAIRE NEILSON was always very good at stories in school, but her spelling was awful. She thanks the gods and goddesses of word processors for the little red lines of spelling correction. Now age 30 she lives in Manchester and spends her days baking for a living and reading for leisure.

BRIAN TALGO was born in the Deep South of the US in 1954, and later spent his formative years in Westchester County, a northern suburb of New York City. As a young man he wandered restlessly about the US for several years, working mainly as a carpenter and stonemason, until he eventually got in touch with his inner Viking and relocated to Norway in 1981. After many years abroad he has grown comfortable with his expat status.

Currently working with international admissions at the University of Oslo, Brian writes and indulges in other creative endeavors in his spare time. He presently lives on the outskirts of Oslo, together with his wife, son, two insubordinate cats, and a miniature forest of plants. A daughter has wisely flown the coop.

Website: sonsrevenge.blogspot.no

IAN RICHARDSON lives by the sea, on the East Coast of Scotland, with his cat, Purry Murray.

The first story Ian ever wrote was published, but he hasn’t been able to keep up that 100% record. However, several short stories, articles and micro fictions have escaped the red pen recently and his steampunk serial was e-published in 2013.

ROB BAYLISS lives with his wife, two children and dog in Somerset. A keen scholar of history and lover of fantasy, only recently has he discovered the joyful escapism of sitting down to write a story.

LANCE CROSS writes short stories when he gets stuck writing his novel, so he writes more short stories than he should.

When he’s not writing, he spends too much time telling his cat he’s “sooooo cute”, and trying to keep him away from the computer keyboard, as he knows what buttons to push to delete stuff. Lance really shouldn’t let him jump on the desk in the first place, but as mentioned, he’s sooooo cute.

JOSHUA CORNAH is a 22 year old café assistant at a local coffee shop who loves to draw, for himself and others. In his free time, he’s an illustrator and cartoonist, and the influences for his drawings come from Japanese anime, manga, and Nintendo video games. He is also very polite.

STEVEN J GUSCOTT or Steven, Steve, Steve-o, Stevie, Stevie Gee, Moral Steve, Uncle Steven...the list goes on . . . but the name he has chosen for writing is Steven J. Guscott. Like some of the other names, there’s a random story behind it, and obviously his middle name starts with a J, but he’s not going to bore you with that story just now. What he will bore you with is telling you how much he loves creating fantasy/sci fi stories. He’s twenty six and lives in Scotland, and nearly three years ago he discovered an unhealthy obsession with writing. He’s written a few stories in this time, and has quite a number still to write. If you want to learn more about Steven and his writing journey, he’s kept a record in the form of a blog that can be found at:

www.stevenjguscott.co.uk

VICTORIA ROBINSON lives a safe and comfortable existence in home county suburbia, where shadows lurk not in dark, smoking alleys but behind neatly trimmed hedges and carefully erected fences.

DAVID COHEN lives in the university town of Dunedin, a gateway to New Zealand’s Lord-of-the-Rings-set Southern landscapes. His background is in the high-technology electronic industries, but considers writing the most fun you can have sitting down with a pen and paper, so is pursuing that – as well as other interests such as photography, object- making and volunteer work for Habitat for Humanity. He cites Annie Proulx, Spike Milligan, Arthur C. Clarke, Patrick Süskind, and Terry Pratchett as current influences, but that will almost certainly change.

 

HONOR THOMPSON spends most of her time with her head in a book and a pen in her hand. She looks to her friends and family for inspiration, and as such all her writing characters hold a special place in her heart. Without her grandparents, she wouldn’t be where she is today, for they taught her that nothing is impossible; you just have to believe.

SOPHIE TALLIS is a Bristol born gal who grew up in a sleepy village dreaming of dragons and wild adventures. She hasn’t grown up much, and sincerely hopes she never does. She lives in the Cotswolds with her family, two enormous white wolves, and a load of wild ducks that basically run the place; she has just added two Alaskan Malamutes into the mix! Sophie is a full-time teacher and has been dulling young minds . . . ahem . . . inspiring young minds for the past fifteen years. She is a painter, artist and illustrator, and has a BA (Hons) Degree in Fine Art, photography and sculpture. But her first passion has always been writing stories and poetry. Her first novel, an epic fantasy for children and adults, was published in September 2012 to great reviews and high sales, and she’s currently working on the sequels, due out later in 2014 and 2015, as well as a host of other projects.

WILL MACMILLAN-JONES is a fifty-something lover of blues, rock and jazz. He presently lives in Wales, a beautiful verdant land of myth with a rich cultural heritage. He does his best to support this heritage by drinking local beers and shouting loud encouragement at the TV whenever Wales is playing international rugby.

He has just fulfilled a lifetime ambition by filling an entire wall of his study with bookcases, and then (over)filling the bookcases. When not drinking beer and watching rugby, he remembers to write the occasional horror book or to add to his comic fantasy series, The Banned Underground. Links to all his work can be found on his website:

www.willmacmillanjones.com

JANE DOUGHTERY is a product of the Irish diaspora. She was brought up in Yorkshire, educated at Manchester and London, then moved to Paris to work in the wine trade. She now lives in Bordeaux with her family, a Spanish greyhound, and a posse of cats. Her first published work is a YA fantasy series, The Green Woman. She also writes poetry and has been published in Poetry Nook Magazine and The Bamboo Hut.

As a Role Player, MIKE HARGREAVES’ main outlet for creative writing is in the plotting out of tabletop gaming scenarios for the RPG players in his social circle. The rest of the time he’s fighting to keep a healthy ratio between idea and completed projects. It’s a fight he keeps losing.

When she isn’t busy with her nine-to-five job as an electrical engineer, TINA CLOSSER helps her husband with a small hobby farm, complete with a mini horse, donkey, cows, and sheep. In between farm duties and running the kids to gymnastics, she likes to write.

KIERAN MATHERS is a freelance writer based in Sheffield, UK, and is very much inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, The Farseer Trilogy and other great works of fantasy. While not hunched over a keyboard creating worlds in his head, he goes cycling in the Yorkshire Dales and writes poetry.

EVELINN ENOKSEN lives in Norway with her husband and children. She finds inspiration in everything, and has always been interested in art and writing. She says there are few things more fun in life than being able to create.

SELINA CARR is a writer, collector and lover of folk and fairy tales. She is inspired by, and drawn to, the deceptive simplicity of these sometimes poignant—and often gruesome—stories. Much of her writing is heavily influenced by her life-long relationship with the tales penned by the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, Charles Perrault and Oscar Wilde.

JOEL CORNAH hailing from a small isolated village in Lancashire, is the author responsible for The Sea-Stone Sword. He was awarded a degree in Creative Writing from Liverpool John Moors University and spent seven years writing a comical newspaper for The Barrow Downs Tolkien discussion forum. Accompanying this paper was a comic strip series called The Phantom and Alien, a bizarre story of bus drivers, dead people, and a slime child bent on inconveniencing everyone around him.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/JoelKCornah

Sample Story. Previously published on the KI website and opening story of the collection. Winner of the Flash Fiction competition

Nein Lives
A.F.E. Smith

My name is Nein. I have had other names, but Nein will do for now.

I sit with my attendant whilst he wrestles with the nature of reality. He thinks he owns me. I let him keep thinking that.

“Nein, Nein,” he mutters, taking his glasses off and polishing them with vigour. “I am convinced they are looking at this in the wrong way. How can this superposition represent what truly happens in the world?”

He is talking to me. I get up and stretch, then step delicately onto the desk. To start with his touch is absent-minded, but my claws kneading his sleeve recall him to a full sense of his obligations.

I knew a man like you once before, I tell him as he runs his fingers down my spine in the way I like. He longed to know how birds and trees and tortoises came to be. How they could change to fit their surroundings. I showed him a mouse, and then he understood. The mouse was uniquely adapted to run away, and I was uniquely adapted to catch it.

He frowns at me. He often frowns when I speak. All my attendants have been the same: so focused on the weighty questions in their minds that they fail to understand what is before their eyes. Perhaps that is what it means to be human.

Did I ever tell you about the man with the apple tree? I ask, butting my head into the palm of his hand. He used to sit in its dappled shade every day, thinking about the laws that keep all of us moving along our preordained paths. I would stretch out on the branch above him and enjoy the heat of summer. But when he started forgetting to provide me with fish scraps, I decided enough was enough. I knocked an apple down onto his head, and understanding with it.

He is looking blank. I will try once more.

A long time ago, in China, an alchemist was seeking immortality. He mixed this ingredient and that, to no avail. Just as he was about to give up, I knocked a candle into his mixing dish. The explosion took off his eyebrows, but he was ecstatic. He had sought to live forever, but instead he had found a way to bring others death.

I wait for any sign of comprehension, but my attendant’s mind is still off in its narrow little orbit. Disgruntled, I turn to groom myself. Of course, that is one discovery I would not choose to make again. My fur was singed just here, above the tail, and it has never been the same since.

“Down, now,” he says, with fine disregard for the sorrow of that memory, and I allow him to lower me to the floor. “I must make sense of this tonight.”

Ah, poor Schrödinger. Just like the others, he needs my help. One day, soon, I will walk into a box and really make him think.

 

Buy the book HERE

 

 

 

 

Captain Blood

 

 

           A dark shape crawled out of the water and dragged itself up the beach, not quite reaching the powdery white sand beyond the high tide mark. Like a large sea creature stranded on the shore, it raised its odd shaped head with great effort, slowly looked around before dropping back to the sand. It lay still for a long time, while white foam waves gently lapped at its feet and legs.

Nathaniel Alphonsus Spencer opened one eye, then the other before pushing himself up slowly. His two hands came out of the wet sand with a great sucking noise. He brushed sand off his black velvet coat, tugged at the over-sized cuffs, smoothed out his black velvet breeches, settled the tricorne hat, which miraculously still sat on his head, albeit a little soggy, before turning towards the sea and glaring at it.

A low growl rattled in the back of his throat as he eyed the great blue ocean that had dared to spit him onto this deserted strand. The great expanse of calm water ignored him, defying the black glare that many a man had not lived long enough to regret seeing. A look that could silence a brawling mob, could freeze the blood of a battalion of the King’s finest, a stare that could frighten God Almighty’s own heavenly angels. For Nathaniel Alphonsus Spenser, was none other than, Captain Blood, the most feared pirate ever to set sail in search of booty and adventure. The meanest, nastiest, most coldblooded, evil cutthroat ever to defy Davy Jones and spit in the eye of Beelzebub. To the Spanish he was El Diablo, to the French he was, Diable De Mer, to the English he was a nightmare, no ship was safe, no cargo sacred. Captain Blood the Sea Devil.

Blood, twisted the great leather belt strapped around his waist, until the large silver buckle was front and centre, settling the cutlass that hung from it, until it sat comfortably at his side. He pulled out his two pistols, streams of water poured from both barrels. Another dissatisfied rumble rattled in his throat.

The great expanse of blue, for so long his playground, mocked him. The calm peaceful water, glittering in the sunshine, mirroring the cloudless sky, belied the violent drama that had resulted in him stranded and alone on an uncharted, island paradise.

He thought of his ship, the vessel that had made him King of the waves, now a wreck, destroyed and sunk. He hawked and spat, his head ached, his parched throat burned. Not from his ordeal, not from a great sea battle with the Royal Navy, not from his miraculous flight from certain death. No, nothing quite so heroic, the feared Sea Devil was hungover. Rum, the very thought made him feel queasy. It had saved his life though.

He scratched at the coarse red bristles that covered his jaw. His crew were all gone, either lost in Davy Jones Locker or in chains aboard a Royal Navy frigate. He wouldn’t miss a single one of ‘em, rogues and rapscallions every last one. Slit your throat or cut out your eye while you slept for the price of a mug of ale. What hurt, though, what hurt more than Long John’s peg leg, in the towns, was the sight of his chests being manhandled over the side into launches and off to fill the coffers of his Royal Bloody Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland. A lifetime’s work, doubloons, gold sovereigns, chalices, precious stones, the treasure he had guarded so jealously. Gone, all gone. His lips quivered, a snarl escaped.

He thought back to his escape, not his most gallant hour. He had missed the fight, too drunk, he’d past out under the table in his cabin. He woke to the smell of burning wood, the sound of screaming men. Somehow he had managed to slip over the side unnoticed, not before he saw what was left of the crew being lined up one by one, by red-coated marines and his beloved Jolly Roger being hauled down.

He turned then, away from the sea. White sand and then a wall of green. What waited beyond the trees? Wild animals? Cannibals?

A good captain would have gone down with his ship. If he hadn’t been so drunk all night, he might even know where he was. He certainly would not have sailed his ship into the arms of the Royal Navy.

A curse on that bilge-sucking, first mate.

The trees parted and a line of black skinned natives strolled onto the beach. Some carried spears, others clubs that looked suspiciously like human leg bones.

Blood, straightened his coat, fixed his hat, loosened his cutlass. “So, ye land-lubbers, is it me hide yer after? Come on then… is it me ye’ll be havin’ for supper, or have you scallywags got a new king?” With a roar he charged.

One hundred and fifty to one. They didn’t stand a chance.

 

Red

 

 

 

 

 

The girl stood in the centre of the clearing, staring straight up. Sunlight pierced the heavy growth of the forest through a gap in the overhead canopy. She could feel the heat of the sun on her face when she pulled back the heavy dark hood of her cape. She closed her eyes and absorbed the sounds and smells of the forest. Birds singing, insects buzzing, small woodland creatures scurrying in the undergrowth. She breathed in the pungent earthy smell of the trees and forest floor.

 Long strands of thick hair, the colour of molten metal flowed down her back. Like lava streaming down the side of a snow covered mountain, her father had once remarked, referring to her pale white skin and fiery mane. She opened her eyes, two sapphires, two deepest mountain pools. Full rose red lips quivered slightly, the barest hint of agitation.

 She was hungry. She looked at the basket she carried in her left hand, imagined its contents, imagined gorging herself on the bounty that was her burden.

 No! That is not for you.

 Silently she cursed herself for leaving the path, she thought she would make it to the cottage by nightfall, she thought she knew a shortcut, she thought she would be safe. Now she was lost, lost and alone. Which way?

 She turned in a circle, no longer sure which way she had come. Even if she wanted to, there would be no going back. She bit her lower lip as she tried to gauge how much daylight was left. She swallowed a lump in her throat, fought back tears. She took a breath, was about to cry out, then stopped. Who would hear her? Who would come? What would come? Were there bears in the forest? She wasn’t sure, she had never heard her father mention them, there were other creatures though, not all made of flesh and blood.

 Spirits and goblins, demons and monsters.

 Stop!

 They were only stories, tales to frighten children. She was no longer a child. She had to deliver her basket. There were no dragons or ghosts, no wailing banshees or screaming terrors.

 She tensed as she felt a change in the atmosphere of the forest, perhaps it was her imagination. Had it got colder? No. What was it? She listened.

 Nothing.

 Nothing!  Her eyes darted about, her ears strained. There was nothing, no sounds, no birds, no scurrying animals. Just silence.

 Snap!

 She jumped at the sound. A dead branch cracked. Somebody was there, something was there.

 Run!

 She ran, hitching up her skirts, she bolted like a frightened fawn, fleeing deeper into the forest, flaming red hair streaming behind her, her dark cape billowing. She could hear its grunts behind her, feel its hot breath on the back of her neck. Razor sharp fangs ready to devour her whole.

 Don’t look back.

 Even the forest turned against her, branches reached for her, bramble tried to block her way, roots appeared from the ground to trip her. All the while, it gained on her. She fell over a log, her hands reached out to save her, she dropped her basket, before hitting her head on a rock.

 Doomed.

Grandmother, she sighed, a whisper, like a kiss from a warm breeze. Her last thought before the darkness was for her grandmother, alone and unwell in the cottage.

 In her dream, her broken body was found by a wolf, her injured head licked clean and miraculously healed. In her dream, she was safe.

 She opened her eyes, all was black, night had fallen. She felt groggy, her head ached. She put her hand to her head and it came away sticky, she could smell the metallic scent of blood. She heard a long mournful wail.

Wolf.

 She scrambled up and away. Running blindly through the forest, thorns cut her hands and face, ripped her cape and skirts. She struggled and ran until she could run no further, until her heart felt as if it would burst in her heaving chest, until each breath of gulped air burned her lungs, until the muscles in her legs ached unbearably.

 She stopped, waited. She realised she had lost her basket. It no longer mattered.

 She did not have long to wait. From the darkness of the forest he emerged, his movements quick and lithe. She gasped when she saw him. A wolf walking on two legs, taller than she. No, not a wolf, a man, dressed in furs, a great axe slung across his body. He snarled, she tensed. When he came close she could smell his fetid breath. Blood. She looked into his yellow eyes, wild and unreadable.

 She jumped back when he pulled something from behind his back. Her basket.

 His hands were black with dirt, his fingernails long and filthy. He sniffed the air around her and bared his teeth, they were unnaturally long and sharp. She could feel her heart beating wildly as she took the basket.

 In the distance a wolf howled. She turned towards the sound, when she looked back he was gone. She heard another howl then, closer, then another and another.

 Run, Red, run! 

photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/9012854@N05/6897409682/">ihave3kids</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/">cc</a>