Month: February 2024

Battle of the Build; Cover Reveal for Charybdis

As you may remember, last week I completed a miniature book nook, and I enjoyed it so much that I ordered another. It was a gothic-style library, and I was super-excited when it arrived. That excitement quickly faded to perplexity when I realized it was from a different company with VERY different expectations. Instead of stickers, it was just paper that I was supposed to glue to the little pieces of wood. Okay, I thought. I can buy some glue. Because the kit didn’t COME with glue. I went out the next day and bought white glue and a glue stick, just to be on the safe side. After I got home, I took everything else out of the box, and looked at the instructions more closely, and they were very weird. It was like if you asked a Roman General to create directions for assembly based on his life experience. Here’s the first example, on the cover page:

“The actual object will PREVAIL”? Am I in a battle to the death with this thing?!

The next set of instructions on the inside page was equally ominous:

 Bad enough that this thing might STAB me, if I fight back, I lose my rights and interests? Do I need a lawyer watching me put it together, just in case? My brother, who has a PhD., is a lawyer—perhaps I should invite him over for wine and a quick skirmish

I finally started to assemble everything, beginning with several stacks of tiny books. It was starting to get minorly enjoyable, because they DID look like tiny books even if the covers were photocopies of bizarre books that made no sense in the context; for example, a cover with an electric guitar on it. But just as my stacks were almost complete, I was forced to get violent as per this instruction:

“Make it open”? You’re god*amn right Imma make it OPEN! I was really getting into the spirit of things now. The build progressed and things got infinitely more difficult as I had to glue tiny pieces of wood onto other tiny pieces of wood and then let them dry. And I’m not the most patient person in the world so I learned about letting things DRY COMPLETELY the hard way. But letting things dry completely was a double-edged sword, as I discovered:

Ken: *snickers*
Me: What are you laughing at?
Ken: Nothing. *snickers again*
Me: Seriously, what’s so funny?!
Ken: No, really…haha!
Me: WHAT?!!
Ken: See the world map that you glued to the wall?
Me: So?
Ken: You glued it on upside down.
Me: WHAT? Oh no! And it’s completely dry! Why did you have to tell me, dammit?
Ken: YOU MADE ME.

Okay, so we all know that geography isn’t my strong suit and you have to look REALLY hard to see the map. Finally though, I was nearing the end, covered in glue, clamps and elastic bands everywhere, and all I had to do was attach the lights to the ceiling and close it all up. Except that the instructions were wrong and it took me two tries, getting the light attached twice and realizing twice that they were the wrong way. And then:

I DID, you aggressive Praetorian. See, this is why the Roman Empire fell. Terrible instructions.

In other news, my new novel Charybdis will be coming out soon, thanks to my wonderful publisher Jane Cornwell and JC Studio Press. Here’s the cover reveal, and it’s amazing!

Synopsis: When Greta Randall stumbles across a rare volume of Victorian poetry in a local antique market, she could never have imagined that it would take her on a  journey through time. The secrets she discovers along the way may shed light on the book’s mysterious young author, Louisa Duberger, but at what peril?

Ring A Ding Ding

Last Monday, I was getting ready for work. The last step is usually to put on all my rings before I head out the door. I love rings—I wear them on five different fingers and both thumbs (great for drumming along to songs on my steering wheel) and I’d like to wear them on all my fingers but I think we all agree that would be overkill. Most of them are sterling silver bands of different types, and over the years, Ken has treated me to a couple of Tiffany’s sterling bands, which are my pride and joy. So I was putting on my rings, and I fumbled the last one. It fell, hit the edge of the cupboard, landed on the floor and rolled towards the kitchen island. “Ah damn!” I muttered as I dropped to my knees, just as the ring disappeared under the edge of the island. But the island has skirting board surrounding it, so I wasn’t too concerned—just scoop it back up and put it on, right? But when I peered under the edge of the island, it was nowhere to be seen. I was perplexed—had it careened off the skirting board and ended up somewhere else? Time was getting tight—I never leave for work a second before I have to, and any delay will make me very late. So I did what any normal person would do—I yelled for Ken:

Me: I need help!
Ken (loping down from upstairs): What’s wrong?
Me: My ring—the one that looks like a laurel wreath—rolled under the island and now it’s gone. Can you help me look?

He looked under the island and couldn’t see it either. Then he scoured the kitchen with me, shaking out rugs, moving aside furniture—no ring. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight to look under the island again.

Ken: There’s a hole under here from when we moved the sink to the other end.
Me: THAT hole? No way it’s big enough for a ring to fall down. I mean what are the chances that a ring could roll across the floor in a perfect line towards that hole and then manage to fall down it without getting stuck? (Puts finger in hole) See, my finger barely fits and I’m doing it on purpose. A ghost took it. That’s the only explanation. I have to go to work—can you stand in the middle of the kitchen and yell “Give it back!” for me?
Ken: The hole goes down into the basement. I’ll take a look and call you if I see it.

On the drive to work, I was pretty distraught. It was one of my favourite rings and fairly expensive, and after about ten minutes, I pre-emptively called Ken.

Me: Did you find it?
Ken: Maybe…
Me: Where are you?
Ken: The basement. You know the old cistern down there? I think I see something glinting in the far corner of it.
Me: Oh no! How can we get it out?
Ken: The only thing I can do is climb up over the wall and crawl into the cistern.
Me: What?! Wait until I get home.
Ken: No, it’s okay. Give me a minute—I need a broom to sweep away all the cobwebs and then I’ll get the ladder. I’ll call you back.
Me: I’m not hanging up until you’re out of the cistern!

And then he put the phone in his pocket. I could hear the muffled sounds of him moving around, the ladder being brought into the house, and then a lot of clanging and grunting. Then “I got it!”

Me: It WAS my ring?! OMG. Wait, are you out of the cistern yet?
Ken: No, I put my phone on the ledge. I must have been in here before because there’s a milk crate by the wall that I can stand on to get out. Give me a sec…sh*t, I’m stuck!
Me: What?!! Hang on honey, I’m turning around and coming home!
Ken (laughing): Just kidding. I’m out. And I have your ring. I can’t believe it fell through that tiny hole and ended up in the cistern. Good job it was dry.

Good job, indeed. And now, I can never get mad at him again. I mean, he CRAWLED INTO A COBWEBBY BASEMENT CISTERN for me.

In other news, since Ken and I both got so invested in the miniatures show I told you about last week, for Valentine’s Day, Ken got me one of those Book Nook kits and let me tell you—it’s the best thing ever. This one is a little bookstore, and we just finished building it. It’s quite addictive–in fact, I’ve already ordered another one, and if things go well, I might be auditioning for Best In Miniature Season 4.

It’s The Little Things; A Baxter House Announcement

I had the coolest experience last week. A woman came into the antique market with a guy, and as they went around the corner past the showcases, I had an epiphany. “I know her!” I said to my co-worker. “I’m almost positive that she was on Season 2 of this TV show that Ken and I love to watch!”

And what show would that be? It’s called ‘Best In Miniature’. It’s a competition show where miniaturists (that’s people who make miniature things, not tiny people) compete for $15 000 Canadian, which is a lot of Bordens (that’s the Canuck equivalent of Benjamins) even once you factor in the exchange rate. Also, in Canada, you don’t have to pay income tax on prize winnings, so you get to keep it ALL. And the show is awesome—they start with the contestants each building a tiny house in whatever style they want, and then each week, they have to create the stuff for each of the different rooms in their house. In Season 1, there was a guy who created an entire tiny Edwardian mansion complete with a miniature floor-to-ceiling library, and you can imagine how I reacted to THAT. Anyway, I was sure this woman was from Season 2 of the show, but I didn’t want to just come out and ASK her—I mean, what if she wasn’t, and then she would think I was some nutbar with a dollhouse obsession? So I broached it like this:

Me: Hi there, how are you today?
Woman: Great, how are you?
Me: Good, good. So are you looking for anything specific today? Perhaps…miniatures?
Woman (smiles): Miniatures…interesting that you should say THAT.
Me: Are you…?
Woman (smile gets bigger): Possibly…
Me: YOU ARE! YOU’RE FROM THAT SHOW!!

And she was LOVELY. She let me ramble on about how much I loved the show, and told me all kinds of interesting details about where and how it was shot (4 days for each episode), how they had to have any supplies approved by the producers, how they all had to go out after the first episode and buy their own utility knives because the ones provided by the show weren’t sharp enough—I was in 7th heaven.

And having her in the store was SO much better than Gangrene Man, who made not one, not two, but three appearances last week, still on the hunt for rings for his ‘lady’. He was no longer wearing any kind of protective wrap over his stump, and it—and he—was looking even more unhealthy than before. At a certain point, we all decided that there was no ‘lady’—that he was buying all those rings and reselling them or something. Then on Thursday, I wasn’t working, but I got a text from my co-worker:

CW: G-man is back. And he brought ‘his lady’ with him!
Me: OMG, she’s real! What’s she like?
CW: She’s just walking around and pointing at stuff, and he’s buying it all for her!
Me: At least one of them can point omg I’m going to hell for that.

There ought to be a show about this too—hit me up with some good names.

In other news, the first book from Baxter House Editions has just been released: The Places We Haunt by Cecilia Kennedy. Here’s the synopsis of this very cool book:

“When a pastry-obsessed ghost follows Audrey M. K. Summons back to her apartment, Audrey feels compelled to write the story—along with a few others she has collected. The resulting manuscript becomes The Places We Haunt, which a literary scholar discovers when Audrey dies. To the scholar’s surprise, the pages magically fill with more stories from beyond the grave, so she publishes the book in order to put Audrey’s spirit to rest. This collection of 13 eclectic dark tales takes place in museums, swimming pools, houses, restaurants, the cemetery, and outdoors in nature. The stories told are sometimes humorous, absurd, pensive, or cautionary. Those who tell them, don’t even realize they’re dead.“

And you can by it here!



Giving Everyone The Finger

A couple of weeks ago, something really weird happened at the antique market where I work. And that’s saying a lot, because weird sh*t happens there all the time, as I’m sure you’ve realized based on my previous stories about it, like the guy who did a LOT of cocaine. For another example, see last month:

Me: So that’s six magazines at $4 each, plus tax. Your total is $27.12
Woman (volunteering this with no prompting): The Playboys are for my son. He’s 17.
Me: How would you like to pay?
Woman: He’ll be so excited.
Me: I can only imagine. Have a great day.

So, yes, the clientele can be a little—quirky. But a week ago Monday, this one really took the cake. A man came in, short, twitchy, with a shock of bright orange hair under his ball cap. He smelled REALLY bad. He was interested in jewelry and one of the owners took a tray of rings out of the showcase and brought it to the counter so he could look at them all. My co-worker and I were behind the counter, and we also made a beeline for the rings because the vendor had just come in and restocked. The man kept going on about “his lady” and how great ‘his lady’ was, and how ‘his lady’ deserved only the best, ad nauseum, until he’d finally picked out several rings. Then he went to look around on the other floors, at which point, my co-worker said, “Oh my god, that was disgusting.”

And she wasn’t talking about ‘his lady’. Nope, she was talking about the horrifyingly swollen, cracked open, bloody, and black index finger that the guy kept pointing around with. I’d never seen anything like it before—I’d describe it even further but some of you may have weak stomachs.

Me: What the hell happened to him?! That’s unreal!
Co-Worker: I know! I’m burning with curiosity!
Boss: I’ll find out.

So when the guy came down to pay for his rings, the young boss asked him about it.

“Oh, that,” he said. “I was doing some carpentry, and I was about to hammer a nail into the floor when someone knocked on the door. It scared the crap out of me and I jumped and hammered my finger instead. But it’s okay—it doesn’t hurt. They gave me some antibiotics at the doctor’s but then we got into an argument, so I haven’t been back.” Then he left.

Co-worker: I can’t believe that doesn’t hurt—it looks insanely painful.
Me: There’s a reason why it doesn’t hurt.
Boss: Why?
Me: It’s dead. He has gangrene. The next time we see him, he’ll be missing a finger. If he survives it.
Boss: Gangrene? Seriously? How do you know?

How do I know?! Because I’m Gen X, obviously. When we were growing up, there were very few rules:

1) Look both ways before you cross the street.
2) Don’t talk to strangers.
3) Come in when the streetlights turn on.
4) Watch out for quicksand.
5) If you cut it, clean it. Otherwise, you’ll get gangrene and it’ll fall off.

Even as a late-middle-aged adult (because I plan to live past 100), I still abide by these rules. Except for number 2—because of my job, I’m literally forced to do this, and now, thanks to number 2, I’ve seen the physical evidence for number 5. Number 3 is, of course, my favourite, because I have no desire to be anywhere other than my bed with a glass of wine once the streetlights turn on.

So then I had to explain gangrene to some of my younger colleagues, whose collective reaction was “EWWW!!! No wonder he smelled so bad!”

And sure enough, guess who was back this past Tuesday? He was looking for more rings for ‘his lady’. My co-worker leaned forward over the counter a little and whispered, “He’s got it wrapped up…but it looks shorter…”

Yep. Sure enough, the finger was gone. When he came to pay, I’d been nominated to ask him about it:

Me: I remember you from last week. What happened with the…?
Gangrene Man (waves hand with only four digits angrily): I went to the hospital, and they cut it off!
Me: Uh, sorry to hear that.
Gangrene Man: Stupid hospital. And then they were like, “You should have taken all the antibiotics.” Anyway, my lady is gonna love these rings. Nothing too good for her.

And then he was gone. Like that gangrenous finger.

In other news, I’ve just launched Baxter House Editions, the reprint division of DarkWinter Press. Here’s a little bit about how it came about, you can read the story here!