Dragons As Characters, Not Props - Guest Post: Alexandra Christian

Picture it: Facebook Launch Party for Huntress. I’m wracking my brain trying to keep the conversation flowing with new and interesting questions to ask of my peeps. So I decided to ask: Who is your favorite literary dragon, movies or books acceptable? Folks began answering the question and I noticed a pattern. See if you can too: the dragons from the Pern books, the dragons from Game of Thrones, the dragon from Dragonslayer….

http://goo.gl/31Orly

The list went on and eventually included Smaug from the Hobbit and Falcor from The Neverending Story. I began to realize that most of the answers included “the dragon from…”. No one could remember their names except for Smaug and Falcor (unless you’re a huge nerd who remembers that the dragon in Dragonslayer is called Vermithrax Pejorative). It seems absurd. I mean, dragons are some of the most loved mythical creatures in all of literature. How can we NOT remember their names. Well the answer is simple, really. Dragons are not usually characters in the story. They’re often dealt with the same way as any other insurmountable foe in the book. They’re the tornado in Sharknado. The snake in Anaconda. Moby Dick. Dragons are usually just props in the story with no personality or character arc whatsoever except they blow fire in the face of the heroes and occasionally eat people.

That is not the sort of book I wanted to write when I began outlining Huntress. If you’re a lover of Dungeons and Dragons, you’ll notice in the Monstrous Manual that dragons always have super intelligence. They’re a symbol of power and wisdom but yet as writers, we always seem to relegate them to the mindless evil villain that doesn’t speak. I have a theory as to why that is. People, myself included, find it very hard to write dialogue between a human and a reptilian creature and have it be relatable. I admit it, when I got to the first scene between Malik, my dragon hero and Thalia, the heroine, I faltered a bit. I wanted him to be “not quite human” but not so serpentine that it was unbelievable. I had the same problem when coming up with a name for him. My writing companions, S.H. Roddey and Crymsyn Hart laughed at me all the way through the process because I kept changing his name. I didn’t want his name to be “too human” but I also knew that he was going to spend the second half of the book in a human form. And what crown prince wants to walk around saying “Hi, my name is Vermithrax Pejorative!”?

I also didn’t want to write a cheesy shapeshifter romance either. You know the ones: Drake is a troubled firefighter with a mysterious tattoo who learns he can turn into a dragon when united with his one true mate. GagSpitHiss! I was insistent that Huntress be a story that would stand up as a high-fantasy adventure as well as a romance. Malik’s dragon form is a curse and it propels the story forward. And over the course of the story we realize that while Malik may have gotten the brunt of the physical curse, the villain’s heart is where the true distortion lies.

So there’s a very delicate balance that the author has to achieve when using a dragon as a character rather than a prop. I hope I’ve done that. And I hope that one day if someone asks you, “Who is your favorite dragon?” You can say, with confidence, “Malik from Huntress.”

Or at least remember his name.

Huntress
by Alexandra Christian
December 1, 2015
Print Length: 225 pages
Publisher: Little Red Hen Romance
Every girl dreams of a fairy tale prince.

Thalia is the Huntress, a dragonslayer from a barbarian tribe. But her dreams are haunted by her prince, a dark shadow who whispers delectable taunts in her ears and smells of crushed roses and ash. When she is captured and sacrificed as a symbolic “bride” to the most fearsome dragon she has ever seen, she wants only to escape into the endless dream of death where she and her dark prince can be together forever.

But princes aren’t always what they seem. And neither are dragons.

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Excerpt:
She could smell it before they could see it. The stench of ash and sulfur like the pits of Hell overwhelmed them. “God, how do they sneak up on anyone? They smell like a pile of burning shit,” Markus complained, pulling his tunic over his nose. Thalia wasn’t listening.  She was too busy watching the sky. She wanted to see it when it burst through the trees.

Dragons both frightened and fascinated her. Everything about them was built for the hunt.  Their massive bodies were covered in impenetrable scales, but they could move with an almost feline precision. Their talons were razor sharp and grooved so that once the prey was caught, escape would be impossible. They could lock around even the smallest wriggling creature and hold on. The beating of their wings could create a gale that would level whole villages. Then there was the fire. Dragons were made of it. It flowed through their veins like blood, making their flesh steam. Just touching the hide would scald one’s hand, peeling the blackened skin from the bones. A deep breath was all it took, and the flames would spew forth from the beast, burning everything it its path.

“We must draw it away from the villagers, Markus. Hurry and get everyone inside! Out of sight and quiet.” He ran off into the streams of screaming villagers, running to and fro. The stench of brimstone and sweat was so overwhelming, it burned Thalia’s eyes. The thick odor of terror was nothing new. It was everywhere she went and fueled her fury. She ran toward the western gate. Her arms ached with the weight of the heavy crossbow. Many were surprised that she could wield the rustic weapon with any accuracy, but it was the weapon of her father and his father before him. The only real problem was that to deliver a kill shot, one had to be standing in the furnace. A dragon was only vulnerable when he breathed fire. For a fragment of a second, he would expose his chest, and if one were clever and cunning, one might be able to deliver an arrow between the soft spaces in the scales and pierce its heart. Otherwise, there was nothing for it but a lucky blow that distracted the wyrm long enough to let you get away. Despite the rumors of her might, Thalia had never taken the head of a dragon. It would take one much stronger than herself to slice through the iron ropes of sinew and tissue, much less penetrate the scales.

About the Author:
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Alexandra Christian is an author of paranormal romance, dark fantasy and horror. A self-proclaimed “Southern Belle from Hell,” Lexxx is a native South Carolinian who lives with a ghost hunter and an epileptic wiener dog. She has published several novels, novellas and short stories various publishers including Mocha Memoirs Press, Purple Sword Publications, Seventh Star Press, and Ellora’s Cave. She also wears an editor’s hat as A.C. Thompson. Recently, she’s been conquering the self-publishing world as one half of Little Red Hen Romance. Lexxx’s long-term aspirations are to one day be a best-selling authoress and part-time pinup girl. Questions, comments and complaints are most welcome at her website: http://lexxxchristian.wordpress.com/

The Sherlock Holmes Stories I Always Wanted By A.C. Thompson, editor

The Sherlock Holmes Stories I Always Wanted

By A.C. Thompson, editor 

Welcome to my obsession.
I guess I shouldn’t call it obsession. That makes me sound mentally unstable. Perhaps it would be more socially acceptable if I called this new anthology, An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes from Mocha Memoirs Press my “labor of love.” I’m not what one would call a “devout Sherlockian.” I couldn’t tell you the exact measurements of the sitting room at 221b Baker Street. 

If you want to know every detail check out this site
http://www.stutler.cc/other/misc/baker_street.html

Nor can I recall the basic plot-line of every single story. In fact, when it comes to the origins of my love affair with Sherlock Holmes, they’re based more in movies than the original books by Arthur Conan Doyle. Young Sherlock Holmes and The Great Mouse Detective were my introductions and ever since I’ve devoured everything I could get my hands on.

At first the original canon might seem dry or difficult to follow with its Victorian prose and expository style. After all, most of the stories are told by Dr. Watson after the fact. With our action-packed lifestyles these days, that style of writing can prove very tedious. In the BBC’s Sherlock, the viewer is part of the action. We’re right there on Watson’s shoulder observing and participating in everything that happens. They even go so far as to animate Sherlock’s thought processes for the viewer. Imagine if the whole show was two people sitting in a parlor smoking pipes and telling stories. It would get really boring, really quickly. So the first thing I wanted to do with this anthology was to capture the feel of watching it on screen. Every story in An Improbable Truth is fast-paced and will carry the reader along with Holmes and Watson. The expository diatribes are quick and serve to move the story along.

My other goal in compiling this anthology was to BRING THE HORROR. It’s no coincidence that Hound of the Baskervilles is the most popular story in the Sherlock canon. Kidnapping a sweet young girl, a ferocious and bloodthirsty Hellhound, a terrible curse, and a Gothic location—it’s a horror story. Of course, there’s a Scooby Doo moment in the end that disproves the paranormal aspect. I got to thinking, what if there was no Scooby Doo moment? Mystery is a genre that naturally lends itself to horror. What if we could create stories that are really scary? Cases that would make Sherlock question his own mind and test his powers of deduction. Gruesome murders, monsters, depravity—really play up the horror aspect. Besides, Holmes is a perfect Gothic hero and Watson is, of course, the girl falling down for no reason and showing us her underwear. An Improbable Truth is the Sherlock Holmes anthology I’ve been wanting my whole life.

Thanks again to the I Smell Sheep crew for having me today and letting me gush about Sherlock. Usually people ask me to stop when I do that…

Excerpt from “The Fairy Pool” by Lucy Blue:

“Well done, John.” His friend’s color was high and dramatic. Either he had already imbibed some chemical stimulant at nine in the morning, or the mere fact of John’s leaving had sent him into the first stages of frenzy on its own. “For once, you’ve hit upon the crux of the question without prompting. Why indeed?” John removed the train tickets from his pocket, and Sherlock snatched them from his hand. “Ravenglass,” he read.

“In the Lake District,” John said, taking them back. “Mary’s friend Seraphima grew up there. It’s meant to be quite lovely.”

“In summer perhaps.” The great detective was obviously unconvinced. “In October it will be a miserable bog. And really, John, Seraphima? Is that the limit of your invention? Seraphima is the name of an Italian carnival dancer, not the school chum of one’s respectable fiancée.”

John was inclined to agree. “Nevertheless, that is her name. Her aunts are the novelists Nora and Mirabel May. Perhaps one of them chose her name.”

Sherlock frowned. “That does seem plausible.” He took the tickets again and sniffed them. “As spinsters and the most prominent and financially successful members of the family, they would no doubt exert a certain influence over the naming of offspring, particularly those from poorer branches of the clan.”

“Seraphima was orphaned at an early age and brought up by the aunts,” John said. “So I’m sure you must be right.”

“One hardly follows the other, but yes, I must be.” He sniffed the tickets again. “When did you purchase these?”

John took them back. “Yesterday afternoon.” He put them back in his pocket. “I had just returned from the station when I told you about our trip.”

Sherlock’s smile was positively demonic. “That is a lie.”

“Holmes, really—“

“Those tickets rested for no small time in close proximity to the bare skin of your fiancée—next to her bosom, unless I miss my guess.”

John’s eyes popped. “I do beg your pardon!”

“They reek of her perfume—an ordinarily subtle scent intensified precipitously by abundance, heat, moisture, or some combination of the three. Since Mary is an extremely hygienic young woman not given to bathing herself in perfume or acts of great physical exertion, I deduce that she carried the tickets next to her skin while in a state of anxiety which resulted in greater than usual perspiration.”

“Have you been sniffing my fiancée?!?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“No, but really!” Ordinarily Holmes’ deductions were a source of wonder and no small delight to his friend, but this seemed not only improper but highly perilous. “Who are you to recognize her scent?”

“I recognize the presence of Mrs. Hudson’s favorite hack driver by the lingering aroma of horse shit on my hall rug,” Holmes said. “This in no way represents a symbolic romantic attraction.”

An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

by A.C. Thompson
268 pages
Publisher: Mocha Memoirs Press
October 27, 2015
“When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains,however improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock Holmes is one of the most recognizable characters in Western literature. Conan Doyle’s inimitable detective has been the subject of literally thousands of books, movies, television shows, plays and even songs. With the rise of the BBC series and the release of most copyrights, the beloved character has found a new life among modern audiences.

In An Improbable Truth: The Paranormal Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, 14 authors of horror and mystery have come together to create a unique anthology that sets Holmes on some of his most terrifying adventures. A pair of sisters willing to sacrifice young girls to an ancient demon for a taste of success, a sinister device that can manipulate time itself, and a madman that can raise corpses from the dead are just a few among the grisly tales that can be found within these pages.

Curl up with a warm cuppa and leave all the lights on. This is not your grandfather’s Sherlock Holmes.

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About the Editor:
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A.C. Thompson is the editing alter-ego of novelist Alexandra Christian. Lexxx is a native South Carolinian who lives with an epileptic wiener dog and a pet ghost hunter. She has published several novels, novellas and short stories with Ellora’s Cave, Purple Sword Publications, and Mocha Memoirs Press. Her long-term aspirations are to one day be a best-selling authoress and part-time pinup girl. Questions, comments and complaints are most welcome at her website: