I’m working on a series of fantasy stories about a death mage named Maven.

Last summer, the mother of all trees fell on my house during the pappy of all storms. During that week of intermittent power and zero internet service, I found myself daydreaming about a monster who crawls out from underneath a fallen tree and terrifies a village. How did the monster get there in the first place? I wondered. More importantly: What kind of hero (or anti-hero) could dispatch it? A day later, I had completed the first draft of a short story called The Fallen Tree.

I’m a simple man. I write what I see.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the death mage and ended up writing two more stories in short order. In the sequel, Master Death Theater (a title that should give you an indication of just how serious the overall tone is), Maven joins a wandering troupe of actors and must use his magic to resurrect their star performer. This one is inspired by the works of H.P. Lovecraft by way of Stuart Gordon, particularly Re-Animator. Here’s an excerpt:

A caravan of wagons was parked on the beach in a loose circle. A group of performers half-heartedly recited dialogue as they went about washing their clothes in a communal tub.

“Welcome to The Wandering Theatre,” the woman said. “Part of it, anyway. Our fortune teller sleeps during the day and our knife thrower is no doubt lying in an alley somewhere, same as you were.”

“What do you do?” Maven asked.

“I’m like a falconer, only my act involves a bat.” The woman gestured at the cloth sack on her shoulder. “Isabell also sleeps during the day. Come, I want you to meet the lead performer of our troupe.”

The bat keeper walked to a wagon which was more ornate than the rest. She pulled a lever and a pair of mechanical steps dropped down below the door. Maven followed the woman inside. The room smelled of alcohol and death, two things which greatly pleased the mage’s nostrils. A rotund man lying on a bed was the source of both odors.

“Ah,” Maven said, unsurprised.

“We’ll begin auditions for his replacement as soon as we can, but we’re obligated to perform in the royal hall tonight. We believe he drowned in his own vomit.”

“Better than someone else’s,” Maven said, picking up a half empty stein from the bedside table. He swallowed its contents and lifted the dead man’s arm to see how much stiffness had set in. “He died shortly before daybreak. His joints need exercised.”

The bat keeper worked the dead man’s appendages, starting with his toes and working her way up. “You can bring him back?”

“As long as you agree I’m not responsible for anything that happens after his resurrection. And it’s important no one tells him he’s dead.”

“That would break the spell?” 

“No, it would only ruin his performance—preoccupied mind and all that.” Maven sat on the bed next to the dead man and parted his lips. He breathed into the actor’s mouth and, with a wooden finger, drew the sigil of resurrection in the air. “Come back to us, friend.”

from Master Death Theater

I’m hoping to get the first story out pretty soon. Whether that means posting it here or submitting it to more traditional markets, I don’t know yet. The rest I plan to shop around, so I’ll keep ya updated on how that goes. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I’ve got some more tales to write.