When you don’t have a bridge, there may be a ford.

Hello, and welcome to new subscribers.

I have one of these in the village; it doesn’t get a lot of traffic. Some do locally, but fording the river is pretty much a rural thing these days. However, absent a bridge, a place where the river is either naturally or with a bit of help shallow enough to cross is still needed. Once upon a time, it might have been the only route from A to B; still today, a ford might afford a faster route.

As it does in another part of this island, where the infamous Rufford Ford is located, known for numerous videos of people getting it right and wrong when the river is in spate.

Sometimes you have to make do, and writing this week feels a lot like I’m short a bridge, in a world where it often seems everyone wants to sell you one.

In writing, the traditional bridge between author and reader is a publishing house. Agents are involved, and trolls under the bridge also act as gatekeepers, so while some big GOATS (greatest of all time) have gotten through, for most it’s like playing in a band, or waiting tables in Los Angeles, hoping to be the Next Big Thing.

That’s why, as hard as sitting alone at a desk making stuff up can be, fording the river, or in this analogy, sending emails to subscribers, is a means to cross these waters.

Last week, I confirmed I’d finished bar inevitable tweaks for spelling, grammar, and missing and misplaced punctuation, the prequel to my planned Spectral Detective Series. This Novella punches in at ~18 thousand words.

Thanks to those who reached out to Beta-Read “Into Darkness.” |

The first Novel, “King in the Dark,” developed in tandem, is at ~32,000 words and is progressing.

Fantasy to Noir Detective fiction might sound like a leap. Still, in my head, the two worlds I created — one set tens of thousands of years ago, the other a lifetime ago — are all part of a kind of Wolds Newton Universe, with common themes.

Unlike typical war stories or pulp adventures, this narrative weaves authentic WWII intelligence operations (drawing from real OSS/SOE history) with biblical mysticism and a noir-tinged exploration of trauma-induced “sight,” creating a unique hybrid of Indiana Jones-style relic hunts, Lovecraftian unease, and hard-boiled detective origins—all grounded period details like 1940s slang, medical practices, and geopolitical tensions.

Excerpt, Opening scene from Into Darkness

1943: Pyrenees Mountains.

 Near Roncesvalles, Navarra, a few miles from the Spanish—French border.

February 20th.

 Captain Arthur King’s eyes searched the darkness as the Citroën’s shrouded headlights, little better than candles, struggled to light the road through the mountains. His mental clock read about half past midnight. He gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white, the thin Bakelite grip cold under his palms. Snow slashed at the screen in ragged bursts, reducing visibility, and ice played havoc with traction. The prudent choice suggested a slow and steady approach. War made prudence a widow. King pushed as hard as he dared. Beside him, Lieutenant John Reed worked the single manual windscreen wiper, the other hand clutched around a satchel stuffed with documents, a map pressed to the front, as if their lives depended on it. A great many did.

 “Left at the fork!” Reed shouted, voice cutting through the transmission whine. He jabbed a gloved hand toward the road ahead.

 Two yellow beams carved through the night. A Renault Juvaquatre—a Police sedan in pursuit, bonnet dipping with each rut. Inside huddled the Milice—black-coated fascist enforcers, feared for their brutality.

 Someone, somewhere, sometime must have betrayed them to the Nazi-appointed Vichy government of France. No time to wonder who and why.

 The U23’s rear wheels skidded; the empty truck bounced, making matters worse. He thought of his friend’s girl in Algiers—Mary. Reed carried a diamond solitaire on a chain around his neck, destined for her hand.

 He turned into the skid, hauling the Citroën through the bend, applying opposite lock to control the slide.

 “You left that late,” Reed said.

 “Just buying us time.” The lights dropped back, the Milice car sliding, then reversing to make the turn.

 Gusts rattled the Citroën’s tinny doors and drove chill wind inside. Wrapped against the cold, looking like peasants, King shivered and perspired at the same time. The U23’s diesel engine laboured in the thin, frozen air, its dull olive-drab paint flecked with frost, the canvas canopy over the bed fluttering as the weather whipped it.

 Their route narrowed, flanked by high banks of snow. Tyres fought the frozen ground, the steering wheel twitching. Reed’s eyes flicked between the map and the chasing headlights.

 “They’re gaining again,” Reed said. 

 

 | Wine and Smoke (Sample)

Wine and Smoke by M.A. Djawad is a gripping dark fantasy.

This sample, prologue and two chapters introduces a world where "smokers" burn their life force for power, sustained by rare crimson wine. The prologue’s haunting image of a smoking newborn sets a visceral tone, while Chapters One and Two follow Kayn, a sheltered teen, and Malina, a rebellious noblewoman, navigating a divided society.

Djawad’s vivid prose and intricate world-building shine, contrasting the brutal Colosseum with the oppressive shelter and corrupt nobility.

Characters like Malina, with her sharp wit and hidden powers, are compelling, making for a captivating start.

https://storyoriginapp.com/swaps/859770d6-899d-11f0-b8c1-d3e58d3ec0a7