Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers – This is a private blog

The Case of the Missing Princess and Other Administrative Challenges

Published by Martyn Winters on May 14, 2026

An Inspector Camden Ironbell Story

Martyn Winters

The Ballad of the Field at Caer Dhun.

by James Jones-Jones Pryce

High over Caer Dhun, the dragons wheeled,

Indifferent to the men below,

Curious only how the field

Would turn, and which way bones would go.

A ragged army, one hundred strong,

Faced down a foe of teeth and song.

A last redoubt

A final stand

A line where Men and Gnomes,

Shoulder to shoulder,

Cried “Onward!” with one voice and hand

A singular band

To defend their homes

Take no prisoners, show no fear

This is the place, this is here.

The goblin host came down the hill,

Ten thousand strong, and louder still,

With trumpets cracked and banners torn

And every weapon ever worn.

A tide

A flood

A press of teeth and rusted blade

That broke against the line we made

Of mud

And blood

And men who would not stand aside.

By noon, the field was dark with crows.

By dusk, the crows had ceased to come,

For even crows will turn from those

Whose names are sung, but not by some.

Above it all, the dragons watched.

They did not stoop.

They did not call.

They marked the field, and marked the cost,

And took no side, and saw it all.

Ask the goblin, where your fathers fell?

He will not answer.

He knows well.

Ask the goblin, where your brothers lie?

He will not meet a stranger’s eye.

There is a field he will not name,

There is a wind he will not face,

There is a song that bears the shame

Of all his fathers, all his race.

And we who stood, and we who fell

At Caer Dhun field, where dragons low,

We do not boast, we do not tell.

We do not need the world to know.

But mark this, goblin, mark this well:

The gnomes remember.

So do we. The field is green.

The wind is still.

The bones beneath remember thee.

Part 1

Ironbell paused outside the council chamber long enough to assess his potential escape routes. Preparedness, even in friendly territory, came as second nature to him. As a practitioner of Gnome-Fu, he lived by the motto, “Better to forestall than to forsake.” It’s why he still wore his original skin.

He noted the doors were oak, banded in iron, and stood half a head taller than was strictly necessary. The brass handles had been polished that morning, Ironbell could see faint traces of Brassie on them, but not the hinges, which meant, he realised, the council’s budget was being watched. He could hear voices through the wood. Four of them. One was raised, the second was placating, another was coughing in a manner that suggested forty cigarettes a day and no intention of cutting back, and one said very little, just interjections in careful, measured tones. That last one interested him most.

He pushed the doors open and strode in.

I Will Find You

Published by Janet Johnson on April 15, 2026

Jess moved hesitantly through the trees, the beam from her small torch lighting the narrow path. It was cold, the first signs of frost appearing on the forest floor, each breath she took forming a small cloud of mist. The air smelt of damp wood and moss. Twigs cracked underfoot, and she started at the hoot of an owl. Her wool jacket snagged on something sharp and spiky. She cursed as she tugged it free, knowing that there would be a hole. Everything looked so different in the dark, but she knew where she was going, didn’t she? Of course she did, she’d been there a million times. The short, sharp, high-pitched bark of a fox sounded in the distance, and a shiver of fear ran through her, doubts starting to fill her mind. Why had she agreed to Ben’s dare to go to the old house in the woods in the middle of the night, for God’s sake? She was a sensible girl, not a risk-taker, but he’d needled her, taunted her about being a scaredy cat, and she’d snapped. He’d dared her, and she was damn well going to prove to him that she wasn’t chicken. It had always been like this between them. Ben was her best friend and nemesis in equal measure. She’d thought that they’d be an item once, but that idea had been quickly quashed. The school disco a few months ago seeped into her mind.

Emyr’s Dreams – The Shell

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on April 14, 2026

There is a baby lying in a crib. He has been named Emyr. His mother, Anwen, folds laundry in the kitchen. It is almost Emyr’s first birthday though he does not yet understand the concept of time or age or birthdays. He will learn that in due course. On this day Emyr is a happy child. He lies, eyes closed. Long dark lashes curling upward, away from his cheeks. He smiles as he sleeps. Afternoon sun dapples warm and carefree across his soft face. Light and shadow dance over his eyelids. The child is aware of layers of crimson and veridian and indigo. Their crystal shapes fold and swirl and merge into each other.

There is music in the dappled motion. From somewhere in the house, the baby hears his mother singing. An old song born from her mother’s song with deep, rich autumnal notes that rise up through the home and gently fold themselves around the child. The boy wriggles his feet to enjoy the soft embrace of the duck yellow hand me down baby grow as it stretches across his body. New notes emerge. His notes. The first notes of a new song, finding their way. Still small but strong and certain. Emyr feels safe. He feels love and comfort. Harmony and melody and rhythm are slowly coming together.

In Due Course. By Martyn

Published by Martyn Winters on April 14, 2026

Meena Chaudhary noticed the smell first.

It wasn’t the antiseptic, the minty polish, or even the faint chemical sweetness that lingered in most dental offices. This smelled older, almost ancient: damp plaster and something like burnt sugar. She swallowed as it coated the back of her throat. Then, bending over the clipboard, she signed her name without looking. Twenty years of contracts had made it automatic: read, assess, commit. She rarely second-guessed herself once she’d decided.

“Ms Chaudhary?”

She looked up. The receptionist, a small, grey-haired woman, smiled. But it wasn’t her voice she heard. The door to the surgery stood open. The receptionist bobbed her eyebrows towards the door, slightly wrinkling the pancake makeup on her forehead. Again, the smile, but her eyes looked sad.

“Through here,” the dentist said.

Rules for Survival

Published by Sandra Lloyd Lewis on March 23, 2026

There’s a buzz in the outer hall, echoing around its rock walls and bouncing the urgent whispers from the low ceiling and Ash watches the advance scout, Morgan, just back from patrol, as she imparts her news to the those nearest the tunnel mouth. Whatever it is, its big, her gestures frantic, her mouth moving fast and people huddle around her, heads bent to catch the words. Ash hangs back, comforted by the weight of rock, solid at her back, as the group passes the news from person to person, each mouth opening in shock, before passing the message on. Ash is tense and even before the news reaches her, she catches fragmented echoes: The Day patrol are coming back, wounded. Then: only one of them is wounded. And another: No, no-one is wounded; but they have someone with them. As the news approaches, she hears the dread word uttered but dismisses it, until she feels Ayla’s hot breath against her ear and she can’t avoid it: Outsider.

Escape

Published by Janet Johnson on March 23, 2026

Laura watched the children playing happily with the large, brightly coloured building bricks in the dim light; Poppy patiently helping her baby brother to build a tower as tall as she could, before he knocked it down with delight. She marvelled at how well Poppy had adapted to their new life and, for George, the only life he had ever known, but she worried about them constantly. They had been underground far longer than either Joe or she had anticipated and been prepared for, but they knew from the reports that reached them sporadically that they had to hold on for as long as they could. She had rationed the food and water for the last year, but the children were starting to show signs of malnutrition. Their skin was becoming translucent, anaemic-looking, they were increasingly lethargic, and they were so thin. She knew in her heart that if they were to have any chance of survival, it wouldn’t be long before they had no option but to leave the safety of the bunker and face the horrors above ground. Hopefully, they had bought themselves enough time.

The Final Battle

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on March 23, 2026

by Jason

This is part of the final battle sequence (!) These Peck scenes will be intercut with scenes where Emyr confronts Gloam and The Herald, Jynn and The Fang fight S’Uba.

Peck stepped over the threshold and realised that Emyr had vanished. This was not the plan. There was a moment of panic and then the nexus caught hold of Peck and carried her out and away from The Circle. The universe opened up a new conduit, just for her and catapulted her across the stars. Shifting chromatic patterns propelled her down a long narrow tunnel. The universe opened itself and expanded in every direction, revealing layers of sound and energy she had not sensed before. The tunnel she travelled down pierced the fabric of the universe, crossing into another realm where it passed through layer after layer of primal song till the stars blinked out and Peck flew on through an electric darkness. There were no reference points for her to cling to. If it had not been for the nexus force that still gripped her body Peck would have though she had stopped moving all together.

The End of the Road – Martyn

Published by Martyn Winters on March 2, 2026

Part 1: Yasuk

At the edge of the village, the abandoned gallows stood silent, their ropes stirring in the desert breeze. The creaking wooden frame had bleached and cracked, its knots swollen with age. Doctor Muhammad Hosseini watched the ropes sway and wondered if anyone would use them again.

Since the world beyond the village had vanished, crime had dwindled to something barely perceptible. Greed and anger were never gone, but muted, like a low insect hum fading into the heat. In its wake, fear remained. Not panic, but something graver.

In the first days after the silence, men kept to the shadows while women drew their veils tighter and children slipped between houses without playing. Their laughter, once spilling through the streets had drained away, leaving the village muted and watchful. Even now, the air felt tense, as if it were waiting for something to happen.

After the lynching of the local platoon of Faith Guards, most crimes no longer seemed to matter. People increasingly forgot central authority, as it had collapsed into memory and, like the world beyond the hills, fewer people spoke of it each day. Now they spoke of it only in hushed tones, afraid it might return, and perhaps even more afraid it wouldn’t.

Coygan by Jason

Published by Jason Davies-Redgrave on January 19, 2026

51°45’16” N 4°29’12” W

Making

The day we died felt odd, deceptive. It was disorientating to say the least. Though by that point, none of us really cared what was happening. For some time, the tides had felt thicker and sluggish, the sea had become something else. Something strange. We were dazed, as used as we were to the tidal whims of our home, this felt different, it crept up on us sideways and left us confused. Life continued in a fashion – we fed but with no great urgency or joy, just opened our mouths and let in the not so nourishing waters. An act that felt so normal and, at the same time, so very different. We continued as long as the burnished light rippled through the glas water. But by the time the light had shifted and lost its golden hue we knew that something was wrong: a part of us had been ebbing away, a drop at a time, but for how long we weren’t sure, as if we had been slowly pouring some vital part of ourselves into the veridian tides.

By the time the light completely disappeared, we were all dead.

We sank to the ocean floor, shells cracked or chipped as they hit the bottom. Our soft parts started to wither, revealing bone. Some of us were broken apart and what little remained was scooped up by a band of desperate heliwrs. We don’t think we gave them much sustenance: a group of them are on the other side of the hill. Listen to us, “the Hill,” apologies we are getting ahead of ourselves, we’ll get to that bit in a moment. Many of us fell on that day and the days that followed. Layer after layer and slowly, inevitably, our world calcified becoming something quite, quite different. We came to know a new way of being – the way of stone.

Where once there had been the soothing ebb and flow our world we were now rigid, static, and seemingly lifeless. We were prisoners held under ossuary guard, hardening and strengthening with the passing of the ages. Yet our awareness seeped out into the strata, permeating the solidity surrounding us, we slowly came to a new understanding in the darkness. An understanding that we were utterly alone in the rock. An understanding that hungry forces churned and kneaded what lay beneath us, moulding it to its own ends.

All we could do was wait.

BEAUT: Ch 2 Shadows

Published by Martyn Winters on January 19, 2026

Scene 3 – The Cornucopia on the Lane

After alighting from his bus on the Strand, Colin found the pub he was looking for on Temple Lane, near the submerged Victoria Embankment. It was at the end of a pontoon skirting King’s College and around the back of the Courtauld Institute.

‘The Cornucopia on the Lane’ proclaimed itself ‘The World’s Narrowest Gastro-Pub.’ Tucked between a gentleman’s outfitters specialising in Crown Court clothing and the offices of an accountancy firm, the pub stood as a thin slice of Tudor England. With a core structure built around 1598, the Corny, as the locals called it, had distinctive leaded windows and half-timbering on its gable. Although they were recent additions—installed for the tourists who all-too-infrequently strayed that way—they looked the part to Colin.

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