I’m baffled and hope you can help.
Last week, I told you we put out a hit on our old covers—I mean—we floated the request for a new cover around Fiverr and received some bids. One of the designers really impressed us. She totally got who we are and what we stand for. So we hired her to recover Enchanted.
(Enchanted is still free, or it should be. Amazon tends to change the price without notice. So that link will take you to our site where there’s a failsafe for that. We’ve learned our lesson.)
We asked the designer to:
Where are we going wrong? We keep asking for the same thing, but we’re not getting through. Is it something we said?
I’d like to thank the members of our cozy little Facebook group, which is open to all. Their feedback has been a huge help, but we understand that not everyone is a fan of Facebook, so we’re trying to include everyone in this cover dilemma. Clearly, we’re doing something wrong, and that worries us because we need a cover for book 5, Sundered. It looks naked without it.
If only we could figure out why we’re not getting through or find a reasonable replacement. Sigh. If you have any ideas let us know. We have our fingers crossed for version 3. Lucky #3 must be closer to what we want…right? Please?
(Cross your fingers. We’ve crossed ours.)
And now back to our interrupted adventure because I said so. 😉
When you last saw us, Papa was impersonating a spider and crawling down an artificial rock wall complete with handholds while his magic squashed me against his back. It was in full protect-the-son-mode. I wasn’t enjoying the ride even though I like heights.
Above, a squadron of dove-winged books headed for our scribe. We’d left J.C. back in your world when we pursued our scribe the last time a book swallowed her. Hopefully, He’s making progress on opening that exit for us. Hopefully. He’s been very quiet.
(Psst? Missed an episode? Check out our past shenanigans here. They’re in reverse chronological order for your reading pleasure.)
Each boxed set had wings twice the size of the book-collections they held aloft, and they reminded me of my auntie’s wings. As I stared in rapt fascination, the pages of the fatter tome riffled in the smoke billowing up. Papa’s magic was still doing nothing to thwart that. Earth magic objected to fire, but it had no interest in the air I was breathing or its poor quality.
So I coughed and buried my nose in Papa’s hood since he wasn’t using it. Breathing through magic-infused cloth helped a little, but not as much as it should have. It was magical after all.
Those big wings were at least blowing some cleaner air my way as Papa let go of the wall and got his parkour on. One of these days I’d convince him to teach me how to do that. With the magic supercharging his muscles, Papa bounded over a girder, and his magic cinched me tight against his back. But I got a lungful of cleaner air and an eyeful of the glass-and-steel ceiling as my head popped into a clear area free of smoke.
We dropped and came up short as an arm shout out of one of the boxed sets and clamped its thick hand around Papa’s wrist.
“You can’t have her. She’s our scribe,” I said as I pried at those manicured fingers.
Claws reached out of the slimmer boxed set, and it seized Papa’s ankle. He kicked but we were caught, and those books bat their wings, angling for the ceiling. Papa’s magic shifted me away from the most likely point of impact and held me tight while it reached up and made friends with the ceiling. Glass and steel both came from the ground and so did Papa’s magic.
“Where’s the third book?” Papa asked, startling me.
I scanned what I could see below then pointed.
“It’s down there.”
The last boxed set dropped through the smoky haze. I waved my fist at it, and the flame-winged angel on its cover smirked as it swooped down on a woman bent double below. A bright stripe slashed from shoulder to waist across the back of her jacket. She was our scribe, Melinda, and we were seconds from losing her again.
Elsewhere, in a digital wasteland, a pixelated dragon flew in interlocking circles. Her bits and bytes flashed and popped, swapping places as she circled, tracing a mobius strip in the black of cyberspace.
Well, it worked for Sarn this whole circle-tracing-thing. He’s played this magical trump card in four books now, so it must work. The newsletter dragon thought as she turned another circle and in the center of her technomancy, a silver branch emerged.
Hello Queenie. I wondered when you’d appear.
The Queen of All Trees didn’t respond in words. She just beckoned as gray sparks flowered and faded, multiplying into a doorway. The Newsletter-Dragon dove through it and immediately regretted it. Maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had.
Caught in the still-forming portal’s event horizon, she writhed as invisible forces squeezed and stretched her—spaghettifying the once proud Newsletter-Dragon. They ripped her apart and scattered her code base leaving only wriggling segments barely able to execute a single script let alone run the complex application that was the Newsletter-Dragon.
A sparkling branch snagged her ribboned code and yanked it the rest of the way through the portal. The world went black.
We’ll be back next week. I feel a dramatic rescue coming on. Don’t you? 😉
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Until next time, dear reader
This is your host, Ran, son of Sarn, wishing you a great week!
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