When duty becomes obsession…

We live in troubled times.

In this topsy-turvy world where knowledge is ridiculed, kindness, empathy and humility are deemed signs of weakness, dangerous disinformation spreads like wildfire, and greed, mean-spiritedness and self-absorption are glorified, the endless moral-outrage, despair and desperation can be overwhelming.

This is not the plot for a dystopian novel. This is the new world reality.

So, with the publication of the final instalment of The ABC Chronicles only weeks away, I want to explain why I picked up the pen and chose speculative fiction as the vehicle for my storytelling.

Today, I believe more than ever that speculative fiction writers face a choice. Either expose and amplify the darkness to warn against a bleak future, shining a light into the shadows and igniting a beacon of hope. Or shunning the negativity to create a positive, fantastical landscape as an alternate reality to escape the evils that are all to evident in the news cycles all around us today.

Both approaches have equal merit.

For The ABC Chronicles trilogy, I chose the former path. But by creating an anachronistic Victorian Steampunk world, I have opened the gateway for future, lighter projects of adventure and escapism.

As I have mentioned in earlier blogs, the 2017 Manchester Comic Con was the event that ignited my creative journey. My original plan was to write a whimsical Steampunk kaleidoscope of fun. But in the winter of 2020, having written almost half of the first draft of The Connickle Conundrum, world events caused me to step back and re-examine my approach to the story.

The original question that had sparked my imagination was ‘What if the government had acted on Eunice Foote’s discovery in 1856 that burning fossil fuels was accelerating climate change’.

How would a class-polarised English society, in the midst of the Industrial Revolution, react to the brake on invention and innovation? Would bad-actors play on the widening divide between rich and poor? And who would come to Mother Nature’s aid?

In 2020, dark shadows were looming over the tale. Sunny days, gaily coloured airships and garish garments no longer fit the narrative. So gunmetal, grey and gilt replaced myrtle, primrose and periwinkle.

As the plots and subplots intertwined, it became apparent the story was too big for a single book. So, The ABC Chronicles trilogy was borne and the grim northern industrial landscape became even more dark, foggy and sooty.

And with a nod and a humble splayed-fingered hand on heart, I knew exactly how the story arc would conclude.

As should be the case, readers will take whatever they want from the trilogy. Interpretation is in the imagination of the reader. It can be read as an adventure or as an allegory for today’s real-world problems. Or somewhere in between.

So, leading up to the publication of the final act in April 2026, I intent to write a short weekly blog, including snippets from the third instalment, before eventually revealing the title and the cover art.

In addition, I will continue to serialise Talleyrand, my weird fiction short story; the first part of which appears in the blog-post entitled Announcement. If you missed it or need a reminder of the story so far, the story begins here.

This is the second instalment in the serialisation of…

Talleyrand

Continued…

The small collection of romantic tales from folklore, myth and legend told of chivalry and sacrifice from a nobler bygone age. Stories of steadfast suitors completing trials of courage and trust to prove their worthiness to doting, or doubting, fathers to win the hand of their precious daughters.

But I have no father to test my champion.

So rapt in the lore was I that I didn’t hear the hooves of dear Humphrey’s black mare, Stormcloud, on the gravel outside the window. But the silver tip of his cane’s gentle tap on the glass turned my head, and seeing him, tall in the saddle of his eighteen-hand sweating mare flushed my cheeks and set my heart a-fluttering in my breast like a butterfly in a bell jar.

He beckoned me outside with a smile that could calm the fiercest heart. Stormcloud was drinking noisily from our trough when I approached my betrothed. He produced a small package from his saddlebag and unwrapped a magnificent deep-blue rose.

“A gift from the garden of my late grandfather, whose forename I share,” he said. “He spent his entire life cultivating this unique bloom, which I present to you, my paragon without equal.”

“You flatter me, sir.” I sighed as I raised the rose to breathe deeply of its fragrance, rolling the stem betwixt my thumb and forefinger. “But comparing me to a scentless cut flower that will wither far sooner than on the root reeks of tokenism.” I bit my lip and swirled my hips in a coquettish figure of eight.

I know not whether he read the title of my book or if he saw through my playfulness, but he grinned and said. “Alas, I am not St George, and there are no more dragons to slay. So if it is my devotion you wish to test, you must devise your own chivalrous trial so that I may capture your heart forevermore. Name your peril, and I will face it gladly.”

© Drew Halfpenny 2025