Installing the Fantasy Kitchen Sink in Rural Australia to Ward off Cthulhu

Installing the Fantasy Kitchen Sink in Rural Australia to Ward off Cthulhu

by: Ashton K. Rose

When I first started writing Urban/Paranormal Fantasy, I never considered using the world I knew best as a setting. My first fantasy novel that had a distinct urban fantasy setting was a vampire political/crime drama I wrote at nineteen. It was the first time I’d written fantasy entirely set in the “real” world. My teenage writing in the genre sitting firmly in the portal fantasy genre heavily influenced by the Oz Series and Narnia books.

The issue about writing stories set in the city, I’d never lived in one. I’d only been to “the city” a handful of times. The largest place I’d lived in was a small town of 4,000 people. Before that I spent the first fourteen years of my life living on a remote family farm. A lot of my ideas of what the city was like, was guess work based on the books and tv shows I’d seen. Making it easier to start writing Gaslamp fantasy in place of fiction with a modern city setting. It felt easier to write mistakes in a 19th century setting rather than a modern city. It was easier for people to notice the mistakes I’d made about life in modern cities.

As the years passed, I slowly started writing stories set in rural Australia within the horror, supernatural Thriller and Australian gothic genres. The remote Australian bush, littered with old graveyards and the remains of abandoned towns the perfect setting for these stories. The isolation of the tiny towns or farms these stories were set in replacing the remote castle of the traditional gothic story.

In late 2017 I started writing the story that would become the first three books of The Southern Magicks series. Originally it was a murder mystery/supernatural suspense series with a psychic medium as a main character. A rare power that became increasingly dangerous for my main character Dexter as I wrote the story. Then a vampire snuck in. Snuck in posing as a normal human, isolating Dexter before threatening to murder him. Back then I was very much a discovery writer and while the scene fit the vibe of the story it didn’t fit with the genre, I thought I’d been writing.

Why did the vampire cut me short? It felt more like something out of Teen Wolf or True Blood. Fitting that it was the first book in series True Blood was adapted from The Southern Vampire Mysteries that gave me the inspiration finally dive into writing the paranormal fantasy genre to allow supernatural creatures outside of ghosts to enter the story. I’d been reading a lot of urban fantasy like The Rivers of London and Alex Verus series and decided that I wanted to write something with a developed magic system. The urban fantasy genre the perfect genre for my writing which always told a mystery/crime story with a speculative fiction coating.

I slowly started to post this version as a web novel because I wanted to share my stories but didn’t have enough money to publish.

At that point I thought I never would.

Then I got a new job that paid me twice as much.

Not a lot of money but I wasn’t working a casual job where I made minimum wage.

I started to get the web novel version copy edited/proofread to attract more readers.

I loved publishing a web novel and the community on the website but the reader base for web novels is limited to the users of the website you post it on. My story was also structured as a traditional novel and web novel structure is very different.

I started using Twitter to connect with other writers. I was drawn into an incredibly welcoming little slice within the writing community filled with queer self-pub authors. At the start of 2021 I decided to take another look at this indie publishing thing again after seeing so many people thriving in the space. It wasn’t going to cost me much more then I was already paying for editing, and I’d have a larger better suited market for my book. I’d also be able to have a physical copy on my shelf. I looked up what I needed to do and gradually used my connections within the writing community to find an editor, cover designer, interior designer and proofreader.

In 2021 during developmental editing this draft would become three books to give each storyline space. Adding extra work to my plate when I thought I already had books 2 & 3 drafted. Leaving me with four books at various stages of completion, one thing was for certain I couldn’t stay a discovery writer.

I also realised that I had an urban fantasy book set outside of a city to market which is what lead to me using paranormal fantasy interchangeably with urban fantasy. Paranormal fantasy seems more flexible with its setting and given that my main character is a necromancer and exorcist who constantly encounters ghosts and monsters. But it’s also heavily populated by paranormal romance which my book isn’t… well to give you an exclusive spoiler, at least openly in the beginning. The romance is between three human magic users… three perfectly normal humans. I feel like it’s pretty easy for readers to guess which member of the main romantic relationship might be the paranormal part of the romance. Given the other two members are surrounded by people who have known them their entire lives. I guess it’s also a spoiler for me to keep calling Dexter a necromancer, because when he wants to learn the skills that are considered necromancy by other mages he is told “hell, no”.



The Southern Magicks - Ashton K. Rose
Ashton K. Rose has a new queer fantasy/paranormal romance out: The Southern Magicks. And there’s a giveaway.

How do you prove your innocence when you don’t even remember whether you did it or not?

After a demon attack reveals Dexter’s secret – that his Gran taught him magic – the twenty-three-year-old librarian is forced to work for the local magical law enforcement agency in order to prove his loyalty, and hopefully save his grandmother from execution.

However, when someone tries to frame him for crimes he doesn’t remember committing, Dexter realizes he’ll have to start an investigation of his own. Joined by his beloved husband Eli, their best friend June, and his journalist cousin Kat, he desperately tries to prove his innocence…which is kind of difficult when gaps in his memory make him doubt everything he thinks he knows about himself.

The race against time begins. Can Dexter and his team uncover the criminals weaving the web of guilt around him before it’s too late, or is he going to lose everything and everyone he cares about?

Warnings: Assault, violent imagery, panic attack on page, police brutality

Universal Buy Link | Goodreads


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The Southern Magicks meme
Chapter 1, Scene 1:
I knew Nora Rowe had died in her home without anyone telling me.

I unlocked the door and my stomach dropped as I took in the sight of the small dim living room of her kit home, filled with books and old newspapers. The acrid smell of cigarettes and wood fire smoke filled my nose as I weaved my way through the stacks. Mismatched flatpack bookshelves that warped under the strain of thousands of books lined the walls. Her living room held no other furniture apart from an old TV and a worn leather armchair—the carpet covered by stained, threadbare rugs.

I flicked the first light switch I saw twice.

Why had I expected the power to work?

I walked over to the windows and pushed the dust-caked lace curtains aside.

My eyes watered as the sun poured into the room.

In the kitchen, the doors of the cupboards hung open. The only things left behind were a few cheap plastic items scattered across the scratched lino.

I stepped on a plastic cup on the floor. I wobbled on my feet for a few sick seconds before I grabbed the counter to steady myself. The sharp aluminium edge bit into the skin of my hand.

This place was a death trap!

She had over twenty library books I had to separate from the donations. My legs shook as I walked to the shelves closest to the door.

I ignored the erratic beating of my heart and the part of my brain telling me to run and pulled out my keys to flick the small key chain light on. I placed it between my teeth and examined the spines for library tags.

When the light hit the grimy glass of a small photo frame on the shelf, I saw something move behind me. I kept my eyes fixed on the glass and used my thumb to clear a spot of dust.

If it hadn’t moved, I could have ignored the human-shaped shadow reflected in the glass.

As a kid, I’d been hassled about seeing things and having an overactive imagination. When I was seven, Gran told me the truth. I shared her secret ability to see ghosts.

I turned to look at the woman who sat in the armchair.

This Nora was a couple of years older than the one who celebrated her birthday in the photo. Her gaze focused on the TV, which would have been new the year Queen Elizabeth was coronated.

I kept my gaze locked on her, blinking one eye at a time.

I slowed my breath and took a careful step backwards to the door. The back of my calf hit something that drove several points of pain into my skin.

The stack of books I knocked over sliced through my composure just as easily as it did the silence in the room, the hard covers and spines slapping against each other as they hit the floor.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?” Nora stood and turned to face me.

I knew I’d given the game away when I jumped out of my skin and almost dropped my keys.

I made a noise like a dying rat.

She knew I could hear her.

The first thing Gran had taught me was not to let a ghost realise you could sense them. It was dangerous—a trigger for the ire of a vengeful spirit.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Your son gave us the key.”

“Worthless piece of shit. Letting strangers into my house. He stole my grandma’s dinner set for drug money before my body was cold. I saw him put it in his car before he called someone to deal with the mess.”

“I’ll just be going now.”

“Actually, I’ll be going.”

I felt a sharp pain in my chest.

I tried to breathe, but my lungs refused to move.

I couldn’t breathe!

The edge of my vision went black as I gasped for air. I fell flat on my front. I was so focused on trying to breathe, I almost missed the presence pushing at the back of my mind. It started small, a hint of a suggestion. The temptation to give in grew. This was her body. I was nothing but a figment of her imagination. Dexter wasn’t real. Nothing more than a thought exercise to see what it’d be like to be a man her grandson’s age. With each second, it pressed harder, and the urge to give in grew.


It would be easy to give in and never have another worry again. All the pain and pressure of life could vanish if I relaxed and let her take control.


I shivered as I tried to move my arms to push myself onto my hands and knees. I focused on the door. It was only a short crawl. I had to do it. For a second, my vision went entirely black.


I gathered all the strength I had and screamed. The remaining air expelled from my lungs. I took a sharp breath. I moved my stiff arms and pushed myself onto my hands and knees.

I was Dexter; I was real, and this was my body. Nothing would take that away from me.

I closed my eyes and pushed back the ghost. I wrapped a mental net around the invasive presence in my mind and forced it back through the hole where it had entered. A hole it had dug in a part of my mind I didn’t even know existed.

One arm forwards, one leg forwards, and breathe.

Move. Breathe. Move. Breathe.

I made it to the threshold and pulled the door open. I slid headfirst down the concrete stairs to lie on my back.

The pressure in my mind slowly vanished as I fell.

I opened my eyes.

Pale blue sky, almost cloudless.

My eyes watered from the bright light.

The perfect day was oblivious to my plight. The mid-autumn day was hardly different from late summer. I could’ve laid there for hours, but the hot concrete felt like it was melting the skin off my back where my shirt had ridden up. I rolled onto the dead grass beside the cracked front path.

Sweat ran into my eyes as I sat up. I squeezed my eyes shut to clear my vision.

I could still feel the cold air wafting from the open door. I had to shut it. Mrs Gregory was looking for any excuse to fire me. I stood and walked to the threshold.

All I had to do was grab the handle, pull it closed, remove my hand from the handle and step back.

One quick movement.

I could do it.

As I stared, my eyes adjusted to the dim. She stood just inside, her hard eyes focused on me.

She smiled.

I stepped forwards and grabbed the door handle. Her hand shot out towards my arm.

Her pale, icy fingers clamped around my left wrist. I tightened the grip of my right hand around the door handle. I tucked my chin to my chest and threw myself backwards down the stairs, using the weight of my body to swing the door closed. My shirt ripped as I fell backwards; the sleeve stayed in her hand as my arm slipped free.

The air expelled from my lungs as I hit the ground.

I lay on my back and my lungs refused to work. Fixed to the spot in terror, I gasped for air as my body refused to perform. A function that was usually thoughtless had become my only thought, the pinpoint the world had narrowed to.

There was a dizzy relief as I breathed again, and after a few minutes I slowly stood.

Blood ran down my exposed arm, the only part of my body that had hit the thin concrete path.

Ghosts could touch me! Physically hurt me!

I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing, forcing back the panic attack that bubbled in the back of my mind. I knew about the possession, but the touch? Why hadn’t Gran told me? I needed to call Gran, but I knew she couldn’t help me. She hadn’t talked to me about magic since her accident when I was seventeen.

I suspected the accident was magic-related, but she’d kept silent about it.

She’d looked at me sceptically any time I’d mentioned magic afterwards, as though I spoke of childish whimsy and needed to grow up.

So I had.

I’d left Dunn and become a librarian, a nice stable job for a responsible young man who liked books.

A normal young man who had resigned himself to a life of pretending he couldn’t see the dead.

I’d somehow ended up with nowhere else to turn and ended up back in this town.

Now Gran was in America with Aunt Myrtle, so it was hard to get help.

I drove back to the library to pretend I’d been out for my lunch break.


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