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About Literature / Professional Member Michael-Israel JarvisMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Michael-Israel Jarvis
Artist | Professional | Literature
United Kingdom
I've been a member of DeviantArt for over eight years. In that time, I more or less grew up and learned to write at the same time. I completed a First Class BA Degree in Creative Writing, with Honours; but it was DeviantArt that fostered my first writing. It was DeviantArt that gave me my first taste of feedback, encouragement; and criticism.

Since University I've independently published three books, two of which were born here, on DeviantArt. You can find Osric Fingerbone and Gravedigger chapters in my Fiction Finder over on the right, in draft form, unedited and unimproved. Meanwhile, I've signed with the Publisher Booktrope, that offer an entirely new model of publishing.

As a result, I'm now working with a professional team to republish my books. I dreamt of this kind of progress over those eight years. I am still dreaming of the successful future I hope I have in writing books, and selling them to people who want to read them. It's that simple for me.

DeviantArt is still here. So will I be. I will always owe this community much.

My books are available still in their indie form, here:… (UK link) and here:… (US Link)

Gravedigger will be republished within the next couple of months.


And that free sample can be found here:…

I hope you enjoy!

Get hold of me on here, or email me at

I'm also on facebook.

And my very own website is here:

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

  • Mood: Zeal
  • Listening to: The Wave Pictures - City Forgiveness
  • Reading: Mistborn
  • Watching: Penny Dreadful
  • Playing: Tomb Raider
  • Eating: Chicken, bacon, chillies and pineapple pizza
  • Drinking: Pepsi
Well this is new! I like it!
Gravedigger, originally a serial fantasy posted in this very community, is now officially being subjected to the attention of my editor. It will be republished in about three months. The cover designer just so happens to be a dA person as well - Ameliethe - so I am more than psyched to see what will be.
I have been accepted by the US based Publisher Booktrope.

Initially, "Gravedigger" which started on this site, and "Osric Fingerbone and the Boy Murderer" which likewise was first drafted here, will both be published.

Chapters from both of these works are available to read in my gallery, or quickly found via the fiction-finder.

I am now looking forward to forming up with a creative team and republishing these formerly self-published books.

As always, thanks deviantArt. You were there for me first of all.

Get hold of me on here, or email me at

I'm also on facebook.

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

  • Mood: Triumph
  • Listening to: Eluveitie / Lyndsey Stirling
  • Reading: Raising Steam by Terry Pratchett
  • Watching: House of Cards
  • Playing: Minecraft
  • Eating: Port Salut and crackers
  • Drinking: Coke
I never seed a woman like her. Fuh one thing, she tall. Moves thru the mark with her head up, wrapped in old tatty furs, strapped up with leather and webbing for water bottle, knives. She got a hard face, a bony face. Brown hair like coiled rope. She come my way, where I hunch in the corner by the scrap xchange.

‘Kid.’ She look down with clear eyes. Colour of dust. There’s scarring on her knuckles, a white line crossing the corner of her thin lips. She’s crook-nose too, just a little. Enough to see it once broke. ‘Are you fit, kid? Are you fit and healthy?’


‘Do you want to earn some barta?’

‘’pends. Fuh what?’

‘A bit of carrying, spotting, gathering. I’m going into the jungle. I need an extra pair of hands.’

I laugh. ‘Nobody goes into the jungle. Nobody witted. It’s dangerous.’

Her eyes wrinkle up, bird feet at the corners, as she smiles. ‘Yeah, it’s dangerous. You afraid?’

‘Course I’m ‘fraid. Think I’m witless?’

‘No, I think you’re hungry.’ She looks me up and down to push the point. Feel a prickle in my skinny arms, bare and bony knees; she sees all of me. Not much to look at.

‘What’s the barta?’ Important question. She reaches into her furs, pulls out a handful of scrap metal. Not much rust, a good packet in my reckoning. Some steel. A week of eats fuh that.

‘S’not much.’

‘You get a bag of this. Similar quality. Plus, you get to keep anything you salvage for yourself in the jungle.’

I swallow. I can almost taste porridge. Bread. I could get snails, every day, for a week or so. Still, a coupla week’s food is no good to a dead boy.

‘C’mon kid. I haven’t got all day.’

‘How long? Your trip to the jungle, fuh how long you going?’

‘Six days, there and back, if all goes to plan.’ She waits, her long fingers tapping at her hip.

‘Alright. I’m yours, mam. When d’we go? Can I get some of that barta now?’

She reaches down and I let her pull me to my feet. I grin, to show I’ve got most of me teeth. She starts to walk off, a hand waving to draw me after her. ‘Come on. I’ll feed you first and clad your little bones.’

‘Outta my barta?’

‘Out of mine, kid.’

Joyous! That’s what I wanted to hear.

I beg in the mark, making a crust every other day. The tatty stands are bunched up on the gravel, snugged in the curve of the river. The water goes by sluggily, brown on cloudy days and pale steel under blue sky. There’s a stunt-willow ‘cross the water, like a bent woman with her hair in the shallows. Beyond that are the tumbledowns, and they go as far as looking goes, until they smudge at skysmeet.

They’re empty, the tumbledowns. I tell the woman this, while she hands over good barta to get me garbed, pig leather and dog leather and good shoes. The tumbledowns on this side of the river are lived in, roofed over with sheeting. Bricks hold warmth better than cracked boards.

‘Where’s the furthest out from here you’ve been?’ she asks. I slurp down brown stew, panting and puffing to cool my mouth between sucks.

‘’cross the river?’ She shrugs, I go on. ‘Well, I never gone out of sight of home, not ‘cross the river. There’s nothing to be found in them tumbledowns. And the jungle is that way. I’ve done miles the other way. West. There’s country, some woods, then more tumbledowns for a way, then country for as far as looking goes.’

She nods, gesturing for Gordy to fill me bowl again. He scowls at me. I grin back. Gordy don’t like me, but I don’t hold him hatred; I wouldn’t like me neither, if I was Gordy.

We’re walking East, toward the river when she sez, ‘How many people live here, kid?’

‘Oakpark used to be bigger.’ I gesture around me, big hand sweep. ‘Twice as big, mebbe.’


I nod. ‘That and raids. Big one three years ago. Big black chief and his gang from over Lagrange way, took slaves, gals and women, killed thirty odd men, most slow-dead from hurts, but still.
She frowns, stopping short of the slat bridge over the water. ‘That sounds like Jaims Williams. Did they have horses?’

‘Yup. Don’t know the name though, mam.’

‘Did they have a tag?’ She started us walking again, slow over the bridge.

‘Yeah, their tag was a wheel. Rubber wheel, with a spear through it.’

‘Then it was Williams. I ran in to him before he came East. I Kept my ear out for news about him, after that.’

‘His gang likely to come Oakpark again?’ I sez, nervy. I bin matterafact about the killing and the slaving, but I think I only got left alone back then cos I was little. Mebbe cos I’m brownskin, and the chief weren’t pink either, so I got lucky. I dunno.

‘No, Jaims Williams is dead. The Wheelers are broken up, some dead, some split.’ She said it like it was no big news. Big news for me though, big for Oakpark.

‘Fuckyes! Joyous!’ I grin, all teeth. Never been so happy to hear of a death.

‘Don’t be so cheered,’ the woman sez. ‘When a monster dies, it pays to know how.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the Wheelers didn’t get sick, and Jaims Williams didn’t fall off his horse. They were beaten and broken up.’

‘By another monster,’ I worked it, sudden. She smirks, pleased.

‘You are witted after all. Yes. Somebody beat the first monster, and they did it by being cleverer, or stronger, or fiercer. Better.’

‘I ain’t cheered now, mam.’ I sound it bright, but truth is I’m fearing now.

‘Good.’ She looks down at me, wind whipping her ropey hair. We both look back at Oakpark, before the rubble and the tumbledowns around us get in the way of that view.

‘Don’t be cheered, be sharp. We’re going into the jungle.’

I turn and look that way. The sky is coming down, black and glossy and heavy. Sunlight slides underneath them clouds, lighting the land up all yellow, all the way to a distant silver mirror on the skysmeet. But the light doesn’t properly catch on the great, heaping, snaggletooth smudge that gets in the way of it.

She puts a hand on me shoulder, shoves me on. ‘Long way yet to go, kid.’

The Chicago jungle makes me shudder, but still I put foot in front of foot, and off we go.
Broken Jungle
Just a bit of fun with post-apocalyptica.

May expand on it, if the mood takes. I'm thinking I could get a long short-story out of this.
Mature Content Filter is On
(Contains: violence/gore)
West coast of the Skalderlund –
Skibergekop docks

Emme walked high above the rocks and the foaming water. The sun was setting beyond the ragged arms of the bay, turning the sea orange and iron. Dwarf pines clung to the rocks of the mountain, high above Emme’s head, their branches atremble in the wind.

At last the path turned inland again, switching back on itself many times, dropping to the sheltered inlet where ships docked. Emme could see her house from where she stood. She could also see the squat block of a tower, the kop that guarded Skibergekop, sitting across the harbour.

The cliff path was an unnecessary and dangerous detour, but it meant that nobody could see her coming and going, or ask about the tears in her eyes.

Now it was time to face what was coming. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned off the path into a thin belt of firs. A few moments later she found the rock face of the crag and the clearing where her elders were already waiting, talking in hushed voices despite the screen of trees and the distance to the kop. Emme’s father saw her at once and met her eyes, smiling slightly despite the sadness in his gaze.

‘Emme!’ Riun Eswelt stood and greeted her, ‘we’ve been waiting for you. Come, come, sit by your father.’

Emme sat on the halved log next to her father. He reached down and gave her hand a quick squeeze. Riun looked around the small group. His smile faded as he began to speak.

‘Gertha Ramusdatte would have liked to have been here tonight but she is grieving. Her son, Ramus, has been sent to the Morskyde Isle.’

There was a collective noise of sympathy. Emme glanced at her father but said nothing. Riun’s fists clenched as he went on. ‘They’ve taken all our sons to dig the black fire. How many come back from the isle? Ramus was fourteen. A few months your senior, Emme. They have not yet resorted to sending daughters, but what if they do? What if the Damskalde finds tomorrow that not enough of the cursed stuff is making its way to the Stonewood? What if our wives are made to join the dockhands, putting black fire in jars, feeling the years shorten in their veins?’

Emme winced. Riun noticed and calmed himself. ‘We can only plot for so long. Jorve Damskalde’s army needs changesmiths. Changesmiths need morskyde to work their craft. Without the black fire and those that can work it, how would Jorve keep his headmen in line? How would he take the warm northland away from the Owerisi?

‘I say we can only plan for so long. The King is sending his Harthers and his soldiers north. The roads have never been so empty between here and Stone-Storharthen. So we take action.’

Riun sat down. Karla Birksdatte stood to speak, the grey tresses of her hair seeming silver in the failing light. ‘Riun, we all agree, I think. But we’ve talked of assassins this and assassins that for years, my dear, since we started these meetings. Who can do what needs to be done? No one has ever come close to killing Damskalde.’

‘They say he wears a morskyde charm that makes him immortal,’ Riun said.

Karla dismissed the idea. ‘Shit that may be and shit I believe it is, but to kill the King – it is an asking that puts life in the balance. We have no lives to spare.’

‘We have no lives at all.’ Anvar stood up. He caught his daughter’s eye and Emme looked away. ‘Myself least of all. I am dying. I will be dead before winter.’

‘Anvar...!’ Karla raised a hand to her mouth. Riun half rose from his seat. Elga Helmswife looked from Anvar to Emme and back, her eyes bright with emotion.

‘I knew. He told me,’ Emme said, to their gazes away. She did not want to be hugged or comforted. She could meet her father’s eyes, that was all. He looked on her with pride and nodded. She nodded back, the slightest movement.

‘I would go.’ Anvar continued. ‘No risk to my life matters. But I cannot kill the Damskalde. I will weaken too soon. The task will take time, time I do not have. But...Emme...Emme has time. Soon she will have no father, no shelter, nothing but time.’

The shock this statement brought was greater still than the last. ‘She’s a child!’ Karla protested.

‘No shelter? We would... of course we would take her,’ Elga spoke across the older woman, ‘Helm and myself, how could we not?’

‘She is not a child.’ Anvar looked weak. Emme did not want to believe it but she could see it now, in his bent posture. He seemed tired and her heart ached for him. ‘She has had her first red month. She is a woman...’

‘A maid!’ Karla’s grey hair came loose of her tresses as she shook with emotion, though Emme could not see if it was more anger or sorrow that moved her. ‘She is not an assassin!’

‘Neither is my father. Do you know an assassin we could ask?’ Emme found herself speaking. ‘Father would be asked questions – Riun the same, and he would be missed, reported. I can disappear. Maidens are sent off for marriage often enough. Our hut belongs to the kop and when father... when father dies...’ Emme began to struggle. Unborn tears hurt her eyes. She blinked and carried on. ‘When father dies, I will lose him and the hut both.

‘Elga, thank you. But you can’t feed me as well as yourselves. If Headman Ochse finds you harbouring me... orphaned boys go to the ships and orphaned girls to the kop. I do not want to slave, in a kitchen or a bed!’

‘But sweetheart...’ Elga put out a hand as if to reach Emme that way, ‘how can you think... to kill a man... a king!’

‘I will attract fewer eyes. Fewer questions,’ Emme insisted. Anvar nodded, his eyes glistening. Elga shook her head but said nothing more. Anvar put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and smiled down at her.

‘Emme is right. I have spoken to Rerrik, on the docks. He is bound for Morskyde Isle, then Hvaldrekop, where he goes inland. He will get to Stone-Storharthen, this year or the next. Rerrik has been breaking king’s-law longer than we, and he will know a way. He will bring the tools to Emme and Emme will do it, if she can.’

‘If she’s caught, they will kill her,’ Riun said bluntly. ‘Worse than that, most like. Torment. Rape.’

‘You’ll not scare me.’ Emme looked him in the eye. She was barely fourteen, but he couldn’t meet the fierceness in her. ‘I will face that anyway and you know it. Ochse is a cruel headman.’

‘There is no safety for a maid in the kop,’ Karla conceded.

‘It is settled.’ Anvar stood behind Emme, his hands protective on her shoulders. ‘Before I begin to waste away, she will take the Stonewood road. This week. I do not want her memory of me lessened by... the way I will become. She goes this week. To the Stonewood and the citadel.’

Emme steeled herself, but the elders raised no protest. She was going to Stone-Storharthen.
And that free sample can be found here:…

I hope you enjoy!

Get hold of me on here, or email me at

I'm also on facebook.

And my very own website is here:

All the best, power to your art.

camar yo adh

  • Mood: Zeal
  • Listening to: The Wave Pictures - City Forgiveness
  • Reading: Mistborn
  • Watching: Penny Dreadful
  • Playing: Tomb Raider
  • Eating: Chicken, bacon, chillies and pineapple pizza
  • Drinking: Pepsi

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Carryn Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hey, Michael, what a small world!  I didn't know you were on Deviant.  This is Kandi Wyatt from Booktrope!  I'm not keeping up with Deviant as much just due to life and I seem to be able to keep track of one social media at a time, but I thought I'd drop by and say hi. 
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2015  Professional Writer
Hi! Nice to meet you in this form! Yeah, I have a set of tabs that are always open and I try to run through them methodically, but dA is sadly often last on the list. Twitter is demanding! I'm trying to maintain a basic presence at least on deviantArt, as it was so formative for me.
ChimeraDragonfang Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2014
Birthday cake  icon 
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! :D
PaintedWolff Featured By Owner Apr 16, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Wow I love your writing, it's much more... real, I guess (sorry, I'm bad at describing things)
Especially Skin Deep; you kept me reading, the story was fanastc. My writing's to dark  XD
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 21, 2014  Professional Writer
Cool, I'll check yours out when I get a chance!

Thank you very much!
kadarian Featured By Owner Apr 4, 2013
Featured here: [link]
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 7, 2013  Professional Writer
Thank you! I'm honoured.
I will be following your blog!
I hope Gravedigger satisfies your appetite for gore and excitement.

I'm on Facebook:

Please stay in touch, and once again, thank you.
Delorean7 Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2012
Happy Birthday!!!
As a small present, here's a link to a great song: [link]
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