Fiction Friday: Danielle Ackley-McPhail and Day Al-Mohamed’s Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn

At Speculative Chic, we feature a lot of authors who share everything from their favorite things to the inspiration for their work. But why not also share their fiction? Welcome to Fiction Friday, where you’ll be able to sample the fiction of a variety of authors, including those who write at Speculative Chic! Today, we’re treating you to a sampling Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn: A Steampunk Faerie Tale, co-written by Danielle Ackley-McPhail and Day Al-Mohamed, which was released from eSpec books back in April!

---

About the Book

Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn: A Steampunk Faerie Tale (2020)
Written by: Danielle Ackley-McPhail and Day Al-Mohamed
Genre: Steampunk/Fairy Tale
Pages: 256
Publisher: Paper Phoenix Press

Come, Best Beloved, and sit you by my feet. I shall tell you a tale such as sister Scheherazade could have scarce imagined…

In the Nejd there is nothing at all…except secrets. A band of thieves wishes such secrets to remain hidden.

In England, far from his desert home, Ali bin-Massoud serves as apprentice to the famed Charles Babbage. One night a mysterious box is delivered by a clockwork falcon and Ali’s world is never the same again. Heartache, danger, and thieves mark his journey as Ali is summoned home at the death of his father.

It will take faith, knowledge, and yes, love to realize his destiny, and more than a little skill with steam-driven technology. Can he unravel the mystery of the puzzle box and the clockwork djinn before it is too late? An ancient legacy and Ali’s very life depend on his success.

Hear you the tale of Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn.

Currently Available from: Amazon || Barnes & Noble || IndieBound

---

Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn: A Steampunk Faerie Tale Excerpt

Ali bin-Massoud made his way down Dorset Street at a brisk pace, hunching his shoulders against the damp chill that clung thick upon his person. Though he was but eighteen years of age, on days like this his bones ached as if he carried three times the number of years. His woolen white thobe and the darker besht robe he wore over it protected him from the worst of the weather, as did the chafiye wrapped about his head, but they also marked him as an outsider. Many days, his choice to wear traditional garb made things more difficult for him than the weather itself. In the three years since he had come to England, Ali could have chosen to adopt this foreign land’s manner of dress but he was not willing to forgo any remaining shred of the culture he still cleaved to in this wet and foggy place. His body longed for the dry heat of the desert. His soul ached for home and his family…especially his father.

Ali missed his wisdom and patience. And on days like today, even a small word or look of encouragement would have lifted his spirits as a ray of sunshine cutting through the unfriendly English skies.

Ali shivered as the late-spring drizzle pelted his skin. He held the package of instruments he had fetched from the blacksmith for his teacher tight against his chest. Around him loomed the buildings that edged the street their brick facades staring at him. Ali felt crowded and smothered. It was so different from the open desert that surrounded his home in Wadi Al-Nejd. Lengthening his stride and keeping his head down, he hurried toward his temporary home, eager for the shelter it offered. His professor would no doubt have a warm fire and hot tea waiting.

Ali tensed as the swift two-step clop of hard-soled shoes approached behind him.

“My word! Two in one day. It is a veritable infestation,” the stranger muttered. “Out of my way, golliwog.”

The man shoved past him. Ali’s feet slipped off the edge of the wooden walk. He fell toward the cobbles and into the street. Pain shot up his leg as his knee struck the hard stone. Angry yells and the clamor of hooves and wheels shattered the quiet calm of Dorset Street. Mud splattered his besht and covered his one hand where he had tried to catch himself. With his free hand, Ali clutched his package more tightly and whispered a prayer to the Almighty. He scrambled to the safety of the walkway, his body trembling as the carriage raced by without even slowing, the driver yelling maledictions as he passed. Ali’s cheeks burned at the stares of those few people on the street.

With quiet dignity he shoved down his anger and continued on his way. Pride forced him to take slow, normal steps, though bolts of pain from his knee coursed through him with each stride. Ali could do nothing else; any response or complaint would be twisted and misconstrued. He had seen this too often. He had even experienced it once or twice, especially when he had first arrived. Throwing angry words and even fists accomplished nothing.  Three years had passed and now Ali refused to let his honor, nor that of his teacher and his family be sullied, though the injustice burned him like the noonday sands.

He understood that his father had sent him to this cold place out of a desire for a better life for his second son than he would find in his brother Kassim’s shadow. But the well-meaning exile…apprenticeship, Ali corrected himself, weighed heavily on his soul.

His feet longed for the shift of desert sands beneath them. His skin ached for the hot rays of a brilliant sun. His heart cried out for people who would accept him as he was and not give him baleful looks for skin that was more brown than pale. But more than anything else, he longed for his family. Neither he nor his father had realized how ill-received he would be by the English artificers and engineers, unable even to enroll at University despite a sharp mind, innate talent with mechanical things, and his father’s deep pockets. If not for the famed artificer Charles Babbage accepting him personally as an apprentice—an offer made out of gratitude for a past kindness…and perhaps a more recent exchange of coin—Ali would have found his time in England unbearable. The Almighty be praised, his situation was not so. Ali murmured the quick benediction. A gratitude to protect against evil.

The hours spent studying with Babbage filled Ali’s mind with wonder and his heart with joy. Like all artificer’s, the man’s mind was a puzzle of machines and engineering and designs that, when they were safely ensconced in the workshop, made Ali desire only to sit at his teacher’s workbench and create with him. Such knowledge more than made his venture to this land of the English worthwhile.

Today they were to experiment with a new variation on a “difference engine.” Ali’s heartbeat sped up and a faint smile appeared at his lips. The machine was complex, its problems daunting and Ali loved every minute. His steps sped up at the thought.

Finally, he reached the wrought-iron fence surrounding One Dorset Street. As Ali passed through the gate, his shoulders relaxed. His head rose, and his chest loosened enough for him to draw a more comfortable breath. Before he could knock, Babbage himself opened the door, his forehead creased and his brow heavy as he scowled. His gaze took in the limp and the torn and dirtied state of Ali’s clothing.

Babbage’s lips pressed tight. “Again?” He glared down the street; first one way, and then the other.

“I am fine, Ustad.”—Honored teacher. “The Almighty’s blessing upon your household,” Ali said in English. His words were clear and unaccented. He and his brother Kassim had learned the language, as well as many others, at a young age, through their merchant father’s tutoring. Ali handed his teacher the package he carried, along with a letter he’d collected from the postmaster. Babbage’s scowl deepened as he read the sender’s name: The Honorable Lady Chadsworth. He humphed as he slipped the envelope into his coat, then turned to stride down the hall.

“Well, come on in then,” Babbage said over his shoulder.

Ali followed, slowly, careful of his aching leg. No doubt he would awaken with significant bruises in the morning. Despite this, his fingers clenched as if already a spanner weighed upon his palm, all memories of his encounter temporarily forgotten.

Babbage waved toward the stairs. “Why don’t you take a minute to wash up?”

Ali glanced down at himself, his cheeks flaming in shame at his disarray. He bowed quickly before hurrying to the scullery that held the house’s single pump for fresh water. Collecting a pitcher, Ali carefully filled it and made his way upstairs to the attic chamber granted him as a part of his apprenticeship, along with meals.

Once in his room, Ali removed his clothing and made his ablutions. He winced as he gently dabbed at his throbbing knee with a damp washcloth. It was swollen, the skin scraped and oozing blood. Each step up the stairs had been painful, but the injury was not serious. Ali changed to a clean thobe. Eagerness to return downstairs to begin his lesson spurred his pace.

Babbage waited impatiently beside the door at the back of the house, his tall, lanky form tense. Without a word, they stepped out under the covered walkway that led to the workshop, a two-storey affair that seemed a palace in itself compared to how most people in Ali’s home city of Wadi Al-Nejd lived. As they entered the workshop, Ali moved to the coldbox in the corner, where they kept items for quick meals. He took out a small pitcher and poured milk into the bowl he’d reserved for the household’s brownies. He had learned of the English’s magical faeries in a book he’d found in the library. It had comforted him to discover that this soot-grey city, in some small way, echoed the magic of his far-off homeland. Being conversant with tales of the fickle, and at times, malevolent ways of magical creatures, even foreign ones, Ali made certain to ensure these were kept happy.

As he placed the saucer just outside the workshop door Ali sensed Babbage’s disapproval. He grinned up at his teacher, knowing the complaint. After three years of this ritual, it no longer needed to be voiced—science versus poppycock and ignorant, savage superstition. Yet his teacher never stayed Ali’s hand, his tolerance was good-natured though his manner remained gruff. Ali had to admit he had yet to see a being that resembled the images from the book, but set out his saucer all the same. Faith required belief, not proof.

His task complete, Ali rolled up his sleeves in preparation for work. His gaze went to the roof, constructed from sheets of clear glass. The rain tapped against them in a steady patter. Soft light bathed the chamber, but the hour grew late. They would need lanterns to see their work.

Ali sighed, not overly fond of the paraffin lanterns. He missed the fragrant lamp oils of his homeland. English paraffin stank and smoked. Straightening his shoulders and shrugging off his distaste, he circled the room, using lucifer matches to light the many lanterns until the workspace fairly glowed. Once he completed the task, he joined his teacher at the workbench where Babbage had already opened the package of custom-made tools Ali had been sent to collect. They were truly things of beauty, not just tools for efficiency. Wood handles, with cold steel working parts—a mainspring tightener, a brand-new indicator, a set of collets, indexible turrets, and an oddly shaped ratchet. Ali recognized Babbage’s own designs among the more standard implements. While many were familiar, several were not. No doubt, he would learn the purpose of the others as they proceeded.

They worked for hours, constructing first paper, then wooden templates from Babbage’s notes and assembling them, working out the calculations precisely. That was where Ali excelled, in the implementation of Babbage’s designs. Taking something from the theoretical and making it real. Ali felt a small bubble of pride as they tested elements of the machine. He longed to take up the new tools and construct the whole of this difference engine, but that was forbidden him for now, though an entire clean-room remained sealed at the back of the workshop, eternally waiting for the master’s “grand invention”. Even dust was not allowed entry.

In his secret thoughts, Ali feared his teacher would never venture forward, would never take the steps to realize his dream, his spirit broken by an earlier failure many years before, the specifics of which were never discussed.

Ali sought to become a master artificer. And there was yet much for him to learn of theory, mathematics, and engineering through the smaller efforts completed under his teacher’s tutelage. This is what Ali’s father wanted for him. The skill of the artificer, the knowledge of the scholar, the vision of the inventor; and tools with which he could build a future outside of the family business. A business that would be his brother’s inheritance. As the younger son, it was necessary that Ali seek his own destiny. On his own, Ali would have become little more than a machinist or tinkerer. Blessed with this opportunity to work with Ustad Babbage, Ali had the chance to achieve the dream his father held for him, which, in his heart of hearts, Ali also wished for himself.

Content, he settled into his work, pausing only for his evening prayers. Other than Babbage’s instructions, neither of them spoke. Just as well, Ali found it hard to breathe, let alone talk; the fumes from the lamps and their work made the air heavy. The third time Ali strangled a cough, Babbage ordered him to open the “damnable” window. The air outside was scarcely any better, but at least the evening breeze and the damp from the recent rain freshened the stifling room.

After several hours, they stopped for a bit of bread and tea, Ali preparing the blend his father regularly sent him from his far desert country. Happily, Ali’s teacher was quite taken with the full-bodied flavor of Indian First Leaf and so the evening break was a time of comfort and peace in their day. To make it doubly pleasurable, during that time, Ali usually asked questions about mathematics and philosophy. Babbage spoke broadly about the theoretical underpinnings that every artificer needed to know. Time flew quickly and soon they returned to the workbench, ready to toil well into the night.

Before they could take up their tools, something clattered on the windowsill. As one, Ali and Babbage turned to behold a fantastic sight. Perched upon the sill was a falcon. Not one of the small English kestrels. This creature rivaled the majestic raptors of Ali’s desert home.

Head tilting for a better view, Ali stepped forward. The movement took him out of the path of the light, allowing the warm glow of the lamps to fall full upon the form in the open window. Gem-bright eyes flashed at him from a sculpted avian face. Drawing a sharp breath, Ali stopped still.

“How extraordinary,” Babbage murmured softly. Silently, Ali agreed.

Other than its form, this bird had no foundation in nature. Both “feathers” and “flesh” were purely mechanical, finely wrought from the most delicate of clockwork and hammered metal. Ali noticed a series of gears beneath the wings. They moved both seamlessly and silently. Feathers of fitted bronze, copper, and tin in their natural colors, undimmed, fluttered flat against its back with faint clicks. Ali longed to examine the inner workings.

Both he and Babbage stepped closer. But as a shape moves, so does its shadow; their own reached out to the marvel before them. The construct gave a sudden cry at their motion and hunched upon its clawed feet, wings sweeping out and upward until they stretched wide into the room.

“Allah, protect us!” Well aware of the damage that could be delivered by the claws and beaks of hunting falcons, Ali stepped in front of his teacher, waving his arms and shouting in Arabic. Behind him, Babbage swore and picked up what sounded like a heavy lever from a pullback motor. But the bird did not strike.

The falcon flapped its wings showing off the tiny myriad gears. It screeched a high piercing call, repeating it once, twice, three times.

Ali paused, peering past his arms. That wasn’t the sound an impending attack. The falcon gazed back at him. It blinked, repeated the once more and then launched skyward, disappearing into the night, further establishing its unnatural state. The sill bore deep gouges in the wood and an ornate bronze puzzle box remained where the falcon had lit.

The air grew still as neither of them moved. A frown puckered Ali’s brow as he turned his gaze to his teacher. Babbage merely stood there, rigid, his features pale. He gripped the lever so tightly that his hand shook.

“You’ve seen it before?” Ali wasn’t sure if his sentence was a statement or a question.

His teacher swallowed hard, as if forcing something bitter past his throat.

“Fetch it, lad.” Despite his lack of tone, the words carried an air of foreboding.

Ali’s jaw tensed at the diminutive form of address used by the older man. In light of the earlier encounter on the street, Ali had to remind himself there was no malice in Ustad Babbage. The man had the habit of calling any man younger than he, ‘lad.’ However, his clear refusal to answer Ali’s question indicated something else was troubling him.

Ali moved forward, careful step by careful step, though the raptor had already flown away. For a moment, he thought he saw something move in the darkness beyond the window, but could not be certain. Recalling the bird’s razor-like claws, Ali’s hands clenched into fists. He shook them loose, then reached for the box with one hand as he closed the window with the other. Turning toward the nearest lamp, he brought up his right hand to trace the engraving: his name, scribed in his own language, with a flourish that seemed familiar. Surrounding his name, intricate scrollwork ran from the edges of the top of the box, and down each side. His vision blurred as he stared down at the marks, as if the design rejected his gaze. Ali shook off such foolish thoughts. Surely the oily lamp fumes had addled his brain.

“Ustad Babbage…?” Ali didn’t understand the significance of the box but perhaps his teacher would. “You’ve seen it before?” Ali repeated the question, this time more insistently.

Ali held the puzzle box out toward Babbage. The mechanical bird had come to his home, left the box on his sill. All Ali had done was retrieve it. The lighting dimmed, or perhaps just his vision, and the room shivered.

Babbage’s eyes dropped to the box and then lifted back to Ali before sliding away, avoiding Ali’s questioning gaze. His lips drew down at the corners. “I would say we are done for the evening, lad. Go on to bed.”

Ali tapped the puzzle box.

“Take it with you. It is clear whom it is meant for.”

“But…this…” Ali fumbled over the English words. His mind raced and he couldn’t translate his jumbled thoughts or emotions quickly.

Babbage met Ali’s gaze and held it. “That is your name engraved on the box. We can both see that, and no creature, neither mechanical, nor natural, could have found this place, could have found you by accident. Do you understand Ali bin-Massoud?” This was the first time Babbage had used his full name.

Before Ali could inquire further, Babbage turned away, discouraging any further conversation as he set about tidying the workbench and extinguishing the lamps. “I will finish cleaning up here, alone. Goodnight, Ali.”

“Of course. Thank you, Ustad Babbage.” Ali said softly pocketing the cube. Something had come between them and he didn’t understand what, nor why.

Ali left the workshop, noting in passing that his offering of milk had been consumed. Any other night he would have searched the foliage for the brownies. Tonight, remembering the flutter of movement he saw outside the window, Ali hurried back to the house. Feeling his way in the dark, he lit a tallow candle at the banked coals in the kitchen hearth and made his way to his room. Setting his candle on the shelf just inside the door, Ali sat upon his bed and stared at the strange box. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and cedar. Awakened by the familiar scent, a fierce longing for his father reared up in Ali’s heart. His father had a fondness for such puzzles, though no skill in solving them.

Growing up, Ali had received many puzzle boxes and other mechanical devices as gifts after a trade journey. Most of them he’d disassembled in an effort to discover the secret of their workings. He’d rebuilt each one, though never quite the same as they’d been given to him. The memories of the first time his father brought him a puzzle box rose up, bittersweet.

***

“My son, I have something for you.” 

Ali barely registered the words, so tightly were his arms wrapped around his father’s waist. This trade journey had taken months and months. Father had never been away for so long before and Ali had missed him terribly. 

“Ali?”

He looked up to meet his father’s gaze, which fairly danced with excitement.

Ali wiped his face with his sleeve, letting his father’s enthusiasm wash over him. “Thank you, Father. May I see?”

With a flourish, his father pulled out a small box made of wood. 

“It is called a Himitsu-Bako, a secret box.”

Ali’s eyes widened at the geometric patterns crafted through the use of a variety of different woods. His fingers gently roved over the box. He could barely feel where the pieces met.

“How beautiful! I promise, I shall tell no one!”

His father laughed, a deep rumbling sound. Ali laughed with him, though he knew not why. “The box isn’t a secret,” his father said. “It holds a secret.”

Then he crouched down, one arm draping Ali’s shoulder, the other pointing at one of the shapes making up the design; a small triangle smoother than the rest. Ali peered closer. He ran a finger over the spot and drew a sharp breath as a faint click sounded and the triangle sank inward. Ali brought both hands up to grip the box, his fingers tracing each pattern, pressing the shapes until another clicked, this one rising up. A smile blossomed across his face as he looked up at his father, who grinned back. 

Awed, Ali whispered, “What is the secret?” 

“You shall have to open the box to find out.”

“How?”

“You must discover the answer. You can slide and move the different pieces and push various parts of the surface of the box. But there is a trick. You must discover the correct order to allow the box to open. Without the correct sequence, it will remain a…” His father’s voice trailed off as he looked at Ali expectantly.

“Secret!”

His father ruffled his hair. “You’re a good son, and Allah has graced you with intelligence and skill. I shall show you another secret the box holds.” He took the box from Ali’s hands and turned it over, revealing a scrolled design. He ran a finger over it and the box gave off blue and gold sparks.

Ali mouthed an “O” of wonder.

“These boxes are special. They were some of the first items to ever combine magic and mechanics. Few are blessed with the ability to understand such things, let alone make them.” Ali saw a shadow of melancholy move across his father’s eyes as he flicked his fingers, following another pattern. This time, the design on the box glowed a deep purple before fading back to its original wood hue. His father gravely handed the box to Ali, who stood even more in awe at his gift. “Do you think you can figure it out?”

Ali nodded his head vigorously, his chest swelling at the pride in his father’s gaze.

Ali toyed with the box, sliding wood section back and forth, “Did you bring one for Kassim?”His gaze focused on the magic sparks that rose from the movement.

It was a long minute before his father answered. So long that Ali paused in his play.

His father smiled and ruffled Ali’s hair again. Only this time the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Ali, my darling boy. You know your brother doesn’t care for puzzles.”

***

It had taken him six months to figure out the thirty-three steps to open that first box. He delighted in each magical response nearly as much as he had in solving the puzzle. Inside had nestled a silver coin. The money allowed him to buy his friends candied dates in the market, which was nice, but Ali saw the box itself as the greater treasure. The engineering was beautiful. Complex. It woke a thirst for knowledge in his soul.

Ali had loved Himitsu-Bako ever since. They became a special joy that balanced the heartache of his father’s many absences. On his return from each trade journey his father added yet another box to Ali’s collection, each one more challenging than the last.

Ali had been careful to hide them from Kassim. His brother had smashed that very first Himitsu-Bako. It had been in the middle of a fight. Ali couldn’t even recall what the fight had been about , but Ali learned his lesson well. While his brother’s actions saddened him, in a way it made the boxes even more special, to be enjoyed only in secret. The only thing that meant more to him than solving the puzzles was sharing what he discovered with his father.

Ali sighed, a long exhalation of air, filling the silence of his room.

He could not say when, or if, he would have a chance to share this Himitsu-Bako with his father. It was unlikely Ali would return home anytime soon. He turned the box over and over in his hands, focusing on the puzzle in an effort to push the homesickness aside. He examined every side but his eyes blurred and itched, causing the scrollwork to shift and bend in an odd manner. Was magic at work? It seemed the plates that formed the box were tight-fitted and flush to one another. There had to be some way to shift one of them, to allow the others to move, but he’d yet to discover the secret. He searched for some subtle marker to tell him the starting point, but even touch revealed nothing. Other than his name, he spied indents on two sides and an engraving upon the bottom, delicate and easy to overlook, segmented like a mosaic by the intersecting lines of scrollwork, but he could not be sure. He feared his vision sought to trick him.

He ran a finger over the lines seeking the fine indentations he was not altogether certain were there. His skin tingled, then burned. Ali jerked his hand away when the box began to glow as if afire. Sparks trailed like falling embers from his skin only to vanish in the air. He blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut tight, certain he imagined what they told him. The pattern…the sparks…Allah have mercy, everything he’d seen this night from the moment the clockwork falcon appeared in the window, seemed to him the product of a fever dream, or far-flung sorcery from his homeland, because surely such things were not possible here. The English had long forgotten the ways of magic, as evidenced by Babbage’s own disdain for providing sustenance to the house brownies.

Ali dropped the box on his bed. He opened his eyes, letting only his gaze touch the object, his mouth moving soundlessly in a prayer for protection. What magic is this? The scrollwork had vanished leaving smooth sides, the interlocking plates marked only by his name and an engraving on the base. Ali knelt beside the bed, bringing his eyes level with the box as he peered closer. His injured knee ached at the motion but Ali barely noticed as he examined the etching: a lion before a radiant sun, one paw raised as the plume of its tail lashed the air. He frowned. It was a symbol of Persia. Ali recognized it from the carving on his grandfather’s staff, which Ali’s father had given to him when he left for England. Ali was sure of it, but this image was different. Balanced on the lion’s paw—which should have clutched a sword—the engraver had scribed a different mark, one that looked similar to a spanner. He briefly considered pulling the staff from its place under the bed but found that he was far more intrigued by the mysterious symbol.

He gave in to the impulse to touch, running his index finger over the etching. The metal blazed and the air itself grew hot. Ali yelped and jerked his finger away. His bedclothes began to smolder. Turning swiftly Ali grabbed the pitcher of water from earlier in the evening and poured the remains onto his scorching bedclothes. The Himitsu-Baku hissed and smoked in response. This box would punish the user for any errors made in physically attempting to solve the puzzle and open it.

A sound escaped the Himitsu-Baku, a word spoken in a long angry mechanical hiss, and then it went dark. Scrollwork crept back over the box, obscuring the marks once more.

Dropping to the floor, head bowed toward the Holy City of Mecca, Ali’s prayers were no longer silent, tumbling from his lips in frantic pleas for deliverance. The sound that had come from the puzzle box was a name, his own. Ali prayed without ceasing, long into the night.

---

About the Authors

Award-winning author and editor Danielle Ackley-McPhail has worked both sides of the publishing industry for longer than she cares to admit. In 2014 she joined forces with husband Mike McPhail and friend Greg Schauer to form her own publishing house, eSpec Books.

Her published works include six novels, Yesterday’s Dreams, Tomorrow’s Memories, Today’s Promise, The Halfling’s Court, The Redcaps’ Queen, and Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn, written with Day Al-Mohamed. She is also the author of the solo collections Eternal Wanderings, A Legacy of Stars, Consigned to the Sea, Flash in the Can, Transcendence, Between Darkness and Light, and the non-fiction writers’ guide, The Literary Handyman, and is the senior editor of the Bad-Ass Faeries anthology series, Gaslight & Grimm, Side of Good/Side of Evil, After Punk, and Footprints in the Stars. Her short stories are included in numerous other anthologies and collections.

In addition to her literary acclaim, she crafts and sells original costume horns under the moniker The Hornie Lady Custom Costume Horns, and homemade flavor-infused candied ginger under the brand of Ginger KICK! at literary conventions, on commission, and wholesale.

Danielle lives in New Jersey with husband and fellow writer, Mike McPhail and two extremely spoiled cats.

To learn more about her work, visit www.sidhenadaire.com or www.especbooks.com

---

Day Al-Mohamed is an author, award-winning filmmaker, and disability policy strategist. She is co-author of the novel Baba Ali and the Clockwork Djinn, to be re-released in April 2020, is a regular host on Idobi Radio’s Geek Girl Riot with an audience of more than 80,000 listeners, and her fantasy/mystery novella, The Labyrinth’s Archivist, was published in July 2019 from Falstaff Books. Her short film, The Invalid Corps, a documentary about disabled veterans’ contributions during the Civil War, has screened at several film festivals both in the US and internationally, securing several award nominations and two wins. The documentary will have its broadcast debut later this year with Maryland Public Television.

She is a member of Women in Film and Video, a Docs in Progress Film Fellowship alumna, and a graduate of the VONA/Voices Writing Workshop. However, she is most proud of being invited to teach a workshop on storytelling at the White House in February 2016.

Day is a disability policy executive with more than fifteen years of experience. She presents often on the representation of disability in media, most recently at the American Bar Association, SXSW, and New York ComiCon. A proud member of Coast Guard Auxiliary Flotilla 24-01 (5th District Southern Region), she lives in Washington DC with her wife, N.R. Brown. She can be found online at www.DayAlMohamed.com or at @DayAlMohamed.