R.S. Bohn

small stone, day 24; Micro-fic: Telephone

2012-01-24T05:04:00.000-08:00

small stone, day 24:

now that the lilac is bare
i can see
the alien thing growing
in the middle

long and butter yellow
but bright green in the center
i know
because I cut one tentacle
with kitchen shears

*

Telephone

The fate of the saints hinges on their ability to reach God via telephone: he’s not always home. Sometimes he is, but pretends he isn’t. Some saints, such as poor Rose, call again, nine times an hour. But in the end, it rings and rings. The line goes dead. And a cool, disembodied voice says, “This number is no longer in service.” Rose chose self-immolation. She repeated the number over and over as she knelt in the flames of her own being, hoping that this time, He’d answer.

small stone, day 23

2012-01-23T06:17:00.000-08:00

small stone, day 23:

concrete steps crumble onto
winter-damp grass and base of an old
birdbath
rose canes fall away from the house
a single hip dark green hanging
over the chipped face of a dutch boy

*

Some things bring me happiness, but I can't bring myself to share them, because it feels like I will let go of my secret joy if I do so. I think of my soul as a shriveled black walnut, the inside of a golf ball, or a mouse. Everything unravels on the morning walk -- which I hoped for -- but now it hangs loose around me like cold intestines on the floor that I must drag with me everywhere I go around this house. Someday I hope to find a way to light these things on fire. I'm afraid of a fire, but I want to stand in the middle, crouch in the center, and close my eyes to the light.

Willie sings Nirvana; small stone, day 21

2012-01-21T07:44:00.000-08:00

It's so short, but I love listening to this cover of Nirvana's "Teen Spirit" by Willie Nelson:

*

small stone, day twenty-one:

bending down
after shoveling
i can hear
the hush of snow settling on
last fall's ornamental grass

*

Tonight for dinner: my homemade mac & cheese (secret: about a quarter-pound of swiss) and then oatmeal raisin cookies. If you bring wine, you're invited.

And last: Part I of JX Falber's No One Has Ever Loved Someone Saved In A Fire Burning slayed me. Slayed me. readreadread.

Library brain; small stone for day twenty

2012-01-20T06:11:00.000-08:00

This is how I picture my brain:

Via

And now, today's small stone for day twenty:

across three snow-topped garage roofs I spy

drifting puffs of wood smoke

telephone wires with squirrels

and a drooping apple tree, black spheres

yet clinging

in spite of winter

small stone, nineteen

2012-01-19T16:22:00.000-08:00

small stone, day nineteen:

postman's steps in the snow
crossed by rabbit's
lunar cavities
I'm afraid to disturb

*

We said goodbye to Josie last night. Our options had narrowed, and we have always stood by one mantra when it comes to our animals: No suffering.

Everywhere, I see her happy, bright face. Hear her light trot on the floor. She was amazing. And she is very, very missed.

small stone, day eighteen

2012-01-18T05:53:00.000-08:00

small stone, day eighteen:

cottony hiss of the humidifier
burble of the aquarium
even with the tv on
I can still hear her labored breathing

*

They say writers are leeches who excerpt everyone's grief -- even their own -- for their own devices.

I wish I had nothing to write about.

small stones, day seventeen

2012-01-17T06:25:00.000-08:00

small stones, day seventeen:

rain water pools in the dips
and cracked basins of the driveway
clear water, cold, a spa for
winter ghosts

*

Remember that you can join anytime -- even a month from now, a year. A River of Stones badge is to the right.

"The Husband" Now Up at The Corner Club Press

2012-01-16T06:10:00.000-08:00

My short story, "The Husband," is now available for reading at The Corner Club Press. Romance and spec-fic with a dash of cocker spaniel and a whiff of tobacco.

Thank you to editor Amber Forbes for accepting "The Husband" for inclusion in issue 6. Five more short stories and six poems for your reading pleasure await.

I admit that I developed a small crush on Jackson while writing him. So much for that "piece of ice in our hearts" that writers have. :)

*

Thank you to everyone for your kind words of support regarding my dog, Josie, who was diagnosed with a horrible, fast-growing cancer on Friday, had same-day emergency surgery, and who came home last night and is now recuperating. I slept on the couch -- well, slept is not a good word. Laid there and listened to her breathing is a better description.

I have hope. My last German Shepherd, Max, died of hemangiosarcoma, the same thing, but much more advanced. We caught it early enough this time. I hope. Hope hope hope.

small stone 14 buried in here somewhere...

2012-01-14T17:15:00.000-08:00

In these questionable times, there is only one sure thing: If your dog gets cancer, you cut it the motherfucking out.

This is not a method that has worked for me in the past, with three out of four dead dogs having succumbed to cancer in some form. Once tragically. Not all deaths are tragic, though many are lamented. But one, one dog's death was tragic.

But today, B's beloved Josie is recovering, a miracle -- we were just visiting her at the vet, and it seems they neglected to tell us yesterday that they all expected her to die before surgery, most assuredly during surgery if she made it that far, or sometime in the night after, if she somehow survived surgery. And she has survived! And is eating, and seeming, well, actually better than yesterday, when she was slipping away before our eyes.

I haven't cried this month since last month. And looking back, I think all that crying right before fucking Christmas was unwarranted, because losing your dog is worse than idiotic relations and the general pressure of the holidays (not a merry time of year, no matter what anyone says).

Here's the thing: I know we're not out of the woods yet. And anxiety is my bestest friend ever, so here I am babbling, because the silence in the house is making me want to scream and break things.

small stone, day fourteen:

orange cat sitting by steel bars
staring with orange eyes at dog within
i don't believe in guardian angels
i think

*

Thanks to everyone who read my interview with Richard Godwin, who left a comment, who emailed me to say uplifting things -- you guys are great. I would've liked to comment individually, so please accept my apologies, as the last three days have been a mental drain.

small stones, day 13

2012-01-13T16:56:00.000-08:00

the only black cat
is the shadow beneath all the chairs in
all the waiting rooms
that smell of disinfectant.
I know because I hung my head between my knees and
stared at all of them
today

*

Friday the thirteenth. Took my dog, Josie, to the vet because she's not been eating well for two days and she's been acting depressed. They found a mass on her spleen. Cue x-rays, ultrasounds, specialist vets, and now, at nearly eight at night, she's receiving a blood transfusion from a donor dog and preparing to go into surgery, where they might remove her spleen and its predatory mass, and they might let her go if they find more tumors than they could see on ultrasound. Neither of us said goodbye. I don't know what he said, exactly, but I said, I love you. Maybe ten times.

Now we are waiting.

Chin Wag at the Slaughterhouse-- Me and Mr. Godwin Get Up To No Good

2012-01-12T04:37:00.000-08:00

He came up to me at the bar. I was fresh out of ways to send a man back to his seat with his tail between his legs. Figured I'd go with the cold shoulder. But he caught me off guard when he said, "Can I ask you a few questions?"

I eyed him up and down. Not a cop, not with a suit like that. Not a PI, either. Besides, all my debts were paid. For the moment.

He bought me a glass of champagne. Okay, I said, ask away. But when you're done, I get to ask a few questions.

He smiled. Said, Here's your first question...

*

Turns out, the werewolf at the bar was quite the interviewer. If I lived up to my half of the bargain, well... We'll see. You be the judge.

Chin Wag at the Slaughterhouse with RS Bohn

And if that isn't enough, Sean Patrick Reardon says cool things about my work here.

A red lipsticked kiss on the cheek to both gentlemen.

ETA: Richard just posted a story called "Barbeque the Sink Beast" at Flywheel Magazine. This is not for the faint of heart... or stomach. But it's freakin' hilarious. Read if you dare here.

ETA2: Corner Club Press will be hosting my story, "The Husband," in their next issue and "Take Her By The Heel" will appear at NONTRUE in February. Okay, I'm seriously done bragging now. :)

small stone, day eleven: Why Martians?

2012-01-11T05:49:00.000-08:00

small stone, day eleven:

crusted with frost
the grass
makes each step sound
like little broken deaths

*

Don't know where that came from. I'm stuck in some kind of Martian imagery this week, and I imagined each blade of grass as a root-bound Martian, frozen by our strange weather (after all, it is red hot on their home planet), unable to move as paws and boots came down upon them.

Now I'm feeling bad for imaginary aliens!

Do you ever have moments of unexplainable anxiety? There's probably a pill for that. If I had insurance, I'd explore it. The taking of pills. As it stands, I'll try to slow my heart and remember that it's sunny out today, finally, and everything is fine. I swear.

small stone, day ten

2012-01-10T05:03:00.000-08:00

small stone, day ten:

in the red glow of the ice cream shop sign
licking rainbow sprinkles off vanilla swirl
stepping outside the fluorescence to look
up into black night
the moon huge overhead like a fat
baby
the ice cream starts to drip on my hand

*

I do so love ice cream stands open year-round in Michigan. I also loved last night's full moon. B almost drove off the road while staring at it. So close, you could almost touch it.

Reading Lauren Beuke's "Zoo City." Awesome. Not even half-finished with it, and I recommend it. Review to come soon.

small stone, day nine

2012-01-09T04:55:00.000-08:00

small stone, day nine:

Outside
the moon still hangs faint
white above peach-colored horizon
Inside
Bob pirouettes
an orange balloon
above black gravel and
unappreciative tetras

*

Ode to Bob, the amazing African parrot fish. Remember, the badge at right clicks to the welcome post for River of Stones. You can join anytime. Much like a mindfulness orgy.

There was no day eight small stone, though I stopped to be mindful. I also had the house to myself in the evening for a few hours. Lit candles. Turned iPod on shuffle. "I Still Believe" from The Lost Boys soundtrack came on -- dance party! And instant time machine, back to everything that made me who I am: The Lost Boys, Terminator, Asimov and Bradbury, Bonne Bell lip gloss and boyfriends frozen in time, still wearing black Nikes and cargo pants.

"Everything" is perhaps more inclusive than that, but that's a good start.

Feedback on "Judith of the Lions" has been *amazing.* I'm sort of blown away. And... going to try for a semi-pro market on this one. If I can figure out how to make the quotation marks "non-curly" via their instructions.

small stone day seven; book review: Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

2012-01-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

small stone, day seven:

yard swathed in black
eleven minutes before daybreak
oak tree in next yard a jutting dog bone
against a strip of deep blue sky not
night or day

*

"Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children" by Ransom Riggs was one of the most popular books of 2011 and on any number of "best of" lists.

The "Home" in question is long thought by sixteen year old Jacob to be a place entirely existing only in his grandfather's imagination. When his grandfather dies suddenly, Jacob begins a journey towards the truth--but will he believe it when he sees it? And what if that truth opens the door to something far darker and more insidious than anything he has ever known?

Filled with intriguing vintage photographs that are used in a clever way, it's unlikely you've come across anything quite like this before. Without the pictures, it's still a clever, twisting story, much in the vein of "Holes." The writing is solid and filled with bits of humor, even when things take a darker turn.

I found myself charmed, if not enthralled. I didn't realize that this was a young adult title -- duh! -- and so despite the book's many stellar qualities... it simply never fully clicked for me. I really prefer more adult lit. Having said that, if you enjoy YA and the paranormal, this one's for you. Unique and unendingly smart, with a likeable protagonist, it's no wonder it was such a favorite last year.

small stones, day six; musings on dinner and pirate name generators

2012-01-06T06:46:00.000-08:00

small stone, day six:

sun slanting through green-gray fence
to cut across crumbling concrete
onto frozen grass
coming to a stop among the scattered
seeds beneath a bird feeder
shaped like a green flying saucer

*

Would I have noticed how the sun came through the wood fence by the driveway if I wasn't doing this exercise this month?

Tonight for dinner: baked catfish and corn casserole with biscuits. And maybe cake for dessert. One of my resolutions (I hate calling them that) is to cook different things this year. Try them. Because I've grown tired of the tedious repertoire of casseroles and frozen dinners. And I can actually cook, a continued surprise after twenty years. I remember vividly burning spaghetti and eating cereal for dinner for months when I moved into my first apartment. A fried egg was beyond me, though toast was fine. And yet, I made duck with cherry sauce this past Thanksgiving. Miracle!

Writing continues. A tip: Pirate name generators suck. I know. I tried all of them yesterday.

Sincerely,

Lazy Legs McGee

(srsly????)

Beta request--the apocalypse, now with more lions!

2012-01-05T05:54:00.000-08:00

Oops -- forgot to add in my last post that I'm looking for a beta reader.

"Judith of the Lions" is 3000 words of apocalypse with a touch of bizarro. Heavy on metaphorical references. With, you've probably guessed, lions. And a special guest genre.

It is strange, and unconventional in format. Just warnin' ya.

small stone, day five

2012-01-05T05:45:00.000-08:00

small stone, day five

five minutes after waking up
breathing in steam
over amber Assam
mixed with Irish Breakfast
hands hot, holding cup
eyes closed
whole world in this tiny
kitchen

*

For a few minutes every morning, anyway, that's my world. And then cats meow, fish bang on tank to be fed, laundry stares and begs to be folded, dishes sit in the sink. Everything waits for me to do something. I can't remember a time when I didn't do something. I think it was when I was a teenager. I somehow recall entire days -- eight, nine hours at a time -- spent reading books. On the sofa. Oblivious to everything going on around. That might be a dream of adolescence, but it seems nice.

small stone, day four

2012-01-04T07:19:00.000-08:00

small stone, day four:

three day old snow on the garage roof
melting into the trough on the east side
little stone pagoda finally
peeking through in the shadows
of the fence

*

Find out about a River of Stones here, and join in!

Hm. Now that Gryff has arrived, a new small stone would be: fat cat jumps up, turning on printer, shoveling off important papers before blocking computer screen and collapsing in lap.

My sister and I are weighing plans to move our 89 year old grandfather in with one of us. It's a difficult situation, and we need to do something. If anyone has moved an elderly relative in with them, I would love to hear your experience.

small stone, day 3

2012-01-03T04:57:00.000-08:00

small stone, day 3:

dusting of snow
peppered with paw prints
that lead to
a steaming pile of rabbit poop

*

This was followed by a loud succession of "No!"s.

All right, that's all I've got for today.

small stones #1 + beer and movie review

2012-01-01T19:37:00.000-08:00

Small stone (just under the wire for day one):

dental appointment
in april
I've been waiting two months to
write it on the new calendar

*

River of stones is a month-long exercise in mindfulness. You can find out more here. If you're not a writer/poet, may I suggest you give it a go anyway? Hey, look at mine. :)

The calendar is from PETA, and January's is a big pink pig, if you were wondering.

In other news, we watched "Attack the Block" tonight. B thought it was atrocious. Truly awful. I felt it was absolutely best thing I've seen in ages, and I delighted in every bit, even the parts where people's heads got eaten off. A-. Because "Shaun of the Dead" was way better. (this is aliens, not zombies, fyi)

Also, I drank Sam Adams seasonal "champagne" beer, Infinium. Interesting. Good. Not to my tastes--too sweet, too spicy. I'm not a fan of the summer beers, for instance, but more likely to drink Octoberfest. Or anything dark, dark, dark. But again, as a dedicated beer enthusiast, I can appreciate the care that went into crafting this. It's just not for me.

Three days off = finished one short story, heavily edited, sent to reader-friend. A second nearly finished. Notes on book, though only a few, awkward paragraphs were written for that.

All in all, a lovely start to 2012. May all of you experience some loveliness in your new years, as well.

It Actually Was A Train; or Why I Should Start Paying Attention to Stuff

2011-12-25T15:47:00.000-08:00

All right, here's the truth: I have been colossally un-self-aware recently, and have managed to largely fuck up the holidays and my personal life. I'm quite stunned at myself. It's not often I screw up so many matters at once! I mean, one thing, yes, maybe something stupid, like how I left work exhausted a few weeks ago and crossed the train tracks on my way home oblivious to the fact that all the lights were flashing and the gates were coming down. I casually turned my head as I crossed and A GIANT WHITE LIGHT WAS BEARING DOWN ON ME. Although this worked better than a double espresso, I don't recommend it.

Having survived my own stupidity, I apparently decided that my physical well-being was not enough, I had to fuck up relationships and the health of others as well.

A very magnanimous angel is whispering that certain things aren't my fault, but I did set events in motion. And besides, what's a pity party without a mountain of guilt? Molehills, stinkaroony! I can't justify drinking massive amounts of cheap zinfandel if I don't feel awful about loads of things.

Here's another truth: One glass is enough. I'm drunk on two. I sometimes wonder how I can call myself a writer when I can't even get past two drinks. The number of dead writers who would shun me grows.

I said to B once: It would be easier if you loved a simple woman. Not one so fucked up.

He looked bewildered, like, Aren't all females crazy?

I've known a lot. Mostly, I would say we aren't. Crazy, that is. That our half of the species is gorgeously, supremely intelligent in ways that the other half just doesn't understand, but that luckily, they are willing to try to appreciate. But there are bad apples in every lot, and I think I'm one! At any rate, I'm a bad apple to myself.

I asked a friend a question about self-awareness recently. His answer was subtle and mind-blowing and divine. But not what I was looking for. Which was, I'm afraid: Do you think I'm really nuts?

Who knows. When you don't even know the question, then you are hopeless.

I don't have a set date for when I will start attempting to fix these problems. Or if I will. Right now, I'm stuck. And this is taking time out of my forty years of writing.

Okay, I'm officially ignoring myself for the rest of the evening and writing about pirates instead.

Etched Offerings, a Pagan Anthology, Now Available!

2011-12-17T04:32:00.001-08:00

Etched Offerings, an anthology of pagan fiction, is now out! I'm very proud to once again be working with Misanthrope Press. You can find my short story, "The Black Oak," inside:

Deep in the ancient forest, the Black Oak waits. Wren is coming, but she's not alone--her Guardian, as always, is at her side. All is not as it seems this damp, cool spring, and when the doorway is revealed and shadows lifted, Wren will find herself alone with the Mother. Will the Black Oak accept her and what she brings? Or will she the last of her line to stand in the presence of an Ancient One?

Dip your ladle into this cauldron of new fiction of, and for, the Old Ones, offered both to the gods and to you by nineteen authors, some well-known and some brand new, each with a distinct voice and style, and each with a very different story to tell. Read of ancient offerings, modern magickal crime fighters, and ordinary people finding a bit of unexpected magick in their everyday lives. The stories in this volume are as colorful and varied as the gods themselves, ranging from fantasy and horror to literary and even alternate history. There’s an offering here for every god—and every reader as well!

Etched Offerings is available as an e-book for half-price through Monday, Dec. 19! Use code ZY82C.

Microfic: The Artist; And Why I Am Sometimes Ashamed of What I Write

2011-12-14T06:58:00.000-08:00

The Artist

And now a body has been found, completing the palette. These are the colors of madness, says Inspector J. But no, he is wrong: these are the hues of things lost and found, and in the great karmic rally, something else is now lost. I, alone, understand this.

When Inspector J finds me, he will know this in his losses, tallied to equal mine.

A OneWord.

I get tired of all the serial killer fics written in first person. And yet, I write them. I sometimes feel shame in what I write, and only hope that I find some new way of relating the cliche.

Because the attempt to write something totally new, never seen before, well, that is an exercise in futility. Perhaps, in the end, one can only hope to make the old seem new again. It's not likely I will do this, but I keep making the attempt. I get the strength to continue on this odd road by thinking that I might have another forty years to get it right. Which doesn't seem like a lot, and I wish it was four hundred. If there are robots before I die, I'll give one my thought processes and program it to continue on. That's even better. It may perfect the story before it rusts. Or, given its robot brain, come up with something truly new and unique.This is even more hopeful than thinking about writing for another forty years.

If you get a robot, please do not program it to destroy my robot.

Microfic: Tea Service

2011-12-08T05:58:00.001-08:00

Tea Service

Teapots made of platinum — only the sultan could drink from them. And one of his daughters, the precious Alara.

When the sun set and the tea was served, no genie arose — by order of the sultan, no genies allowed within state limits — but Alara closed her eyes and said, “Today, beloved Father, I have married.”

And so the spectre was set free, and howling winds abraded the castle with sand, for the littlelest daughter had disobeyed. In this, revolutions rise, and hangman’s nooses never go empty.

teapot

And now back to writing. Rock gnomes smoking basalt pipes, and boscage...

Never Too Geeky for the Internet

2011-12-01T06:39:00.001-08:00

Posted on OneWord:

YOU CAN GO ANYWHERE YOU WANT TO BUT YOU’VE GOT TO KNOW WHY IS IT THAT YOU ARE GOING. YOU DONT HAVE TO HAVE A GENUINE REASON TO DO THAT

I very much want to reply with: Yes, but you do need a genuine reason for all caps.

*

Today is probably not the best day for me to be talking to strangers on the internet (really, we're all strangers to one another; also, this existentialist frame of mind is not helpful).

It may be a good day to write. Probably it's a fantastic day to go horseback riding on a snowy trail with my dogs, but I'm sans horse at the moment. I have been considering the merits of a mini donkey; mostly, they are adorable. But their rideability is a check in the negative column.

*

The other day we watched the extended version of all three Lord of the Rings movies (because 37,000 viewings is never enough), and we noticed some extra scenes. Most of these were left out of the theatrical versions for good reasons, and we have no qualms with the director's vision. HOWEVER (yes, this is a genuine reason to use caps!), the scene where the Orcs flee Helm's Deep after their defeat and go running into the woods should definitely have been left in. THERE ARE ENTS HIDING IN THE FOREST. Dudes, they stomp the orcs. It was a jump-up-on-the-couch-and-shout/fist pump moment. I mean, it's right up there with Molly Weasley hissing, "Not my daughter, BITCH!" (capslock not mine, but the original author's) and totally blasting Bellatrix into the next plane.

Also, just an aside, but my favorite scene in the films is when the elf army arrives at Helm's Deep. I get misty-eyed every time. "We are proud to fight alongside man once more."

*

If you are still reading, may I suggest Christopher Grant's Quick Fire interview over at Richard Godwin's Slaughterhouse? Pay attention to the stuff about doppelgangers and parallel planes. Deep stuff. Fascinating. Dare I say, intriguing and inspiring?

Ghost Story(?)

2011-11-30T05:45:00.001-08:00

I don't believe in ghosts. My beliefs are complicated and changing, but in general, I don't believe that disembodied spirits are hanging around our houses, trying to communicate or make us leave. This is not to say that I don't love being scared and that I wouldn't write about ghosts, just that I don't believe it. I write about god wars and dragons, too. Same thing. Anyway.

Here's the thing. Something weird happened, and I'm pretty sure I've got an answer for it, but since I am not able to collect proof, I'll just tell you about it and let you draw your own conclusions. As for me, I love thinking about it and getting that delicious thrill every once in a while.

I needed a new clock radio. No, I did not buy one that was mysteriously possessed by a demon from another plane (though my iPhone may be, I'm not real sure on that one). Sunday afternoon, I went upstairs with my new clock radio and attempted to set it. It kept blinking 12:00 at me, even though the instructions were quite clear and simple. I got frustrated and yelled for B, who was watching a movie downstairs, to come up and help me.

He paused the movie and came up, and we sat on the edge of the bed and he helpfully read the instructions to me. Our two dogs and two cats were up there as well, everyone lying about being helpful while the clock continued to blink 12:00. And then, in the silence of all that helpfulness, we heard someone say, "Hello!" from downstairs in the living room. A sort of, "Hello! Anybody home?" kind of "hello." We froze, then B jumped up and ran downstairs, grabbing a curtain rod that I've been meaning to put up on his way.

There was no one downstairs. The front door was locked, the movie paused (so it wasn't the t.v.). He went outside, but our neighborhood was quiet, no one out, not even a car going down the street. He went around the outside of the house, then checked the rooms inside, including the basement. Meanwhile, all the pets were unfazed, even though I saw one of the dog's ears go up when we heard the "hello."

I crept down the stairs, with the box for the clock radio as my weapon should there be an intruder. And then he looked at me. "You heard that, right?" I did, I said.

Freaky looks were exchanged, and then he shrugged it off, while I have continued to privately thrill. A ghost! Saying hello!

Probably not. But the neighbors on either side were gone for the weekend, so I've really got no good answer. Part of me says there is an answer, but if that answer is not the scientific one and a ghost does reside in our house, I'm glad he's the friendly chap kind of ghost and not the melting-face, screaming kind.

*Ghost-vamp by soulofblood

Beta Reader Requested! -- All Set, Thanks!

2011-11-10T07:01:00.001-08:00

Beta'd and ready to go out. Where, I do not know...

~~Beta needed: Spec-fic/romance, 5300 words. A little peyote before reading might be helpful.~~

~~Normally, I'd know who to ask, but I'm not sure who would be interested in this particular genre mash-up. So, if you've got some time to beta/crit, I'd appreciate it.~~

*

This little guy is so adorable. I must have him.

My Little Dragon, Pearl by Santani

He stands 8 inches high, and is made out of fimo (yes!) and assorted other materials, like fur and wire.

I wish I was gifted in the crafts department. Or drawing department. Or hair. HOW do people know what to do with their hair? HOW?

HOW?

Poetry: Love in the Time of Listeria

2011-11-02T06:49:00.000-07:00

Love in the Time of Listeria

On a quest for

cantaloupes free ofdisease,

she parted the yellow curtain

and saw Mr. D alone

with his thoughts and a parakeet

in a bamboo cage

These fruit sellers, she

thought,

and was instantly attracted

to his mustache and white jacket and his

boxes of Fuji apples and

Gala and

Mandarin oranges in blue netting

and yes, there, there were cantaloupes

but each was split open, oozing old gold

seeds and ochre pulp

and Mr. D’s hands were colored with it, covered,

each finger.

When he saw her,

there between the curtains,

the parakeet made a sound like

choking on fruit

swallowing entire bananas

He was disgusted by the sound

But she said nothing, kneeling

in the mash

among the wet crates

scooping the flesh of warm cantaloupes

into her mouth.

Out on the street, that long

hot afternoon, it was July and then August

but behind the yellow curtain,

there were persimmons and Granny Smith

apples,

dragonfruit,

figs shoulder to shoulder,

all edible things, smooth and spined,

cut open

for them both

to eat.

Cantaloupe by Vinyl_Disco

On an unrelated note, a search for "Listeria" images resulted in a disturbing number of female original characters drawn and named by people who thought Listeria was a pretty girl's name. Overwhelmingly teenagers, it's a sad fact that many of them not only think that they made it up, but that they don't even know what listeria is.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must return to working on my book. I've reached the part where the planet Bacterium is being threatened by the evil overlord, Paresis, and his sexy henchwoman, Herpes. Never fear! Our hero, Phage, will fend off those scurvy villains once again.

*warning: take mega-dose of vitamin C before reading

The Tiger Machine: A little Halloween fic

2011-10-31T05:41:00.000-07:00

The Tiger Machine

The machine had stopped. Seventy plastic tigers had appearedin rapid succession before the breakdown, each with a significant flaw: nostripes, teeth as long as their legs, bushy tail of a mule, etc. These weresimply not the sort of plastic tiger that a small child would be interested in.And worse, they might give the impression to the child in possession of onethat tigers actually, for example, had a row of spikes down their backs.

“Well, if they did have spikes down their back, it’d make‘em more fearsome,” said First Machine Attendant Luigi Lamorocca.

“What! What nonsense!” the shift manager, Mr. Gallstable,spluttered. His tremendous mustache shook. “Tigers are black and orange withproper tails and teeth and claws. Make this machine make them properly, or youshall lose your job.”

“Both of us, sir?” asked Second Machine Attendant CharlieChattock. “Or, or just him?”

Gallstable’s mustache had a minor earthquake. “Both,” hehissed, and he stalked away, muttering that the elephant and whale machineswere working just fine.

Luigi had nothing to say about the elephant and whalemachines. It was well known that the tiger machine was the most difficult tooperate in the entire factory. Why, the elephant and whale machines almostoperated themselves. It took no skill whatsoever to keep them popping outrespectable elephants and whales.

But the tiger machine, that was a different story. It tookan experienced machine attendant to keep it working. The machine roared andquivered throughout the day, the oven in its belly needing constant stokingwith chunks of coal large as a man’s hand. It would shake until its rivetsloosened, snarling to be free. Its wheels and pulleys groaned, eager to snap.

Four men had lost fingers, one, an eye.

The plastic tiger reigned in sales, even over the elephant,which is a very popular animal with small children, and the lion. The lionmachine seemed not to care; it produced tawny plastic lions all day withidentical airs of disdain about them. The zebra machine quivered, but itmight’ve been because it was situated on the factory floor so close to the lionmachine. And the monkey machine, neighbor to the tiger machine, squealed andthumped and shot bolts and clouds of oily smoke at the tiger machine.

Luigi crossed his arms and watched the Shift Manager waddleaway. Then he turned to his Second Machine Attendant and handed him a longwrench.

“What’s this for?” asked Charlie, as if he didn’t know.

“What’s it for? You know what it’s for! Look in that machineand find out what is wrong with the damned thing.”

Charlie pouted as pretty as a sixteen year old girl. “Idon’t want to.”

“Listen! I am your boss, and I’m telling you to look in thatmachine and see what is causing it to make the bad tigers.”

“They’re not so bad, really…” In the pocket of his baggycoveralls, Charlie had slipped a purloined tiger with horns like a bull. Hethought his sister might enjoy it. Or he might put it on the dash of his old Comet,where it would be a sight better than the bobble-head puppy that currently satthere.

“No, no, they’re not too bad,” murmured Luigi, almost tohimself. “But they must stop, and good tigers come out. So find the problem.I’ll be over here.” And Luigi leaned against a metal railing and stroked hisown mustache, which was far more tremendous than the Shift Manager’s.

Charlie turned to the rumbling machine. He removed fivebolts and took off a plate which revealed the inner workings of the machine.The hot breath of the machine blasted his face as he leaned close. Its conveyorbelt was still, its gears and axles paused in the very act of turning out atiger, the last of which was only half-formed and protruded from a dark tube,unpainted and without fine detail. Here was the tiger that had stopped it. Ifhe removed it, perhaps the machine would start up again. But that would notsolve the problem of incorrect tigers.

He wasn’t so sure that the tigers were wrong. But it wasn’this job, in the end, to decide what a tiger should or should not look like.That was for others to say. And so, he carefully reached in and put his handover the unformed tiger.

For a moment, he froze in surprise. For beneath hisfingertips, the pliant plastic gave and rose. As if the toy breathed. Andthere, as he grasped it now, he could feel – yes, it felt like – was it – aheartbeat? He brought the unformed tiger up, four legs, long tail, a blob of ahead that turned… But it couldn’t turn, it couldn’t, and yet, there it was,rotating in his hand, eyes opening, peeling plastic back, mouth widening as itprepared to roar for the first time. A roar that never sounded, at least not toCharlie’s ears, for as he took the tiger out from the belly of the machine, thegears came to life, clanging and smashing, a divine roar that shook the factory.With a vast yawning breath, an iron arm edged in steel teeth came crashing downand slammed through blood and muscle and sinew and into bone and Charlie,Second Machine Attendant, became the sixth man to feed the tiger machine.

His screams echoed alongside the screech of stopping machinery.Falling onto the grates, Charlie grabbed at his missing arm, the tiny prick oflittle horns against his thigh lost in the sea of pain.

They took him away and left his arm and the machinesquieted, except for the tiger machine, which panted and panted and then fellquiet too.

The next day was Sunday, and the factory was closed. OnMonday, they reopened, and Luigi looked at the machine, purring and humming;waiting. Waiting.

Luigi put a hesitant hand to the ON button. He thought ofhis daughter, whose own toy tiger sat silent in a bucket on a shelf in her roomwith all the other animals. He pushed. The button glowed red, and the tigermachine rumbled and clanked. And all day, it produced absolutely perfectplastic tigers.

First appeared at Cast Macabre. My thanks to ed. Barry J. Northern for presenting this story at his most excellent audiocast, and for making the totally excellent banner to accompany it.

And thank you to everyone who continues to drop by this blog; yes, works are forthcoming (dates unknown, at this time), and yes, I'm working on a large project that is consuming my free time, hence the reprint of this story here for Halloween.

When the zombie apocalypse comes, may you all have a gun, chainsaw, tire iron or weapon of your choice at hand.

Fic rec: "Hot Damn" by Martha Stallman; OneWord

2011-10-27T06:03:00.000-07:00

Martha Stallman, winner of Playboy's college fiction contest with Hot Damn, presents a blindingly funny, tragic story of a guy who just wants to get to the mailbox so he can pick up his Social Security check and pay the woman who gives him his "girlfriend experience."

Not only is this story a wry farce, but Stallman is another believer in the temple of Parentheses. I secretly love them. My love used to be more open, until a beta beat it out of me. I have now moved on to em dashes, and by god, I won't be swayed!

Seriously, the story rocks. Totally read it.

*

His Initials Were A.T.

The way he signed his name was pure artistry. I presented sheet after sheet of paper, until the house was his, my love growing with each flourish, each zip of a crossed ‘t’. And then it was finished, and he shook my hand.

It took me a week to master it. Every wall in every room covered with it. And now I need more. Starbucks in one hand, scissors neatly concealed in my purse, I walk to the door of his newest purchase, speech practiced so I won’t stumble over the words.

He opens the door and lets me in.

Who lets a mortgage broker in?

He smiles, I offer coffee, and the scissors grow heavy in my bag.

The above was brought to you by today's OneWord.

I've been using it as my warm-up exercise for writing. I want to say more about what I've been working on, but I have become suddenly, powerfully superstitious. I was never like this. I always had no problem babbling on about projects. But not this time.

So... Yeah. But feel free to tell me what you're working on!

Review: Mirror Shards; Halloween Decorating Pics

2011-10-24T06:35:00.000-07:00

I love anthologies, because I love the short story, and my shelves are full of science fiction, horror, and fantasy collections. Why add another? Because despite having approximately three thousand sci-fi anthologies, I didn't have one based around the concept of augmented reality. Was it worth it, or was it simply a novel (heh) buy? Definitely worth it!

Mirror Shards, edited by Thomas K. Carpenter, contains thirteen stories of possible futures, a time when we may have implants to our optical nerves, allowing us to see the world around us in a flood of information, brought up by merely thinking about it. A world in which no one sees us, but our avatars. Where cities are digitally realized, and the universe expands beyond the physical.

These authors all managed unique takes on the concept, so even if I wasn't especially enjoying a piece, I loved the imagination behind it. Anthologies are like that -- some call them "uneven," but it's really more a matter of taste. Subjectively speaking, I liked some and some were just okay -- for me. A highlight was Grayson Morris's "More Real Than Flesh," in which the anti-heroine Petch attempts to escape from her life, without realizing that she's tried it before. Intriguing on its own, there's a quasi-Blade Runner twist near the end that had me -- and Petch -- thinking about the nature of humanity and the price of freedom. Also a stand-out was the first story, "El Mirador," a galaxy-noir fic with voice and thrills.

Overall, I highly enjoyed Mirror Shards and recommend it to anyone who likes sci-fi and wants something very different, very intriguing.

P.S. I first heard of this anthology via Grayson's blog. Her posts are often thought-provoking, generally humorous, and she's pretty cool. Today's post about being a writer -- street cred! -- is a great example. Put your two cents in.

*

And now, our house, decorated for Halloween (I may get a bit crazier with the decorations, but right now, I love it!):

That last one's wonky. Sorry! Some of the pumpkins are heirloom pumpkins; the white one is called White Ghost. Cool.

I have a witch outfit planned, but probably not enough time to pull off what I want to do with it. That's be okay, though.

Our Halloween is always this: sitting on the front porch with blankets, big orange and black bowls at our side and filled with candy, drinking hot apple cider with a touch :) of Capt. Morgan's. I do share with neighbors. Feel free to stop by and claim to be my neighbor!

Next year, for the first time, we plan on not being home for our favorite holiday, but spending it in Disney World. The decorations aren't as lavish as what they do for Christmas, but still cool, and besides, they have Mickey's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party in the Magic Kingdom, and it. Is. So. Freakin'. Awesome!

And speaking of apple cider, Not So Humble Pie's recipe of the day is for Spiced Apple Cider Caramels. If you're a dessert freak or just a foodie, you must follow Mrs. Humble. For one thing, the pics are food porn. And second, the recipes are fantastic. I've made several of her ice cream recipes and not plan on making the caramels.

Did you decorate your house for Halloween? Please share pics!

Damnation: A Friday Flash

2011-10-14T14:42:00.000-07:00

Damnation

Sly reflected that damnation was probably this: senility.Wondering constantly where your keys were, and why did you want them in thefirst place? Also, there was the matter of his car not being in the garage anylonger, after Sly Jr. had come and taken it away. Sly tried to grump about a specialhell being reserved for ungrateful, greedy sons, but he didn’t have the heart.After all, his boy was, really, just like his mother: pale-skinned andkind-eyed and far too concerned with making Sly live to a hundred.

If only Callie had been so concerned with her own self. Hedrank his calcium-fortified o.j. and stared at the spot on the carpet wherehe’d found her. He still stepped over it, still occasionally kneeled to touchit, still could not forget this one thing: that she’d left him first.

Thank you for reading. If you're looking for something a bit more witchy, may I suggest yesterday's microflash, The Witch's Lover?

The Witch's Lover

2011-10-13T07:51:00.000-07:00

The Witch's Lover

We jettisoned the secret offer sent by Spring — a potential error, but who needs crocuses and tree nubs when fallen oak leaves, all damp and black, make the best hats? So we witches, in our sweet time, held the hourglass until dinner, when Autumn’s arrival at our table was met with furtive glances and just the slightest knocking of knees. Spring may be innocent and pure, but Autumn, dear Autumn, we swoon for thee.

Via

Another OneWord; it makes me write strange things. At least I'm writing!

OneWord and An E-book rec

2011-10-12T08:13:00.000-07:00

The Heart is a Prison

The wily Desdemona earned her conviction: that sly bastard Robert at her side, she'd brought old Frangia to the riverside, a bouquet of lobelia in her hair. Green water claimed the men, and Desdemona had taken off on Robert's sweet Indian. She sits across from me in the cell, tempting dandelions to the window ledge with her stare, but tiny suns never bloom in this place, though my love does. Should she find out, I fear it will be me, in the cold, rank waters of our toilet, joining the men as the final part of Desdemona's macabre menage a trois.

*

The above is brought to you by today's OneWord.

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I reviewed Amal el Mohtar's The Honey Month last year, and I've just found out that this lovely little book of the fantastic and gently brilliant is now available as an e-book.

Book Review: Free Food for Millionaires by Min Jin Lee

2011-10-11T05:28:00.000-07:00

First, an excuse (of sorts): During a routine visit to a doctor yesterday, there was a minor incident. Despite it being somewhat embarrassing (I prefer to be seen as strong and healthy and capable), the good thing is that it led to the discovery of severe anemia. Well, not such a good thing, but it explained many things, including my serious, complete, and confounding exhaustion for the past six months. When your blood pressure is that low, apparently, they are surprised to see you even standing!

I'm typically fairly hyper and always on the move, always doing something, and it's been seriously depressing to come home from work and barely be able to take a shower. Dinners have not been cooked, and I have not been writing -- that was the worst of all. I just didn't have the energy to sit down and write. If I wrote 400 words, I would be utterly spent. So anyway, anemia is not the world's worst thing -- hey, I was at the doctor in the first place because I am at high risk for breast cancer, and speaking of which, Ladies, Get Your Boobies Checked! -- but treatment is slow. Apparently, it takes about three months for your blood to completely renew itself. And I perceive physical problems with my body to be some sort of personal failing. I know, whacked.

This could be a sign that I need to slow down and take a break. OR NOT.

I hope to be back to regular blogging and writing daily again soon.

Now, the review:

Free Food for Millionaires has been on my to-read list for a couple of years. Deeply immersive, it follows Casey Han, daughter of Korean immigrants, as she struggles to find her place in America. Casey wants desperately to be rich -- or possibly, she just wants to be everything her parents are not. Whatever one's nationality or upbringing, it is a common thing among those in their twenties to struggle for identity. If I could tell Casey -- and every other twenty-something in the world -- something right now, it would be: Let it go. Stop fighting and enjoy each day. With time comes some sort of wisdom and grace, so allow time to flow. And for heaven's sake, follow your heart. You'll wish you did later on.

But of course, just as I would've ignored such advice when I was that age, so Casey struggles: with men, with her own morality, with money, and with a sort of sick pride that manages to sabotage her every attempt at making her life better.

Author Min Jin Lee writes with a delicate, almost spare hand, while showing us the perspective of nearly all the characters in the book. Lee says that she wanted to emulate the classics she most admired, such as Bronte, and I dare say she brings a modern touch to the style. I soon began to love it, although the head-switching initially threw me. If anything, it shows Lee's enormous grasp of social niceties, of the subtleties of social interaction, something so difficult to pull off.

While the book reads with a gentle flow, much like those 18th and 19th century classics that Lin adores, it manages to fascinate. I rooted for Casey all along, and I recognized those hallmarks of growing up in your twenties with a sad twitch: meeting the first love at a wedding after you've broken up, and he's there with his fiancee, or not understanding how to deal with a relationship in which things are going terribly wrong.

A strong main character and a vividly drawn minor cast, all set in the mysterious and yet mundane world of Korean immigrants, bring Free Food for Millionaires to life. Highly recommended.

Flash fic: Wheels

2011-10-05T07:20:00.000-07:00

Wheels

Lake wasn’t sure if it was his new skates or all thosevitamins, but either way, he’d finally, in his eighty-eighth year, made itaround the Great Skate roller rink fifteen times without falling. The skateswere terrific: black leather, bright orange stop, and they fit like gloves. Ofcourse, it could be senility. Weren’t old men supposed to be afraid of breakinghips, or worse, looking like fools?

Teenage girls blew him kisses and laughed as they flew by.He smiled back, gliding off the polished wood and onto the carpet for abreather.

A girl in white skates with pink poms skated over.

“Cool. Wanna get a Coke?”

Damnation. Life never ceased to surprise.

One of several attempts for Boxing With Pencils. I fail at word limits.

If you're so inclined, look them up. Like Lily's Friday Prediction, they offer three words, and you must write a story in under a hundred and put it in the comments. The words for this challenge were: senility, carpet, damnation.

This piece is dedicated to my grandpa, who is 92. He stopped skating years ago, but he took us every Sunday when I was a kid. He had his own black leather skates, and he taught me to skate with a pillow tied to my butt with rope. He could skate forwards and back and was the most graceful man on the floor.

And if you're wondering, I can still Shoot the Duck. *g*

A OneWord microflash: The Watch

2011-09-29T06:58:00.000-07:00

I tweet about cephalopods and guns, I write about space detectives unexpectedly delayed:

The watch had a toothy grin. Cal tapped it. The time read: dense.

He sighed. Yet another wormhole. Glancing around, he took in all the cats and crooks and pretty girls, and decided that, for once, he deserved a vacation. Even if it was in a no-space, no-time wormhole somewhere beyond the Milky Way.

Lying back, he watched the universe un-turn, and for the first occasion in decades, he turned his phone off.

Brought to you by today's OneWord. Trick: I glance through one of my favorites folders on DeviantArt before trying OneWord. It puts an image in my head, so I'm not necessarily a blank slate inspired by the word, but I have to put the word with the image.

In other news, no surprise, but the foster dog is staying a bit longer. She needs fine-tuning of her behavior, but she's pretty awesome. We start a training class in two weeks, and in the meantime, I'm getting her a jump on her classmates with basic training. My goal? Not only to get her adopted to a great home, but to make her one of those very special dogs: A poster child for the pit bull breed.

For everyone who discriminates against this wonderful breed of dog, I wish I had a picture of her last Saturday, when we took her to our niece's soccer game, and she was literally covered in small children. Or video of her and my German Shepherd bouncing across the yard, merrily chasing balls for hours and dropping them at my feet. Ooh, vicious dogs! LOL! She's a great little girl.

Now, remember: Despite not writing about cephalopods myself, I will gladly read (and re-tweet!) flash fic about them, if you write some! (hm, pit bull fic, too???)

Gravity

2011-09-25T11:48:00.000-07:00

Gravity

When we were ten,lying on the grass and dreaming animals out of clouds, Eli said that the onlyreason we stayed on the ground was because we wanted to. That if we let go –really let go – we would fly off the earth and into the sky. He said that if wewere very quiet, we could feel it.

I did.Underneath my shoulder blades first, then down my back, and finally my legs. Itfelt like TV static. I was barely holding onto the earth. The clouds overheadswam by. I could float up to them. Nothing was holding me down.

I was so dizzy, Ialmost fainted.

In science classwhen we were thirteen, we studied the earth’s crust. It’s flimsy and moveable,hence the mountains and new continents every millions of years. Underneath,there are miles of molten rock, like syrup. Eli said later, over trays offormaldehyde rats, that nothing kept the earth’s crust from peeling up, if itwanted to. Pieces could crack off and go flying into the sun or to Venus orblack holes.

I had studied themodel, and I agreed that nothing pinned it down. What if I wanted to stay here,but my section of crust decided it’d had enough and was ready to fly?

From then on, Ihad dreams (mostly good) in which I left the earth behind, sitting on a magiccarpet of dirt, and flew through space.

Gravity made nosense to Eli. Gravity was the earth’s desire to hold onto you. I tried toexplain, having had AP physics classes, but Eli had C level English andpottery, and he threw me vases and built me clay icebergs with little penguinslooking up and they cluttered my room, along with the poems he wrote aboutthem.

I told him he’dnever graduate if he didn’t understand gravity. He said he understood itperfectly. He had his hand under my shirt at the time, and so I didn’t argue.

On a ledge justoff the cliff trail, where we’d scuttled down, displacing rocks with ourbutts and sneakers, we shared his big army jacket and watched gulls fightingover territory. The moon came up at last, huge and white, and Eli kissed myface and told me the space between the stars was dead space, and if you felloff the earth into space, you had to be careful to avoid it. Stick to thestars, he said. Stay close to them.

I asked him, Likelampposts? And he said yes, that you should stay in the pools of starlight.Unless you were very brave, but hardly anyone’s that brave.

I told him I was,and the moon showed his lopsided smile before he kissed me again, saying, Sureyou are, kid.

Eli said nothing at all before he walked onto the tracks and let the 12:20 to Old Saybrook scatter hisbody like an exploding star. They found a knuckle, bits of bone, splinters fora mile. I walked the tracks myself for six months afterwards, hopeful and terrifiedI’d find a piece of him.

One night, cryinginto the lawn in the shadows of our house, I wiped my nose on the sleeve of mysweatshirt and decided I wouldn’t waste my time like this any longer. I hadcollege apps to finish filling out, a sweet dog, friends who’d always thoughtEli was weird. I couldn’t waste my time anymore on a dead boy, someone whohadn’t even cared enough about me to say he was leaving.

The house was darkexcept for my bedroom window. It was far after midnight; I couldn't fall asleep anymore before two or three, at least. My parents had taken toletting me do this, or any strange thing. I was grieving. It was the grievingprocess. It was another step, this crying in the backyard or walking thetracks until dawn.

I got to my feet, wearyof it all finally, weary of Eli’s ghost in my mind. My knees through my jeans were cold and wet, my shoes damp. Theshadows were gray and black, the underside of the old oak a dark nothingness.

Dani.

After a moment, Irelaxed. The ghost in my mind. I started for the house.

Dani, are youthere?

I stoppedbreathing. From that nothingness, flat black, no sense of depth, again: Dani.Dani.

I stepped towardsthe tree. Closer. Listening, listening. Another step; I reached a hand at theshadow, eyes watering.

Come here, Dani.

I ran for thehouse, didn’t stop until I’d pounded through the kitchen and hall and into myown room, thrown myself on the bed, and sat there staring at my white, whitereflection in the window.

When I fellasleep, hours later, it was the same old dream. Lifting off from the earth, ahill of shivering dirt beneath me, hand on an old oak tree to steady myself.

I’d made adecision, and his ghost was banished. I counted up the years: twelve. And hehadn’t even left me a note.

Applications wentout, I ate dinner at a normal time with my family, I studied, I stayed awayfrom the beach, the tracks, and the backyard. I put his pottery in boxes, wrappedin towels, and cried when my dad said that maybe it’d be worth somethingsomeday, now that Eli was –

It was a stupidthing to say, yes, and his red face and stuttering words knew it. For the firsttime in a month, I left the house to walk.

It was snowing onthe beach, with tiny flakes dissolving into the ocean. I wondered if the fish came up tosnatch at them, realizing then that they had nothing in their mouths but more water. I put mytongue out, and the stars shed their particulates, washing down on me cold andcrisp. I shivered in my coat, toes scrunching against the sand that had crept in my shoes.

I wasn’t lostanymore; I was just uncomfortable. I wanted to go home.

I came to the tunnel beneath the tracks, remembering what we’d done there, once. Only a yearago. Kept warm, that’s what we’d done last winter. Kept warm beneath the train tracks.

When I walked intothe tunnel, the darkness was absolute, the moonlight snuffed out. I walked on, slowly, a hand out so I wouldn't bump against the stone wall. The parking lot was on the other side. I waited for sand and gravel to turn to asphalt beneath my feet.

But he stopped me.

There, in thedarkness. Dani, is that you?

I paused, muscles tensed.

Dani.

I stared into theblackness, trying to see what was there. Maybe it was a trick. Or a bum. Or akid I knew from school.

Dani, are youbrave?

I put a hand out,feeling for the wall. Instead of cold stones, nothing at all enveloped me, noteven air. A terrible absence of everything brushed around my fingertips, curled and waited.

Dani, are youbrave enough? Come here.

Eli, I whispered. I put up my otherhand, both arms stretched out, and no wall before or next to me. I couldn’t see anything.

Are you readyto fly?

My heart pounded, thatfamiliar static feeling creeping up my legs, my back, tickling the back of myneck. I could let go if I wanted to. I closed my eyes, imagining us on thatsummer day, our sneakers touching as we lie next to each other. I reached forhis hand, shivering at the shadow of something brushing against my fingers,reaching for me.

Dani.

I wanted to fly. To him. With him.

I stepped into theblackness, the nothingness, and outside, snow fell and stars were bright andoceans cold, and under the train tracks, I lost my breath and, at the last moment,I remembered what he’d said: Stay in the pools of light. Stick tothe stars.

But it was toolate, and I couldn’t breathe anymore. Too late, and I fell into dead space.

Eli.

Chapbook Winners; Birthday Festivities; Foster Dog!

2011-09-18T07:35:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday, but (some of) you get gifts. Chapbook recipients:

Kitty
Chris Rhatigan
John Xero

Yes, I had multiple copies to disseminate as I wished, and I wished to randomly put names in my *transmission garbled* and these names came up. Thank you to everyone who wanted in. It was nice to see new folks (and sweet! when they said they were here because someone else told them to stop by) and lovely to see a few old friends.

I cannot finish any birthday-related posts without getting on my knees. If you are so inclined, I love drabbles. If I could beg one thing of you, it would be: robots and tigers and deep under the sea and unrequited love and faraway planets with lonely astronauts.

*

This year, possibly because I am feeling older than ever, I did not declare September to be my birthday month, but kept festivities to three days. Friday, we went to our favorite quirky little cafe for breakfast before going to antique shops and then bringing home loads of baklava for later. Saturday was the Renaissance Festival, and tonight we are going to Wolfgang Puck's restaurant at the MGM Grand. This morning, I was brought roses and french toast. I can't complain.

BUT! This is important! On Wednesday, we are picking up a foster dog from our local shelter. They are re-sealing the kennel floors, and need foster homes desperately for the (currently) 77 dogs. We fostered dogs and puppies for years, but it's been a while. I thought that a short-term commitment of five days would be a good way to ease back into it. We told them that as long as the potential pup got along with dogs and cats, we'd take them. We have no problem with behavioral issues, and nothing stresses us out. Trust me, we've seen it all. Destructive behavior? Not housebroken? Severe allergies? Neurotic? Fence jumper? Hey, we can deal with it.

So! This is the dog we've been assigned:

Her name is Kambry, she's about 2, and on the small side for a pit, about 30-35 lbs. You can read more about her if you click on her name, and remember: She's up for adoption! Kambry needs a forever home, and from what we saw at the shelter, she is AWESOME. Loves other dogs, doesn't chase cats, knows not to jump on people or get on furniture, knows basic commands, and can be extremely gentle with older adults and children alike.

Expect picspam later this week. :) And video, since I just got a Flip.

Have you ever thought about helping out your local shelter? They all need: foster families, volunteers to walk dogs, feed the animals, clean kennels and kitty cages, answer phones, send out thank you letters to those who've donated, and donations of food, supplies (call and ask what they specifically need) and MONEY.

Help out if you can. We've been involved in rescue, both dogs and cats, for about fifteen years. It's incredibly rewarding.

And please, PLEASE, spay or neuter your pet. It is the ethical, responsible thing to do.

Thanks for reading, and thank you to those commented to win a copy of my chapbook. I'll be in touch shortly with the winners.

Chapbook Giveaway and Recs

2011-09-12T05:13:00.000-07:00

Deadly Chaps re-released my chapbook, Letters From The Egg Carton, on its one-year anniversary. Free to read online, but also available in a new print version.

Wot! I have copies of this new version? Yes! To give away? YES!

If you'd like a copy, please leave a comment to this entry with your email. Comments are screened and won't be published. Randomly, at some random time this week, I will put names in a hat or my panties and choose one at RANDOM.

And if you love the Short, Fast and Deadly format, a bounty of weirdness awaits in the 2010 "Best of" anthology. Two of the best pieces from each issue alongside that issue's cover. I burrowed my way in there. And again, free to download or available in print.

Wait! There's more!

Jenny Rossi had her own chapbook debut recently with Riches for One, Poverty for Two, which, if I am honest, is way better than mine. She's pretty awesome, actually. My review here.

Long Travel in the Universe by javiergpacheco

Books: The #amreading / scheduled to read / omg Borders edition:

2011-09-06T05:26:00.000-07:00

1. Finished China Mieville's Kraken. Here is a cephalopod art rec, because I needed something to get the taste of suck-ass out of my mouth: Jellyfish and Octopus by reminisense.

I haven't read anything by Mieville before. Despite hearing from many that Kraken is possibly his worst book, and that I should try one of his others, I think I'll pass. I found everything about the book except the cover (which is extremely cool) annoying and horrid.

2. Started reading In the Night Garden by Cathrynn M. Valente. I was in love within mere sentences, and now, a little ways in, I just adore it. I'd never read Valente before either, but people I trust love her writing, and I can see why.

3. Borders is in its last ~~death throes~~ ten days, and I joined the zombie hordes eagerly devouring literary brains on Sunday. I couldn't bring myself to take a picture inside; it was simply too sad. This particular Borders is where I've lingered on many a Sunday afternoon. It's where I went to not one but two midnight-release parties for Harry Potter books (six and seven). It's where I told a young kid to try Bradbury (he was already perusing the sci-fi and fantasy sections, picking up the Star Trek serial stuff) and saw him leave later with "The Martian Chronicles."

People seemed almost giddy, which made it worse. Yeah, I'm glad to see people picking up actual, printed books, whatever the circumstances. But there was a sense of glee among the customers that horrified me. The employees, conversely, were just trudging along. The overall atmosphere was... apocalyptic.

I picked up four books for less than $20. I'm happy about that, because I'm a dead-poor girl who grooms dogs for a living and has a bad, bad reading habit I need to sustain. But the hole that Borders will leave in my heart is huge.

Anyway. The books I bought:

Worlds of Exile and Illusion by Ursula LeGuin (a trilogy)
Zoo City by Lauren Beukes -- an Angry Robot imprint that I've been interested in for a while
Free Food for Millionaires by Min Jin Lee
The Passage by Justin Cronin -- reviews on this were mixed, so I've put off buying it for some time, but for the price, I felt I could chance it

4. Writing? What's that? I write every day. It's usually less than four hundred words. It's scattered material, with no coherence to previous writing. At least it's writing.

That's what I tell myself.

But hey, I got books to read!

The Secret History

2011-09-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

Of course, you already read The Rejectionist. But on the slight chance you missed the post with the Epic Gchat concerning books like The Secret History, I am directing your attention to it. Is it full of spoilers? Why, yes. If you have not yet read TSH, read it anyway.

By now, I expect -- as inevitably happens, even when I casually drop mention of TSH -- that people will come out of the woodwork to say things like "OMG, TSH, DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT BOOK FUCKED ME UP." They usually love it more than I do. Here is my emotional process upon finishing said book:

Me: *slaps book down* *makes noises of disgust* *goes off to write angry email to person who recommended book and sent a copy of it for one to read*
Me, two days later: *grumbles* That fucking book.
Me, two weeks later: JFC. THAT BOOK HAS FUCKED ME UP. *grudging admiration*

And now, two years on, can I say how utterly profound and fucked up this book is? I'm not sure I'm ready for a re-read. It is that wrenching of a read. But it sits in a place of honor -- er, top shelf of one of the many book cases in the house -- and I do heartily, verily believe that everyone should read it. But goeth thou and read Le R's literary chat with Cherie first. Because it shall certainly make one want to read TSH more than this post.

Also, stock up on the gin and tonic and limes. Good sipping while reading TSH.

Jane Eyre re-covered; Microflash at Lily's; Review: GRRM's A Dance With Dragons

2011-08-30T05:10:00.000-07:00

The Fox is Black is having another re-covered contest; this time, it's Jane Eyre. Fantastic entries so far; I was bouncing out of my chair over a few of them.

In the late '70s, a great-great uncle died, leaving behind a house that hadn't been touched since approximately 1938. My mom and grandma attempted to clean it out before the wrecking ball came, and I spent an almost magical week with them that summer. It was stuffy, dusty, everything faded to become a living sepia photograph of the past. Outside were cars and pharmacies and neon; inside it was ancient rugs, yellowing prints in cracking frames, and appliances both monolith and quaint.

There was also a room full of books. I picked one up at random and started reading. Took it home. Kept reading. Became enchanted.

Jane Eyre. I didn't know books could even exist like this! I still have this copy, though it's best not to attempt to open it. There's no publisher's date inside, but it is very, very old. I treasure it. I've since read Jane Eyre a dozen or so times, and listened to it on audio book last summer. This contest over at The Fox is Black is making my heart sing.

Speaking of contests (in the most amiable and casual way), after a long hiatus, I decided to take a swing at Lily's Friday Prediction again. I hope I haven't overextended myself, but it seems to be okay so far. I like to keep up with commenting on others' entries, and if I can't, I won't participate. Anyway, my microflash, The Arsonist, is there for your perusal.

I finished GRRM'S A Dance With Dragons.

I finished it.

I'm stunned.

Aggravated. My jaw has dropped. I'm appalled. I'm hysterical with glee.

Was it worth the six year wait? I... oh, god... I think it was. And lord knows, I was one of those stamping my foot most impatiently.

In a review in my local paper about five years ago, the first of the series, A Game of Thrones, was given high marks but someone who admittedly does not like fantasy. I like fantasy, so I decided to give it a whirl. It immediately became (and still is) the best fantasy novel I've ever read. AGOT is amazing, and I wait for HBO's dvd of the series while, you know, stamping my foot. :)

The rest of the books, as so often is the case, are not quite as good as Game. And the last, A Feast for Crows, if you follow these sorts of things, is infamous in fan circles. It definitely left a sour taste in my mouth, and I was much displeased. I realize that GRRM had split one mammoth novel into Dance and Feast, but that didn't make it much better. Still, I was excited for Dance. Mostly because the title makes one think it will focus on Dany, my favorite character.

And it did. Thankfully. I sometimes get mightily bored by the doings of all these (male, it goes without saying) lords and knights in Westeros; give me a strong woman, a leader with a good heart and, you know, dragons. And an army of eunuchs and some cast-off, grizzled old knights. Yes. I love it.

And now... spoilers.

SPOILERS

I can't complain about character POVs in Dance. Jon Snow, Dany and Tyrion get their due. So does the Onion Knight (YAWN) and Asha Greyjoy (pfft, don't care). And Bran is still toiling, now under the hills, with the dead outside and waiting as he learns from the being that is surely his predecessor.

And so does Theon.

No, I did not guess. My mind was scrambling through each of Reek's passages -- who was this? Who it could it be? I never once thought of Theon. So the reveal, well, it was a sit-up-and-gasp moment. Well done, Mr. Martin. I've been on the fence about Theon--I despise him, I'm fascinated. Still on the fence at the end of Dance, but man, I enjoyed his journey, even when I was repulsed by him. A mental challenge such as he faced is rare, in any book. I held my breath as he debated whether or not to jump with Jeyne -- and was surprised when he did. I look forward to more of Theon in the next book.

Which brings me to Ramsay Bolton. What a motherfucker. JFC. All I will say is this: The letter he sends to Jon Snow at the end was a jaw-dropper. He is clearly unhinged. Someone needs to separate his head from his shoulders, stat. Vile, vile, vile, with no possibility of salvation.

And after that letter? The book ends with a stabbing. I admit, I was sick to my stomach. I've been replaying the scene, and I can't see how Jon will live. While Martin has a reputation for killing off major and minor characters, beloved and hated characters, I'm not sure he really should do this. Like The Walking Dead, there is a character which seems to bind everything together. Jon Snow is Rick Grimes. Of course, Jon's death isn't spelled out, just the attack, so we'll see.

And that is also the book's only moment of un-reality, if you will. I am not really believing that Jon would react so rashly to that letter, and that he'd leave his post to answer what is essentially Bolton's name-calling.

Of course, I couldn't believe that Dany was in love with that sellsword, Daario, either. But I must admit that he has his charms. As Martin writes, young girls will choose the fire every time. I also wish she'd stuck to her guns and not re-opened the pits, but it happened. And if not for that, she wouldn't have found out that she can fly. Now, how to control a dragon? That is a question. "Remember who you are. The dragons know." I've been pondering this, and wondering what, exactly, it means.

Also pondering why Penny is still alive. Like the Onion Knight -- YAWN. And Jorah Mormont needs to get a personality. He and Griff are nearly one in the same.

All of this is to say that the book really came alive, and I remembered why I love Martin's writing so much. He's a great storyteller. Above, I've left out parts with Jaime and Cersei, that silly prince Quentyn Martell, Brown Ben Plumm, our little beloved Arya (No one!) and a host of others. There is so much meat here, you could chew on it for days.

If you haven't read any of them, start at the beginning and get hooked. If you've been waiting to pick up Dance, go and do it.

Jenny Rossi is Deadly, and Here's the Proof

2011-08-21T09:00:00.000-07:00

Jenny Rossi: Riches For One, Poverty for Two

Dickenson never left

her room much. Old hag.

Perhaps I am an acolyte, loving

too often the shadows of men,

never the men themselves.

---excerpt, Jenny Rossi, Riches For One, Poverty for Two

I once knew her age, this Rossi girl. I’ve forgotten, and file her under “young.” (which says vast oceans about my own physical state and mental) For once, I’m not jealous of brilliance in a young’un, and against my will, I’m smiling, smirking, shaking my head. This is one to watch.

You can have this book for free. Just download the PDF. Or you can buy a handmade collection of Rossi's prose. My suggestion? Buy it. Someday, you might run into her, and you'll want her to sign it, and you might just have it in your backpack (or D&G handbag, because by then you will SURELY have "made it"). Buy her a cup of coffee when you do. And then encourage her to go back home and write. By "encourage," I mean threaten in a soft tone of voice.

Because her writing is kind of bad-ass. Kind of tittering-she-doesn't-mean-that-does-she. Take "Lessons from the Middle Class," which may or may not have struck too close to home. Thank you, Miss Rossi, for there is the small bruise which writing should leave; I hope you are also bruised—but wait, every word is some small bruise on you, too. I’m happy about this.

Are there place-holders here, pages on which to pause, to take a breath before the next oh-so-gentle onslaught? Yes. As it should be. I can’t read continuously on the edge of a broken heart, even if it’s breaking for someone else, and not for myself. Here, she says, have a bit of pretty words, and now – swallow the broken glass.

Some pieces, like "Kerouac is Kool," reach warbling, cold depths, layers on layers that astonish. Very bad for the uncertain, tremulous heart. Unrecommended. You better be wise, and wary, if you're reading this. Rossi’s a culture wolf in sheep’s clothing. This kind of writing sways around the corner to dangerous.

I loves it, precious. Keep your eye on Jenny Rossi. (and here's her blog; "encourage" her to blog more)

Go get it. And while you're there, check out other authors in the Deadly Chaps line-up--hey, maybe even last year's. ;)

Swedish Music; "Androids" re-covered; Strange Horizons poetry that rocked my world

2011-08-09T06:18:00.000-07:00

Ethereal, whimsical music by Musettes, a Swedish band outside of Stockholm. Something to listen to while you read -- and put a smile on your face.

Coucou Anne by Musettes

The Fox is Black held a contest: re-cover the sci-fi classic, "Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?" by Philip K. Dick. The results are astounding, and there are so many, that it would be hard to choose a favorite. Jaw-dropping creativity.

While Blade Runner is one of my favorite movies -- perhaps my very favorite -- the book did little for me. As the mod at Fox says, it's best to see it as inspiration. The movie is certainly not a literal translation of the book, more like, "Take these ideas and run!" Dick's writing tends to leave me cold, anyway, but I would say to anyone who loves Blade Runner that you ought to consider giving the book a read. It's not long, and it has its own merits.

And last, poetry: Foxes by Jamieson Ridenhour. I won't say much about this, other than, "Go read this. Now." Strange Horizons does tend to have some of the best poetry around.

The Instrument of Fate now up at The Lorelei Signal

2011-08-06T17:53:00.000-07:00

The Instrument of Fate is now in the current issue of The Lorelei Signal, with art by Lee Kuruganti. The Lorelei Signal is a fantasy zine featuring strong female characters. The story:

Moria, one of the ancient Fates, has the difficult task of keeping the newest
incarnation of Death in line. A task made more difficult by his 'I don't care about
this job' attitude -- and even more difficult when she must defend him from
termination. But there is something more powerful at work: could the mortal she
chose to replace the last incarnation be the ORIGINAL incarnation returned as
God promised he would after the rebellion in Heaven?

Having just re-read it, I was in tears. I'm not sure if it was the memories of writing that story, or that it became something beyond me, with characters that took on a life of their own. Even Erik, that bad boy, made me pity and love him. Anyway, I'm glad to have written it, and I hope you'll take a few minutes to read (or re-read) the tale yourself.

Currently reading GRRM's "A Dance With Dragons," and dare I say at this young juncture that it's worth the wait? Still holding my breath a bit, but overall, I'm remembering why I loved Martin's writing, his honesty in storytelling and his ability to fully flesh a character, no matter how small. The deaths, they are already coming. It is GRRM, after all. *g* But I am sincerely enjoying this, relishing everything, and trying not to rush.

And I'm realizing how much I've forgotten. What I've forgotten is EPIC. How does Martin remember it all? He must have walls covered in notes. May I never be filled with the flame of desire to write a seven-novel series. Goodness.

And now I make a prediction: The Wall will fall. Jon Snow will be forced back -- and to the seat of his father's reign. Ultimately, he will join forces with Daenerys, and it will be her dragons (one ridden by Tyrion! A ha!) that annihilate the undead Others.

That's a pretty simple prediction, leaving out lots of characters. But I'm going to go with it for now. Got one? Leave it here.

Blog Awards

2011-08-05T06:39:00.000-07:00

I woke up, made my first cup of Dunkin Donuts new k-cup coffee (Original Blend), found it tasted delish and just like it does at Dunky's, and then sat down to find out people have been saying nice things about me on the interwebz. Awesome way to start the day.

I'm forgetting for the moment that one of the cats has hurked on the basement stairs, which I found out during an especially cheerful episode whilst bringing the laundry down. Lalallalalala! People saying nice things about me!

So first, I officially thank Chris Allinotte, not just for the award but because I found new peeps to follow because of him. It all led down a rabbit hole of clicky-clicky, so if I've started following you and you wonder why, it probably has to do with Chris, somehow. Blame him.

And second, I shall pay it back as follows, with recs of my own. In no particular order and over a weird spectrum of my likes:

TotusMel's Wunderkammer -- a quartet of Steampunk-inspired things every day, with easy linkage so you can buy them for yourselves (or just see them from other angles). Clothing, objets d'art, jewelry, prints, anything that captures TotusMel's attention. Worth it, even if you don't care for SP.

Author's Echo -- Fantasy writer Adam Heine muses on writing, genres, and asks interesting questions. I'm always interested by not only what he's got to say, but what will be said in the comments.

Don Kenn Gallery -- Artist John Kenn (I know, I can't figure it out, either) draws miniature works of bizarre, scary, jaw-dropping art on... drumroll please... post-it notes. Remember that when you see them. This is like Where the Wild Things Are meets The Office (I picture him as some sort of male Pam, doodling on office supplies behind the receptionist's desk; and yes, I know she's not a receptionist any longer; you are talking to one of the BIGGEST Office fans, liek, evah).

Xeroverse -- John Xero, sci-fi writer, man with astounding imaginative capacities, guy on the edge (his writing, that is). He can take hardcore sci-fi or fantasy and make it captivating and awesome, without leaving the reader cold. Brilllllllllliant. And he's got a second blog, where he writes 100-word fics each Wednesday. Currently on hiatus, but worth checking out here.

Dreams in Black and White -- Mark Reep is an amazing talent, with art inspired by his natural surroundings, art that takes on surreal, fantastical auras when put on paper. In addition, Mark now edits the Ramshackle Review. I cannot speak highly enough of the RR, with its eclectic and always high-quality offerings of flash fic, poetry and art.

So there you go! Five new blogs to follow, to hopefully inspire and bring as much joy to your day as they do to mine. You're supposed to let the people know you nominated them, and then they post five, but I want to take the pressure off everybody on this start to our weekend. Also, I'm in a defiant, no rules kind of mood. I'm sick of being an adult. It's a new thing with me. We'll see how this goes. I predict... disastrously.

Three Sick Tales (one by me!) for your reading pleasure

2011-08-01T14:34:00.000-07:00

For your reading pleasure today, two by others and one of my own:

Cheeky by R. Thomas Brown -- Flashfic that's sick and twisted, and I love it. As usual, The Molotov Cocktail delivers (and now they have voting on each issue). Coincidentally, it appears Mr. Brown also has a story up at TFFO. Just read it. It rocks just as much! Finger Lickin' Good. Mm. That Mr. Brown is a, shall we say, sharp writer.

If you're a Chuck Palahniuk fan, his new story, "Romance," is in the August issue of Playboy. Also sick and twisted. I also loved it. And it's been raging about my head all day since I read it; he can take a premise that, if I told you, you would absolutely not believe, and he makes you absolutely believe it could happen. Amazing. But sick (not as fucked up as Snuff or some of his novels, so sort of tame on the Palahniuk-o-meter, but still icky). Well worth the cover price. :)

Also worth the price of admission: My own story, The Bumpy Road.

The zombies have come to suburbia, and eleven year old Richie has a hammer, a brother, a Bronco, and a Dad who loves him. I swear.

I don't usually talk too much about where my stories come from. It's the kind of navel-gazing with which I'm uncomfortable, and in the end, it doesn't matter. I don't, personally, care where an author got their ideas or who a certain character is based on or that a piece was inspired by the yellow lamp in their grandma's living room. I really don't.

Having said that, "The Bumpy Road" is an homage to my family. I won't say how much of them (and, therefore, me) is in this one, but this is deeply personal, taking eight months to write and edit. I'm going to tell my sister tomorrow (she'll squeal as soon as she hears the title) and my dad maybe never. Not that it's unflattering, it's just... There's a weird thing about knowing someone's written about you. Or so I would imagine.

If anyone would ever like to make me a character in their story, I think I'd feel weird.

Anyway.

Love and zombies,

Short Story: Amber in the Belly

2011-07-25T13:57:00.000-07:00

"Amber in the Belly": An exiled priest finds hope in a strange, scaly place. Fantasy, 5300 words.

Amber in the Belly

Caroling from the drunken revelers at the Broken Goat burst through the air as the pub’s door slammed open. Damon sidestepped a crowd of partyers as they spilled out, one man spinning a chime wheel wildly above his head. The door shut again, closing on the stench of spilled beer and overheated humanity. The group tottered off, no doubt towards the next pub down the lane. Damon stuffed his hands deeper into his coat pockets and tucked his nose into his scarf. Home was ten minutes away.

Vendors called out to him as he passed. Hawking last minute presents and decorations for tomorrow’s celebration, their fingers showed pink through the cut-off tips of their gloves, their faces ruddy above swathes of scarves. He wanted to ignore them all, but the little carts with savory, hot food atop their steaming grills made his stomach growl. Damon paused at a cart selling fried potato puffs, the small round puffs browning in the sizzling oil. His mouth watered.

“How many, sir?” asked the cheerful vendor.

Damon scowled and moved on.

It wasn’t yet six, but already the streets were cloaked in night, heavy and still and cold. He thought of the brandy waiting in the cupboard, of the warming stone he could heat when he got a fire going. He thought of dinner: tins of beans, likely. Maybe bread, if the loaf hadn’t gone green yet.

There was a prayer that turned bread fresh again. His hands clenched into fists, released. He huffed out through the scarf, the wool damp against his lips. A prayer, yes. A prayer for everything. Every damned thing you could want – almost.

He hesitated before turning down the crooked alley that led to his door. Nothing moved in the shadows. Casually, he bent down as if tying his bootlaces. His fingers searched in the dirty snow, found a small rock. He stood, rock light in his hand.

A snap of his wrist, and the rock went pinging down the alley. Something screeched, and a streak of fire lit the narrow passage. Ah. No thieves in wait, then. Just dragons.

They were like rats. The city had, in recent years, become a refuge of sorts for the little ones, tiny cousins to the great beasts prowling the mountains further south. They crouched in make-shift caves under sewer grates and carriages; their scaly bodies wrapped around lamp posts, absorbing the heat and blocking the light. Of course, their increased presence meant that the actual rat population had seen a mighty decrease, but reports of burnt hands and boots were common, and the tiny dragons were quite the little thieves, cunning and with dexterous toes. The mayor had declared them a scourge to be wiped out. Dead dragons by the dozen hung from poles in the town square, their wings and claws sliced off for offerings to the gods, their bellies cut open for the powerful ambers that fueled their flame. It was said that one amber from a dragon’s belly could keep your fire stoked without extra wood for an entire night.

Damon thought about this as he made his way to his door. Wood was expensive. An entire night? A whole night’s worth of warmth, without waking up at some godsless hour to find all the heat from the stone against your feet had gone, and your fire was only embers? It seemed like a dream.

He peered into the shadows, a cautious plan forming. Now, where was the thing? He’d seen its fire just there, on the right, but then it had scurried away. Could be gone already.

“Here, dragon,” he whispered into the dark. “Dragon, dragon.”

Nothing but silence. He sighed. Really, he had no luck at all. Odd, since he’d once considered himself a very lucky man, indeed. A man who’d studied the prayers, worked them into miracles that few of his profession could manifest, and made a fine living teaching them to others. A man who had only to recite the words and — well, it was best not to dwell on that. That was the past. A short-lived fire and beans were the present.

His key slipped into the lock. Before he could open the door, something stirred in the snow at his feet.

A dragon.

It hugged the wall, claws clicking on the stones. Looking up. Watching him with glittering gold eyes.

A dragon.

Maybe his luck was changing, after all. His mind did furious calculations: a meager bounty for the body, claws and teeth and wings all parted out, and then there was the amber… If he moved fast enough.

The dragon’s lips curled back, revealing rows of pointed, white teeth. Smoke curled into the air from its nostrils.

Yes, he could do this. He’d once hunted fox with his father and brothers, and wasn’t that a clever, quick prey? And he’d never come home without one hanging from his saddle.

“Hello. Don’t be afraid. I’m just going to pick you up.” The dragon’s lips curled back further, and Damon fairly pounced on the thing, grabbing it by the neck and wings. A shriek rang through the alley, the dragon’s bantam body thrashing in Damon’s hands. “Ha! Got you!”

The dragon stilled its struggling, fixed him with an angry golden eye, and drew a great breath. Damon had an instant of premonition before he let go, but already the thin streak of flame was loosed, directed at his face. He fell back, slipping on the slick ground, heat passing over his head.

As he scrambled to his feet, he looked for his would-be prey. It seemed he was alone in the alley again. The dragon had, wisely, fled. Well. It hadn’t been much of a dragon anyway, scrawny and young. Even its flame hadn’t amounted to much. If he hadn’t ducked, perhaps it would have singed his nose hairs. At best. That sort of dragon was probably not worth much at all. Practically useless.

His key still stuck out of the lock. And now his coat and pants were wet. He said a curse – equally as ineffectual as his prayers, these days – and went inside.

The fire glowed softly. Damon sat close to it on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, eating beans from the tin with a spoon that had once belonged to a great priest of the Shal-dur sect. He’d taken the spoon and a ceremonial mask after he’d been asked to leave. He’d reveled in his minor act of vengeance at the time, believing that his actions would hurt the priest in some way, or perhaps make some sort of statement. Now he wished that, in his spitefulness, he’d taken something of more value. The priest’s jewel-topped scepter, for instance. Each one of the gems set in the scepter’s head was worth a pretty penny, not to mention the silver handle. Damon hadn’t been as practical as he could’ve been.

It was a nice spoon, though. Perhaps he could sell it. But then, how would he eat his beans or stir his coffee?

The tin was scraped clean. Nonetheless, he usually put them out in the alley. He had no offerings for the gods any longer but these trifling sorts of things: a button broken in half, the last of the milk which had curdled, an empty bean tin. He hoped that they understood that he still respected them, that he still… Well, worshipped wasn’t the right word. But no matter. He carried them in his heart. They existed, and so did he, and these days, it was all one – god or man – could cling to with any pride. Perhaps someday… Ah, again, a thought that didn’t bear thinking. He got up and took the tin outside.

A dragon sat on its haunches on his doorstep. It might’ve been the same one, but how many green dragons were there currently slinking around the city? A hundred? A thousand?

He narrowed his eyes and set down the tin. “For the gods, you little smiter.”

He shut the door except for a sliver and peeked out. The dragon, as expected, barely waited before jamming its snout in the tin. He watched in amusement as the dragon tussled with the tin, until its entire head was stuck inside. It finally wrestled the thing off and sat back, long, thin tongue lapping at its face to get at the remnants of bean sauce. Damon shut the door quietly, the chill having seeped into his clothes, and went back upstairs.

An hour later, he was hunched over, just finishing a copy of yesterday’s newspaper snagged from someone’s rubbish heap, when he heard a noise at the door. He adjusted his glasses, considering who it might be. Beggars, most likely. Robbers, possibly. The chancellor, come to offer him back his job and petitioner’s license — he snorted.

Probably beggars, hoping to benefit from the holiday spirit. He picked the paper up again.

Another noise. As if someone was too weak to properly knock, so they were scratching, dragging their half-starved knuckles across his door. Annoyed, he put the paper down and sternly reminded his imagination to rein itself in. He got up slowly, dropping the blanket that had covered his shoulders to the floor and reaching for the ancient length of short, warped steel that stood in for a proper weapon. Walking quietly to the door, he unconsciously said a prayer for protection and bravery, a warrior’s prayer, under his breath.

He waited. It came again, a slight sound. The wind, maybe, although the night had seemed still. Perhaps a storm was brewing? Surely that was it.

“Who’s there?” he said to the door. “Go away. We don’t have anything to give you.”

The scratching became frantic.

“I’ve got a…” He stared at his pathetic, cheap knife. “I’ve got a sword and I’m a trained knight of the… Oh, for Mara’s sake.” He threw open the door.

No one. No one at all. It had to have been the wind.

But that wasn’t the wind tapping small claws on his sock-clad feet.

“Beggar! Is that what you’re here for? Well, I’ve got some unfortunate news for you. No more beans. So hit the road. Off with you.” He glared sternly down at the reptile, its head cocking from side to side as he spoke. “Be gone, dragon!” And he pulled his feet back in and shut the door.

“Rats,” he mumbled to himself. “They’re like rats. Or small dogs.”

He added a single puny log to the fire, giving his fireplace one last, forlorn look before taking his blanket from the floor and getting into bed. He carefully removed his glasses and set them on the bedside table, pulling the blankets up to his chin.

Approximately four hours before the fire was well and truly dead. Four hours of decent sleep. He closed his eyes.

Within moments, there was a scratching at the window just over his head. He sat up and yanked back the threadbare curtain.

“You! I told you, I’ve got no more!”

Outside the window, crouched against the panes, the dragon stared in, steaming up the glass. The moon reflected in its eyes, full and round and bright. It scrabbled at the grilles, trying to keep hold of the rotting sill.

And it was shivering. He could see that much. He could also see the faint ochre glow of the amber in its belly.

Four hours.

The dragon’s lips curled back.

Dragon’s teeth, ground and used in certain potions. Not much individually, but there were one, two... A few. There were a few teeth in those jaws, certainly. And those feet, with their curving green claws: how much for those?

The thing obviously wanted in.

“… said the spider to the fly,” Damon mumbled, his fingers on the latch. The dragon’s mouth opened wider, its snout shoved against the glass. Light from the high, full moon permeated its leathery wings; Damon could see the dark tracings of veins, the long, slender bones as its wings beat wildly, trying to keep it aloft.

And that glow, steady but dull.

Really, how much was it worth, all together, all the pieces? How much was this one pitiful dragon worth?

His stomach grumbled, reminding him of morning. He’d heard it said that dragon tasted remarkably like chicken, once you’d boiled it enough so that it chewed less like shoe leather. A chill crossed his thin shoulders. He glanced at the table by the fire, where a coffee cup and a knife sat. An empty cup. A sharp knife.

It was just one beast. Barely worth the effort.

But still. He could let it in, if for no other reason than charity.

Yet charity was losing its battle within his heart these past few years; little enough had been shown to him, after all.

“I have nothing for you,” he said quietly. The dragon thwacked a paw against the window.

Dimly, he recalled sacrifices. They had been a lifetime ago, those bleating lambs, the cawing ravens. The wriggling, hissing dragons. Hadn’t there been one, a great big one, large as an ox? With black eyes, not gold. And there had been a sword, a real one. When he’d been a true priest.

His hands shook.

“I can’t let you in,” he whispered. “Please, understand.”

The mouth of the dragon shut. Its wings ceased beating. It fell out of sight.

Damon stared at the empty window, at empty night where previously, a small dragon had hovered, begging. He had the feeling of just waking from a dream, of not knowing he had woken and thinking that he might still be asleep.

He threw off the covers, crossing cold floorboards that destroyed any romantic notion of dreaming and waking, and cursing himself twenty times for stupidity. After all, he hardly had work; he could just afford this place, and maybe not for much longer. His coat had been patched and re-patched until the original material was in serious doubt. Coffee, the price of coffee had gone up again! To share these paltry resources was insane. No woman would have him, disgraced as he was and poor besides. Not an ounce of luck, no money –

Feet shoved into unlaced boots, he slapped his arms to keep warm as he tramped through the snow. Bitter cold. It had become, if possible, even colder than earlier.

“Dragon. Where are you? Dragon!” Damn it. He should’ve brought a stick from the fire. It was impossible to see out here. “Dragon! Show yourself, immediately. I did not come out here to waste my time…”

A flurry of sparks. At the bottom of a wall, limp and shivering, was the dragon.

Damon scooped up the scaly body, holding it close to his chest as he hurried back inside. There, by the crackling fire, he sat, wrapping himself in a blanket once again.

The dragon’s wings folded tight against its back. It trembled, clawed toes flexing and unflexing against his thigh.

“Ah, it’s warm in here now, come on.” Damon traced a finger along the dragon’s side, feeling the edges of ribs, down to the leg bones. “Starving, aren’t you. Not much of a hunter, eh? All right then. Stay here. I’ll see what I’ve got.” He stood, placing the dragon on the edge of the hearth. “Mind, it won’t be much.”

In the cupboards, he found a wrapped bundle of dried hunters’ sausages. He’d been saving them for tomorrow, to treat himself. With a sigh, he took the package down and opened it. He hoped the dragon was open to sharing, as those teeth, though small, looked fairly sharp.

When he returned, he was greeted by a strange sight. The dragon had climbed into the fire and curled there, eyes closed, smoke drifting peacefully from its nose.

Which did not prevent it, when it caught the scent of sausage, of waking up and slithering out. One sausage, two – it snagged the paper and dragged it into the fire before Damon could react.

“Wretch! Those are my only sausages.” Damon rested his chin on his knees, frowning. When he looked at the clock on the wall, he could just make out that it was after midnight. Tomorrow had come, after all. “Feast then, little vermin. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got moldy bread waiting.”

The dragon burped and rested a weary head on a flaring branch before slipping back into sleep. The fire danced around it. Damon watched until he, too, fell asleep.

It was summer. A field close-cropped by goats, and a boy and a dog at its edge. The sun warmed his skin and turned it brown, one long day after another. And as the boy watched the goats, he made up little songs, little rhymes: Callie gives milk, in buckets like silk, buckets too heavy to carry. She eats the clover from fields all over…

They were just something to pass the time, these silly songs. If Callie gave more milk after he’d sung it a few times, then what of it? He could sing-song the clouds over the moon, or turn his sister’s watery porridge into thick, hearty fare. With cinnamon, though they kept that secret between them.

“Damon, can you make this hole in my shoe go away?”

“No, but you can.”

“Damon!” she laughed, and he sang a song about patching holes and walking down the lane to meet a certain boy, and there was his sister a few months later, in her wedding shawl of white lace, shoes perfectly mended.

All summer, he sang to the goats and the chickens and the sun and the well. Then, at the very start of autumn, a man appeared, with a staff made of olivewood and a red and black cloak, and Damon left, twisting ’round to watch his home disappear as he sat on the back of a donkey.

For once, this dream did not end in darkness, or troubled fits. Instead, he drowsed awake slowly, aware that his head rested uncomfortably on the hard floor, and that the blanket covered him, but was not enough to keep him truly warm.

Yet he was. At his center, the sun itself, heat melting his muscles, spreading through him.

And spines. Sharp ridges, pressing against him, here and there. He pushed back the blanket.

“Dragon,” he muttered. Still dreaming, it seemed. Wait, no. The dragon, shining green scales and gleaming gold eyes, curled back its lips as it looked at him.

The dragon growled peacefully.

Well. This was something new. Who needed the amber from a dead dragon to warm them for one night, when a live dragon could radiate enough heat to keep a man warm every night? The ashes in the grate were cold, gray.

A dragon couldn’t keep a man fed, though. His stomach reminded him of the hour, and he shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes as he opened one empty cupboard after another.

A chair fell over. The dragon clambered upwards, scrabbling, pulling itself to the tabletop. There, it folded its wings and sat up, expectant. He tossed it the moldy bread. It burned it to a crisp before happily nibbling the remains.

One of them was fed, at least.

Outside, the snow had started again, fat flakes drifting down. Which wouldn’t stop the festivities, he knew. Damon rubbed his neck, staring out the window. When he was a boy, they’d made hoops of dried grass from the harvest, saved for just this day. He remembered chasing the hoops down the hill, shouting with the other boys. Chasing fire.

His heaviest coat, then. And both pairs of gloves, and both scarves. From the crock beneath the bed, a few coins. Why not? Today was a day of celebration. He’d worry about tomorrow’s meals when tomorrow came.

The dragon darted out the door as soon as he opened it, launching into the air, no longer the shivering, starved creature of the night before. He watched its tail disappear over the top of the next building, and in that instant, he marveled at his own good fortune at having had such a miraculous companion, even for a short amount of time. Had anyone else slept with an amazingly smooth parcel of warmth tucked against them? No stone, which cooled in hours and which dug into one’s flesh, but a living body, sharing its own resources. A miracle, and one he hadn’t even had to pray into existence.

Out in the lane, few walked. He hoped he hadn’t missed it. Down the narrow streets, out onto the boulevard. And there were the crowds, streaming out of the city in a joyous cacophony.

He joined them, noticing as he walked the stirrings in the shadows: the dragons that had found nowhere warm to spend the night, bodies twisted together or upon themselves like cats. Unblinking eyes watched him pass, a tendril of smoke floating here and there, marking their lairs under the eaves, between the cracks. He bought a packet of fried potato puffs, ate three, and tossed the rest surreptitiously to the dragons huddled beneath a merchant’s cart.

Damon stopped in the square, even as the crowd pushed past him. Dragons hung from poles, none larger than a common weasel. He noted the amputated paws, the slit bellies. Under his breath, he said a prayer for the deceased. Wherever dragons went, he hoped it was warm, and that there were plenty of rats.

On the outskirts was a hill, the Giant’s Hump. The road went around its base and then wound into the forest beyond, but clustered atop the knoll were children from town, with the mayor standing among them in his black greatcoat and top hat. Next to him, two priests dressed in ceremonial hibernal robes, dark blue and silver. Damon shielded his eyes against the snow, peering up. A weight settled on his shoulders, growling in his ear.

He seized the dragon. “You! Do you want to end up like your comrades?” He stuffed the dragon inside his coat, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. Everyone’s eyes were on the hill, where a priest was shouting the words to a prayer welcoming the gods of the new season while beside him, the other priest put the torch to the first of the wooden wheels. Grass hoops were for country folk, he supposed.

The dragon’s claws scratched his stomach as it turned, tunneling about in his coat. He put his hands over it, hoping to keep it still until he could let it go somewhere safe.

A wheel wobbled, slow, and then began racing down the hill, bouncing over the snowy drifts, flames streaming behind it. A second wheel was pushed, and a third. The children shouted, running down the slope or tumbling in the snow, laughing and red-faced.

The symbolic suns raced down the hill and collapsed into the smoking darkness of winter, a new season begun. The people cheered and turned and gathered their children, and Damon pressed through the flow. On the other side of the hill, at the edge of the woods, he would let the dragon fly. Along with a stern warning to stay out of the town.

The dragon rootled southward, popping out from under his coat and onto his boots. It shot into the air, whipping around to come back down, landing triumphantly back on his shoulder.

People noticed.

“Off,” he muttered, brushing it away. Its claws dug into his coat.

“What are you doing with that dragon?” asked an incredulous man.

“What does it look like?” he muttered into his scarf, shrugging to get rid of the dragon. It clambered around to his other shoulder. A crowd gathered, watching him duck and swat at the creature, which danced about his person, clinging easily to his coat.

A man stepped forward. “Do you want me to kill it for you?”

Damon froze. “Kill it? Gods, no!” He grabbed the dragon by the tail. “Fly, you miserable thing! Go!”

The dragon yanked its tail free and rose into the air, flapping just out of reach.

He pointed at the gray sky. “Begone, dragon!” he commanded.

The dragon flew down and landed on his arm. The crowd laughed. Damon glanced around. Some were still unsure, and more than one hand rested on the hilt of a knife, but curiosity ruled. He brought the dragon close, staring into its gold eyes.

“That’s enough. Beat it.” The dragon growled and pounced atop his head, spreading its wings. All around him, he could hear people laughing.

“Did you train him to do that?” a boy asked.

“Yeah, are you a dragon trainer or something?” said someone else.

Or something, Damon thought. “Yes, I’m his trainer. He, uh, does many tricks.” He pried the dragon from his head, the reptile wriggling in his hands until he stroked it under the chin. Gradually, it ceased struggling and quieted, allowing him to hold it, his fingers deftly rubbing a circle. “This is how to put him to sleep.”

“Really? Let me try!” A man approached, hand out.

“Er…” Damon backed up, but too late, the man’s fingers brushed over the dragon’s neck. The dragon’s head whipped around at the unfamiliar touch, a burst of flame singeing the man’s gloves.

“Ow!” the man yelped, jumping back. “That beast is dangerous!” He pulled off his glove, inspecting the skin.

“Ah, you’re fine. Just a mistake. You caught him off guard, that’s all.”

“Dragons is dragons,” said the man, and the crowd closed in, not laughing anymore but whispering low and dangerous. “Can’t be trained. Should be strung up with the rest of ’em.”

“That’s a bit hasty. We — we haven’t perfected our act yet.” Damon’s fingers beat a nervous tattoo on the underside of the dragon’s jaw. “Today was a trial run.”

“A trial run?” asked a soft, clear voice.

The crowd parted, respectfully allowing a man in dark blue and silver to pass through. By the man’s apparent youth, Damon assumed he was an acolyte. He carried no scepter, no chains, his hands bare and folded before him. Cheeks red from the cold, he smiled. “So we can expect a show with more polish at some later date?”

“Yes, well, I hope,” Damon blustered. If he could just keep the dragon quiet for another minute, they might be able to make their escape. Already, its head darted around, glaring at the people milling about them. He could feel its muscles tensing, readying for flight. Or fight, which would be far worse. There was sure to be only one outcome if the dragon decided to defend itself.

“Did you, perhaps, learn your techniques from Karl Olfester?” The young man’s face was kind, his eyes flitting from Damon to the dragon in his arms.

“No. Actually, I’m what you might call self-taught.”

“Ah. Perhaps, if you should ever want to further your education, you might go to Ormsbad, where Master Olfester practices. By the sea. Do you know of it?”

Damon suppressed a scowl. Of course he had. As an acolyte and, later, third-step priest, he’d traveled to temples all over. And here this man supposed that he was just another townsfolk, perhaps even assumed he was uneducated, that he – Damon stopped himself. He glanced down at the patched elbows on his coat, his boots with leather so scuffed that their original color was all but lost.

“I have heard of it, indeed.”

“Indeed?” The acolyte seemed delighted. “Well, I wish you luck with your dragon.” He paused, staring at the little dragon, who stared back. “May I say a prayer?”

“A prayer?”

“Just a few words.”

“Of course.” One never refused the official prayers of a priest. “Er, he’s not very friendly to strangers, so…”

“Watch my fingers. Yes.” The acolyte’s hand hovered in front of the dragon, bare fingers spread as he began to intone the words of a prayer for fortune’s favor in endeavors undertaken with animals and small children. Damon’s lips moved in tandem, his own hands clutching at the dragon, lest it mistake this blessing for a threat, or worse, mistake the acolyte’s plump fingers for more tasty sausages.

“Felicity,” finished the acolyte. Damon looked up, realizing the man had been watching him murmur along with the prayer, and his cheeks flushed. It was impertinence, at best. “Are you – that is, have you ever--”

“I am not,” said Damon, quietly. “Now.”

“Ah,” said the acolyte. He turned to the crowd. “Our resident dragon-trainer! Be sure to honor him. On this day, especially, let your generosity shine upon him.” And he stepped back, letting the sprinkle of coins hit the ground around Damon’s feet. The dragon sprang from his arms and gleefully snatched at the bright coins, bringing back three in his mouth.

“Yes, I’ve,” said Damon, clearing his throat, “been teaching him to retrieve. Thank you.” He bowed low, the dragon on his shoulders, grinning around a mouthful of coin.

The crowd dissipated, finally, leaving Damon and the acolyte alone. The man — or boy, for his features were smooth as river stone and his mouth still kind — waved to the elder priest.

“I must be going.” He held out a hand. “Francis Brann.”

Damon shook the hand. “Damon Drury,” he said, the false surname slipping from his lips with ease.

“Well, Damon. I look forward to seeing more of you and your dragon.” His eyes casually fell on the dragon, its tail winding around Damon’s neck. “You know, the temple is in need of someone to help with the records. Of course, you’d need to be able to read.”

“I can read,” Damon huffed.

“Of course,” he murmured. “Then stop by tomorrow. You might want to leave the dragon behind, though, as old Granniver thinks they’re vermin.”

“Imagine that.”

The acolyte smiled. “See you tomorrow, then. And, if you wouldn’t mind — could you say a prayer for me? I’ve lost my gloves and I haven’t been able to find them anywhere.”

Damon stared, the acolyte’s eyes meeting his. “A prayer of discovery. That should be the easiest thing for an acolyte at your stage.”

“Indeed. It should be.” He smiled and began to walk away, robes floating over the frozen ground. His voice called back, “Until tomorrow, Damon.”

Both Damon and his dragon watched the man gracefully make his way to the elder priest, who stood waiting nearby.

“Francis Brann,” he said to it. “Was I that smart at his age? Doubtful. Well, it’s home with us.” He patted a pocket, coins jingling. “And I think we’ll be stopping to get a few sausages on the way. It appears I’ve got to feed you now.”

He headed off for town through the slush. “And keep you warm, and who knows what else. I never wanted a pet. Did you hear that? No pets.”

The dragon purred as he rubbed it under its chin.

“Priests can’t have pets,” he said. It was true. Priests were forbidden pets and wives and the amassing of wealth — all things which, as a rule, were circumvented in a number of creative ways.

But he wasn’t a priest anymore.

He was a dragon-trainer. Or maybe just a man with a dragon. Either way, things were different now.

Yes. Very different.

He walked back into town a new man. Hardly richer, no better looking, and with the same frozen feet. But there stretched before him an impossible horizon, a garden world of temples and friends and clothes without patches. And all around, the flutter and flap of leathery wings.

The dragon at the window was inside, and it had brought a new kind of warmth in with it.

They passed through the square, the dragon clinging to his shoulder and hissing at the dismembered bodies of its clan.

“Don’t you worry,” whispered Damon. “We’ll fix it. But first, we need to teach you some manners.” Teaching. Hadn’t he been a teacher before?

Yes. But things were very different now. And it had all started with one small dragon.

The End

*This was first up for an anthology that has since been canceled. Then I submitted it to Beneath Ceaseless Skies, a fantasy magazine with a stellar reputation and a 98% rejection rate. You can guess why it's posted here now. :) BCS is highly recommended for fantasy reading, and if you are interested in submitting, the response was fairly quick (2-3 weeks, I forget exactly how long) and it was a personal rejection, not a form letter. I appreciate the editor's thoughtful and concise summary of why this was rejected.

I'm still editing (or, more precisely, thinking about editing...) a short story, another goes up in a couple of weeks and I'm quite excited about that one, and I'm not around much because I've gone deep underground--in my head. The rabbit went down the hole, and I must follow. The book(s) proceed slowly but so enjoyably. If I'm not around the interwebz, I'm probably in my backyard with a notebook and pen, staring at birds in the trees and writing pages of random chapters. It's... a different way of writing, for me. But I like it.

I feel like I'm writing for me, for once. I haven't truly done that in a long time. Anyway, hope you enjoyed the story, and if not, that's fine too. Feel free to let me know, either way.

Kind regards,

Jury Duty

2011-07-21T13:05:00.000-07:00

I just got home from serving on a trial.

This was my fourth summons in ten years. The previous three, I was "lucky" that I never made it into a courtroom; the attorneys settled and my group was dismissed. This time, not only did I go into the courtroom, but I ended up being one of fourteen chosen out of a pool of 42. Two were alternates and not needed, leaving twelve of us.

This afternoon, I consider myself lucky that I was chosen, and I'm very glad to have not only fulfilled my civic duty, but that I got a chance to participate in our legal system. I also think... it works. Sure, nothing's perfect, but I feel very good about the outcome.

I can talk freely about it now, so here's the basics: It was an Assault with Intent to Murder trial, in which one man was accused of beating another with an aluminum baseball bat.

The first man was working out a gym/fight club. He went up to a local gas station to get Gatorade. While there, the owner of the gas station told him that three vehicles had pulled up, that those guys were looking for him and he'd better run. So that's what he did. He tried to run back to the gym, but the cars followed him. One, a gray minivan, hit him outside the gym, knocking him to the ground. Then the other cars pulled up, and a bunch of guys, all armed with baseball bats, got out. One said, "This is for my homey, motherfucker!" and brought the bat down. The victim put up an arm, and it was snapped in half. A second blow split the top of his head. While that was happening, another guy began kicking him in the ribs. At some point, onlookers yelled and the perpetrators scattered.

The victim was brought into a bar by the owner of the gym, where wet towels were put on his head until an ambulance arrived and he was taken to Detroit Receiving.

And now, things get fuzzy. There are various police reports, all naming one guy -- the driver of the gray minivan, who is a guy who had a beef with the victim -- as the kicker, but not naming the guy with the baseball bat. At some point later -- after a couple of police interviews and then testifying under oath in a preliminary exam -- the victim did name him. That man was arrested and put on trial.

But the victim had only met this man once before, and for an extremely brief exchange of words, and that exchange had not been angry or confrontational at all.

And...

This man has a twin brother.

There were no witnesses (or, should I say, no one who would testify at this trial), which left us with an inconsistent victim. Unfortunately, as I told my fellow jurors in deliberations, we really don't know which brother was there -- if either. Frankly, there was no evidence that either was there, other than the victim's words.

And all of these people are shady characters. This happened in an extremely bad part of Detroit, and the people involved were convicts, out on parole, and admitted drug users. We got the sense that there were rival gangs or it was about drug money, or very likely both. We were not given much information/evidence to go on, and we spent hours trying to connect the dots and figure out why and how this happened.

In the end, while we felt badly for the victim -- he clearly got the shit beat out of him -- we couldn't send a man to jail who may be innocent. In this country, if there is "reasonable doubt," you must acquit, and we had way more than just reasonable doubt.

In some ways, we felt like jurors must've felt on the Casey Anthony trial: we all had gut feelings that this guy, or more likely his brother, was somehow involved, even if they just knew what was going to happen. But there was no proof, and this kid -- for he was a young guy -- couldn't go to jail for that.

Did an innocent man go free, and justice was served? Or did a guilty man get away with something? I cannot say for sure, but I do know that we didn't convict a man on gut feelings, and that our system worked.

When we announced our verdict, we were instructed to go back into the jury deliberation room while the courtroom was cleared. As we walked by the defendant, who was sobbing the moment he heard the verdict, he looked each of us in the eye and thanked us. His wife, sitting near by, was also crying. Minutes later, the judge came in, thanked us again, and then she said, without knowing our reasoning, that there had been no way to tell which twin, if either, had been involved, and so we did the right thing. We really felt good then, because that had been the basis of our decision.

The other man involved in the beating is in jail, pleading insanity, and the judge said he probably won't get away with it. In his case, there's way too much evidence, plus I guess he's some kind of really bad guy who's going away for one thing or another. And we did say, as jurors, that all the evidence we heard and believed pointed clearly to this other man. So to jurors on that trial -- whew, your decision will be easier than ours.

To the man who walked out a free man today after spending the last few months in jail: I wish you well, and knowing your current circumstances, I hope you learned a lesson. Please don't run around with those people anymore. It seems like you're trying to get your life together, and you're really young, with a wife and small children. Everything can be different from here on out.

I think I sound like an old fart when I say that, but I sincerely hope that this person stays away from that part of Detroit and his old crowd. He's got a chance. Take it.

And one last thing: Only a few of us jurors admitted that when we first walked in the courtroom, we judged a book by its cover. We looked at the defendant and thought, "Oh yeah, he's guilty." I completely did. I thought, "Thug in a suit." Was I right? I don't think so, not anymore.

The entire process was tedious and boring at times. The graphic photos of injuries were a bit much for me (weak stomach, believe it or not). But watching people get up on the stand and try to lie or sway their words to mean a specific thing, and watching the attorneys do the same kind of maneuvering, was interesting. And deliberations, though ours lasted about six hours, was really interesting. And of course, there's the sense that you participated in our justice system and helped it work, and were valuable in doing so. I would totally do this again.

To think, a few days ago, I was sick and anxious because I had to go to jury duty.

Now, a brief note: The Walking Dead is totally going to shit. WTF.

That is all.

(seriously, I might cancel my subscription)

Microfic: Whitecaps; Current writing plan

2011-07-13T07:54:00.000-07:00

Whitecaps

The Plague hit hardest in our coastal village, with babes tossed in the water alongside old men for months. When finally we survivors stood on the beach, ragged and starved but free of disease, we watched as the waves coughed up our dead, one by one. They were happy to see us.

My writing plan of late: Three short stories needed editing, then moving on to serious work on the book. Two shorts finished: one submitted and waiting for response, one going up shortly (no idea of exact date at the moment). The third is one of my very favorites of my own, but I've stalled at the ending. I'm really excited to be swapping stories right now with another writer who is also stuck, and coincidentally, kind of at the same spot.

While that's been going on, I've been using OneWord as a daily exercise. The above microfic is one of those, and you can find me there as rsbohn.

While I've got numerous unfinished shorts awaiting further work, and a few sites that I used to actively engage in as weekly exercises (Lily's Friday Prediction and Three Word Wednesday are a couple of my favorites), I've put them aside for the time being. At some point, I realized I was using them as a distraction from bigger works, excuses not to buckle down on the larger projects. A short attention span? Maybe. Or possibly fear that I can't pull off a book. Which is silly, since I've done it twice plus a novelette. But yeah, probably fear.

At some point, I may ask a friend and fellow writer if she could brainstorm with me a bit, help me move the obstacles in my brain. I've never really done that before at such an early stage in the process, but I think I need a little creative ass-kicking. If anyone's totally into brainstorming and that sort of thing, email me. And I shall return the favor.

Thanks for reading, amigos.

Back Home! And Two Fic Recs: Myth and Science Fiction

2011-07-10T06:00:00.000-07:00

Did not like the new Blogger in Draft. Too cold. Too new. I dislike change.

Which is why, though I usually wish I lived back in my home state of Connecticut, I am glad to be back in Michigan. I get discombobulated. And there is always that sense, when returning home, that you no longer belong there. That you've gone too far, and you can never go back. I'm awash in memories, saddened by the differences in the reality, and struggling to reconnect to family (who love me so much and are so happy to see me), struggling to reconnect to the girl I once was. I don't know her anymore. I think I would be afraid to know her--whether because I'd be embarrassed by her silliness, naivete, insane confidence, or that she'd be embarrassed by me, now. Which.

Getting up early to wander the yard, looking at spiders in the lavender and broken robin's eggs beneath the lilac makes one philosophical, I think.

Anyway.

Finally getting a chance to thoroughly catch up. Two marvelous pieces have just appeared, and it's like a gift to me, for coming home! Maybe not, but if those authors want to say they're a Welcome Home present, I would be glad.

Stars by Jacob Allgeier at Six Sentences. Micro-flash about an astronaut, with some of the most beautiful descriptions of emotions and the galaxy that I've read in a while. It thrilled my inner sci-fi girl. Read, read, read!

And John Xero celebrates the anniversary of his blog with a piece by Dee Harding, The Bird Garden. Myth and longing, exquisitely written.

Two of my very favorite subjects, done well by talented writers. Very inspiring.

Now to work on my own piece, finally. I feel I've taken a stellar, spectacular piece off the rails, and I'm not sure how to get it back on track. Time to give this some cold, hard thinking. Is it beyond me, perhaps, the intellectual discussion between two characters? Or is it not that, but that I'm winding towards an unsatisfying end? Preparing the cold steel of the sword of editing...

Book Review: Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner; Christian Privilege; The Walking Dead

2011-06-30T07:33:00.000-07:00

When I was a young girl, I would lose myself for hours in old books: Jane Eyre, for instance, could mesmerize me for an entire afternoon as I sweated every moment in the orphanage with little Jane. As I grew older, and especially these past few years, I've read more "modern" books, and I'm continually looking for those books that grab you right from the start, throttle you and don't let go until the end. The thrilling reads.

With "Lolly Willowes," I had a profound return to those days when pages and pages could be spent detailing someone's daily life: the chores, the tick of the clock, what precisely that clock looked like and where it stood.

Don't get me wrong. I ultimately felt like a leaf spiralling along a merry stream as I followed Lolly's adventures, but it should be noted that for the first 54 pages, I was drowsing at the tedium of poor Lolly's first forty years. It is, I think, a deliberate choice of Townsend Warner to do so: the dust collects, and no better literary example has shown this.

The dust collects. Tiny particles that weigh a soul down, and all these particles have names: Nieces and nephews and sisters-in-law and brothers and chores and church and, and, and... There you have it. Now you are a middle-aged spinster whom no one has any real regard for, while meanwhile, the dust has obscured your early tendencies and early joys, until you seek but cannot see.

I'm not sure, from this description, if the life of women has ever changed in our thousands of years. How many of us feel the same? We want to go into the woods and find strange rocks! We want to stare at nothing across a field, or take a boat somewhere and let our fingertips slide through cold waters. We want to see if there really is a secret path in that forest, we want to smell it out for ourselves, and by ourselves.

Toni Morrison did the better job, in "Paradise" (one of my all-time favorite books), of clearly provoking the age-old fears, those nameless dreams that haunt men: that women do not need them. And thus, in their fear, do they name those females who stand apart "witch."

Lolly Willowes, in time, becomes an actual witch. Less strained reality and more fanciful, but still disturbing, metaphor, the story follows Lolly as she is like a child in the dark, until dear Satan -- the Loving Huntsman of the subtitle -- comes along to finally collect what is his.

I wish that Lolly had acted more decisively more often, but like those first 54 pages, perhaps it is deliberate. Perhaps Townsend Warner wished to turn the mirror on the vast numbers of women who are just the same as Lolly: gentle, sharp witted, and inward-turning. I, myself, am much like this, and so this may be why I wished Lolly had more backbone: because I wish that I did.

The prose is nearly flawless, and Townsend Warner has a gift for the gentle barb, the clever phrase, and the observations of class that few can astutely render on the page. I smiled often while reading, and once Lolly had made the decision to move to Great Mop (there! a reason to read in itself, for what a name for a country village), things turned strange and delightful in small ways.

"Lolly Willowes" won't grab you by the throat, but I confess it did my heart. And while "feminism and witchcraft in 1930s England" may not be the most appealing description--though valid--it is indeed an immensely appealing book.

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Miss Maggie Mayhem reblogs a stunning, short essay on Christian Privilege and gay marriage. I cannot add anything more -- this is as perfectly said as it can be. Please read.

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If you are keeping up with The Walking Dead comic, may I say regarding the newest, issue 86:

YAWN.

I was shocked to be talking to Christopher Grant about it and hear him say that this is fast becoming the worst comic ever.

And I was even more shocked to realize I was agreeing.

I stopped watching Lost after the third season. This feels... eerily similar. As similar, in fact, as Jack and Rick are appearing to become.

I'm off to work. Have a great day, everyone.

At Eaten Alive: Princesa; This Is It

2011-06-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

She wore a three-thousand dollar necklace and nothing more.

In the fetid heat of Miami, a new breed of socialite emerges: Princesa.

Thanks once again to Christopher Grant at Eaten Alive for allowing my putrescence to ooze onto his page.

I'll lay off the zombies for a while, but only because I've been following a Plague Artist through the dark streets of a walled-in city, and his story is nearly told. Then who knows?

*

We watched This Is It last night, MJ's last "performance." While interesting, it never rose to the levels we expected: Where was the pathos? The shining moments of real glory? The man behind the jacket and sunglasses? While the concert undoubtedly would've been one for the ages (and B and I would've done just about anything to get tickets), the film sort of meanders and never takes a real road or makes a statement, never living up to the opening. Like the dancers auditioning in the opening scene, we were pumped. Near tears, I confess. But then... nothing. And just as I yawned for the ten-thousandth time, it ended. We were confused. That was it?

That was it.

Despite the film, I still hold that Michael Jackson is the greatest single performer of all time (the Beatles get best group), and his death an absolute tragedy. I also feel sad for those who didn't grow up with MJ. I was 11 when Thriller came out and changed the world. I remember being at my every-Saturday haunt, Great Skate, and putting down the rubber stop in front of the DJ booth, where they'd lowered a screen to show it. Everyone crowded there. Watched it in rapt silence. Freaked out when it was done.

You can never take back that first moment you heard Billie Jean or Beat It. And I was a loyal fan, all through the scandals and bizarre rumors and even HIStory, which has its moments of brightness. :) And I'm still a fan. Just... possibly not recommending this last film, which feels like a hollow attempt to make money off a dead man, and not the tribute it should've been.

I never had my own skates, btw. I always had to rent the brown, smelly ones with the bright orange stop. My spoiled cousin had her own shiny white ones, complete with pink pom-poms. God, I was jealous. I thought that if only I had white leather skates, my life would be complete. I lusted even then!

It's a Best Buy now. I drove by a couple of years ago on a trip to visit family in CT and saw that and just about cried. B said we could go in, but I couldn't do it.

Flash: Twelve Horses

2011-06-17T07:00:00.000-07:00

I first heard about Chuck Wendig's robot flash fiction challenge this morning, and though I've been (almost angrily) very much not writing lately, I thought I'd give it a go. However, I'm over the 1000 word limit a smidge, so I'm not going to enter the comp. You should, though. You totally should. You could get one of his e-books just by entering. But hurry--slots are filling.

Twelve Horses

“Twelve horses in the field. Twelve horses,” said the robot, and waited for his son to answer. When none was forthcoming, he pointed, a spot of red appearing on the cheek of each horse. “One… two…” He counted to five and put a dot on a sixth horse, hoping his son would say, “Six.”

There was no response. He tried a different approach. No robot could allow an error to pass without correction.

“Eleven horses in the field. Eleven horses.”

His son stared mutely at the horses, only the subtle flash of light in his eyes evidencing his consciousness, or perhaps it was the midday sun.

“Eleven horses,” said the robot. “Eleven.”

His son’s head did not move. His mouth did not open. The robot put a hand to the back of his son’s neck, felt the thrum of energy.

“Eleven. There are eleven horses. Eleven. Is this correct? Eleven.”

His son said nothing.

The robot whirled, an arm snapping up, the palm of his hand sending a burst of laser at a shaggy brown horse. The horse’s skull exploded, sending the rest of the herd scattering in a screaming, pounding panic.

The horse’s body slumped to the grass.

“Eleven horses,” said the robot.

He took his son’s hand, gripping it tightly as he led him away.

The robot calculated. Perhaps the counting exercises were too easy.

“Our speed is currently four and a half miles per hour. We are walking west-southwest. If we continue this exact trajectory, where will be in twenty-nine and a quarter hours?”

His son said nothing. The robot repeated the question.

They came to a stop by a VW bus without tires or windows. The robot put his hand on his son’s heart, where the digi-compass, positioning system, and thermonuclear regulator were located.

“Where will we be?”

After a time, there was no answer, so the robot put his son on the porch steps of a nearby house, and he left them there while he began to dismantle the VW bus. As he worked, he thought perhaps his son’s silence in this issue was intelligent. For whatever had been at 29° 57' 17 N, 90° 4' 30 W surely no longer existed.

The robot worked all through the afternoon and into the night, and when he was finished, only Venus remained watching. His son’s eyes had dimmed, his body shut down as it was programmed to do each evening at ten. The robot climbed atop his creation, sitting in its fender arms and peering through modified headlamp glass at the yellow glow of the planet.

“If I continue walking at this pace for sixteen hours per day, how long until I reach you?” he whispered.

When Venus did not answer, he said, “Never. Never. Never.”

In the morning, when he woke, his son stood at the foot of his creation, staring down the long, cracked road. The robot climbed down, heated a fingertip until he could scratch his name on a hubcap, and then took his son’s hand and began walking.

Behind them, the object that was no longer a VW bus stared up at the sun and listened for Venus to appear.

There was a base inside a mountain, impenetrable to attack. There was an enormous telescope in Hawaii. There was a place to launch rockets here and here and here.

The robot had deleted each one from his list after examination. Hawaii had been a difficult journey, the most difficult of all, more arduous even than removing tons of rock. But in the end, all had proven to be as empty as his son’s circuitry, illusions of past brilliance. He sat on a low bridge and watched alligators coming together, drifting logs with some little purpose.

At his side, his son sat with legs hanging over, glinting in the sun above the dismissive gators. They had not reached the projected coordinates, but it no longer seemed to matter. There was nothing left on this planet that contained the necessary technology to send or receive intergalactic messages; he knew this now. His own capacity had been purposely diminished—cruelly, he thought—leaving him unable to do so himself.

Alone for a time, left to wander, he had almost shut himself down, put himself into permanent sleep mode, when he had come across the boy in a room underground in a facility long since abandoned.

“I am not alone,” he had said, but it was not true. He was still alone. The boy was ancient technology, discarded, defective, no better than the mammoth televisions he occasionally came across, and less useful. It had taken a month to get him to move, and no progress since then.

If only he could get his son to talk. If he could only communicate with it, re-open old directives and shunt the flow of energy into a direction he wanted: though an antique, there was the possibility that his son possessed the ability to send messages via the interplanetary radio system. When? Which generation had been given that ability?

And if not, then at least the robot would have someone to talk to.

“Alligator mississippiensis,” he said. “Repeat.”

Swamp waters lapped against the cement pillars beneath the bridge.

“Alligator mississippiensis. Alligator mississippiensis.” Nothing. He went on, lecturing on taxonomy, history, evolution. Feeding habits. Useage of skin, claws, and meat. Habitat.

And then he reached over and carefully began dissecting his son, until the first shy stars winked on the horizon.

The message went out daily.

Venus did not respond.

At first the message asked for help and transport, gave coordinates. Said that the robot was the last sentient being on the planet.

After two hundred and sixty-nine days, the message gave only coordinates.

At five hundred and four, the message transmuted yet again: Why. Why. Why.

The robot sat on the bridge with the head of his son in his arms and watched the sky while alligators and nutria and water moccasins swam below. In the dark, Venus appeared, yellow and small and brighter than the Dogstar.

On the nine thousandth, eight hundred and fifty-seven day, the robot put his son back together, but the old materials had no strength and fell to dust in his fingers.

When at last the robot left the bridge and waded into the murky waters and shut himself off, it was to a chorus of bullfrogs and the silent gaze of a hundred watchful alligators. And deep in the night, with no sentient beings left on the planet, a Jeep in Denver, a Mustang on a dirt road outside of Erie, and more and more vehicles that were no longer vehicles in places that were no longer cities, and finally a VW bus in downtown Montgomery, blinked to life as a message came: We don’t know.

We don’t know.

Book review: "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao" by Junot Diaz

2011-06-16T06:57:00.000-07:00

It is unfortunate that I so readily integrate a good book into myself; for the past week, I have been swearing more than usual (that's a lot), using slang that I may or may not have known before reading this book ("culo"!), and generally speaking in a terrible accent which is probably closer to Puerto Rican than Dominican. I can't help that last part. There was a large PR population where I grew up, and so my Spanish or Spanglish tends to come out as a mimicry of every PR girl I've ever come across.

How do they do this? How do certain authors manage to embed their book, their very selves, into us?

It's more than that. It's coming across observations, phrases in a book that slay us. I know that, you think. You recognize the thought.

But Junot Diaz moves beyond that. He writes beyond mirrors of consciousness, beyond world-building that is so terribly complete, so pervasive, that you argue with yourself: It's real. No, it's not. It's fiction. NO, it's real! It's NOT.

Rarely -- well, no, that's not true. Never have I come across something like this. The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao is singular, outstanding, and numinous. The writing, I guarantee, is nothing you've ever read before. It is perfection, every single word, down to the last.

Lord, I hate footnotes. Diaz made me read every one. Voraciously.

He made me believe, and I'm not even sure what he made me believe in. Not love, not, for fuck's sake, fuku. (You believe that shit? Tell me about it). Maybe he made me believe in stray bullets. Or the eighties. Maybe that God is an evil dictator with golden eyes. Maybe that men cheat. I already believed that one, though. God, I wish I didn't.

Oscar is every role play gaming geek you've ever known. He's fat, he's desperate, he writes space operas from sun up to sun down. His entire life is spent saying things like, "Sir, it's been an honor," to the college roommate at the end of the year as the dude's moving out. He wants to be the Dominican Tolkien; he stands in the courtyard with a sword, slaying invisible armies. He talks to strange girls on the crosstown bus. They leave. He's still alone.

He falls in love with a girl who has a boyfriend. You know where that one is headed. So he does it again. Oscar!

I'm going to take a moment to congratulate myself on recognizing the narrator of this little tale. And I'm going to take another second to say that maybe, a little bit, I didn't care for the sections on Beli's life. She's a tough one to care about. Even the hints and then outright description of reasons we should feel compassion for her don't touch me enough to make me love her. And yet, my heart tightened with sick recognition. Hey, maybe yours will too. People are like this, aren't they?

Yeah. They are. And if there is one thing I forgot that I once believed, it's this: There are people like this everywhere. Everywhere.

If only Junot Diaz could write all their stories too.

Two more things: My reviews tend to be emotional, stream-of-thought essays that are more my reaction to a book than an actual review. So read the reviews on Amazon to get a better understanding. And second: I don't cry often when reading. I outright sobbed when I got to the end of this.

Apocalypse; Lovely Day

2011-06-12T05:19:00.000-07:00

Chris Allinotte's recent Monday Motivator struck a chord with me, so I played along:

Tattered

The last lifestyle of our century included no animals, no vegetables, no begging for mercy. Just the scrabblerock existence of a dispersed population: shreds of humanity on three continents, communicating by sentient pollen that drifted along from blood wall to blood wall to the El Nino and the slightest vagaries of a planet on its last exhale.

I looked up from scraping fingernails along a cave wall and breathed out: The End. My bones already dust, my spine an inert thing, these standards playing in my head a dirge for a fallen Earth.

*

Oh, apocalypse. How I love thee. Also the Being Very Dramatic.

A lovely day, lovely week ahead, shame I'm working eight days straight. Mama's got bills to pay, you know. But you gotta keep a good attitude. :-)

Gangrene: Not just for breakfast anymore.

2011-06-07T17:16:00.000-07:00

Eaten Alive is up and running, and I'm deeply ~~decayed~~ honored to be first out of the chute with:

Gangrene

Zombies.

Short, horrifying, sickly funny. You know you want to read it.

A special thanks to Lily Childs, whose Friday Prediction spawned this grotesquerie. I never entered it into the Prediction because I couldn't fit in the other words nor get it under the word limit (100), but all the same, I thank her. I guess you never know where inspiration will come from, eh?

Where is the last place you found inspiration? The wackier, the better. I like that kind of stuff.

Book Review: I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell

2011-06-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Lily Childs' winning piece for the monthly challenge over at the Talkback forum, Consciousness. Stunning, lush imagery with that hint of decay beneath it all, and perhaps more than a bit philosophical in its gorgeousness. Lily has, after all, just returned from Crete. And who can resist a slipperful of mythology? Go read.

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I'm reading THE MOST INCREDIBLE BOOK right now. More on that as soon as I've devoured it, then devoured it again. After all, I may end up hating it. Highly unlikely, but it's almost impossible to believe an author can keep up this level of genius for so long. Almost.

In the meantime, whilst you are awaiting that review, may I recommend this:

I Am Not Myself These Days by Josh Kilmer-Purcell

You may recognize the name from my frequent gushing: JKP is, after all, one half of the Beekman Boys. But who was Josh before he was a Beekman Boy?

He was Aqua. Drag queen extraordinaire, with fishbowl tits and a mean vodka habit. And, as ever, a biting sense of humor. This book chronicles his time as a budding ad exec with bad habits and a host of Buy Me A Drink lines that I have, admittedly, been memorizing. Shame I can't think as quick on the fly as Aqua. Else I'd be two sheets to the wind as we speak.

This is also a memoir of his first great love, Jack, a highly successful male prostitute with a rapidly growing crack addiction.

If you're thinking, "This can't end up well," you would be right. But before we reach that conclusion -- and it starts sinking in, slowly, about a third of the way through -- we're first treated to some of the best, funniest, most sharply told tales of the City, as seen through Aqua/Josh's eyes. I rarely laugh out loud, no matter how brilliant something is, and I Am Not Myself had a bunch of parts that had me rolling off the sofa, tears streaming. Let it not be said that JKP never had a good time. In fact, I'd say he made Having a Good Time a legally taxable occupation.

Also, it's quite educational. If you've ever wondered what, precisely, a man must go through in order to become a drag queen, this is more than your primer. This is everything but the QVC Instructional Video with Josh himself. Or perhaps you've been saying to yourself, "Hey, I've got this huge ass chunk of rock; how, exactly, do I smoke this fucker?" Well, ponder no more, friends. It's all explained here.

Maybe you've thought to yourself, "You know, I may have a tiny problem here, what with the crack-smoking love of my life and this whole vodka-as-a-legitimate-meal-choice plan." If that's so, read this.

Do you want the serious review? Here it is: When I stopped laughing, I started crying. If there's one thing Josh can do well, it's find the sad joke underneath the divine pathos of life. This is handled so well, so subtly and yet so uncommonly realistically, so harshly, that all one can do is keep reading. And smile, even if it's the saddest smile in the world.

Well, fuck. That's pretty pathetic writing right there. Trust me when I say that Josh can do it a thousand times better.

I won't tell you how it ends, but if you've known me for a while, then you know that Josh and Brent are still hanging in there, up in Sharon Springs, NY at the Beekman Mansion, with their friends and goats and farm cats and one diva-licious llama. I'm not sure if you should read this before going on to The Bucolic Plague and then watching all of seasons 1 & 2 of The Fabulous Beekman Boys, but having come to it last, I can say that it's added more than a bittersweet note to my perception of them, and it's made Josh, if possible, even more "real."

And though I rarely talk about my own personal life, I will say one last thing about this book: Once upon a time, I, also, was not myself. And while I don't suppose I'll be writing a book about that period of my life anytime soon, I can say, with heartfelt appreciation, that this book has helped me immensely.

And did I mention the outrageous, uproarious laughter? :)

The Devil Wants a Word With You At LSQ

2011-06-01T13:58:00.000-07:00

I kept knocking, but Blogger wouldn't let me in. :( For some reason, today, apparently, I am acceptable. I'll take it while I can.

The new issue of Luna Station Quarterly is live, and you can find a reprint of one of my very favorite pieces, The Devil Wants a Word. Big thanks to Lily Childs for first featuring it during her February Femmes Fatales.

LSQ is run by women and features only female authors. Each issue contains some of the best fantasy, sci-fi, spec fic and general mind-fuckery around. If you're a female author -- go to their submissions page!

In other news, right now I've got two stories in anthologies coming out this fall. One is fantasy, the other magical realism. Unfortunately, I missed a deadline for two submissions last night. I spent a lot of yesterday trying to work out the kinks in one story. Huge thanks to Duni, who helped me work through the "wrong-ness", although I fell down on making it right. Here was the basic issue: My original idea was more suited to a novella. I'm not particularly a "plotty" writer, but this one actually had some twists and mystery. I found it intriguing and exciting enough to write... and then I ran up against a word count limit for this particular submission. I ended up cutting a lot, and it became confusing and all the punch went out of it.

Last night, I was incredibly depressed because I wouldn't make the deadline and couldn't "fix" the story, but today, I'm realizing two things: First, there are more submissions. Goodness, Duotrope never stops updating with possible markets. And second, a story needs to be told the way it should be told. Breaking it will not make it whole again. (er, except in some cases, which is a rambling ponder for another time)

I've also realized that I no longer accept laziness in my own writing. I've always strived to improve, and the craft of writing wholly consumes me, but there are many times when I say, "Fuck it," and send something out, even though a tiny voice inside tells me that no way is that story good enough. I no longer do that, a habit which has been creeping up on me for months. Heck, I've been sitting on a short story for a year now because the right market didn't exist. An editor-friend told me that he'd publish it, even though it went way over his word limit and wasn't exactly what he published, and that was very nice of him. But I said thanks and that I'd wait. And now, a year later, just as I was about to go to bed last night all aggravated with myself, a market for it appears. It's perfect.

So. Time, patience, and effort. Am I surprised that this is what it takes? Yeah, probably. Don't all those other writers just churn out stuff, like, with no effort?

No.

And very clearly can you tell those who do. I don't want to be this second type of writer. I want it to be appear effortless -- but really have taken a lot of hard work. So the story yesterday, the one that tripped me up? It's already in its third or fourth draft, and if it takes six or seven, I'll get it right.

It's hard to type with a kitty on your right elbow. I don't wish to disturb Gryff's snooze, so I'm off. Have a great day.

3 Reasons I love Twitter--music, peace, and sex

2011-05-23T05:32:00.000-07:00

Three reasons I love Twitter:

1. NPR music, of all places, is where I get some great First Listens. This morning, I was stoked to hear My Morning Jacket's new album, Circuital. Especially loved the title track and Wonderful, but overall, it's just a great album. Comes out on the 31st.

And because I have schizophrenic tastes in music, I just got Jeremih's Down On Me, ft. 50 Cent. That is seriously hot. I hear Death Cab for Cutie's new stuff is really good, so I'll give that a listen later.

2. Yoga every morning is great, but taking that state of mind with me throughout the day can be tough. For some reason, the affirmations that show up in my timeline from @earthservant are little moments that pull me back from whatever nonsense I've engaged in right then, and allow me to take a deep breath and remember that it's all supposed to be. Affirmations such as this one:

I know and acknowledge daily that my path is unfolding impeccably with perfect timing.

3. @AviAnswers is a sex shop worker dispensing advice and humor, but mostly, she talks about her day. She says that when she meets someone for the first time, she immediately associates them with a sex toy. I'm dying to know what I am -- I mean, I'm a #14 for sure, right?

Doc Johnson Lucid Dream Ultra Power Multi-Speed, Waterproof G-Spot Vibrator, Twist-bottom Control Purple, batteries included...

And yes, get it in purple. Anyway. Yesterday, Avi tweeted an absolutely beautiful pic, Fat Model Love:

Just gorgeous.

Yes, I'm back online. Life is good. Is this the real life or just Fanta Sea? I'm happy to report that it's Fanta Sea. Don't expect too much -- the time away from the interwebz was refreshing, not painful, and I got a lot done. Ooh, imagine that: lack of interwebz = increased creativity/production.

We've got new neighbors on one side. They are... very friendly. B is standing by the fence last night, smoking a cigar and holding our big boy cat, Gryff, and chatting away. I was outside with the laptop trying to write (I got one in to Lily's this week, if you're keen to try your hand as well), and I hear all this stuff about joining them for their nightly fires and beer. Ugh. Now I'm going to feel as if I can't sit outside every evening that it's nice, just to be outside and have a glass of wine and write. It's what I do in the summer. Now I'll be "unsociable." People! Not everyone wants to chat! Hopefully, B's friendliness and talkativeness will make up for my lack thereof.

What's that? You want more pics of Gryff on my Twitter? You got it!

Have a great day, you little monsters.

Surrealist garden; Serious Confession Time; Social Media's making me shake my head

2011-05-15T08:08:00.000-07:00

I have come across the most amazing surrealist garden, and it is in one of my favorite places: Mexico. I just put this on my List of Places I Absolutely Must See.

You can find more pics and info at Lady Lavona's Cabinet of Curiosities (oddly, that's what I call the sex-toy drawer in my nightstand). It reminds me of the movie Labyrinth. And I expect the Great God Pan to come strolling along, grinning, asking me to dance. I would.

*

A Serious Confession: I do not like Neil Gaiman.

There. I've said it. All right, a year or so ago, I was gaga for Gaiman. What happened?

I read The Graveyard Book first, and to say I loved it would be an understatement. And in a whirlwind of sudden, absolute admiration for this marvelous author, I proceeded to read American Gods, Neverwhere, Coraline, and one of the Sandman comics.

And I really, really disliked them all. I wanted to like them. I mean, he wrote The Graveyard Book, which I loved, and besides that... everybody knows that Neil Gaiman is a Genius, First Class, Do Not Pass GO Just Squat On Boardwalk. I mean, everybody knows, right? It's a Universal Fact, right?

I loved Good Omens, but that was co-written with Pratchett. I wonder if what I love about it is due to Pratchett, or Pratchett's influence on Gaiman. Either way, it's only in GO and TGB that I find the characters having depth, and that the writing rises about the mundane.

Also, there was this thing. Twitter.

And here I devolve into a discussion of social media and why I am increasingly disillusioned. Two of the first people I followed on Twitter were Gaiman and Joe Hill. I have unfollowed both since. Because I dislike their writing? No. I unfollowed both because they're pretentious twats who use Twitter as their blog instead of, you know, blogging and tweeting the link. Not to mention, the amount of smugness and self-importance exuded by these two knows no bounds. I may not agree with someone's political views or personal philosophies, and I wouldn't unfollow based solely on that. And perhaps there is some degree here of sexism, and why Men Succeed Where Women Don't -- because of their apparent natural born arrogance, their absolute certainty of their own intensely high worth. Meh. I don't know. They're both fucking annoying, so I hit unfollow and breathed a sigh of relief.

Will I still buy Hill's books? Sure. Gaiman? No. And not because of Twitter, but because I really, really don't like his writing.

Man. I felt totally uncomfortable saying this out loud, but last night, on a whim, I googled, "I don't like Neil Gaiman." Hello, fellow peeps! I had no idea there were so many of you! Including Quentin Crisp. Crisp make a valid argument, and he arrived at it the same way I did, essentially -- through reading, and through a vague, growing disenchantment that turned into outright dislike.

That's all. One last thing: someone just tweeted a link to a site that lets you keep track of who unfollowed you on Twitter. Unlike LJ, you don't receive notifications. One day you've got 60, next day 58, and who is gone? Who knows? Well, this site knows. While that's interesting -- and the majority, I find, are spammers who you didn't follow back within a 7-day time frame -- what I disliked was the company's assertion that you can use this to "call out unfollowers!" Dear lord. Are we that juvenile? Yes, actually. I see it all the time on Twitter. I don't get that -- why would you do that? If they weren't spammers, maybe they just decided you no longer interested them. So? Maybe you don't have anything in common with them. Whatever. It's akin to people on LJ posting that they've been de-friended. Get the fuck over it. Are you serious? Since when did following and friending become lifetime committments? And when did unfollowing and de-friending become personal attacks?

Maybe I've just got too much on my plate these days (and I do, and if I don't get some serious time off soon, I'm going to have a meltdown), but in the vast universe of What's Important, this sort of stuff is barely asteroid dust. Let them burn on entry, shooting stars when you look up. And then turn back to your book and your flashlight, snuggle deeper into your sleeping bag, and remember that in the dark, the monsters in the forests come out to snatch away people who are foolish enough to sleep alone in fields at night. ;-)

Hasta la vista, babies. I've got fic to write. But first, some french toast and coffee...

The distraction of the Internet; Book Review: Winterlong by Elizabeth Hand

2011-05-12T05:00:00.000-07:00

A Publishers Weekly article on the distraction of the internet. The internet is not to blame for your unfinished novel. You are.

What? I beg to differ! No, honestly, it's a good article about -- Le Gasp -- willpower, and why Shakespeare would tweet sonnets. I think. I lost interest halfway through and went to look at cute baby bunnies cuddling on skate boards.

The non-smart-ass truth? My computer was out for most of the day yesterday, and I had an unexpected day off. I ended up going to the tawdry coffee shop again and sitting at a table next to a Bible discussion group in which the word "masturbation" was overhead twice. The upshot? I finished a chapter of the book and re-wrote the ending to a short story. That ending had been bugging me. Every time I opened the doc, I'd read it and think it was perfectly fine. But I'd walk away and think, "No, no. It's not fine." And it wasn't. Without the doc there on the screen, I just visualized what I wanted and wrote it. Perfection. Now I'm happy.

I wrote until my hand hurt. Yes. If you're not used to writing longhand, it's a bit difficult to write that much. But over four pages later, I'm super pleased. $1.30 for a coffee is a small price to pay for a solid hour of writing.

Do you prefer writing things out in a notebook or typing? Does the thought of not having your computer for the day terrify you? Do you have the interwebz open while writing, just so you can "check"?

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Book review: "Winterlong" by Elizabeth Hand. Spec fic/SF.

I read the 1997 reprint edition, which has an author's note at the end reflecting on the writing of this, her debut novel. So first, a couple of things: It took Hand approximately twenty years to write this (gorgeous, seriously fucked up but in a beautiful, beautiful way) book, and also, the book is composed of every single thing she loved: sex, punk rock, the theater, Catholic ritual, myth, Pinocchio, talking animals, and a few other things.

It's incredible.

Taking place in a post-apocalyptic Washington, D.C. that has become overrun by feral plague children and been divided into sections where whores and Curators live and work, it's a tale of genetic research and the search for something to follow, a tale of becoming human, a story of sex and myth. Or mutant prostitutes, as Hand's boyfriend disparagingly called it in the 70s.

First appearing in print in 1990, it almost immediately became a cult classic, and Hand's body of work since then (which I shall be reading ALL OF, and SOON) reflects on many of the same themes: the outsider, the search for meaning, and issues of gender identity. Do not read this book if you are easily offended by incest, medical research, or murder.

You won't find a single cliche as you read, switching between the perspectives of long-lost sister and brother, Wendy Wanders and Raphael Miramar. You might need a dictionary. You will find your head blown apart.

If I have a criticism, it's that the ending somewhat disappointed, in that, "Yeah, I guess it had to happen, but..." kind of way. It's a valid choice, and a culmination of everything Hand had previously put forth, so maybe I'm just a kid of the 1980s film scene, and I want a neatly-tied bow, complete with things being blown up.

Throw in romance and a descent into madness, and you've got a compelling read unlike anything else. A stunning book, highly recommended, especially if you don't like your female characters conveniently killed off when it suits the male protagonist.

I think I owe a huge debt to The Rejectionist right now.

Srsly. It's, like, priced from a buck or so, used. GET IT.

I can't tell if I'm part of the problem or the solution

2011-05-09T05:28:00.000-07:00

Our job this day is to become part of the answer to the world's immense and protracted suffering rather than continuing our ancient task of being part of the difficulty.

~Hugh Prather

Via -- be warned, there are cute naked gay boys all over that link.

I do believe, strongly, in the above quote. And I try my darndest, every day, to be part of the solution. I realize that, on occasion, I fall down in this area. But I'm trying. And so I will today.

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Agent Rachelle Gardner answers a question from "A Conscientious Writer" regarding asking a published author to read your un-published work. Her answer is entirely graceful, and I'll remember this later on.

Of course, I'm so shy, I never ask anyone but good friends to read my stuff first. However, a lot of people overcome their own shyness, or maybe they're just far bolder than I any day. I used to write fanfic, and as a ff author of some popularity, I would get asked to read and beta work on the average of once a week. This quickly became too much for me, as even reading a short story and making thoughtful comments on the work could take up to an hour of my time, sometimes more. My response automatically became this: Thank you for asking. I'm glad you enjoy my work so much. Unfortunately, I don't have the time right now. Here are some places where you can go to ask for help/critique/beta readers: (insert list, complete with links). Good luck with your story!

Here is where I attempt to fold the world of fandom with that of traditional publishing. If I asked an author for their opinion of my ms and they told me they didn't have time, I would not A. Not reply to this at all, B. Beg them to reconsider, or C. Berate/threaten them.

A simple, "Thanks, anyway!" goes a long way. A was most common, but there was a lot of B. And C usually went along the lines of, "I have been a long-time reader and reviewer of your work but now I am never going to read anything of yours again!"

Some right now are thinking, "Well, that's fandom. They're all nuckin' futs." However, having been around the blogosphere for a couple of years now... There's some pretty, shall we say, quirky folks out there. I'm actually wondering how often this happens to published writers. We've all read the rejection letters they've received, and their general writing tips to other writers, and the stories of how they finally found an agent, but what about what happens when they reach that stage of popularity where requests to read ms's are rolling in? LOL. I would like to read some of that.

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Good news: Two acceptances recently. One is a reprint of a story which is a favorite of mine, and I'm thrilled that it will find a new audience to tease and seduce. The other is an unpublished short story which will appear in an anthology this fall. There's a lot to say about that one, but I'm holding off for now until more pieces are in place. There's dragons.

Sadly, I have suddenly fallen into a place of regret regarding the lost work on the destroyed USB. I can't help thinking of four short stories which I absolutely loved, and I had worked on them in bits over the course of a year. I must let go, I know!

Time for a bit of yoga before work.

Pics of Free Comic Book Day! And then self-pimpage

2011-05-07T14:48:00.000-07:00

Today is Free Comic Book Day. If you've got a shop near you and it's still open, go! Go, my friend, like the wind in Superman's underpants! For they have free comic books for you! Yes, it's a national thing. Trust me.

Our particular shop, voted Best in Detroit multiple times, is Green Brain in Dearborn. I usually go once a month on a Wednesday, when the new The Walking Dead comes out. And if you are a TWD comic fan and would like to discuss it, contact me. Ahem. Today at the Green Brain, they had a thumpin' dj first. I likey the techno, I must admit. They also had raffles every hour, which I did not win (guess I'll just have to buy that GB t-shirt now), four comic book artists who I do not know but who apparently are big news, and free sketches for kids. The free comics were stacked in two long rows, and you could pick any three. Three! Plus, if you brought in canned food for the Gleaners, you got three more, and if you brought in old cell phones for the military, you got three more. Did not know. Because I wanted more than three, I should tell you. Tried to talk B into getting three that I wanted, but he picked three of his own liking.

The scene initially:

It got quite a bit more crowded after this. Such a diverse crowd, too. Loved seeing the little ones there, picking out their comics! For free comics, they had a selection from young children's comics to more mature ones.

Me with my bag of free comics:

I got: Mouse Guard, Joe Hill's Locke and Key (which I've heard a lot about, and you all know I'm a huge JH fan, so I've got high hopes with this one), and The Darkness Confession (which, if you see the cover, you will know immediately why I had to have it). Oh, okay, here's the cover:

Yeah. Ehm. Uh-huh. I hope he takes his clothes off. Anyway!

B got, in case you were wondering, Lady Death (which looks awesome), Spontaneous and Civil War Adventure.

Last pic: After the dj, they had the Found Object Orchestra playing live. This guy had his trombone (TROMBONE!) hooked up to this homemade thingamajig that made his trombone sound like... other things. This is a terrible description. Suffice to say, it was a lot of fun.

They had a euphonium, too. Who the hell plays the euphonium? Like I said, lots of fun.

Self-pimpage time! In addition to my winning entry over at Lily's place, Girls Club, I wrote an additional piece titled Fingerprint. Both 100 words.

And I've found time, finally, to get back into the novel I've barely touched for the past month since starting my new job. As expected, things are *finally* settling down, and I can get back to work doing what I love best. I'm also working on a short story about the Plague, or rather, a Plague. It's strange and scary -- to me -- so I think I must be doing something right. I wish I had time for more challenges and to write for more anthologies, but we'll see. Right now, I've got a lot on my plate.

Thanks for stopping by! And if you went to your local comic book store for FCBD, what did you get????

Six, to Be Specific

2011-04-30T15:00:00.000-07:00

A Numbre of Goode Things Wich Hath Happen'd To Me

1. Regaining a sense of humor after several severely humorless weeks. This should go under, "Things Which are Bad for my Readers."

2. Got back into the Prediction! Dissection and other pastimes of young girls: Girls Club. Come and join the fun! What can you do with cut, neglect, and syrup?

3. Thanks to the ethereal Madames Asuqi et RR Kovar, my Pagan fantasy fic is turned in. Look, you still have until midnight tonight, and the minimum is 1,000 words. Misanthrope Press -- A rare opportunity, for how many Pagan anthologies are out there? Not to mention that the Misanthropers are really lovely people.

4. I've got a new Sirius radio for my truck! I adore satellite radio. I switched years ago when Howard Stern left terrestrial radio, and I haven't looked back. Book Radio is occasionally good as well, such as when I listened to a chapter a day of Jane Eyre last fall (my favorite book). RawDog, 80s channel, Bluesville... Believe it or not, Playboy Radio is by far the most boring.

5. Six Sentences featured my piece, Genuine, last week. (I'm just catching up) Thanks, Robert McEvily!

6. You may remember that I adored the BronxZoosCobra until that bitch sold out. But never fear! I have a new, adorable Twitter crush! Iceland. @thisisiceland Yes, the country. And if you have something to say to Iceland, Iceland will reply! Yes! I love Iceland. I want to pet it and hold it.

Lalalalala! A lot of boring things, but it's good to be back and blogging somewhat regularly again. We'll see how my May schedule goes.

An afternoon with a Beekman Boy

2011-04-29T17:57:00.000-07:00

What better way to celebrate a day off -- a Friday, no less! -- than to meet Josh Kilmer-Purcell?
Beer. Well, yes. And so there was beer, too. Not with Josh, alas, though we extended the invite. :)
At Shuler's Books in Lansing, MI, we went to hear Josh read from the hysterical, touching book, The Bucolic Plague, an account of how he and his boyfriend, Brent, left the big city to become gentlemen farmers in upstate New York. Josh started on time (a big deal to me!), was adorable in person, and read the section about meeting Martha Stewart. Then we got to ask questions, and finally, we lined up to get our books signed.

Brian poses

Becky poses. :)

Josh signs. I don't know why this one came out so funky.

Aaand... the model walk! Very nicely done, Mr. Kilmer-Purcell and Audience Lady!

We had a fabulous time, and will definitely go out to see him again. He even remembered that I'm the shy girl who couldn't talk on the phone to him last year when Brian asked him to call me and wish me a happy birthday and he agreed! How incredibly nice is that! And I freaked out. Sheesh.

Yes. If you ever think to yourself, "She can't be as shy as she says she is, " YES I AM. I could barely talk to him today, and when he asked if I was still shy and I said yes, he hugged me anyway! What a wonderful person.

Also, he made me cry when he talked about Brent.

Okay, so we're back to work this weekend, both of us. Lastly, if anyone's got some time to read a short story for me, I'd be much obliged. First person to email me at: gshep72 AT sbcglobal DOT net

Thanks, everyone!

Pagan anthology: Got something?

2011-04-26T12:18:00.000-07:00

I know this is short notice, but the deadline to submit to Misanthrope Press' pagan anthology, "Etched Offerings," is this Saturday, April 30th. Some of you, like me, are interested in/delve into alternative religions and belief systems, so I thought it would be very cool if any of my author-friends got a story in.

I started mine a month ago, thinking I had until May 30th. Wrong! So now I'm in a big push to finish it and make it perfect for submission. Working six days a week doesn't help, but one must have priorities. (Laundry? Dinner? Pfft!)

Submissions guidelines HERE. I appreciate that they tell you what they don't want, specifically. Also, Misanthrope are the publishers of Title Goes Here, the horror mag I recently had the pleasure of having a story in. Great people to work with.

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Automata Taxidermy by amandas-autopsies on DA.

Click on the link. It's a wind-up box of a little circus, and it has moving parts! This is so fabulous, I can't stand it.

Boing!

2011-04-24T18:08:00.000-07:00

Via.

Hilarious, but for an intriguing, thought-provoking look at modern art that has got some religious fanatics' panties in a twist, Eclectix, one of my favorite art blogs, has a great article: In the Name of God--Art, Censorship and Hypocrisy. Not for the easily offended, and some is NSFW.

It bothers me that a certain nutcase from Florida wants to come to my town, Dearborn, MI, next week and burn a Koran in front of the Islamic Center of America. But I'm torn. I can't say that he shouldn't be allowed to do so, as that is the same as saying that the above pieces of work shouldn't be shown. This isn't First Amendment rights; it's about universal tolerance. I've said all my life that while I may not like what you have to say, I would defend to the death your right to say it. To take away that right would be a blow to humanity, no matter what message the idiot with the ridiculous mustache and leather biker jacket (oooh, Pastor Jones, you are so cool! let me burn a Koran next to you!) is putting forth.

Our local court, btw, denied him the right to "protest" Sharia and extreme, militant Islam, on the grounds that it would incite a riot. Still, he says he'll be back this Friday.

So much is done in the name of religion. So much that is tragic and sad. We could all use a bit more of that universal tolerance.

Did not go to MIL's today. The last thing she wrote in the infamously nasty three-page letter a while back was, "I am making Easter dinner and you are invited. OH THATS RIGHT YOUR NOT RELIGIOUS." Accompanied by scribbled underlinings and a plethora of exclamation points. She clearly stabbed the page a couple of times. At any rate, I didn't think that the invitation merited an RSVP, and then there was the three pages before that... Yeah. Did not go. Fallout might be spectacular, but I'm hoping she simply writes us out of the will and never talks to us again.

Happy Easter.

New Story at Title Goes Here!

2011-04-17T10:09:00.000-07:00

Thrilled to be in the newest issue of Title Goes Here with my short story, "Itch." Like horror? Ever had a bit of the grungy, itchiness between your toe? Muahahahahaha!

TGH is by Misanthrope Press, and it's published in both print form and .pdf. Aside from my chapbook, this is the first time I've had a short story in print, and I'm filled with devilish excitement. Issue 7 is 52 pages long and has great artwork as well, so check it out and buy a copy! Please? *puppy dog eyes*

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On the heels of my recent post about an author publishing the stats of their e-book sales comes this highly informative article by mid-list author Tobias Buckell. Graphs! Charts! Intriguing numbers, and I appreciate the work that went into his pricing/sales experiment. Definitely worth a look -- it's food for thought. And honestly, getting numbers like this really brings reality home; you may hear over and over that being a writer means making no money and that you shouldn't expect much, regardless if you choose traditional publishing or self or e-pub, but in the backs of our minds, are we not thinking we are all the next Amanda Hocking or JK Rowling? Indeed.

Thanks so much, Aidan Fritz, for the link.

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Island Coconut recently came back in stock; it's one of the most popular K-cups for the Keurig ever, and it's only a seasonal flavor. I got two boxes pronto, because even though I'm not a big coffee drinker, I absolutely love being in the kitchen in the morning when B is brewing his. Every single time, I feel transported. Crazy, I know, but if inhaling a little coffee aroma makes me so happy, who am I to complain or feel silly?

I also bought the TEAser tea infuser. I'm hugely into tea, and loose tea is certainly superior to bagged. My only issue is that, throughout the years, I've yet to find an infuser that is convenient and easy to use, and that doesn't finish infusing while still leaving leaves in my tea. The closes I came was the Bodum, and I do love my Bodum; it makes stellar coffee as well. But still, I searched for something better. The TEAser was a special of the day, and after watching the accompanying video, I got pretty excited and ordered it. Having used it quite a bit for the past two weeks, I can report that it not only works as expected, but that I'm over the moon about it. Hands down, best infuser ever.

The single review is positive, though the reviewer worries about the apparent delicate nature of the lid. Considering how incredibly clumsy I am, this has performed well in that area as well. Very impressed. In fact, I'm drinking a nice Irish Breakfast tea right now!

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That's it for today. My new job (while still working old one as well) is taking a lot of my time and energy, and I've been working diligently on a novel. More on that at the end of the month. And I'm reading the best book in a while, "Winterlong" by Elizabeth Hand. So far, 2011 has not been a year for good reading, hence the low number of book reviews. I swore not to write anymore negative reviews, so... Yeah. But Winterlong is astounding, and unless it has a terrible ending, I will probably be giving this one a "must read!" review. Have a great Sunday, everyone!

A Killer Chick's e-pub stats; Free Things!

2011-04-07T06:09:00.000-07:00

Jennifer Colgan of the Killer Chicks did a short stats review of her recent self-pub/e-pub of her out-of-print titles. If you'd like the rundown, click here. I found it interesting, and I'd like to see more authors do this, though I don't suppose it can be expected.

The Killer Chicks' blog is highly recommended for all sorts of discussions of the writing world.

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And now, free things!

Victoria Strauss of Writer Beware! is the author of two fantasy novels. The first, The Arm of the Stone, is available free this month as an e-book from Phoenix Pick. And the sequel, The Garden of the Stone, is half-price. What a deal!

Over at The Leaky Pencil, Chris Allinotte is offering free e-book copies of Eight Days of Madness, an anthology of twisted, rusty-coat-hanger-of-the-psyche stories from his recent Madness in March. Some great authors in this anthology with tales to tell of people losing their minds (OR ARE THEY).

Here is adorable vintage teapot clipart. Maybe you will use it to make me a card with a glittery, magical teapot. A collage of teapots, or teapot and bunnies. I am very generous in letting you choose here. It's all about creative freedom.

This last item is not free BUT IT IS PORN:

I got excited when I thought there was a new press devoted to audiobooks of steampunk erotica. How cool would that be? But alas, I misunderstood. However, over at Forbidden Steam and Morbid Romantica, you can find out about a publisher of erotica who does only offer audiobooks. The cool part? They have books for men and women, and you can choose to have your book read by a male or female voice. They do genre fic, I see, and offer levels of erotica, from GoodGirl (*yawn*) to hardcore.

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I start my new job today. I'm excited/terrified. Wish me luck. I've got a terrible cold, but I don't want to call out on my first day. I'm in bad shape, though.

I thought I had a new horror short story up today, but the place that accepted it just published their monthly web edition, and I'm not in it. However... they do a print edition each quarter, and it comes out next week. They asked me a few days ago for an updated bio, so is it possible I misunderstood and my crazy/freaky/gross horror story will be in print next week? Whooo, that would be cool.

Have a nice Thursday, folks.

Writing Advice from The Rumpus; Pics; Book Review:"Night Animals" by Brecht Evens

2011-04-04T14:53:00.000-07:00

At The Rumpus, their slogan is: Write Like A Motherfucker!

GODDAMNIT, I WILL.

I found this seriously inspiring today. I would get their mug, but the slogan's in the shape of a heart. Which sort of takes the punch out of the phrase. So I think I'll just write it in big, black sharpie on a piece of paper and stick it to the wall. Also inspiring: a conversation with Shell about fiction blending mythology and reality in mind-blowing ways. I got so pumped that I re-wrote the intro to my book, and it rocked! Then I wondered if the beginning of any YA novel should have "whore" three times in the first thousand words. And then I decided that I am writing like a motherfucker and I can use that word whenever I wish.

Been too "safe" lately, anyway.

I've been saying goodbye to some clients because they'll find it too far to travel to find me in my new salon. Here is one of them, Napoleon:

We have a torrid affair of the heart every time we see each other. Here he is saying, "You know I cannot live without you. I will tell my people to bring me to you. Until then, my sweet, I will wail at the moon in my misery."

Read the coolest little graphic novel, "Night Animals" by Belgian cartoonist, Brecht Evens.

A wordless diptych with a central theme of sexuality, Evens tells two stories in a gorgeous, R. Crumb-esque pen-and-watercolor style that I adored. A reviewer points out hints of Gorey as well, which is certainly evident in the darkness of the way the theme is handled, not just the art itself. Note that this might offend some, particularly the second story of a (very) young girl's coming-of-age. For more details, click on the review.

This will be difficult to find. It just appeared in my local comics book store, and they only received one copy. I saw it on a shelf along with other, "arty" books, flipped through it and was intrigued. I'm pleased to have it, as despite having no text, I pored over the pages and took my time with this. The pamphlet itself has a rich, expensive feel to it, and the quality combined with the art and provocative stories makes for a very nice collectible. If you can find it, I'd certainly pick it up. It's just such a wondrous, fantastical little book.

Sorry about the text size changes. Blogger is being exceptionally difficult at the moment, and I'm just about out of patience.

Until next time, friends.

Up at 6S: "Lessons On Salt Water," and Book Review: "Pirate Talk or Mermalade" by Terese Svoboda

2011-04-01T16:49:00.000-07:00

Lessons On Salt Water: My humorous stab at relationships of the... strained sort. If only I were as good a pugilist in real life...

I like Six Sentences, I do. Like the Prediction, it's a challenge.

After you read, you may wonder, "Darling, where did you get the strange idea to tell it like that?" And I will tell you:

"Pirate Talk or Mermalade" by Terese Svoboda, a slim novel told entirely in dialogue, sans the typical quotation marks and dialogue tags. A challenging read, despite the book's slender silhouette.

An amusing tale of two brothers who are pathetic pirates, it follows their misadventures from their life on land with their rope-obsessed mother to various ships, none of which work out well for them. Along the way, meet a (possible) mermaid half-sister and a parrot who shows up at inopportune times to squawk, "Hanged!"

Honestly, it's a bit difficult to describe this book. But the dialogue is effervescent, and Svoboda continually charmed me with turns of phrase and delightful imagery. Not a book for everyone, but a suitable book for those of the peg-legged, one-eyed persuasion, or those who feel romantic longings deep in their parts for such folk.

First Day At the New School; Querying; There will be no funeral

2011-03-31T08:19:00.000-07:00

First Day At The New School

When I was in first grade, we moved halfway through the year. I left behind my best friend Christopher and my boyfriend, Ian. He gave me a Barbie doll the last time we saw each other, which was in his basement, putting magnetic letters up on the side of his family's extra freezer. I took it and left.

Ian's house was also where I had Pop Rocks for the first time. I think my eyes bugged out of my head. Everyone laughed. I opened my mouth and shot someone in the face. Those things are dangerous, but very fun.

I knew everybody at my old school. Christopher and Ian and I had put our three desks together, like a little island. We shared crayons and stuff. At the new school, the desks were all in rows, none touching and you couldn't move them, apparently. They gave me a box of crayons that was missing blue, and they told us to draw a picture of the lawn and sky outside the window. I didn't have blue. I couldn't ask these strangers, none of whom even looked at me. I tried to draw the sky green and put black over it, hoping they would mistake it for blue, but no. The teacher came around and said, "Becky, the sky is blue. Use your blue crayon." She walked on and I tried to put other colors together to make blue, but by the time she came back, my whole sky was a black-brown scribble with bits of red and yellow showing through like some kind of apocalypse was about to descend on the peaceful green grass and little daisies below, and she acted like I didn't know what the color blue was and maybe I was retarded, or maybe I was deliberately disobeying her, and I had to stand in the hall for punishment. Retarded or misbehaving, you got punished either way in those days.

Then later, as if my humiliation wasn't enough, we had to sit in a circle. I thought it was Duck, Duck, Goose. Okay. Cool. I knew Duck, Duck, Goose. Everyone started clapping. WTF? There's no clapping in Duck, Duck, Goose! And they started singing about fireflies and frogs. I started opening and shutting my mouth like a fish, pretending I knew the words, and then I realized that every person had to sing a line of the song. They were coming around. They were getting closer to me. I was so panicked, I couldn't learn the words fast enough.

So when they got to me, I just puked. Right into the middle of the circle. I mean, PUKED. It splattered kids' shoes and the knees of their pants across from me, because everyone was sitting cross-legged. The whole place went silent. And then everyone started saying, "Ew!" and I got hauled up by the armpits and made to stand in the hall again, and a surly janitor came along with his sawdust and mops and glared at me, and the wall was really cold but I couldn't move an inch because I was terrified.

Then my mom came and got me and I stayed on the couch for the rest of the afternoon, watching soaps with her and eating saltines and drinking ginger ale, and I played sick for another day -- actual puke counted for something, as opposed to just saying you "didn't feel so good" -- and when I went back to school, I surreptitiously took a blue crayon from home and put it in the crayon box in my desk at school, and wouldn't you know, that day we were supposed to be drawing what we thought SPACE looked like, and everyone used their black crayons, which I had already scribbled down to a nub when I had tried to make a blue sky. I ended up using my new blue crayon in some spots. The teacher didn't say anything. I think I'd already been labelled.

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Over at BookEnds, Jessica has a short, informative post on querying. Did you know that if you've sent out twenty queries and not received any requests, that something is wrong with your query? I've never written a query, but now I know.

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The official word is in: cue the dramatic, impending-doom music, because my USB is dead. It shorted out, and because everything inside is very tiny, a simple short destroys it all. It was "burnt," they said. Here is a list of some things that were on it that are irrecoverable (some things, very nice people who beta'd for me were able to send me):

The first seven chapters of a steampunk novel involving a brave girl and a bizarre circus and ROBOTS.

The rest of Kai's story, the android from my flash fic, "Organic."

Two creative non-fiction pieces I'd been working on for a year, one on my sadly ignored clit and another on the adventures of my inverted nipples.

A horror story involving a flooded world and strained relationships and red tears.

A short story about a werewolf who's pretty pathetic at being a werewolf and who gets involved in the Detroit werewolf Mafia, much against his will.

Numerous stories that started out with a single paragraph and then I went, "Meh. Kinda sucks," and then I didn't delete it because I can never bear to delete anything, no matter how terrible. (so the universe came along and did it for me)

A bunch of other stuff. I'd been preparing myself for this, and quietly writing a new novel -- YA fantasy, which surprises even me -- to comfort myself, and so, life goes on. Duck, Duck, Goose.

6S

2011-03-27T05:55:00.000-07:00

My first piece up at the 6S Social Network:

Genuine

A direct off-shoot of Six Sentences, where, you might guess, stories must be told in six sentences, no more, no less. My piece over there, At The Last Minute, is probably the most romantic thing I’ve written. At least, I felt it was. I’m not exactly what you might call a “romantic.” But I guess even bitches have a romantic thread running somewhere through their body, waiting for that certain person to come along and pull and unravel all that hard work, all that effort we’ve put into being a castle, a wall, a tower without a Rapunzel.

Art by Byron Eggenshwiler, via.