"Bloodbond" Now Out! Werewolves and vampires and shape shifters...

And shapeshifters, oh my! 

Alban Lake Publishing, home of Aoife's Kiss, a magazine of specfic, and publishers of stand-alone horror and SF novels, has just released "Bloodbond," an anthology of werewolf, vampire and shapeshifter fiction and poetry. Included is my short story, "In the Northern Territories":

Calvin Kilfoil shot the wolf that had been coming around his farm--but come morning, it is not a wolf, but his wife's body laid atop the kitchen table. Faila's father had never been fond of his daughter's husband, but is this murder? He watches Calvin--watches, and waits, along with the rest of the small, isolated town deep in the northern woods. Because blood will *always* tell...

GREAT selection of stories! I just finished reading, and I was really blown away by a couple of them. If you want some good, shiver-inducing fiction, and you want to support a small, independent press, there's no better way to do it than by buying a copy of Bloodbond today!

Fic Rec: Little Faces by Vonda McIntyre; Free Books from Angry Robot

The "little faces" of Vonda McIntyre's story are "companions," ostensibly parasites that exist within the body of a race of female humans (humanoids?). Each one is valued and loved by its host, as they contain the memories and genetic code of past lovers.

There's some strange sex going on in McIntyre's story, and that's the tip of the iceberg. McIntyre has creatively envisioned a universe in which people exist in partnership with organic "ships," which provide them with their individual homes and everything a person could want, from furnishings to sustenance to clothing. A fairly solitary existence, which may span many, many millenia, they do form friendships with others, take lovers, have social gatherings, etc. It is the morning after one such coupling, and Yalnis has awoken to blood: her primary companion has been slain while she slept, by the companion of one who she took into her bed.

Little Faces never loses its sense of oddness, of a totally foreign place, and the immersive details continue to ripple outward as the story progresses, until the reader is so entrenched in this place, that it's difficult to imagine that it doesn't exist, after all.

The story could be a metaphor for women's social interactions in the present time, or it could simply be a brilliant SF tale unlike any you've read before. I'll go with the latter.

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Angry Robots, in conjunction with SFX Magazine, is offering two free books this month: Lauren Beuke's Zoo City and Adam Christopher's Empire State. As I've already read ZC, I picked up the e-pub version of ES, which came out last May and has been on my wishlist ever since. If you haven't read ZC, it's pretty damn cool.

You can find out how to get them here.

As a sidenote, SFX Magazine has Jon Snow and Dany on the cover (well, the actors...), and I've just picked up HBO again and have been catching up on my rewatch of GoT, and it's hard to concentrate on anything else when OMG GAME OF THRONES IS BACK ON SUNDAY!

Fic Rec: Turnover by Jo Walton

Jo Walton has a short story in the new issue of Lightspeed Magazine, Turnover. Set on a spaceship almost halfway to the New World, a group of friends meets at a lunch club in the cosmopolitan metropolis of Speranza and discusses when--and if--they will ever reach their destination, and more importantly, if they even want to arrive.

Nearly a million people live aboard the ship, in a carefully controlled environment that keeps the population steady but diverse: scientists, chefs, poets, engineers and dancers, such as Fedra, who cannot fathom a world in which there is no Ballette, a form of zero-gravity ballet performed to music on the high spans above the glittering city. When they reach the New World, it's assumed they--or rather, their descendants, for the ship's journey will take 250 years--will become farmers, and have to carve a new home out of the planet. With the upcoming Turnover in sight, Fedra realizes she doesn't want the ship to land, that she wishes to live on Speranza forever, and her children, too. In their group, some feel the same, and some are excited by the prospect of their genes living on in their grandchildren, and starting a new life.

Walton does a fantastic job of setting the scene and describing the city, and I must admit that I had thoughts of wanting to stay on Speranza, too. Be a ballet dancer, or walk behind a plow on dusty earth? But it's not that clear, and in a short story, Walton manages to raise a number of issues. If those issues aren't precisely resolved (we do not see another 125 years into the future of Speranza), they're not meant to be.

Were our ancestors who got onto Speranza going to the New World? Were their parents who died on Earth? Were theirs who never even heard of the Starship Project? How about my ancestors dragged across the Atlantic from Africa in the hold of a slaver, were they on their way to the stars?

Beautiful imagery in a very philosophical story. Well worth your time.

FF's Monthly Contest: Grimdark

Fantasy Faction's monthly contests are fun and casual, and the results intriguingly varied. For this month's theme, they chose "grimdark."

I've heard grimdark bandied about in the twittersphere, but never gave the term much thought. It sounds relentlessly oppressive, doesn't it? So I read the discussion thread on FF and did a bit of research, and gave it a go. It was tough not to insert a bit of humor, and honestly, I'm still not sure I've got a good grasp on grimdark. Humorless, dark atmosphere? Mounting casualties? Visceral images of the bloody and beheaded kind? Sad endings?

Maybe. I'll have to do more research. I was careful not to read too much of it in one day, as I didn't want it to influence my own story.

My stab at grimdark is Chirp. A witch's son, a pox-ridden queen, and the language of birds... and arrows.

I suggest if you read the entries that you especially pay attention to ACSmyth's A Deadly Game. Initially thrown off by the somewhat cliche title, man, I got drawn in and was appropriately shocked. Great tale, well told.

Review: Lysistrata of Mars by Tory Hoke

Strange Horizons has a fab one this week: Lysistrata of Mars by Tory Hoke. Kay (let's call her Neon... or Diamond) is about to get evicted from her apartment in Tower Twelve, but that's okay because New Plymouth on Mars is nothing if not just the place for a girl of few skills and a matching set of underwear. After taking a job pole dancing (hey--everybody's got to make a living), she finds things are all right. No real friends, enough money to get by, but she's hanging in there.

Until a Sigma 9 comes to visit the Club and really, really, really likes the way she scratches his head. And Kay lets him know that she has limits, dammit.

Chaos ensues, and if you think the sharp wit and quick pace are ever gonna give up, you would be wrong, dear one. Hoke's got style and flash and substance. Loved this one.

The last Strange Horizons story that I loved this much was, as you may recall, Rachael Ack's Significant Figures, in which Stephen's waffle iron attempts to tell him something very important. What you should take from this is: female SFF writers rock.

Enjoy your day, and remember: aliens are people too. Which means they can be complete douchebags.



*Ahem. Excuse me. I forgot to tell you that LoM is particularly NSFW. I mean, the language itself isn't graphic, and, well... Listen, it's NSFW. So read it now before you go in.

Reviews: Lindqvist's Horror Short Story "Itsy Bitsy;" SF classic "Flowers for Algernon"

As far as vampire books and movies go, nothing can touch the cold, brutal elegance of Let the Right One In. With Halloween around the corner, I may have to watch it again (the Swedish version; I hear the American film is quite good as well but I'm not interested). In the meantime, author John Alvide Lindqvist has a free horror short story available, Itsy Bitsy.

Frank is a paparazzi photographer intent on getting a debt-clearing photo of an actress and her  secret boyfriend. To this end, he's set up camp in a tree on the property beside theirs, with his camera trained on their pool area. When the elusive couple finally appears, Frank clicks away. The results are not what he expected, and when he returns to the spot to figure out what happened, he finds that he was not the only one waiting for someone to come to the pool.

I read reviews before I buy. While I try to avoid spoilers, in this case, it was the lack of spoilers which threw me -- not well reviewed, most readers found the story vague and confusing, and often said they had no idea what happened at the ending or what it meant.

I decided, hey, it's free, and Lindqvist's style and imagination appeal to me, so I'll give it a shot. That said, if I had gone in without reading reviews, I would have figured out what was going to happen by the middle. Instead, I thought that I must be wrong, and I waited for the inevitable cloud of doom to descend on the ending.

While I can't speak for everyone, obviously, let me say this -- the ending is not ambiguous. Lindqvist laid the groundwork and left clues all along, and while the requisite horror "monster" in this case is completely strange and somewhat amorphous, it's just what he puts on the page.

Was I horrified? Not really. The last horror book to electrify me was Hill's Heart-Shaped Box. That's a pretty high bar. But I was quite fascinated and, truly, felt tension and dread at Frank's demise. In addition, the style is fantastic (I'm starting to believe all Swedish writers have a terrifically crisp style that turns words and phrases on their heads) and the pace is brisk. It's not bad, it's a quick read, and it's free. Get it.

*

Flowers for Algernon is often called science fiction (sure, sure, I can see it), but it's far more potent as an allegory for man's search for knowledge. To that end, Keyes often clubs the reader over the head with references to the Biblical Garden of Eden, characters in the university's science department who are arrogant and cold (and therefore destined to fail), and Charlie's own insistence on being seen as a real person. Despite that, Keyes has written an astoundingly powerful and clean, subtle story arc that delivers the message and leaves the reader transformed and emotionally wrecked.



Yes, I was a wreck when Flowers ended. All along, Keyes kept me uncomfortably glued to the page, with scene after scene of the awful, joking treatment that Charlie receives at the hands of his "friends" in the bakery or the distant repugnance he's handled with by the professors at the university where he receives experimental surgery to turn him into a genius. Deft and knowing, Keyes exploits our fears of the mentally retarded, our feelings of superiority, and puts us squarely in Charlie's place. And when Charlie's intelligence grows--past the point where it can be measured--he is once again beyond the realm of understanding, and left alone, by himself, to bear the brunt of fear and hostile jealousies.

Charlie's humanity is apparent throughout, and his struggle to understand, in an extremely short amount of time, what has happened to him not just after the surgery but during his entire life, is compelling. With flashbacks to a tortured, misunderstood childhood and present-day fumblings with women, he is a fully-rounded character like no other in fiction.

I'll make the assumption that everyone, even if you haven't read it, knows Charlie's and Algernon's stories. But that's no reason not to read this; while I felt Buck's Pavilion of Women was thought-provoking (see my previous review), Flowers far outstrips it and packs a wallop of an emotional punch, as well.

                         

"Chicken" at 101 Fiction, and A Word to My Neighbors

It's fitting that 101 Fiction's inaugural issue in its new format concerns rebirth and seasons of change--eight bantam-sized tales under the banners of "phoenix" and "autumn." Read all 800 words meson by neutron, or download the PDF here.

My contribution is Chicken, in which the bird is cursed, and the matriarchal line finds its mouth filled with ashes. A favorite from the series is Kymm Coveney's Implosion. Vivid, violent imagery.

A wonderful selection of flash fic edited by John Xero.

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If you were here last time I blogged (you were probably knee-high to a grasshopper then), I have completed my first goal, which was chapter one of the yarn. It's rough, I have ideas to change it, but no matter, it's a chapter a week, and I'm onto chapter two.

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I have neighbors. We mostly do, in this world. I try, personally, to be a decent neighbor: keep my area fairly neat, not overgrown with weeds or encroaching on someone else's property. I keep the music to a tolerable level. I don't watch porn on the big screen t.v. with the curtains wide open at seven in the evening. My fornicating is tender and hot and kept to a reasonable level of noise; I've not found that screaming, anyway, does anything for the process. I think 1:30 in the morning is a good time to sleep, and not to light a fire in the backyard, bring out the radio, laugh like a horse's ass, and fuck my husband beside the climbing rose and hostas.

I'll give my neighbors this: they mow the grass often enough, and I don't give a shit if they want to cover their yard with resin cats with chipped ears and ten of those spinning laser-cut multi-color sun-catcher things they sell at every garden store. Hey, express your individuality on your own postage-stamp of earth in the way you see fit. Except...

For fuck's sake, don't scream and moan from 1 to 3 a.m. so that I can hear you over your turned-up-to-10 heavy metal, and if you decide to take your antics outside, expect me to call the police.

I will say this. The expression on their faces when the officer shined his light on them was hilarious. And maybe they'll get the picture now. Speaking of which, yes, they are the ones watching porn (A LOT OF PORN) on their big screen in front of a picture window with the curtains left open. While at first we laughed, I do think about the people walking by in the evening, and how some may have kids. That's a concern.

They're exhibitionists. I get it. But I'm not amused, and they can go somewhere else and let others, who may appreciate it, in on their lovemaking.

For the record, I'm down with whatever freakiness you got going on. Trust me, I've seen/read it all, and I may have participated in more than my fair share. I'm not offended.

I just want to get some sleep.

Free Reads: Everything Scary is Underground

I've been in the midst of writing and reading again, which is a nice change of pace from staring out the window with wibbling chin. Let me say that the sudden resurgence in these two activities stems directly from cutting one day of work per week. I realize not everyone can do this. All I can say is that I went from five days to four, and while I still spend two of my days off doing errands, yard and house work, I have one complete day to myself, in addition to a couple of mornings where I go in late (and work late). I'm glad I did it, and I wonder what might help you free up some time for yourself, time to read, write, draw, arrange stones in lewd patterns on neighbors' lawns while they are otherwise engaged. Build fairy ladders in the trees. That end at fairy porn shops. Whatever your little heart needs, pervert.

I recently got an iPad, and downloaded the Kindle app for it, so I've been finding out what everyone else already knows: e-readers are actually not the devil's work. Oh, you want that book? Click. But what I like best are things I want to read that are FREE.

So here's a couple of recommendations that are free to read if you've got an e-reader:

1. Grim Corps, a literary magazine with a heavily specfic, leaning towards horror, bent. Published biannually, their Feb. 2013 issue is chock full of good stories. "When Momma Comes to Visit" is particularly horrifying. Although I guessed Barker's intent at the beginning, that didn't stop the story from building to a perfectly scary climax.

2. Wool by Hugh Howey: The first novella in a series, it's free to read. How smart of Mr. Howey. Read it, and you'll inevitably end up buying the Omnibus (the collected five novellas), as I did. Wool is set in a near-distant future in which the worst has happened: the world has been destroyed, and the remaining humans live in the Silo. The only home they've ever known, for generations upon generations, the Silo is about 150 levels deep into the ground, with cameras at the surface and screens in the cafe so the Silo's residents can see the wasteland outside--and remain grateful for what they've got inside. It's a boring, mechanical Utopia, with marriages by committee and children by lottery, food and clothing for chits, and everyone in their place. Boring except for the uprisings that occur every so often. No one really understands what might have caused the uprisings in the past, but in the first part of Wool, the secrets of the Silo start to unravel, and as bits and pieces of the puzzle come together across the other novellas, the mystery turns out to be far more than encompassing, more shocking and dangerous, than anyone expected.

Nothing in Wool is black and white; expect to waver as the story grows more and more intense. Solid writing, great world-building; the apocalypse done with fresh creativity.





All right then. Enjoy your day, and if you know of something free to read that I might enjoy, let me know.

xx
RS

A SF Short Story Rec and Possible New Blog Titles for the Not-Yet-Thoroughly Disinterested

I cannot rec this any more highly: Professor Incognito Apologizes by Austin Grossman. Advice on apologizing to an SO who found your death ray.

Seriously. Grab a muffin, power spinach-kelp-treebark smoothie or whatever you crazy kids prefer, and read this. Better than hot yoga or that workout that's supposedly used by Israeli soldiers to teach you to kill someone with your feet. I read it last night before bed and it kept me up giggling. And possibly with thoughts of world domination.

Who am I kidding. World domination's been on my mind since I was seven and told my sister to eat the poison berries by the old shed*. Hey, if I'm going to be ruler of the world, it's total loyalty or nothing.

*

Think I'm going to change this blog title to "R.S. Bohn -- Starer into Space." Or, "R.S. Bohn -- I Can't Find Anything Good to Read and I'm Getting Whiny." Hopefully, the second one will be null and void after I take on Icelander by Dustin Long. And there's the Clarke Award winner, announced last night: Dark Eden. I'm normally put off by incest (I know; weird, right?), but this sounds properly balls-to-the-wall and post-apocalyptic. Unless it's Deliverance set underground. Which would be scary. So we'll see.

I'm going to write something today. Even if it's just twenty words like yesterday. No! I'm going to write twenty-nine, at least.

Enjoy your smoothies.




*She lived. Apparently, poison berries burn your mouth, and demanding total loyalty gets one's butt whupped and grounded for a week.

Fic Rec: Text Messages From A Ghost

Text Messages From a Ghost is just what you might think -- a series of text messages between a guy and the ghost in his phone. A friendship develops that is humorous, melancholy, and, in the sequel, bittersweet enough to make this girl cry. Mallory Ortberg leaves just enough unsaid, and the medium is perfect for the unraveling tale of a man and his ghost. And Julia. And that cat! And -- Look, just go read them yourself. It's short and perfect. And seriously, I cried at the end.

Ortberg also writes text message conversations between a variety of others, including du Maurier's Rebecca that is spectacularly psychotic.

Discovered via Art of Darkness, a never-ending trip into the fascinating, and superlatively creative, darker side of our world.

The Xeroversary

What is the Xeroversary? Let's see, shall we?


Year Xero

"I thought you'd be happy."

He fingered the rose, black petals even then dropping onto the floor.

"I am, Sia. It's..." He swallowed, willing the words to come as naturally as possible. "A new world. We are born again in their love."

She nodded slowly, staring at him as if reading his thoughts. Of course she couldn't. She was organic, as was he. They would have to fool each other the old-fashioned ways. But when he left the apartment, it would indeed be a new world. And fooling the mechs would be much more difficult than lying to one girl.

She grasped his hands. "Say it with me."

"Year Xero," he intoned with her. "The year we were raised up. We praise our lords, the X77. May they rule always, in our hearts and minds. May they show mercy on our sub-standard existence."

He was disturbed the light in her eyes as she said the words. More disturbing was the new tattoo on her wrist, a circle of flashing data. She was linked to them now, a verified follower. A true believer.

"It's beautiful," he said.

She hugged him. "Isn't it, Hart? Don't you want one, too?"

"Oh, I do," he said. "But not right now. I'm not feeling well. Thank you for the roses. I think I need to lie down for a bit."

Out the door he guided his transformed girlfriend, her hair cut neat and short, her tattoo winking in the gloom of the corridor. He locked it behind her and went to the window, watching rain fall from a dark sky. Glowing spires blinked, transmitting information across the globe. In the street, the gleaming bodies of mech agents of order glided along, stopping the random pedestrian without a tattoo.

It was a new day. A new world. Year Xero.

Hart Sklar took the ragged roses from the sill and put them in the rubbish bin. And then he went online for the last time, just to send out one last message across the subdued message boards of the world:

Today is year one. 

He signed off. He had no idea, exactly, what he'd meant. But they'd be here soon, to investigate. He got his things together and slipped out of the building and into dark rain, trembling. First stop: the used bookstore in district two.

If he made it.


*

This week is the Xeroversary, a celebration of flash fiction at the blog of esteemed host, John Xero. Seven days, seven new worlds to string you up by your heels.

One of 'em might be mine.

Fantasy and speculative fiction, darkest horror and sci-fi myth and madness.

It starts off with Marble, a singularly disturbing tale of a young king and his mother, who brings him a present unlike any other. I loved this -- run and read now!

xx

RS
  

Gargoyles and s/D

yt sumner's back with her You-and-Me postcard series. Behold, #52! Gargoyle. Yes.

The premise is simple: You send her a postcard, and she writes a story in 300 words or less. The results so far have been amazing, thought-provoking and gorgeous. I sent one in last year. You should too.

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But you wanted to read something non-fiction, but also breathtakingly honest and beautiful. A memoir to stop you in your tracks. In that case, you must read Elissa Wald's essay, Night Shifts . Does everyone have a night self? I'm not sure. But I do know this: Wald's strength as she navigates an unfolding landscape of belts, phone sex, and the change from secret fantasies to nights spent comforting a frightened child is remarkable. This one stays with you.

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I continue to write, secure in the fact that it is all shit. Some people read many books at a time; I can only devote myself to one. But I'm a whore in my writing, going to bed with whatever red-sequinned words catch my attention at the moment. Hopefully, in the end, dawn will break on one of them and it will not be ugly.

via HRMTC via hexenhaus

Willie sings Nirvana; small stone, day 21

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

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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.

"The Husband" Now Up at The Corner Club Press

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.

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

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!

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

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,

R

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

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

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? :)

New Story at Title Goes Here!

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!

"Corazon" by Katherine Tomlinson over at ATON; DropBox

Katherine Tomlinson's fresh, gritty re-telling of "Romeo and Juliet" puts a spin -- or two -- on the tale. I loved it.

Corazon

And don't make the mistake I did of saying, "Clever! But I know this story..." Hmmm, maybe not!

Romeo and Juliet by Ulafish

I've got to thank Aidan Fritz for recommending DropBox to me. Since I signed up, I've been loving it. Basically, it puts an icon on your desktop. Once something is in your DropBox, it is on each computer you have and on the DropBox website. So if your computer crashes, you can access your account from another computer, or if you are at someone else's house without your computer, you can use theirs to get your stuff. In addition, it's accessible from your phone, and there is a "public" folder that gives items their own URL. If you want to share an item in your public folder with someone, you just copy/paste the URL and they can see it -- but they can't see anything else, just the single item.

Everything that was on USBs that still work has now been transferred there, as well as new work. And hopefully, tonight, I'm going to see the computer repair guys, and if they can get my data from the busted USB, I'll put all that stuff in my DropBox as well.

Did I mention how much I love it?

Thanks, guys, for all your support when I was having a meltdown over this. :)