"One Night" -- winner of the last Prediction; and "Instrument of Fate" lives on

Mystic Signals, featuring my short story, "Instrument of Fate," is available at Amazon:

Thank you to editor Carol Hightshoe; the issue is beautiful.

"Instrument of Fate" is not only one of the short stories dearest to my heart (maybe the most dear), but it started as a bit of fun over at Lily's Friday Prediction. How many ways has the Prediction affected everyone who participated? It's impossible to know.

And this week, the last time ever at Lily's place, I had the great honor of my "bit of fun" being selected as the winner. Congratulations to Aidan and asuqi as well.

Here it is...

One Night

Young moon fell to the green shore and immediately impersonated a shell. Beneath the waves, glistening like pearl, her elegant shape drew a traveler.

Pulled from the cold sea, water ran in rivulets along her curving spine. Warm fingers traced ancient bone, delving inside to feel the smoothness, while drops fell upon the blue-veined wrist. Moon sighed.

When the traveler peered inside, she was captured within the spiral, her spirit a lonesome helix in the shell.

Moon fell to her new knees and shoveled sand with trembling hands, burying the shell. Until the tides' reveal, she would be free.


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When people comment on the Mythos behind a short piece, I struggle not to add it to my growing list of short stories/novellas. But... but... there is something there, in the stars and planets and moons and suns, able to steal our souls. For a bit.

And lastly (as she deliberately turns a blind eye to exploration of that idea), a bit of Mythos in my new flashfic, Scribe, written for a contest. Dragons and a small, ancient race. I do think of backgrounds for all shorter pieces. For example, why are there no mentions of mothers or children in The Scribe? ;)

This post makes me seem prolific. I like that. Even if it's not exactly true.

Dream on, fellow egrets.

Manglefoot vs. The Beast -- flash fic

For weeks, a robin hopped around our backyard. He flew short, low distances, into the lilac, atop the woodpile. Mostly he hung around the feeder. He had an odd hop, complete with wing that stretched out to balance him. One day, I got a good look with my binoculars. His right leg hung by a thread, the useless part dragging like the end of a ragged fishing line. I called him Manglefoot. He could still hunt earthworms, head cocked, listening, and then yanking them from the ground.

I haven't seen Manglefoot in a week now. I worry. There aren't too many stray cats in the neighborhood, and my yard is fenced. But still. I know it's not good news for a disabled wild thing. Maybe this is the end of his story:

Manglefoot vs. The Beast

The garage roof was far too peaked for a secure perch, but with puffed red chest, Manglefoot made his stand.

Then again, he thought as he tumbled gracelessly to the ground below, one could always make one's stand from a cracked patio paver.

Menace and furry heaved its frothy-jawed bulk at him; a blur of black and white fur that was only, humiliatingly, eight weeks old. Manglefoot opened his beak and screeched before thrusting with his patented earthworm-slaying stab, guaranteed to nail the largest, fattest worm or the eye of the evilest pup.

Perhaps, he mused, he shouldn't have sipped so much dandelion dew that morning. For his always-accurate, never-miss stab plonked the pup's delicate nose, with howling results. Chubby pink belly pitched back and forth as the beast cried.

"Oh, stop your moaning," said Manglefoot. "It's just a peck."

The pup stopped, whimpering, and trembled piteously. Manglefoot sighed. He was the one without a leg, damn it! Still, he hopped over and tapped the pup's head with a wing.

"There, there. It's all right now. Stop crying. Chin up. That's it. Er, good little monster."

Whilst the terrible beast sniffed, Manglefoot told it stories of brave robins past, until finally, it seemed to pull itself together. The pup, who Manglefoot gathered was called "No" (humans had no creativity at all when it came to naming things), toddled off to dig up some rosebushes, and Manglefoot hopped along behind, watching fresh, moist dirt fly, replete with worms and beetles. There was some use, after all, for the beast.

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Yours in sappiness,

RS

One more thing--It's the last Prediction ever hosted by Lily Childs. Hop on over. I'll be there shortly, sharing the last sip of champagne with whoever dares to try my glass.

microflash: Heiress; Metal Bird Sculpture

Heiress

She'd gone haring off across the southern counties again, the devil at her heels. Simon, pill bottle in the glove box, spun down dusty roads and called into the kudzu-soaked woods from his window: Felicia, Fe-licia. The fullness of shadows answered, reminding him of Georgian nights spent between her legs. No place for a conservator. Or a cousin, however distant.

At the crossroads of 53 and 164 he found her. Like a scarecrow, dangling crucified from the road marker. Hands purple with pokeberry juice. He convinced her to let go, pushed a pink pill into her cracked mouth.

Whispered, Felicia.

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Written for Lily's Friday Prediction. All welcome to participate.

Here

Lord, I want this.

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

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Six, to Be Specific

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.

On writing; Warble; wallpaper

Courtesy of The Rejectionist, writing:

a career that is almost entirely out of your control--a series of petty humiliations and ongoing miseries that one endures for the sake of those rare and perfect moments of transcendence, when one crosses over into another world, another body, another story than one's own.

Dear lord, does this ever sum up the experience of being a writer. For me, at least.

This quote is from Le R's review of an HP Lovecraft play currently in NYC. I'm quite sad as the odds of the play reaching Detroit (or me going to NYC) are slim to none.

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My piece from last week's Prediction: Warble. In which I wonder at the origins of song, and dig at an answer.

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And last, this divine wallpaper, an aerial shot of trees in B.C.:

Via Adventure Journal, which has a free wallpaper every Wednesday.

Sordid Affairs, and I'm still wearing my judging boots

I've been away lately, so a re-cap of recent interwebz events: stolen work, I judged the Prediction, and a development in the busted USB situation.

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First, as most of you know, author Carrie Clevenger has been a victim of plagiarism. At her blog, Mindspeak, you'll see two entries; the most recent calls for an end to this situation so that she can just move on and the second is what actually happened: someone she called a friend and a fellow member of a writing critique group stole a character of Carrie's.

My feelings on plagiarism are extremely strong. It can be summed up like this: If it ain't your character or world, get permission before "continuing" or "expanding." Do not use someone else's character(s) or world and pass it off as your own. And DO NOT get paid for using someone else's character(s) or world.

Or, hey, how about this? Make up your own shit.

I used to write fanfic. It was in a fandom where the author of the origin work gives her consent. I added a disclaimer to my work that said it was not mine (it was obvious, but there you go). I never presented it as wholly my own. And since I returned to writing my own fiction, I have never taken my old fanfic and changed it so that it would be "unrecognizable" from the source material and then passed it off as entirely my own. Oh, and last? I DIDN'T GET PAID FOR IT.

JFC.

Okay. *deep breath* Sorry, but in 2010, there were a number of plagiarism incidents regarding my work (original and fanfic), and whereas I was fairly kind about it in the beginning, I've since developed a rather aggressive stance on the issue, and I get really angry whenever this sort of thing pops up and happens to anyone. Ethics, people. It's all about being ethical.

Second interwebz event of massive major gargantuan importance: I judged last week's Friday Prediction over at the Feardom. Congrats to AJ Humpage, whose "The Road to Kigali" simply won't let me alone. Stunning, stunning work. Runner-up is Aiden Fritz with "Kazuhiro's Dragons," a testament to the power of tragedy to produce elegant, respectful and strong work.

If you took part in the Prediction, let me say this with complete honesty: I've never had a tougher time deciding. Each week, I play a little game with myself and pick my own favorite, and it's usually obvious to me. This week, I truly, truly felt strongly about the entries as a whole, and every one of them had their strengths and a legitimate reason why they should win. It was practically a crapshoot -- I could've picked any of them.

My hat's off to Lily for doing this week after week. It's tough!

And last, the on-going saga of my thumb drive. I took it to a computer repair shop, and after they diagnosed it, they sent it to a specialist who will solder the broken pin inside and then determine if the data is salvageable. If it is, the data will be put on a CD, but the thumb drive will remain unuseable, as even with solder, it will take special equipment to get the data off.

It's expensive. Tres, tres expensive. My stomach is sick, but there's too much on there to lose. So, if it can be done, I'm doing it. And yes, if they cannot retrieve the data at all after the soldering, then I will not be charged. We've got a week or so to find out. In the meantime, I've been using DropBox and an external hard drive. Yay for not being lazy for once.

B and I were on a business trip for his work yesterday. We were on the road in a U-haul for sixteen hours. Covered four states, met some interesting people, and worked our asses off. I was along to navigate and keep him company, and I'm glad I went, though we are both physically sore and exhausted today. Also, a cute guy flirted with me. Long time since that's happened, although I must say that I was looking fine yesterday.

 Not so much today. :-) Happy Friday all, and get over to the Prediction for new words.

Madness in March; 5 x 5; Friday Prediction -- a great night for thrilling the soul

For your pleasure:

Chris Allinotte isn't really a sports guy. So he says. Isn't writing a sport? Bloodsport? God, it seems like it some days. Instead of getting into March Madness, he's presenting Madness in March, and the first entry is Laurita Miller's Paranoia. (or, as Laurita is known here, Patient #110313) This story is short and clever, and I don't want to say more -- find out for yourself.

Angel Zapata presents issue one of 5x5: Murder, monsters and mayhem. Five sentences, five words each. I didn't take up the challenge--it baffled, it frothed, it vexed! But I might next time around. Now my brain is thumping to the five-by-five beat. Go take a look. Maybe you'll write something for Angel? (and coincidentally, Chris Allinotte, that smart-assed Canadian referenced above, has a couple pieces in this issue)

And lastly, the entries are already washing ashore onto the gritty sands of the fantastic and horrible: Lily's Friday Prediction. This has got to be one of the best weeks ever; I can't believe the fic this week, it's all stellar. Two things you need to know: the words this week are lock, resemble, and garland. Second?

I'm guest judge.

So give me your best story in 100 words or less. Trust me, I'm salivating for it. Don't make me beg.

Baner by phciu at puka_pudge on LJ. They knock out some really beautiful and dark icons and banners over there.

Three Exercises to Warm Up Your Writing Brain!

 My entry into Lily's Friday Prediction: Seed. What can you say with denounce, thirst, and fertile? Come play!

My Three Word Wednesday piece, Somewhere in a coffee shop in LA (because clearly, I have run out of title ideas -- I even think I've used "Seed" before).

Tweet? Make sure you use the #fridayflash tag!

And how about a little OneWord to get you moving? Mine from today:


He was the last of the singing barbers. As I sat in his chair, he crooned in my ear: grief and love in four-part harmony, though when I looked in the mirror, he was alone. It was the saddest song, and tears rolled down my face, mingling with snips of damp hair. When he was done, he took off the apron and left the shop under the tinkle of a little bell. I’ve never had a haircut since; it grows in silence.

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A few ways to get your brain warmed up and cranking out the words. And then you can go and write that novel! It will be a bestseller! I will stand in line to get your autograph on my copy! I will ask you to also sign my boobs!


See what doing a few writing exercises can do for you? Think to the future, friends!

The Night Hind; Sea Shepherd -- The Moby Dictatorship Begins!

Thank you to Lily Childs for her inspiring Friday Prediction.

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The Night Hind

Faithful night arrives once more, along with the glass. I drink it and fall, nerveless, into a dream of antlers and men shaped like things that hunt. In the morning there is no glass, only sunlight from a window too far to drag myself to, too far to haul myself out, out into the freedom from a locked room and a day spent waiting for the moon to rise. I lie in bed, counting the pricks, and wonder: am I still a girl, or something else? And who visits me after the glass is empty? His scent is crushed moss.

Image via.

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Those of you who know me know that I'm a passionate animal rights supporter, and as part of that, I wholly support the Sea Shepherd Conservation Society, who you may know from Animal Planet's Whale Wars. I am ecstatic to have learned that Japan has just announced a halt to the hunt, only halfway through the whaling season. Since before the hunt, the Sea Shepherd's Bob Barker and Gojira have been on the factory ship Nishin Maru's tail, and the Japanese have been unable to lose them.

GO, SEA SHEPHERDS!!!!!

B and I are thrilled. Per the Colbert Report: The Moby dictatorship is poised to take over the world. Or at least, its oceans. ;)

Lily's Friday Prediction: Death Wants A Moment's Peace

This week, I'm honored to be winner of Lily's Friday Prediction. I always think, given the talent that shows up there, that I ain't got a snowball's chance in hell. Here's my hundred words:

Death Wants a Moment's Peace

Death tunneled its way into the sand, sighing deep for rest from judgment.

Moira on her horse traveled the loneliest beach on earth, reins loose in her hand. She whistled once.

“Go away,” Death said, and clapped a bony hand over its foolish mouth.

“Can’t,” she replied. “The Gates are all backed up. The Devil and the saints are playing cards, waitin’ on you.”

“Not my problem.”

The horse pawed at the sand until Death was forced to arise, grains trickling through its robe and skeleton.

“Fine. But your turn is coming, missy.”

“I know,” she said, and she did.

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This little flash inspired a whole series. Parts two and three are here.

If you're not following Lily's Friday Prediction, stop on by. These are some of the best writers around, and you're guaranteed to find something to tickle your fancy. Or freak you the fuck out. And if you can, write something. Join the fun. I love seeing what those three words breed in people's heads.