The Devil Wants a Word With You At LSQ

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.

LSQ: The Diner

Day Four of Luna Station Quarterly's writing challenges for the month of October. Calling all genre writers! Today's is a good one.

***

The Diner

Worst Coffee in Detroit said the handwritten sign next to the door. I pushed in anyway. "Worst" probably meant strong, and I could use strong. Huddled in my coat, I took a seat at the counter, the cracked red plastic seat swiveling under me. There was one short-order cook at the grill, which looked cold and clean. I could smell the burned coffee, though. See the steam coming from the two half-empty pots. I smiled.

"Coffee," I said to the guy. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing, got me a white mug with a chip on the handle and poured the coffee to the brim.

"No milk," he said.

"Sugar?" I asked. He reached under the counter and came up with a handful of packets, yellow, white and pink. I took six white and dumped them all in.

I thought about asking for a menu, but that might be too much trouble. And I'd just got myself extricated from a whole lot of trouble. Perhaps it was better to do things smooth and easy, for the time being. I searched for the pie case, found it. Empty. Turned my head over my shoulder. The neon sign still blinked: All Nite Diner 24rs.

The door opened, bringing with it a rush of December and five girls. Short coats, shorter skirts. I looked at my watch. It was after 3. Must be from the club next door. They laughed, settled into a booth with a jingle and shush of costumes, a whiff of florid perfume. Then they quieted. I looked at them. They were looking back at me.

"More coffee?"

"Sure." I put my cup out, but he shook his head.

"You wait. I'll make you the best damned cup of coffee you ever had."

I watched him dump one of the pots, scrub it out and rinse. He spooned coffee into the filter; I couldn't see the brand. In minutes, the smell of fresh, good coffee filled the diner. I accepted it gleefully; I'd needed the caffeine, after three days on the run, but to have something that was more than just an energy jolt, more than just something to keep me on my feet, something that felt smooth and delicious in my mouth... I closed my eyes, inhaled more of the scent, and took another sip.

When I opened my eyes, the cook was gone.

"You like the coffee, huh?" It was one of the girls, leaning on the counter beside me. In the harsh diner light, she looked horrible. Make-up caked on, eyes bloodshot, hair crisped and full of dandruff. "Harry makes the best coffee in Detroit. Sometimes. But only for some people."

"Yeah. Nice guy," I mumbled, wishing she'd step back. Her perfume, up close, was vigorously rancid. I silently congratulated myself on being one of those guys who has never set foot in a strip joint, ever. Those other guys, they were throwing their money away on... this. She kind of turned my stomach.

"Nice guy," she repeated, and laughed. They all laughed. They'd got up, clacking about on high heels. "Yeah, he's a real nice guy."

A click. I turned -- one of them had locked the door. I began to stand. The lights went off, leaving only the blinking red neon. Then that went off too.

Outside, I could just see a flurry of snow begin to fall. Inside, the smell of coffee was gone. All I could smell was their perfume. And as they got closer, their breath. It smelled like grease and garbage, like the dumpster behind an all-night diner. Their teeth, for one moment, shone in the dark.

I dropped my mug.

***

Thanks again for reading! Everything's better with zombies. Especially stripper zombies. Hey, everyone's gotta work.

LSQ: The Tourist

As I've mentioned before, Luna Station Quarterly is hosting 31 days of writing challenges. You can jump in at any time. This is day three, but I'm taking a break from other things to pop in with this odd bit of sci-fi.

The Tourist

The Mars Central Time Converter malfunctioned, sending the twelfth tourist that day back three hours and into a transistor dump that had closed sometime in the 2750's. They already had Rosa stationed there, waiting, though at the Grifton Desert Plateau, they naturally told everyone that such occurences weren't liable to happen anymore, since Mech Services had fixed the bug in the code. Please, enjoy the Plateau. Explore to your heart's content, knowing you are in complete safety. And remember, freshly made ice cold sno cones, just like on Earth, waiting at the concessions once you've finished. All flavors, including rainbow!

Rosa stared at the newcomer. He sat on his ass atop a heap of ancient transistors, his expensive loafers knocked off by the fall. His hair flopped in his face, not unattractively, and the surprised look he wore almost made her job worth it.

"What..?"

"So sorry for the inconvenience, sir. Please, have a complimentary pass to the Infinity Deck atop the hotel, and here is a voucher for the dessert of your choice at the Bradbury restaurant, Mars' only Michelin-starred dining facility."

He stared dumbly down at her hand. "How do I get back to the Griffin--"

"Grifton Desert Plateau." She waved, sighing to herself. "Over there. We've established a temporary port that will return you to the lobby." A necessary untruth. The lobby belonged to a research office in which the unfortunate party would be forced to wait as they caught up to the moment from which they'd been abducted, an entertaining visit that would also, subtly and unknown to the visitor, re-set their body clock by a minute amount. Hardly worth mentioning.

"They said this wouldn't happen again."

"Your vouchers, sir." Best to keep the conversation short. How she hated to get into arguments out here. "I'm sure you'll want to get back to your friends or family as quickly as possible."

"No. I'm here alone."

Alone? No one came to Mars alone, unless he was here on employment tags. It didn't matter. The male to female ratio was outrageously in favor of the ladies, and Rosa had had quite enough of being hit on by lonely engineers and construction workers thirty-six million miles from home.

"They said it wouldn't happen again, but I took a chance."

"Yes. And once more, we apologize."

"Don't apologize." He grinned, showing teeth so perfect only a dentist-droid could have made them. "This worked out perfectly."

"I'm..." Rosa frowned. This was not how they usually reacted. "Excuse me?"

"Where did you say the portal was?"

Another sigh. She turned, exaggerating with her arm. "Right over th--"

Her breath choked off, as efficiently and sharply as if she'd stepped outside the domes into Mars' own atmosphere. For a startled moment, she thought that was what had, indeed, happened -- that the damned engineers had made yet another mistake, and the transistor dump's dome had moved, evaporating and leaving her exposed. But instead of crushing heat, instead of a red landscape, she saw, frantically, that nothing had changed.

The pressure around her neck increased. She clawed first at her mouth, then at his hands. His impossible hands. What was he doing? A game? Dear God, dear God, she couldn't breathe, her eyes hurt, her lungs screamed, and she fell to her knees.

When he was finished, Jack Shott dragged her body to the edge of the heap and pulled a minimal amount of transistor debris atop her body, just enough so that her corpse would not be obvious when the next tourist fell through. And then he waited. Mars had grown too fast, become too popular. Repair services were notoriously delayed, and often shoddy. It could be days before they fixed the code.

While he waited, he fingered the vouchers in his pocket, thinking of which dessert he would pick.

***

Thank you for stopping by and reading.