"Minotaur" now at Luna Station Quarterly

My short story,  Minotaur, is the featured story of the week at Luna Station Quarterly.

During an archaeological dig on the Russian taiga, prickly Noani uncovers something stunning, something unbelievable... If only she survives long enough to show the world.

LSQ is a quarterly zine filled with speculative fiction written by women. And while you can read all of the stories in issue 21 for free online, LSQ has their first-ever print issue available. Please support female writers!

xx
RS

New Stories: Hawaiian gods, cigarette smoking, and werewolves

Another issue of 101 Fiction is out! This time, I've got one tiny tale in the black-and-white-themed issue, 'Aumakua. Hawaiian gods and troublesome little girls!

The other stories are really wonderful, especially W.M. Lewis's Celebrity. Gobsmacked by this one. Read it!

The Husband is posted at my DA account, since it's original home, The Corner Club Press, appears to be defunct. "The Husband": I took a nap, and when I woke up, the dog on my chest had become a husband. Speculative fiction about Sudoko, drumming, and, er, friendliness. ;)

Exclamation points and emoticons! Have I been body-snatched by a teenage pod alien?

And one more, if you're in the mood for a bit more reading today: the November issue of Bloodbond is out, with short stories and poetry about shape shifters, and it includes my story, "In the Northern Territories." Werewolves, my friends. Werewolves. They can be great neighbors, as long as you abide peacefully.

xx
RS

"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: Midnight Swim

My short story, Midnight Swim, won the monthly challenge over at WerewolvesAtHeart. June's theme was "Escape the Heat!"

"Midnight Swim": In the basement of a safe house, Finn struggles to keep cool as summer temperatures rise outside. When the full moon comes and he decides to slip out for a late night stroll to a nearby beach for a swim, he finds that he might not have made the best decision, for his own personal hunter has found him, and she never goes anywhere without her weapon...

Werewolves, mild horror (at best), and naked ocean swimming ;)

New fic: The Ranch--Werewolves!

Vampires are incredibly romantic to some. I get it, but I often find the werewolf more fascinating. I've got a werewolf short story in an anthology arriving this fall, and in the meantime, I've got "The Ranch," a short story posted now:

The Ranch

Five pups born to the werewolves in the last six weeks. Of course they should be returned to their mothers. They would have a better chance for survival. But then they would never learn to be human, and it is a great risk to have five more of the adult creatures, as ferocious as they are, in the compound. Efforts at rehabilitating adults, even juveniles, have been largely unsuccessful, to judge by Robertson's torn-out windpipe...

Enjoy!

Newborn werewolf pup by Were-pups on DeviantArt. Her whole gallery of handmade dolls is astounding! 

Days of Madness: The Embalmer

The Days of Madness are upon us. Don't shut your eyes, or you'll miss the best part--the unburdening. It happens so quickly, like the flash of an especially sharp knife!

The Embalmer is my entry into Chris Allinotte's Days of Madness. Gustav is an embalmer, and goodness knows, those poor people don't make enough money. If he takes just a bit here and there, isn't it his due? After all, a man needs a pint at the end of a hard day's work. What a pity that the newest corpse in his care just doesn't seem to want to give up its share. But don't worry, Gustav is determined and talented...

The Days are a full ten this year, darlings. I recommend you start at the beginning, with Angel Zapata's gritty, poignant, The Arrow Arrives Ahead of the Hunter (love love love). And check out the illustrations--Niall Parkinson did one to accompany each story, and I am THRILLED by what he did for The Embalmer. Niall's work is graphic and fluid and a real discovery for me. So, so happy.

Each day's story has been a unique interpretation of the Days' theme this year, "Hidden Horrors." And what a fabulous line-up. Ten great stories--last one's tomorrow, so get caught up!

Fic Rec: Significant Figures by Rachael Acks

Forget the Brave Little Toaster. Stephen's waffle iron has got moxy. And red-hot grids.

Significant Figures by Rachael Acks is the newest short story up at Strange Horizons. It is WONDERFUL. Stephen is an alien living among us, because his own people are a big bunch of shouty types with pretty extreme laser guns, and he's a bit more inclined to a quiet life of doing math and making waffles and fruit and yogurt shakes. As a combat mathematician, Stephen is used to bending reality, and he's forged for himself a new life on Earth, complete with human body, a family who loves him, and a few sentient appliances. When those appliances notice something slightly unusual about the power grid, they attempt to notify him.

It's bad news for them all: Stephen's former race has come to his new home, and they aren't the "We come in peace" types. And Stephen really isn't the hero type. Or maybe he is...

Excellent story, quickly paced, and really, who doesn't love a vindictive blender or a practical, brave waffle iron who's watched quite a lot of late-night sci-fi on television? And what's not to adore about a multi-tentacled, slimy alien who just wants his new mum not to worry?

Enjoy your Tuesday, my friends, while I go out and scrape yet another inch or two of snow off the sidewalk and my car. Hrrmph.

Horrifyingly Good News

So much news today. All good.

First, An October Birth got a DD over on Deviant Art. Really thrilling, especially considering this Daily Deviation comes after it was rejected three times by various magazines. One was a form rejection, and two were personal, explaining how it did not fit their 'zines. It's a tough story, I admit, with horror and sadness wrought by incest, and after doing a lot of research, I couldn't find a good fit. I guess DA was a perfect home!

*

Next, I've got two pieces of micro-fic in 101 Fiction's December issue, Hijo and Stages. The theme for the issue was a deliciously morbid two-fold delight: "undead" and "winter." And I love EVERY ONE of the stories in this issue! Each one is a perfect little gem, hard and glittery. Congrats to my fellow contributors, and thank you to editor, John Xero.

*

Last, voting is on for Fantasy Faction's monthly story contest (November's theme: doors), and my short story, "The Dragon in the Attic," is one of six vying for fame and glory! Despite the title, it's horror. Seems to be today's theme :)

The submission thread, where you can read the pieces (each under 1500 words) is here. The voting thread is easily found.

Please vote! I did; there were two that really grabbed me, and it was tough to decide which one to vote for, but I did it and SO CAN YOU, my pretties!

*

Well, this is a lot of horrifically good news. I feelz like a real writer today, yo.

While nothing else is under submission, two short stories and a creative non-fiction essay are finished... but I have no idea where to submit them. Sometimes my stuff is a bit wacky. I dunno. Maybe I'll start my own publishing company for weirdos like me. If there are any out there. Doubt it. Probably alone, playing solitaire.

/P.M. Dawn reference

xx

RS

Free Short Stories from Tor

I love Tor for the single reason that they publish an unending stream of high quality short stories -- for free.

In the weekly email, this gem: The Oregon Trail Diary of Willa Porter by Andy Marino. Willa's in the care of her aunt and uncle, after her father's DISGRACE and her mother's resulting breakdown. Her guardians have decided to move across country, and so Willa, her aunt and uncle, and her cousin are traveling by wagon across the open plains of the midwest towards Willamette, Oregon. All is going as well as can be expected with two pre-teen girls, one of whom can roll eyeballs with the best, when dead birds begin to fall from the sky and a rain starts that won't end.

And the rot starts.

A perfect juxtaposition of black humor and growing, seeping dread, told in Willa's voice, I loved this one and read it twice.

Tor also recently released an e-book, Some of the Best from Tor.com, 2013. Also free -- did I mention I love Tor for all the superb, free short stories?



There you go. Get yourself a cup of hot tea and a nice fluffy blanket, a soundtrack of snoring dogs and purring cats, and curl up on the couch today.

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.

                         

Fic: Three Minutes

Three Minutes

In the morning, there are three minutes before night dissolves completely, and she hears the voice beneath her bed, a fraction of a story told this way since she was seven.

His voice has never changed, while hers has been the little girl's questions, the timid thirteen-year-old afraid to speak up in class but whispering encouragement at dawn to heroes unseen, seventeen and leaving for the last day of school--

Her husband snores before the alarm wakes him, while she listens and murmurs an observation on vengeful fairies with too many teeth.

He is nearly faded -- she can count the seconds in her head with complete precision -- when she says, as she did at nine and fourteen and twenty-two, "Please, show me."

He's never there when she peeks. The story ends mid-sentence. Another day must pass.

The next, she whispers, "Enough! Show yourself!"

It was the part where the fairy bears aloft the sword belonging to a long-dead magician. Before it can strike, he replies, "No, Ava," and she pounces over the side of the bed but he is already gone, and there is still one minute left of night.

Her husband wakes and reaches for her but she says she's hungry, starving, she'll make them breakfast. He rolls on his back and mumbles about pancakes.

There were two beds when she was growing up. Perhaps three? Did the story begin when she was in her crib, babbling alone? Her mother said what a happy baby, smiling, cooing to herself in the empty room. She learned to speak so soon. Knight and horse, the poor beggar, the mountain of gold.

There was a bed in a dorm room and a roommate who thought she talked in her sleep. When she visited her boyfriend, his bed was silent in the morning. Returning the next night to her room, the story began again where it left off.

A home, a husband, a first bed to share. The story never ending. A thousand tendrils, each explored to ripeness, some loved more than others. Favorite characters lived and died, and some visited again.

She taught English to middle-schoolers to who didn't care, and everyone she knew was writing a book. They asked when she would write one. She said she had no ideas.

The pancakes burn on one side, but he eats them with a happy smile. When they kiss before comfortably hunkering onto the sofa and the Sunday paper, he tastes like maple syrup. She flips pages, listens to him read aloud bits of his section. He has freckles, and she is sure she never liked light brown hair, preferring it darker. But there was his voice -- when he came over to her in the school cafeteria, asked if he could sit down. It was deep, calm.

"You have a storyteller's voice," she tells him after he reads her part of an article on travel in Guatemala. He grins, pleased with himself. She asks to hear more, teasingly smiling. He does, thinking it is the prelude to something else, inflecting his voice with seduction, waggling eyebrows at her.

She finds him, suddenly, to be not charming at all. His voice is not the same. Not the same at all. When he puts down the paper and comes across the sofa for her, she stiffens.

Later in the afternoon, he makes a joke. About how the underside of their bed is the cleanest in the entire town. Murderer of dust bunnies!

She bites her lip. There was nothing, nothing special, beneath their bed. Again. There has never been a single sign.

But the next morning, the story. Floating up, a whispering net of words. The voice.

It takes longer to wake her husband than she would like, but then he is in compliance, warm and relaxed, moving over her. The story ends, prematurely.

She is wracked with guilt. Never has she felt more dirty, more the betrayer, though her husband kisses her forehead before he leaves, gathers him to her, says, "Love you, Ava."

She calls in sick to work and goes back to bed but of course the voice is gone.

It's a long day and night, and she is glued to her keyboard, tapping out the beginning of the story, what she can remember. Was she four, five? Memories of the gray-painted floor in her room, the shabby white curtains, the king whose daughter rode away on the back of a spotted horse, hands tangled in its mane, to be the queen of its vast, grassy kingdom.

 When light through the curtains begins to show, she has been in bed for hours, silent. Exhausted.

There is no voice. She peers through sleepy eyes at the clock, counting minutes to sunrise. The time passes, the sun rises, and she is alone.

Has she made him angry?

Offended?

Is he gone forever?

She cannot think of the word "forever."

Perhaps an equinox, or full moon (no, it is a month past the vernal equinox, and the moon is a sliver of paper). Perhaps asteroid showers, an earthquake in Chile whose repercussions are felt in Manhattan, or the dog downstairs barking too early.

Going to work, she holds her breath for an entire day.

Dinner, television, jokes. They go to bed, his fingers brushing over her shoulder until they are still, and he is asleep.

The next morning, she lies in stiff terror, heart beating against the cage of her chest.

It's the only sound in the three minutes before dawn.

The weeks will pass as they always do, but the afternoon sunlight seems too white, too hollow. The rain is no comfort. Books are empty pages, flipped in time to t.v. commercials, put down at dinner, at bedtime. Her shoes collect dust in the hallway; she wears green socks with brown pants.

She notices how early the sun rises, how filled with light their tiny bedroom by half past six.

One morning, trailing a hand through the slices of morning light, she says in a voice so quiet her lips barely move, her tongue is a mouse:

Deep within the woods, a prince opened his eyes and saw the sword beside him, as it always was, his hand clutched tight around the hilt.

(What does the prince dream, or suffer nightmares-in-waiting during the day?)

His father will find him, someday.

(Why should that frighten a grown man? No, he is a hardly more than a boy, fifteen, if that)

She rolls over, not wanting to go on.

No one asks her to continue.

She gets up and pads to the living room, turns on her laptop, sits cross-legged in her bathrobe on their scratchy sofa and writes. Not about princes who sleep with swords in their hands, but about a knight and his horse. The first story -- that she can remember -- comes out in stuttering syllables, but the paragraphs progress, smoother and smoother, until she is flying through pages.

Six. Six pages, and the story isn't barely begun. But it's getting late, and she must go to work.

All day, between classes, at lunch, she scribbles notes, bits of scenes, dialogue. When she arrives home, there is more work to do: homework, papers to correct. As she writes comments atop headers, in the margins, she tries not to think of the story, but after dinner, it's the only thing she can think about. Her husband, who made croque monsieurs from an old baguette, is secretly happy that she is in bed, sitting up, glued to her laptop. He always wondered why his wife did not write. Now she is writing something. He brushes crumbs from his chin and calls to her, asking if she would like some green tea.

Coffee, she answers.

And so the week rolls on, a flurry of words rushing from imprint upon her brain to screen. She must make a timeline, then a tree, to connect the stories, to see the connections as she never has before. It is as if revelations are coming, revelations that her mind has been slow to ponder.

She preferred the voice, she knows at long last. Whatever it told her did not matter. She loved the stories, was entertained by them, but it was the voice, all along, which captured her heart.

It will take her ages to write all of the stories, to weave them together. She wishes she had started sooner, when she was a girl, but perhaps this is her penance for having frightened away the voice. Maybe when she is finished, it will return, and give her more stories.

"I promise," she whispers one morning after a month, "not to ask again."

The next morning,

There is still silence. Her heart breaks, even as her husband smells her morning hair and touches her neck.

It takes so long to write the book, to remember the words, that months become two years, then four. Each morning is silent, still, and there is no husband to pull her to him. She wonders if this is manic behavior, or schizophrenic, or anything which might be unhealthy but then the book calls her again, and can it be truly unhealthy to write what our brain has bound in love since we were little?

When it is finished, she is mid-sentence. The words which were his last linger in the whiteness of an empty page, and she writes, finally, "To be continued."

An agent. A publisher. Another two years.

At a small book signing, the man who was her husband puts down a copy, and she signs it and hands it back and they both smile and he says, "Well, you did it." She can't say anything in return because what has she done?

The book must be destroyed, but it is too late. A second printing, demand for more. It is to be continued. How to tell the world that she doesn't know how it ends, if it ends?

A second book, each line a struggle. The children in her classes pass around the first one, try not to behave as if they are interested. Some look at her as if she is someone new, not their teacher.

Midway through, the plot becomes a tangle that she cannot undo. She stares at knots on the page without fathoming how to slip them apart.

After weeks, she whispers one morning, "I don't know where it goes from here."

The next morning, three minutes before dawn proper, she is slumbering in the world of knights and pages, of armor dented and rusted, and fields dusty and trodden by the hooves of five hundred horses.

He smells her morning hair, touches her shoulder, and says softly, "When Sir Bertram came across the maid in the hollow by the broken fence post, he got off his horse and drew his sword, for a maid could be a witch, or a man, and he had experience with both."

She wakes, stiffens, and he continues. The words are breathed into her ear, a hand searching for hers on the bedsheets. Her fingers twine with his, and she closes her eyes. There are three minutes, three minutes to make up for years, and time crumbles and fades.

Before the sun stabs through the curtains, with the seconds still graven into her mind, she whispers over her shoulder, "Let's make a new story, together." And as he begins to slip away, he says, "Yes, my dear."

...

The book you held last night on your lap -- just finishing this chapter before bed! -- is full of breaths, exhaled in three-minute increments, ink on the pages capturing the pregnant moments before dawn. The dream you dreamed afterwards is to be continued. He is waiting for you to remember, for you to whisper, in words like falling snow,

I don't know where it goes from here.

Judith of the Lions now at 3LBE

I am very proud to announce that "Judith of the Lions" is now up at Three-Lobed Burning Eye:

3LBE -- Issue 22
3LBE publishes some stellar spec fic, and the recent issue, with only six stories, is stunning. 

The lead story, "Ladybird," is beyond fabulous. I was hooked immediately, by the voice, the imagery, and the *outstanding* story itself. Glorious, tragic fantasy about a siren who breaks the rules in search of something else, something *more* -- something even she does not quite understand. If you only read one story (er, besides mine, of course  ), read "Ladybird."

The rest of the collection is filled with intriguing, imaginative worlds. "Riding Atlas", about a young man's desperate desire to keep his girlfriend, even when she suggests something almost unthinkable, is horrifying and beautiful. It also made me squirm, but despite my discomfort, I had to keep reading. The collection is like that -- absolutely must-read to the finish.

And of course, my short story, "Judith of the Lions," appears as well. In the aftermath of a scientific experiment gone wrong, Judith struggles to understand her place -- and her kinship with a new breed. 

There's zombified lions, y'all.

Take a half hour and read all the stories in the new issue of 3LBE. For me, it was the best reading I've had in some time.

"The Pellet": new short story, available at Jake's Monthly

I found out about Jake's Monthly a bit too late, but managed to hop on board for two issues -- a couple months back with "In a Purple Sky" for the magical realism issue, and now, for the final issue:

Endgame Extravaganza

Welcome to the last issue of Jake's Monthly, chock full of stories from every genre. Thank you to editor Jake Johnson for including my origin myth/fantasy piece, "The Pellet." The issue is now up at Smashwords for your enjoyment, and it's FREE.

by liuyong

Ohio Peeps!

Are you in Ohio? Would you like to meet me and buy me margaritas and/or Godiva truffles? You would? Oh, you crazy. ;)

Two things:

It appears I'll be part of a book signing in Cleveland, OH in mid- to late July for the anthology, "Etched Offerings: Voices from the Cauldron." The date is still being firmed up, so I'll let you know the details as it gets closer. In the meantime, here's a link to the book and an excerpt from my story, "The Black Oak":

This was the realm of the Mother, the heart of a forest that had once lain its body across thousands of acres. The magnificent kingdom now poached into tatters, chopped by asphalt, with precious few bits reserved for those who brought their children to see its hawks or to walk in the quiet with all that had lived here for ages. It was a heart closely guarded, kept unto itself.

     A heart fiercely protective of what little it still had.

Second, Context is a writers' convention happening at the end of September in Columbus, OH. It's for anyone interested in sci-fi, fantasy, horror, speculative fiction, anime, manga... You get the idea. The price is great for a convention, and the list of workshops is awesome. The editors of Misanthrope Press  (publishers of Etched Offerings) will be there, and I hope that some of you will be, too. If not, I'll just make new friends.

My stomach just flipped writing that. The truth is, I've got serious social anxiety. But I keep trying, even though my hermit ways want me to stay home and never talk to anyone but on the computer. :)

All right, I've got two stories to finish this week, so I'm off like a prom dress. See ya around, peeps.

PS Misanthrope Press has also published two other anthologies recently, one of werewolf stories, and another with dark forest tales. Check them out, too. 

"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.


*

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.

"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.

Etched Offerings, a Pagan Anthology, Now Available!

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.

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