Scandinavian Chic giveaway, Bats

Scandinavian Chic is giving away lithography by Cecilia Carlstedt, a 20 x 28 called Judith. Go over now to enter/comment. This lithograph is divine, so beautiful. Carlstedt's work is full of fine detail and unexpected pieces. You can find more of her work and more gorgeous pieces at Wonderwall.


Also, I love the blog. I've been following several Scandinavian home blogs, and I'm looking at our house and wondering how to incorporate it. In one blog, I saw concrete floors, which I might not enjoy, but a concrete countertop on sleek, handle-free bamboo cabinets? Yes, so much.


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I'm not over my love affair with the octopus yet, but today I bring you something quite different and far too cute for words: Bats.

When I bought my first house, it was in the Rhode Island countryside, across from protected wetlands, and sat on an acre of land. I was surrounded by much larger properties: horse farms, sheep farm, Christmas tree farm, a greenhouse. There was a pond not thirty seconds' walk away, with lots of ducks and a little waterfall at one end.

And, as I discovered on my first night there, bats. Lots of them.

It was summer, and there were gnats in the air, and the sun was going down, and I was having a beer on the steps, thinking about where I might put a garden. And suddenly -- there they were. Barely seen shapes flitting through the dusky light.

I can't say how many evenings I would go out and stand in the middle, in the open area, and trust that they, with their incredible sonar, wouldn't hit me. I could actually hear their wings, and nothing else. It was like satin rustling above and around me. Exhilarating and wonderful.

I never put up bat houses, as I assumed that, with the dense forest all around, they already had plenty of homes. And god knows, there were enough insects. I have no idea what kind of bats they were, but I'm glad I had the experience.

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You know I have to do this, right?

Haiku: Bats

Thin leathery wings
Shouldn't be able to fly
Between night and day.

Octopi Chandeliers, Recent Submissions

Because the world needs octopi wherever we can find them (and because the world also needs a bit more whimsy):

The work of Adam Wallacavage. And if you're in the Culver City, CA area, he's got a show going on for the next week. See more octopus chandeliers here.


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Find me today over at Short, Fast, and Deadly, in issue 22. I've got two pieces, "Untouchable" and "Canon."

Many thanks to JQ, Senior Editor/Instigator, for being incredibly kind about my work and also very welcoming and encouraging.

I've also had a piece accepted at Hazard Cat. Expecting it to post soon.

I'm exceptionally excited about these: my first acceptance, and my first time receiving payment for my work. Yes, I got paid for writing. Er, I won't be cancelling my appointments and selling my work truck; not just yet, anyway. But I'm very happy about the progress I've made so far.

I have slowed my submissions, as I've shifted my focus entirely to my book over the last few weeks. I'm very excited, and I love what I'm doing now more than ever before. It's taken me a long time to reach this point -- years, in fact -- but I finally feel that I'm doing what I'm supposed to, doing what I want above all other things. It's truly an incredible feeling. The only thing that scares me now is giving up, as the worst thing that could happen would be if I couldn't write anymore.

Heiko Windisch

Heiko Windisch has a new blog, and he's giving away three pieces of art to celebrate! Find out more here. The "Serpent" is exceptionally cool and will look incredible framed. He'll also have one for sale on his Etsy.

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Speaking of Etsy, really getting addicted to ThemeFragrance's Sarong. I love Amuse as well, but Sarong is wonderfully warm and exotic. I do get a lot of comments, especially from the Mr., who will interrupt me when I'm talking first thing in the morning when he gets up to say, "What are you wearing?" as he sniffs my neck. It might just be an excuse for hugging. That man's a hugging fool.

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Writing progresses, but it's uninspired today. Could be the weather. I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think I've just about had enough of thunderstorms. And I have previously, all my life, adored them. But right about now, it's enough.

Art by Contraomnes, Fic (by me)

Just Ten More Minutes Mom by contraomnes.

Contra's gallery is amazing. Colors, style -- but it's the concepts. Contra takes fantastical to new heights, and each new work seems the stuff of our dreams.

But this piece in particular stole my heart. Just when I think those days, the little girl I once was, have all disappeared, Contra brings it back in an instant. As I asked a friend, when did we stop being the boy in the bathtub, and instead become dull and plodding? And I think that most of my work is an attempt to recapture the magnificent beauty that was childhood imagination. Those days when all was possible; you only had to think of it. No restraints, no restrictions, no fear.

As it happens, a glass or two of wine occasionally makes that entirely possible. ;)

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Still working on the book, so submissions/fresh fic are down. But I find myself increasingly drawn to the story, as it's become an escape, a real escape. Not that my life is awful or anything -- just the opposite. It's an enjoyable life, and I'm grateful for what I've got. I know we're supposed to be tortured artists and all that, but the only one doing the torturing around here is me, to myself. I spent several days convinced I was the worst writer ever. This happens so often, and I just have to wait it out.

So before I throw myself back into the book, it's time for a little exercise, a bit of fic.

Fic: Loom

Castor's wife's loom had broken. She showed him the loom, it's ancient wood cracked. It was my mother's loom, she said.

I will build you a new one, he said.

It won't be the same, she said as he left their lodge. She sat down and began to gnaw the pieces of the old loom between her paws, tears sliding fast over the oily fur on her cheeks.

Castor searched the woods surrounding their pond for an entire week before he found The Tree. It smelled soft and wise, and so he asked the birds in its branches if they'd mind moving -- it was a present for his wife. The birds respected Castor, and they respected his wife, who was fair and pleasant and who kept the young ones from gnawing trees that didn't rightfully belong to them. Out of this respect, they moved their nests, and Castor began to work.

The tree fell on loamy earth before the moon had fully risen. When the north star had swirled the world around, like a cape it wore, the tree was in many pieces. These pieces were brought back to the lodge, one by one, as Castor swam across the pond.

By dawn, in the middle of the lodge, there stood a new loom. His wife emerged from her nest, warm and yawning. Castor waited, tension causing him to thump his tail lightly on the floor of the lodge, over and over. She saw the loom.

Do you like it?

Yes, I like it.

It's not like your old one.

No, it's not like my old one. She carefully circled the loom, testing it, sniffing it. Then she brought out a basket of shed moose hair, thick and loose, and she began to weave it onto the loom.

Castor left her there, weaving, and anxiously spent the rest of the day felling trees all around the pond. When he returned, exhausted, that evening, his wife greeted him at the entrance. She showed him the blanket she had woven on her new loom.

So it works, he said.

It works perfectly, she said. Perfectly. And she patted her belly, brown and sleek, and told him, And this blanket and this loom will go to our daughter someday.

They kissed, and in a corner of the lodge, in a neat pile, was her mother's loom, all gnawed into shapes of little beavers, and jays, and copperheads, and all manner of forest creatures, and during the night, Castor and his wife set them out to float on the pond.

Fin.

Book Review: Metro 2033, Fic

I'd heard a lot about Metro 2033 by Dmitry Gluvhosky. Looking back, it wasn't critical reviews, but a lot of talk on the internet and in gaming magazines. At any rate, I haven't read any sci-fi in years that's really grabbed me and excited my imagination, and this sounded like the book to do it -- after all, it's been hailed as a "sci-fi classic," but it only first came out in 2007.

I began reading sci-fi at a young age, at about 11 or 12, and for a long time, I loved it, but I always felt it was missing something. Later on, I was able to look more critically at the genre, and I saw male writers writing a male perspective, hardcore science, a lack of females (sexy robots and aliens notwithstanding), and a real dearth of any emotional connections. Most sci-fi reads to me as very one-dimensional. It's difficult for me, the reader, to engage with the characters.

Metro 2033, unfortunately, is all of the above. The (male) protagonist follows a very linear journey from beginning to end, not making any real connections as he goes along. Females are rarely mentioned; there is Artyom's dead mother, a hazy -- at best -- figure from his memories, a young girl who is the sister of a friend and who spends enough time on the page to be told to get lost and go play next door, and, most notably, a woman who offers to sell her very young son to Artyom for an hour's worth of sex. The rest of the characters are bland on the page, and I could not care less if they died, and the death toll is significant. Artyom himself must be the blandest protagonist to ever come along; he moves through the book like lifeless flotsam, floating along with events. He is saved from certain death a number of times by outrageous circumstances, and honestly, if he had died at any point, I wouldn't have cared. No personality whatsoever.

In between his floating from point to point, we are treated to upwards of a dozen, if not more, pointless dream sequences that often go on for a page or more and are, essentially, a mixed-up rehashing of the last chapter. At one point, it reached the heights of ridiculousness when Artyom is with a group of travelers and they are told to sit for five minutes. I paraphrase, but it went something like this, "Artyom sat. Instantly, he was asleep. Blah blah for a page and a half about what just happened in the previous ten pages."

Poor characterization, little to no real plot, no emotional connection whatsoever -- what has the book got to offer?

Probably the best, most intense and unique world-building I have seen in a long time. If you're reading, you're in the tunnels of the metro, beneath Moscow. Incredibly well detailed, it's obvious the author thought a lot about what life might be like if humans were forced to live in a subway. I was, indeed, very impressed.

All this world-building is sandwiched between a genuinely creepy, hair-raising opening and a very poignant end. The first two pages and the last two pages really got me. However, you probably saw the ending coming -- I know I did. I was, to be honest, thrown off the scent by those 400+ pointless pages, but when it finally got there, yes, I thought, yes. I knew this was the case. It had to be.

The concept could've used a much better editor, and I almost wish someone would re-write the book. Because it could be amazing. But I'm afraid we're stuck with what we've got: a book that will make a very good video game.

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Fic: The Collar


What you must understand, above all, is that there is no life before you’ve been buckled on. There’s a jingle, movement and heat, and I’m lying against flat brown fur. His joy is mine – when he jumps and dances, I am there. We both know what this means, what I mean. Within seven days, his scent is my scent, and we both understand that Rocco is us. I carry a gold tag, bone-shaped, that says so.

When he fills out, ribs disappearing as fast as the memories of the shelter, they must unfasten me another notch. When they open the door to the garden, we are one with the wind and sun and rain and, most especially and most epically, the mud. We are only separated to be bathed. I ask the other things I cavort with in the big metal barrel what their life is like, but they are not like me. They do not buckle, they do not live. They haven’t got a tag that says who they are, who they belong to.

I grow weary over time, fraying, fading. But even so, I do not mind. Rocco fades as well. We fade together. The lure of mud is second to the lure of the sofa, where a special blanket awaits us. I rest and dream drowsily of the wind, and of the day we’ll run with it again. That day comes soon, says the heartbeat underneath me. Soon.

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The above flash fic was written for The Word Cloud's March contest. It did not win, but I love it for sentimental reasons.

I can tell you exactly who wore each of those collars. Ahh, I am sentimental today...

Blackberry Brown Sugar Ice Cream

Years ago, I was obsessed. Cakes, pies, sorbets, cookies, trifles, you name it. And then life changed, and although my sweet tooth remained intact, my love of making desserts waned.

I began following Not So Humble Pie's blog a week ago, and she's renewed my infatuation with making sweet things. Among the many things that caught my eye -- her blog is gorgeous -- was a recipe for Blackberry Brown Sugar Mascarpone ice cream. I received a new Cuisinart ice cream maker for my birthday, and I've only used it once (pistachio -- wonderful). This morning, I got straight to work.



Mascarpone. Mm. So smooth and creamy, and now I've got loads more left. What to do with the rest?

The ice cream being made. Within twenty minutes, it overflowed. This wasn't a real problem, and anyway, making ice cream (or any dessert, really) is always a messy but delicious process.

The end result, being put in my little Corningware dishes before going in the freezer.

So how does it taste? Divine. The mascarpone is a very definite taste element without being overpowering, and the entire thing is so fresh and perfect for spring/summer. Tonight, after dinner, we devour it.

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Haiku

Blackberries from bush

to freezer to ice cream dish.

The birds are bereft.

APOD, Fic: Colony

Astronomy Picture of the Day is Mars in a Manger. Be sure to read the description; I found it more beautiful once I had. Lovely perspective.

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WoD: metamorphasis: transformation, translation, mutation, permutation, vicissitude, transfiguration, displacement, redecoration


Fic: Colony


Spaceman in a spacesuit. Hailed by the welcoming party, no respirators, smiling and glowing under the alien sun. Atmosphere safe, better than earth's, we promise: no man-made pollutants. Eden, this is Eden. So he'd heard, this spaceman.

Helmet removed, long walk across springing, vividly green grass, bouncing him forward. Over there, in the forest. That's where our home is. Did we say home? Eighteen months we've been here, it's home now. One can't miss earth, not when Eden is all around. Here, let's get you out of that suit. Cumbersome, heavy.

The spaceman's instruments say safe, say ready, say everything's fine. All his life, he's relied on instruments: blink, blink. Fine. Safe. He takes off his suit, peels it off, it's taken away along with his instruments. No need for those right now. Tell us about your trip. Was it long? Did you sleep? Do you feel the dawn? Do you feel the beginning?

The spaceman inspects them for space intoxication; they've been gone too long. Or is there madness in the air? His instruments are gone, and he must make a report.

He goes to sleep and doesn't wake for thirty days on this planet, forty-seven earth days, one cycle to his hosts. He doesn't want to wake. It's dark and warm in his dreams, but one morning, he pushes off the covers.

As they gently caress his damp, new wings, drying them for flight, they ask when the next spaceman will arrive.