Cat Rambo's Blog, page 60

WIP: The Bloodwarm Rain, Part 3

I’m on fire! was my first thought.

Then — some very stupid part of me bubbled up But look at how pretty the blue edges flicker — and then panic overwhelmed me again as some lizard part of my brain scrambled to get out of the way of I’M ON FIRE.

Everyone else was doing so, and it looked as though they hadn’t lost any seconds to contemplation of the prettiness. Wren had drawn up short, ten feet away, her fists balled as she stared at me, the two new guys on either side, each with a hand on her shoulder. They exchanged glances, blinked as though surprised, and stepped back. Wren kept staring. She swallowed, and the snake tattooed along the side of her neck writhed.

The troupe is half human, half Underpeople, though June’s as human as they come. The latter hate flame, most of them, it’s hardwired in. Most of them faded towards the back of the crowd and one of the mini elephants squealed admonition in the scuffle of movement.

Roto was the only one who came forward. His eyes were wide and panicked, his lips curled back in alignment to his stiffly leaning ears, his whiskers silver lines against his dark cheeks.

He said, “Meg, what’s happening?”

It was so unfair. How was I supposed to know what was happening? I didn’t have a clue. I opened my mouth to say that, but all that came out was an agonized shriek, even though I felt no physical pain. It was just a howl of frustration and want and loneliness, all the loneliness of having the circus as my family but no one mine, no one bound to me by blood, so I never knew where I’d fit.

Something cool around my shoulders. June, wrapping me in a silvery blanket.

“I need you to take a deep breath,” she said.

I tried, but the sound kept coming out.

She laid her hand over mine. “Breathe.”

Flames danced over her skin where it touched mine. The blue fabric of her jacket began to smolder, flaring orange and sparking along the line of the hem.

“Breathe.”

Nothing physical but that coolness against my back, as though the blanket were drawing the flame inside it. But in my head, something slammed down so all my consciousness went to breathing, to the act of pulling in the air, feeling it rush into me, my ribs dwelling to contain as much as possible, holding it for a beat and then releasing…

“Okay,” June said. “Okay, Meg.”

I blinked. The flames were gone, but the hem of her jacket still flared orange one last second before dying away.

“You’re tired. I’m putting you in Nursie.”

I tried to protest. Riding in Nursie was boring beyond belief. One of her settings had gone wonky and she treated everyone as though they were a six-year-old. But at the same time, I realized, it sounded so good, lying down in darkness and not thinking for a while.

Before I knew it, I was tucked in Nursie’s depths. Vanilla scented mist sprayed down around the couch.

“Now I’m going to tell you the story of the Brave Little Kitten,” she announced.

That was all right. At least it was one of the comprehensible stories. But something else caught my attention. I rolled closer to the hatch opening, trying to hear out.

Outside, June shouting.

“All right! These fellows either lair nearby or they’re affiliated with the town.”

Nursie said, “Once upon a time —“

“Wait,” I said. “Nursie, can I have a drink of water first?”

The story paused as a cup rattled into the dispenser and began to fill.

June said, “Either way, we can’t go back — you know that as well as I — and it’s better to make these disappear and keep moving rather than have others come look and find us with them.”

Muffled agreement. Nursie said, “Drink your water, Meg.”

I drank it as slowly as I could, but all I heard were doors slamming and engines starting again. I felt dizzy. It was hard to swallow.

Warm vanilla sprayed me again as I set the cup down.

Nursie said, “Blood pressure dropping.”

Something snaked from the ceiling towards me. I heard Nursie’s voice, as though from a very far distance. “Administering sedation.”

WIP: The Bloodwarm Rain, Part 2

Along Vera’s neck, on either side, are three round bits of grillwork, and when she comes in hard and fast, they scream, a whine that grates along all your nerves, even when you’ve heard it before.

They screamed now, and even muffled by the tents, they still forced Roto’s ears to flatten back, his whiskers tensed in an involuntary sneer and made me clamp my forearms over the sides of my head, muffling it. Shots barked out, then a rat-a-tat of semi-automatic followed by another like an echo. Vera’s own guns boomed.

There were screams.

I unfolded myself and started to rise. Roto yanked me back down just as a round of flying metal buried itself in the canvas bundle. If I’d stood, it would have decapitated me. We both stared at it. My ribs pulsed with ache and I realized I’d been holding my breath, I didn’t know how long.

There’s only so many ways for a group to attack you on particular terrain, and everyone had done exactly as they were supposed. The Bird Woman had a wing clipped, high and gouging the bone and all her children were fussing about her while Sieg bandaged it, the littlest with their heads buried in her skirts.

Bodies were slumped on the ground, five or six of them, but none of them were ours, so they didn’t matter. No one seemed worried about the post where the flashes of light had come from, so Vera must have taken care of those before coming down to us, as she was supposed to.

June was there with Vera, checking her over, fanning the long metal pinions out and examining them for wear and tear. The guns athwart her prow swiveled in two directions as though still alert, worried that something might happen. Pal was riffling that packs and pockets, but with little luck, judging by his expression, other than the pile of weapons slowly accumulating underneath the sign that read, “Trucks this way”.

Wren and two roustabouts who’d come on three towns ago were off to one side. On the road they didn’t smoke anything but jitter weed, and drank thermoses of strong black coffee, the good stuff, horded for when we were on the road.

Vera stirred as I went past, headed to bum a smoke from Wren. June turned, chuffing out a chuckle under her breath as she saw me.

“Miss Meg,” she said. “It’s just Miss Meg.” She patted Vera’s flank where she leaned up against it, and the war machine went quiet, though I could still feel its eyes on me.

“Good job, Vera,” I said, feeling daring. Most people didn’t talk to Vera. It was as though they forgot she could talk back. “Thank you for saving all our asses.”

June’s eyes widened, a tell so small I wouldn’t have noticed it if I hadn’t been watching her.

Vera chirped. “You’re welcome,” she said, after waiting a few seconds to make sure the chirp was not returned.

Neesh had most of the livestock out for a graze and mostly a poop. He knew the more of it they did on the cracked asphalt of the plaza, the less he’d have to clean out of the trailers. I checked the mini-elephants over out of habit, from the summer I spent tending them, but they were all unharmed, and engaged in eating all the nasturtiums out of the circular flowerbed in front of the runs that had once been a rest stop building. Out of habit I looked to see if it was loot able, but places like that have all been scavenged away, decades ago.

I got to Wren, Roto in my wake, and at my outstretched hand and upturned eyebrows, she shook a smoke loose for me and tossed it over.

“How long’s the break?” I asked.

Wren shrugged. “Never too short, out here in this heat. Once we get further down, we’ll be out of the heat.”

“We push on then?” I pursued. Wren shrugged again. She was affecting herself a bit in front of the new hires. She was circus born and bred, they were newbies, but she was still unused to the sway she held as their temporary boss.

Her nonchalance made me a little hot under the collar. She acted so cool. But she’d surely been hunkered down under cover like all the rest of us.

She narrowed her eyes at me as though reading my mind. “Problem, Meg?”

I shrugged and would have left it at that, but she just wasn’t content to let it go. Angry heat spiked through me as she stepped forward, towering over me.

I stuck my hands out to repel her.

She reeled back as my skin burst into flame.

Recent News as of June 2014

We just got back from a two week trip to California, which was lovely, and are back to the scramble of getting the condo ready to sell. Painting, hanging blinds, replacing doorknobs, wheee! We hope to hit the road sometime between July 1 and July 15.

If you’re in the Seattle area, I’m part of a group reading at the Wayward Coffee House this Friday evening.

“The Moon and the Mouse” has been accepted to Daily Science Fiction, which “The Ghost-Eater” (a Tabat story) will appear in XIII from Resurrection House. I just finished up the final edits for “Eggs of Stone,” which will appear in next month’s 3-Lobed Burning Eye. (I’m trying to beat last year’s 19 original stories published, and looks like I’ll make it.) In reprint news, “Of Selkies, Disco Balls, and Anna Plane” will appear in Heiresses of Russ 2014, edited by Steve Berman and Melissa Scott

I just sent off a story to the Blackguards anthology, “The Subtler Art.” It’s a short but funny piece set in a city that recently appeared on my internal landscape, and one of the characters appears in “Call and Answer, Plant and Harvest” forthcoming from Beneath Ceaseless Skies as well.

WIP: The Bloodwarm Rain (YA SF)

I’d been feeling queazy for miles — too much fresh fruit last town, trying to pack in as much as I could — so finally I tapped Roto on the shoulder and we left the bus during a stretch and pee break. Big Fredo was driving the tents truck and he had a sweet spot for Roto, so he let us climb up into the sheltered spot just behind the cab, where we were sheltered from the wind but still could feel the bite of the air and where, if I needed to, I could lean out and vomit into the sandy gravel of the road.

It made me feel better almost immediately and my mood, which had been gloomy and self pitying (or so Roto kept informing me), lifted, as though the high blue sky overhead were pulling it upwards.

Okay, maybe I had been being kind of a bitch. I shrugged at Roto in apology and he shrugged back. That was one of the nice things about Roto. Once a fight was over, it was done with. It was a quality I envied, and couldn’t begin to claim. I was capable of holding a grudge for years, and had all my life, even though that was only fifteen years so far.

He grinned sideways at me, whiskers twitching, and leaned back to let his upper torso, bare except for the stripes of dun for, smolder golden in the sun. I settled back myself, though I stayed in the shade.

On my right, past Roto, was the steep downward slope of the cliff, covered with slides of shale and wiry brown bushes and past that, a blaze of sunlight on the ocean, dazzling and headache inducing. I looked away and up the mountainside. We were swinging out and around a curve before going inward and Sieg, who was the pace setter up front in his jeep, was, in my opinion, taking it a little fast.

That’s how I saw it. Flash flash. Two blinks of light from far up the mountain ahead of us. Then again. Flash flash.

I squinted up the mountain but didn’t see it again. But I crawled forward, clinging to the netting that held the ranks of tents in place, and tapped my knuckles hard on the cab’s back window. Kali was riding shotgun, her own window open and dreads flying back in the wind. She twisted around to slide the window open.

“I saw someone signaling up ahead,” I shouted.

“We’re on it,” she shouted back. Big Fredo tapped the bead in his ear. Someone else must’ve seen it as well, and gotten to our radio network faster than I had. That was always the story. I was never the hero. My spirits sagged again.

Kali slammed the window shut and turned back to watching the road ahead. I made my slow return to Roto. It seemed to me we had sped up a little but I couldn’t be sure. Maybe it was just my own anxiety.

Roto gave me a questioning look.

“They’re on it, she said.” I shrugged. Not like we could do much about anything. Better to move forward with our eyes open than let them know we had spotted them and they should open fire.

A faded blue sign flickered past. “Rest stop 1 mile Gas Services”

“You know that’s where they’re going to try to hit us,” Roto said. He stopped lounging and leaned forward.

“Yeah, but what else can they do? There’s no other place to turn around.”

We both wriggled back as far as we could, putting furled canvas between ourselves and possible missiles. The smart-canvas of the main tent might stop a bullet but the thick rolls of more ordinary heavy fabric would still foil arrows or darts.

My stomach wasn’t queasy anymore at all. Instead, hot bile chewed at the back of my throat and worry threaded all my bones. We hadn’t brought weapons with us from the bus; June doesn’t like us carrying them around, but when we’re traveling, we’re supposed to have something with us.

Roto had claws and teeth. I had nothing but my own blunt fists and wits.

Gravel hissed under the wheels as we swung left and slowed. I tried to peer out.

Roto put his palm on the top of my head and shoved downward. “Don’t be an asshole, Meg.”

We held still. I could hear the other cars and trucks pulling in, slowing. The turnaround must have been blocked, otherwise Sieg would have used it to lead the whole convoy to circle back as quickly as he could while Vera had our backs. But stopping there meant there was some sort of blockade.

A voice from up ahead. A man’s voice, and one that had meanness in it despite the pleasantness of the words. “And a good afternoon to you folks!”

Car door slamming and then the crunch crunch of footsteps, barely audible over the sound of the last few stragglers pulling in. I knew that if I looked back people would be fanning out as best they could. We all drilled aon what to do on occasions like this, but I’d only been in a few fights. And not since I had become, technically, an adult.

But surely an adult would have known enough to carry at least a knife with them. I glanced over at Roto and was relieved to see that he looked as anxious as I felt.

June’s deep voice, carefully modulated and empty of emotion. “Afternoon, gentlemen.”

I angled my line of sight upward, hoping to catch a glance of Vera. So much depended on what these bandits were carrying. Hopefully, just a few guns, but probably a bit more than that.

“We were just discussing how it looked as though your trucks were too heavily loaded,” the voice said. “We thought maybe we could help you out, maybe take some of the livestock. That way you’ve got less to feed, we’ve got more to feed ourselves with.” He laughed, the sort of laugh where you could easily imagine the sneer that came with it.

June’ voice, so polite. “I’m afraid that the livestock are members of the troupe as well.”

The man mimicked her. “I’m afraid that you don’t have a choice.”

“That’s a point of debate,” June said. “Vera, now.”

Not many people have seen any of the old war machines. Some were disabled, others disabled themselves. We don’t know what side Vera was on back then. Just that she was on ours now.

You Should Read This: An Appreciation of Maya Angelou

This picture makes me happy. What a well-deserved honor.

I first read Maya Angelou at twelve or thirteen, with I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I was a white Midwestern girl with an academic and a journalist as parents and the world Angelou described was so different from my own experience that it helped me learn early that there were outlooks beyond my own.

I read Child of the Dark: The Diary of Carolina Maria de Jesus and Rubyfruit Jungle around the same time and in each case, the narrator stayed with me for years, was like a friend I’d met at summer camp or some other event, never seen again but well-remembered all the same.

Later I’d come to her poetry at a time when my ears were ready to drink it in. Her voice was sharp and observant, outspoken and nuanced all at once. Here’s one of my favorites among her poems, “I Rise.”

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don’t you take it awful hard

‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines

Diggin’ in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I’ve got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame

I rise

Up from a past that’s rooted in pain

I rise

I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise.

Learning of her death this morning was a blow. She was bold and wonderful and eloquent, all that a poet should be. She spoke about our times and testified to her experience so others could learn from it. I have a special family in her heart, made up of the writers that have shaped me. Chaucer’s there, and Joanna Russ, and so many others. I wish I’d had the chance to meet her in person.

Here’s a recent quote from her I came across this morning and love: The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

I’m glad you’re home, Maya. But oh, those of us still aching for it will miss you.

What I’m Working On: The SFWA Cookbook

Watermelon cake: cake or watermelon? I don't think we'll have this recipe, but among what's been promised is tobacco-infused tequila hot chocolate (Kevin Hearne), Muddle-in-the-Middle Mojito (Kay Kenyon) and Elf BBQ (Jim Hines).

Beside all the convulsions of moving and prep for travel, I’m doing the usual writing (working on a YA novel and have a slew of stories I’ve been asked for), but I’m also working on a nonfiction project of a type I never thought I’d work on: a cookbook, which I’m co-editing with Fran Wilde.

It’s a SFWA project, and I’m excited about it for a number of reasons.

It’s following in a SFWA tradition. There were two previous cookbooks, both edited by Anne McCaffrey, Cooking Out of This World and Serve it Forth.
Next year is SFWA’s 50th anniversary, so this will be part of the celebration. Accordingly, it’s a party-themed cookbook with sections on savory snacks, sweet snacks, alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks, and dishes to take to potlucks.
It’s a (hopefully) noncontentious effort that celebrates SFWA’s community, a community which is for me one of the benefits of being a member.
It’s a great chance for me to touch base with a lot of fellow members. I’m fairly certain I’m SFWA’s next vice-president (barring the event of a successful write-in campaign for Randall Garrett) and it’s wonderful to have a reason to interact with them other than problem-solving. I’ve been contacting a few members in advance (there will be a general solicitation to the members next month) and it’s been a lot of fun seeing some illustrious names in my inbox. I’ve talked to a few who I didn’t know had left, and I hope that maybe it’ll persuade some to give the organization another chance.
We get to test a lot of very interesting recipes.
As with so many SFWA projects, I’m learning a lot in the process.
Who doesn’t like a party?
It’s a chance to share my Welsh rarebit recipe with the world.

We’ve got a lot of cool plans that will be revealed over the coming months, so stay tuned.

Trimming Down

Going through my filing cabinet has yielded plenty of detritus from the past: notes from Armageddon staff meetings, my transcripts from Hopkins, countless Christmas cards, and a decade's worth of old credit card receipts and checks to lit magazines for sample copies.

Continuing to pack and sort and dispose of stuff. This morning I’ll take a box over to PC Recycle, send my brother yet another box of books, and haul one more trunk’s worth of stuff to Value Village. I find myself increasing ready to pitch things, but I still cling to some: a plastic crate full of notebooks I want to sort through, a few knick knacks, a favorite mug. Taco goes to the vet this afternoon and will be suitably appalled by the process, I’m sure, but I want to make sure the cats get all their shots and a good check-up before I leave them.

All the art is off the walls, carefully bubble-wrapped and ready to be stored, and the apartment is starting to feel empty. There’s plenty of little (and some major) maintenance work to do, including putting Pergo down in the bedroom, and culminating with painting all my turquoise and pink and green walls white again. Two weekends from now, I’ll rent a truck and take a couple of pieces of furniture over to my mom’s but all in all, we’re not keeping much. My bookcases, luckily, were bought several decades ago and disassemble easily to pack small. They’re recycled rainforest wood, purchased through some green catalog, and have served me very well through all my wandering. There’s a storage unit’s worth of stuff to get through still, but the ultimate aim is to get it all in a storage pod while we’re gone.

Stress levels are high but manageable. I find myself talking to the cats during the day, and worrying about them, despite the fact that I know both will be in excellent hands while we’re traveling. I am afraid that Raven will die while I’m gone, and I won’t be with him and that will break my heart. At the same time, I can feel an exhilaration creeping up as some stuff falls away, and right now there’s plenty of possibilities as we continue planning. Worldcon has become more optional — it ties us to Europe in August and we’re wondering if maybe there’s more pleasant ways to schedule that visit. Yesterday I was reading a book and ran across mention of the gardens at Menton, which hold the oldest living olive trees in the world. Now there’s a new push pin on the map, because I want to go commune with those trees.

If you’re interested in taking a class with me this year, be aware there aren’t many chances left. There’s a Podcasting Workshop on April 27 and a Flash Fiction workshop May 14, and that is it for 2014. I’m very happy with both the Writing F&SF and Advanced workshops in this last round; they’re full of strong and interesting writers, and that’s a nice way to end this round of teaching.

So much left to do. But so many possibilities are opening up. Planning how I’ll write on the road is something I’m thinking about. I think ipad plus wireless keyboard plus Dropbox should serve me well, as long as I’ve got a notebook and pen along too.

Radio Silence

There's something enchanting about maps, about all the possibilities they represent. Certainly they're not the territory, but they promise so much about it. I'm looking forward to sharing the exploration with my favorite person in the world.

I’ve been very absent from the blog of late, and I apologize for that. I’m actually in the process of radically trimming down our belongings, packing up Chez Rambo, moving us into temporary housing, and then getting this place ready to sell. Then Wayne and I are going to travel a bit while we figure out what we want to do. There will be plenty on that to come, but it’s why I won’t be teaching in the latter half of 2014 and will generally be unreceptive to anything other than requests for stories or reprints during that period as well. I do plan to write steadily while on the road, which should be a new and interesting experience. Advice from other road-warriors is welcome.

For people wondering how that’ll affect my tenure as SFWA’s vice president, which seems increasingly likely barring the eruption of a singularly well-organized write-in campaign: not too much. That’s one reason I’ve cut a lot of other responsibilities. As before, I’ll be stepping down as head moderator of the SFWA boards, which takes a good slice of stuff off my plate. I did commit to driving the third iteration of a SFWA cookbook (more on that to come as well), but I’ve got the capable Fran Wilde co-leading that effort as well as a nice long deadline, so all’s good there.

Various publishing news: Just turned in the last edits for “Rappacini’s Crow”, which will appear in Beneath Ceaseless Skies. There’s another story going through edits there right now, “Call and Answer, Plant and Harvest,” which features a city, Serendib, that I sense will become a working part of my mental universe as far as story production goes. “English Muffin, Devotion on the Side” will be popping up in Daily Science Fiction. “The Raiders” (formerly “In Andersonville”) will pillage in the pages of Fiction River’s Past Crimes issue, edited by Kristine Kathyrn Rusch and “Marvelous Contrivances of the Heart” will unfold in Fiction River’s Recycled Pulp issue, edited by John Helfers. “Elections at Villa Encantada” will appear in Unidentified Funny Objects 3.

Christy Varonfakis Johnson, aka Folly Blaine, will be narrating both of my collections and is currently working on Eyes Like Sky and Coal and Moonlight. PseudoPod will include “The Worm Within” in an upcoming podcast.

I will pick up the “You Should Read This” posts again soon! I’m finishing up a review of two new Jo Walton books for Cascadia Subduction Zone right now, but once that’s done, I’ve got a number of old as well as recent reads I want to talk about.

So…plenty to do. And plenty more to come.

Cat’s Norwescon 37 Schedule

Here’s where I’ll be. If you’re a SFWA member, you’ll also see me at the Saturday morning meeting.

Geek, Geek, Don’t Tell Me!

Fri 4:00pm-5:00pm Evergreen 3&4

If you enjoy NPR’s weekly quiz show “Wait Wait… Don’t Tell Me!” you’ll enjoy our humorous F&SF version of this popular show. We’ll test audience members’ knowledge against a panel of Pro artists, authors, and film critics in the field as former co-workers Les Howle and Brooks Peck, current Science Fiction Museum curator, display images from books, films, comics, and art from the 1940′s till now. Our panel of pros will give answers and our audience participants will bet on whether they are right or wrong. Chocolate to the winners!

Brooks Peck (M), Caren Gussoff, Leslie Howle, John Picacio, Cat Rambo

Defining Urban Fantasy

Sat 1:00pm-2:00pm Cascade 3&4

There are almost as many definitions of urban fantasy as there are readers. Is it simply a supernatural story in an urban setting? Does this mean the “mean streets” of urban fantasy are more metaphorical than actual? Is the fantastic in urban fantasy a part of the landscape, or can it just be an intrusion? The panel will look at different explanations, interpretations, and expectations that writers and readers bring to the genre.

Cat Rambo (M), Myke Cole, Stina Leicht, Kat Richardson, Duane Wilkins

Reading: Cat Rambo

Sat 5:00pm-5:30pm Cascade 1

All the Pretty Little Mermaids. Near future feminist SF that recently appeared in Asimov’s. Some adult language and mild violence. Rated R

(I am actually planning on reading something completely different. It’s funny. You will probably like it.)

Cat Rambo

First Page Idol

Sat 3:00pm-4:00pm Cascade 10

Feeling brave and bold? Send us your novel’s first page to be read aloud and critiqued by three pros. (Email to: idol@norwescon.org)

Phoebe Kitanidis (M), Camille Alexa, Cat Rambo, Kevin Scott

Writing What You Don’t Know

Sun Noon-1:00pm Cascade 5

Many writers have heard the advice to “write what you know”. But, have you really met any dragons, or robots, or zombies, or vampires? How do you write about something that you haven’t experienced personally? Tips for how to (and how not to) use research and common sense to improve your writing.

Cat Rambo (M), Ann Gimpel, John (J.A.) Pitts, Kat Richardson

Some Slushpile Thoughts

In reading for Women Destroy Fantasy, I’ve cleared about two hundred stories away so far, and there’s still about a hundred I have yet to read. Some amazing stuff, some familiar names, and all in all, a slush pile that is full enough of solid stories that I could fill several issues. It’s been a great pleasure to be elbow deep in so much excellence. So here’s a few notes on the experience so far.

In my head, I have these slots:

My fairytale/legend/historical slot: Right now there’s a very good historical piece that I’ve tentatively penciled in here. It hits a lot of my sweet spots as a reader, it’s an interesting magic system, and it’s a good story. We’ll see if anything comes along that knocks it out of that slot.
My steampunk/Victorian slot: Plenty of these stories to choose from, and again there’s a particular one in the lead.
My superhero slot: A good number of these, and they are all jostling for the slot. I don’t have a favorite yet.
My urban/modern day fantasy slot: Another one with multiple contenders so far, and there’s a number of wild and weird ones.

My criteria? I want good stories that will stick in the reader’s head and keep them thinking long after they’re done reading. I want lovely prose — but not so lovely that it eclipses the story. I want heart — I’m still looking for a story in the pile that makes me cry.

Other observations:

It’s a good idea to think about the impetus behind the anthology. Things like an anti-feminist message are probably going to be an awfully hard sell for an issue with what I’d consider a feminist theme.
Lots of wings in this slushpile. Not saying that’s bad, but man are there a lot of stories with this focus.
A lot has been done with fairytales in the past. Looking for fresher ground might be more rewarding.