Lilith Saintcrow's Blog, page 186

Jackass Redtruck And The Squirrel!Showdown

The Old Squirrel King and the Traitor rolled out into the road. Thunder muttered, and an engine revved.

To explain this, I should tell you that people tear down our quiet little street all the time. You see, our street–all two and a half blocks of it–runs parallel to the main road coming into the neighborhood, but the main road has speed bumps. So, various idiots (usually angry soccer mums in minivans or overcompensating jackwads in BEEEG trucks) turn off the main road, turn onto our street, rev up to about forty miles per, just get up to speed when they have to brake and turn again…and stop at the stop sign, where they turn back onto the main road. It doesn't save them any time, nor does it help them get where they're going. I suppose they just feel like they've gotten one over on the Man, or something. Who knows? Some poor soul–probably a kid–is going to get run over one of these days, and maybe the city will put speed bumps in on our street too. *sigh*

Anyway. Bleeding and battered and slowing down–for he was no spring chicken in squirrel years, our Neo, and he had already held off three jays and a crazed herding dog–the Old King had the Traitor flat on the pavement, and was beating the living hell out of him. "THROW SHIT AT ME, WILL YOU? TRY IT NOW! TRY IT NOW! I KNOW KUUUUUUUNG FUUUUUU!"

And Steerpike!Squirrel, still laughing that crazy high-pitched maniacal laughter, had lost all his discretion. "I'M GONNA HAVE BETTINA, AND THE BACKYARD TOO! HAHAHAHAHA!"

Then there was Yours Truly, standing there barefoot with a golf club and an open mouth, the yellowgreen bruiselight of an approaching storm falling over the entire scene with heavy sticky oppressive heat. Sweat trickled down my back, and the bright idea–I could get the hose to calm them both down, I guess, that's what you're supposed to do for dogs, right?–had just wandered through my stunned brain. (Look, I had just hit myself on the head with my own door, all right? YOU try thinking clearly in This Sort Of Situation, goddamit. I dare you.)

The engine growl became a screech, and it barreled past in a streak of candy-apple red. It was the jerkass in the red truck–every afternoon, bass thumping and meaty arm hanging out the window, this balding asshole races down our street. He doesn't content himself with going forty, like all the other jerkholes who zoom down our quiet little street. No, this former football star (you can just TELL he had his glory days in high school and hasn't forgotten them, you know the type) guns it around the corner, almost swiping whoever's waiting to turn left to get to the grocery (yes, that was me more than once) and floors it, trying to achieve sixty before he has to snap on his brakes. I don't know how many tons his truck is (it's got to be at least half to haul his huge ass around) but I know he probably has an itty-bitty weiner he is very sensitive about.

Like I said, you can just tell. ANYWAY.

I actually screamed. Yes, my chickadees, I let forth a Vader "NOOOOOOOO!" I don't remember moving, but I was at the end of my driveway, pavement burning my feet, the golf club suddenly raised. Jackass Redtruck (for such I have dubbed him, and such will be the name called at the trump of Judgment when he is cast unto a fiery pit, and not a moment too soon please God) smashed his brakes. There was an unearthly screech–did I mention he has this truck that looks really shiny, but obviously he doesn't take care of it?–and smear-scream of rubber laid down.

I would like you, dear Reader, to imagine this. One wild-haired, sweating writer in jeans and a M*A*S*H T-shirt, waving a golf club, running down the street as a spear of lightning flashes, drenching the road with unholy white brilliance. Jackass Redtruck has his door half open and half his copious acres of ass out; I don't know if he or was stopping to scoop up whatever had been in his way so he could take it home and stuff it, or what.

Thunder crackled. I realized what I was screaming. At the top of my lungs. As I ran down the road.

With the golf club.

"YOU SONOFABITCH, YOU KILLED MY SQUUUUUUIRREL!"

I think I saw him mouth one wondering "Holyshit!" before Jackass Redtruck piled back in, slammed the door, and gunned his engine. He raced around the corner and was gone, leaving me to put my own brakes on and stop, sides heaving and feet burning, shaking the club as the rain began pattering down in quarter-sized drops.

Still screaming.

"THAT WAS NEO, YOU SONOFAHONKEYTONK WHOREMONGERING BASTARD! YOU KILLED MY SQUUUUUIIRREL!"

Thunder rattled again. There was another flash of lightning in the distance. Well, great, I thought. Oh, great. Dead squirrels and my God, the neighbors probably knew I was crazy, but this is just too much. Why me? Why can't I have normal wildlife around my house? Jesus.

Then I realized something.

I hadn't actually seen Jackass Redtruck hit them, and the truck was jacked up pretty high. Maybe, just maybe…

I turned, very slowly, and looked down my street. And I saw…

…to be continued

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Squirrel!Showdown Weather

So there I was, in my driveway, waving a golf club and staring in openmouthed wonder.

When last we saw Squirrel!Neo, he had streaked between the fence and the garage after his little, um, psychotic break and the melee that followed. Behind him capered Steerpike!Squirrel, whose dastardly plan's culmination had exceeded his wildest hopes. Miss B was shaking off her concussion, the jays were screaming, and the rest of the squirrels had taken refuge in my neighbor's tall pine trees among the mourning doves, who immediately started gossiping softly about this turn of events. Worse than old ladies at a back fence, those doves. ANYWAY.

The day was still hot and sticky. Faraway thunder rumbled. Dark, stacked clouds were massing, but not nearly quickly enough. It was the kind of afternoon where people get drunk and angry, where it shades into an evening of more of the same and a night full of screams and punches.

In other words, it was showdown weather.

I managed to run through the house without tripping on anything, hit myself on the shins with my Sekrit Weapon, cleared the pet gate with a leap I am still proud of, whacked myself on the shins again, ran into my front door, twisted the knob, ran into it again (this was not my finest moment), finally figured out how to work my own goddamn door, piled out onto my front walk, and skidded to a stop, my jaw dropping.

Apparently I'd missed something while I was clocking myself on the head with my own front door; Neo had put two and two together and come up with Steerpike.

"YOU!" Squirrel!Neo bellowed. He'd lost a chunk of fur over his right shoulder, and blood striped his muzzle. But his crooked tail was high. "TRAITOR! THIEF! MONGREL! IMMA BEAT YO ASS!"

Steerpike!Squirrel grinned, panting. "BRING IT, OLD MAN. THERE'S A NEW KING IN TOWN."

Well, those were fightin' words. The duelists closed in a flurry of teeth and claws, and I was wondering if they both had rabies. I also had figured out I was barefoot, since I'd just been standing watching Miss B do her business. I also realized I was brandishing the Sekrit Weapon, and lowered the golf club somewhat sheepishly. I would have liked to wade in and give Steerpike a solid thump to his little rodent skull, but the chance of hitting Neo was too great. Plus, they were rolling all over my driveway.

Neo: THAT SOUND

Steerpike: "HAHAHAHA, YOU CAN'T CATCH ME, YOU CAN'T–" Bam. "DIDN'T HURT! YOU'RE TOO WEAK!"

Neo: THAT SOUND

Steerpike: "AND I'M GONNA LIKE BEING BETTINA'S SQUIRRELMAN, YOU KNOW." Whap. Thud. Tearing noise.

Neo: Dead silence.

The sudden quiet was eerie. Steerpike's only hope was his agility, and he kept dancing out of reach, darting in to smack or claw at Neo, who was like a damaged engine–terrible, but slow. Barking and crashing from the house behind me; Miss B had gotten over her head trauma, I guess, and found her way inside. I should have been hoping the pet gate would still be a deterrent. I should have been thinking about going back to close the front door, which was no doubt letting in a bunch of sticky air and nasty bugs. I should have been going to get the hose to separate the combatants–hey, it works for dogs, right?

Instead, I just stood, and stared, my shins throbbing. The incipient thunderstorm had just crept in front of the sun, eerie yellowgreen stormlight filling every crack and crevice with odd shadows. Stormpike twisted, meaning to hop away. I don't know what he had planned, but it failed, because Neo jerk-twisted…and caught him.

In fact, Neo hit him so hard I heard the crunch at the top of the driveway, and they rolled out into the road.

In the distance, under a mutter of thunder, an engine growled.

…to be continued

Related posts:Introducing Steerpike!Squirrel
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Trouble in the Land of Backyard

Squirrel!Terror, Melee Edition

How was your weekend? I rearranged my dining room and went to a bouldering clinic at the Circuit. Incidentally, if you ever get a chance to take a clinic with Alex Johnson, do. She's utterly delightful.

I've been putting off telling you what happened next in the Kingdom of Backyard, haven't I. Well, that won't make it any better. *sigh*

So. When last you saw Squirrel!Neo, he was being peppered with pinecones and various other materials. (I did not know squirrels could fling poo like monkeys. Well, lesson learned, but I'm not telling THAT story. I have some pride. Anyway.)

First, King Neo got mad. Then…he got paranoid.

You see, the bombardment only happened when he was alone, and only in the backyard. When the posse was with him, Neo was safe…but he was also nervous. Paranoia made him mean.

You can't keep your position as King of the Backyard for very long if you start randomly screaming "BITCHIKNOWKUNGFU!" and jumping on whoever happens to be closest to you at the time. I mean, you can for a while–but that sort of behavior leads to rebellion sooner or later. (This is the reason dictatorships inevitably crumble. Trufax.)

And what, you may ask, was lean and reddish Steerpike!Squirrel doing all this time? Well, he was dancing attendance on Neo whenever the posse was around, and getting as close to the king as possible. Which meant he got jumped more often than not. Oddly, he didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed almost to provoke the king into a rage, by dancing about and chittering, full of high spirits and cheer.

Neo, doughty warrior that he was, lasted about a week.

A bright afternoon came, one of the hot ones we had months ago. The air was so wet it felt like breathing through a towel. The weather would whipsaw back and forth, one day raining, the next steam-jungle-hot enough to drive you to drink, and then make you sorry you'd taken down anything but water. It was wet and miserable, and even Miss B, the most cheerful dog on earth, had her snappish moments. Getting her to go outside to pee was a chore. "ARE YOU KIDDING?" she would mutter, looking sidelong at me. "HAVE YOU BEEN OUT THERE? IT'S DISGUSTING, AND I'M WEARING A FUR COAT."

And my muttered reply, "So help me, I am not having you pee on the rug. COME ON."

So out we went. I leaned against the house, watching as Miss B slunk about in the shade, searching for The Perfect Spot. Now, I want you to remember that she's lurking. Don't forget that.

Juliet!Jay and Romeo!Jay were in the pussywillow tree, canoodling softly. Mourning doves were in the neighbor's pines, exchanging comments on the weather and the old-man-pee smell of simmering juniper. Miss B slid around the corner of the house, seeking more shade.

And forth from the back corner, where the Headless Squirrel lay interred, came the posse, snapping their fingers. Neo was at their head, and he had relaxed slightly. Steerpike was capering alongside, and Neo kept giving him sidelong little glances.

Suspicious glances.

I wished I knew squirrelese. "That's right," I breathed. "Suspect him. Oh, suspect him."

Steerpike kept capering. They moved out into the middle of the yard, tails twitching and noses lifted. I daresay there was even some sauntering going on. Steerpike, getting no reaction from Neo, turned his attention to a squirrel girl–oh, let's call her Bettina–and they gamboled rather acrobatically. Bettina!Squirrel used to be Neo's girl, but she had taken to avoiding him and hanging at the back of the posse. I didn't blame her. He'd jumped her once, and only Steerpike's intervention had avoided Severe Unpleasantness.

Because no matter how badly Neo's being gaslighted, I won't have squirrel domestic violence in my yard. That's why the Sekrit Weapon was near the sunroom door. Remember that, too.

So, the stage was set. I was a little uneasy, and I was watching Steerpike. Who was unconcerned, smiling and handsome, rolling in the sun with Bettina!Squirrel.

And then. Yes, you knew there had to be an "and then."

We heard him before we saw him. Mercutio!Jay coasted in, tail fluttering, in fine feathered form, landing on the ground near a bank of lemon balm. "ON TOP OF OLD SMOOOOOOKEY, ALL COVERED WITH BIRDSEED–HEY EVERYONE! WHAT'S–AUUUGHT! JESUS CHRIST!"

It was the final straw. Neo's nerves snapped. There was only a gray blur, silent and deadly.

Mercutio went into the bank of lemon balm, screeching bloody murder. Feathers flew. "FIRE! MURDER! THIEVES! SMOOOOOG!"

Juliet!Jay hopped down, peering curiously into the green bank. I opened my mouth to protest, but she was already yelling. "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU–ULP!"

Neo barreled out of the bank and hit her dead center.

And Romeo!Jay…well, he'd had enough, at that point. Nobody messes with Juliet while he's around. A streak of blue-feathered brilliance screaming "BAAAAANZZZZAAAAAAI!" smashed into Neo, who was giving as good as he got. Rarely has there been such a display of kung-fu prowess in the Kingdom of Backyard.

You have to realize, this happened all within a few seconds. I was still inhaling to warn Julie when Miss B–remember her?–burst around the corner of the house, drawn by the ruckus. Every circuit in her little doggy brain fused. "HEEEEEEEERD IT!" she bellowed, and bolted across the yard.

All at once: Mercutio: "JESUS CHRIST!" Juliet: "AUGH!" Romeo: "JUUUUUULIE!" Neo was making THAT SOUND. Again. He was holding off three jays at once, including a maddened Romeo who didn't give a shit about kung fu, he was going to get his hammer and beat some ass.

Now, I am possessed of no sense at all. Instead of going to get my Sekrit Weapon, I took off barefoot across the yard, my own "OH FOR CHRISSAKE CUT IT OUT–" drowned in the hubbub. The combatants, at that precise moment, noticed the impending canine tornado.

"HEEEEEERD IT!" Miss B bellowed again, and the yard exploded.

You know how in cartoons there will be a stampede, dust flying and the camera shaking, and Bugs Bunny in the middle with his shoulders hunched, his ears flapping a little bit as everyone pours past him? Yeah. That was me. Squirrels at my ankles, the jays suddenly remembering they could fly, and Miss B streaking by so fast the wind of her passing hit my shins. Neo, cut off from the juniper hedge, crazed and screaming, bolted for the gate on the far side of the garage. Steerpike lolloped afterward, high-pitched terrifying laughter bursting out of him and adding to the chaos, Bettina and the others had nipped through the fence for the safety of the neighbor's pine trees, where the mourning doves were watching with bated breath and a great deal of interest.

Neo nipped between the gate and the garage wall. Steerpike ducked after him, still grinning. Miss B dug in, but was going too fast. She hit the gate with a yelp and a crash, backed up shaking her head, and turned in a circle a couple times, yapping with sheer joy and frustrated herding instinct.

Feathers drifted down. My ribs heaved even though I was standing still. I heard a deathly screech from the front yard.

This is not going to end well, I thought.

I ran for the back door, wrenched it open, scooped up my Sekrit Weapon, and booked through my house for the front door, leaving Miss B to sort herself out.

You see, like Romeo!Jay, I'd had bloody well enough.

…to be continued.

Related posts:The Gaslighting of Neo
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Kicking Distance

Over at the Deadline Dames today I talk about what I do when I'm not writing. Also, I told you guys I was going to get another tattoo, I did.

Unfortunately, the other news around here is that the Little Prince brought home a summer cold, and it's one of those stupid ones that lingers in the back of the throat, tasting like Pine-Sol. Just enough snot to be icky, but not enough to really justify staying in bed, and feeling like you've been hit by a truck.

Yeah. Like that.

So, I'm going to go pour more hot tea and cool water down my throat, load up on vitamin C, and get back in the game tomorrow. Or, if not back in the game, at least within kicking distance of the board.

See you then.

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Ugh. No. Not today.

Three Don'ts and Two Dos

I find myself hesitating to write what happened next in the Saga of SquirrelTerror. I don't know if I'm ready. *looks thoughtful* It's a sad tale, but I guess I should have thought of that when I started writing about the little fuzzballs.

Anyway. It's Friday, and I haven't done a Five Things post for a while. Here's three things I wish aspiring authors wouldn't do on social networking, and two I wish they would. All usual disclaimers and mileage-may-varies apply. Let's start with the DO NOTs. (They're more fun.)

Please, for the love of Crom, don't:

* List yourself as "Author" in your name field. When I get a Facebook/Goodreads friend request from JANE SMITH, AUTHOR, or AUTHOR JOHN SMITH or JANE SMITH, WRITER, I wince and die a little inside. It has everything to do with my experience of 95% of those requests that I approve inevitably end up with me being spammed, repeatedly and at great length, with desperate self-promotion. It's unprofessional and just plain annoying. So you're a writer? Great. You're newly-published? Double great. You're self-pubbed? Okay. You don't need to put it on that particular billboard. Put "writing" in your interests, put a link to your website in your profile, and start interacting like a human being instead of a marketing machine. Hysterical insistence that everyone call you AUTHOR X is not going to gain you an audience or endear you to other professionals. Interacting like a human being and sharing neat things takes you further in the long run.

* Hard sell or spam. I've covered this before, but it can always be said again. Spamming me with fifty links during the day about your NEW BOOK OMG, especially when I've just approved a friend request, is the way to get yourself unfriended in a hurry and put in that little mental drawer of "Oh, God, I never want to meet this person IRL." I try to keep to 5-10% marketing at most on my social networking streams, with the rest being interaction and fresh content. I am willing to say one can go as high as 15% without driving away potential readers and professional acquaintances screaming. The trouble is, I see a lot of new/aspiring authors reversing those percentages, and then getting frustrated when they don't see a return from all this effort. When it comes to this sort of thing, bigger is not better.

* Monopolize the conversation. This falls more under interpersonal faux pas than marketing disaster, but I've seen it so much I figure it counts. Even if you're excited to be in a Google+ hangout or a Twitter conversation with another author, one you might be a fan of or who you might think is a potentially good contact, try not to make everything about you. Do not keep bringing the conversation around to You And Your Hobbyhorses. Don't try to one-up with better stories. Don't, for the love of Henrietta, talk over other people who might be shyer than you. Do not lecture, and do not get invested in "getting the last word." Interact, certainly, but try to interact on the principle that you are interested in what the other people have to say. Not only will this make you look good, it gives you a higher chance of people wanting to talk to you more than once. They won't run the other way when they see your name pop up onscreen. You will acquire precious reputation as someone who is actually fun to interact with, and that goodwill is worth GOLD.

And now, the Two Dos!

DO:

* Start as if you are a professional with a reputation to lose. From the very instant you step into the wide carpet of kittens and rainbows that is the Internet, you need to be prepared for the fact that it is public. Not only is it public, but if you make a misstep, it lingers. Everything you have written on the Internet is on someone's server somewhere, and you do not have any goddamn control over it. Solution? From the very beginning, act as if you're a professional, and think before you hit "send." There may be things you feel strongly enough about to risk offending people over, but you want those things to be chosen with care and thought, not just mushrooming because you opened your stupid mouth one day and something fell out. If you have Silly Internet Things in your past, it's never too late to say mea culpa, tighten your belt, and make the commitment to act like a reasonable professional from this moment forth. Also, remember: pseudonyms do not make you anonymous. You are NEVER really anonymous on the Internet, most especially if someone really truly wants to find you.

* Chill. You're going to find things all over social media and the Internet that make you want to vomit. People will say things that make you want to scream. There will be so much stupid your eyes will bleed and it will BURN. But if you get all het up over every little thing, you will burn out your emotional insulation, your emotional energy, your stomach lining, and quite possibly fuse a couple synapses. There is stupid and nasty and bigoted all over the Internet, and you will not be able to slay that hydra. Plus, sooner or later someone is going to get pissed off and troll you. It is unavoidable, especially if you are a "public" person. Your best defense is to chillax and practice the art of Just Not Engaging, with a side order of Banning Where Possible. Not only will it save you a pretty penny in ulcer medication, but it also makes you look like the Bigger Person and makes the trolls writhe in agony because they're Being Ignored. And really, what better revenge is there? (Answer in comments. Cheap story prompts FTW!)

There it is. Three and two make five, and I'm done dispensing Possibly-Useless Advice for the day. (Well, not really, but it sounds good.) Stay cool, my chickadees.

Over and out.

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The Gaslighting of Neo

Another predawn sighting of Phred the Coyote. The Bunny Brigade was taunting him, but they lost another one of their number. Ah, the circle of life.

Anyway, when last we met, I was telling you about the mysterious peppering of Squirrel!Neo with pinecones. I saw Steerpike!Squirrel slinking away afterward, but that wasn't, so to speak, proof enough to convict. It was, however, enough to make me wonder and keep an eye out.

Picture this: a cloudy afternoon, the squirrels going about their business. You know how, in a group of people, a sudden silence will fall? (Hermes is among us, they used to say.) It's kind of like that in the Kingdom of Backyard. There will be a crowd, and all of a sudden, everyone will disappear except for one lone squirrel. He's got a crooked tail, and he's a little bigger than Yon Average Yard Rodent. He glances around, sees that he is alone, and immediately is on high alert.

Because that's when it strikes. A pinecone, a small rock, any type of ammunition. Always when he was alone, always from an unexpected direction. Other squirrels would show up and give him curious looks as he stood, shaking his fist and chittering angrily, or desperately trying to convince them to stay under cover.

The first stage was anger, of course. He'd be pelted, and would take out his aggression on the first thing he saw. Most of the time it was other squirrels. But this particular afternoon, he was bombed from the plum tree with something that looked suspiciously like an acorn. (I don't know where the hell it came from, there's not an oak tree for a few miles.) Neo hit the dirt, rolling, and just barely avoided getting hit in the head. He came up, furious and looking for the perpetrator…

…just as Romeo!Jay, his brother-in-arms, glided down to land near him and shoot the breeze. Romeo doesn't talk much–he saves most of his words for Juliet!Jay, as we saw during the Corn Pops War. But he does like to hop around after Neo and his cadre, occasionally getting in a screechy joke that will make all of them laugh. I get the idea that with Mercutio!Jay around, Romeo doesn't often get a word in edgewise, so he's learned to make them count.

Neo went off.

"BANZAI!" he yelled in squirrel-ese. "MOTHERFUCKER I'VE GOT YOU NOW! BOMB ME WITH NUTS, WILL YOU?"

"JESUS CHRIST!" Romeo!Jay screamed, taking off in an explosion of feathers. "WHAT THE HELL, YOU FURRY DUMBASS?"

Your Humble Narrator stood in the sunroom with a watering can–yes, I was watering my goddamn bonsai, that's a whole 'nother story–and a slack jaw, observing this.

All Squirrel!Neo's considerable fury and frustration had boiled over. He leapt after Romeo!Jay, screaming like a banshee. Yes, he was making THAT SOUND, like a wineglass, Sam Kinison, and some steak caught in a possessed blender. Romeo, normally an easygoing guy (he used to be a little more wound up before Juliet noticed his existence, now he's pretty damn calm for a jay), spread his wings, let out a warning screech, and pecked Neo.

On the head.

It was a perfect kung-fu peck (where the hell do all these animals learn their goddamn martial arts, I'd like to know), and it rang Neo's chimes pretty good. Romeo hopped back. "WHAT THE HELL?" he squawked again. "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR TINY LITTLE MIND, DUMBASS? WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU?"

Neo lay stunned on the grass for a moment before hopping up. "YOU FEATHERED BASTARD!" he screamed. "OH YOU FEATHERED FUCKING BASTARD, I'M GONNA–"

"YOU'RE GONNA WHAT?" Romeo cocked his head. "ANYTIME YOU THINK YOU'RE BLUEJAY ENOUGH FOR THE JOB, FOURLEGS. BRING IT."

With that, he spread his wings again and took off, brushing over Neo's head. The King of Backyard ducked as the jay buzzed him, and Romeo was gone over the house in a flash of blue feathers. The King shook his tiny little rodent fists and bayed furiously at the cloudy sky.

That's when the other acorn pasted him right on the noggin as well. This one came from the plum tree too.

Behind Neo.

"Holy shit," I breathed, looking down at Miss B. She cocked her head, wondering what in the yard was holding my attention so much. "Somebody's gaslighting Neo."

I got the canine equivalent of a shrug–she can't see out into that part of the yard when she's under the picnic table in the sunroom. (Don't ask.) I looked up just in time to see Neo's tail disappearing into the juniper hedge next to the plum tree as yet another acorn-shaped thing plowed into the ground behind him.

I waited.

Sure enough, after an interval, who should come sneaking down the plum tree but a certain reddish squirrel?

"You bastard," I muttered. "Oh, I don't like you."

Steerpike!Squirrel glanced at the house as if he'd heard me. He flicked his lean reddish tail twice, smoothed the fur on his tiny head, and I could swear to God he smiled before vanishing into the hedge after the sorely-tried King of Backyard.

I had a sinking feeling things were about to get ugly.

Related posts:Interspecies Elizabethan Insults
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Trouble in the Land of Backyard

Predawn. The world is hushed and gray. A rabbit goes streaking across the field, but Miss B takes no notice. her ears are perked, she is expectant–

–and Phred the Coyote, low to the ground and moving deadly-silent, grabs the bunny neat as you please. A snap and a shake, Mr. Lapin didn't even have time to scream.

Phred looked up with a mouthful of fur as we passed. I swear to God he said, "MRPHLE!" Which is, I guess, coyote-talk for "Ohai! Gotta go. Breakfast." And he trotted off, vanishing into underbrush near a fence. Miss B kept looking up at me.

Seriously? she was saying. Really? Is that what you do when you catch one? REALLY?

I sense trouble in our future.

Anyway. Today I want to take you back a few months. There was trouble in the land of Backyard, but it started very small.

***

WHEN LAST WE SAW Squirrel!Neo, he was the victorious general of the Corn Pops War. He was Big Man on Campus. He swaggered. He had all the babes. But there was another squirrel in the wings, a little reddish thing with a gleam in his nasty rodent eyes. He was lean and hungry, and such squirrels are dangerous.

It was subtle, at first. Steerpike!Squirrel (for so he was named, this lean hungry one) was in the background, watching as Neo swaggered. Then he moved forward, and for a while, there were no better friends than the victorious general and the whip-thin youngster. There were babes aplenty (and apparently it was mating season, DO NOT ASK FOR THAT STORY, just trust me) and Steerpike!Squirrel was always on hand to fetch and carry.

But there was one disturbing incident.

Your humble narrator was washing dishes one fine, partly-sunny afternoon (it does happen) and gazing reflectively out the kitchen window. Squirrel!Neo pranced past, alone for once, a lone gray squirrel with a crooked tail, veteran of many wars, the very Squirrel Revivified. He lashed that crooked tail, paused to admire the bank of fragrant rosemary swarming with busy bees…

…and the pinecone smacked right into his head.

Neo tumbled, his warrior reflexes a little rusty but still good. Two more pinecones plowed into the ground around him as he rolled. "ARTILLERY!" he yelled. "GET DOWN GET DOWN, WHERE'S THE GODDAMN PLATOON, GET THE TANK KILLER BRIGADE!"

I stopped, holding a pasta pot that needed scrubbing, and stared openmouthed. Squirrel!Neo kept rolling, got his feet underneath him, and scrabbled for the fence. He vanished into the juniper hedge, and I cocked my head. "Huh."

A few moments later, as I was rinsing the gleaming pasta pot, who should appear but Steerpike!Squirrel, slithering from the pine trees and cutting across the corner of the yard. He moved low and slow, glancing around to make certain he wasn't being witnessed.

"Huh," I repeated, and even though I was inside the house, perhaps he heard me. He halted and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the kitchen window with disconcerting directness. A flash of crimson far back in his pupils, and he was up the fence in a flash, and gone.

I suspected worse was to come.

I was right.

Related posts:Introducing Steerpike!Squirrel
Beastly cold
Training Is Everything

Vorpel Bunnies, Miss B, and Phred

So the kids are back in school. Which means I'm getting up at 5AM again, but instead of running on the treadmill, I've taken to running outside.

In the dark. With the dog. Which is pretty much how you'd think it would be. If I could fit the dog on the treadmill for my long runs I would, but on that path lies madness. Best just to get out the door, take my lumps, and haul ass through rain and whatnot.

Predawn. Mist rising off the athletic fields at the middle and elementary schools. Miss B trots along beside me, unsure just what we're doing at this Godforsaken hour, but she's got her backpack on and it's obviously time to work, so she's down for it. (There's none of this "I don't want to get up" bullshit from Miss B, oh no. The instant I stir in the morning it's a cold wet nose to the face and a "SOHAPPYTOSEEYOU, MISSEDYOUSOMUCH, WHATWEDOINGNOW?")

Nobody out except us and a few people driving to work, and the morning bicycle-riders. (CRAZY. You couldn't pay me to do that. To each their own insanity, though, right?) The only sounds are my breathing, the jingle of Miss B's collar, the pounding of my feet. The usual dogs on our route don't know what to make of us this early; it will take time for them to realize we're just out running and they can relax.

So, it's fairly tranquil. Except for (you knew there had to be an "except for", didn't you?) the killer bunnies.

You see, someone's pet rabbits escaped. And, as rabbits will do, they went feral and started breeding. They're not a neighborhood plague–not quite, not yet. But they're fluffy and cottontailed, and very fast.

Miss B would loooove to catch herself some rabbit. Mind you, she probably wouldn't have the faintest idea what to do if she actually did get one. It's one of the Great Unfulfilled Desires of her life, kind of like Catching A SUV or Fitting Underneath The Alpha's Bed, or even Getting Her Nose Up The UPS Guy's Bottom. She's a herding dog, so she sees something bolt and every circuit in her head fuses. She takes off, dead silent, and the only thing stopping her is the leash tied around my waist. Now, she's about forty pounds of dog, and I'm *mumblemumble* pounds of human, so those are fun times. Let's just say that the leash is slip-knotted for a reason, and that I know how to drop my center of gravity and keep going.

Yet another lesson I am very grateful to bellydancing for.

Anyway, when I had the bright idea of running outside before dawn, I hadn't thought about the fact that right before sunup is when the little vorpel bunnies were going to be out and active. So half of our morning run takes place around an elementary school playing field that is, coincidentally, Grand Bunny Central. It's like an obstacle course, and also sharpens my night vision. I can tell I'm about to become very adept at bracing myself right before Miss B lunges after Peter Cottontail, who pauses to give her the finger before laughing, sticking his bum in the air, and taking off at warp fifteen.

But I don't mind. Because of Phred.

So this morning we hit Grand Bunny Central, we're about a mile and a half in, things are warmed up and going nicely. Miss B starts acting a little funny. I can't quite tell what she's getting the scent of, but apparently it is FANTASTIC. If her tail wasn't naturally docked, it would be wagging itself right off her rump. In any event, she's trying to wag so hard her back end is skipping around, which usually means she's seen another dog and wants to make friends. I don't know how she can run an 11.5-minute mile while her back end is doing the Funky Chicken, but some mysteries are not meant for mortals to solve.

There's a tawny-gray flash out of the corner of my eye, there and gone. Miss B is almost hysterical with joy. Something is in the neighborhood, running roughly parallel to us. It veers away through a passage between two houses, and I forget about it. Maybe a stray, maybe a cat, who knows? It was too big to be a bunny, that's all I could tell.

We make the hard left turn into the park near the elementary school, and Miss B is unwontedly eager. Still, we haven't hit the three-mile mark, which is when she usually calms down. So we're going along, and all of a sudden there's that tawny-gray flash again. Four legs, running low. It stops, ears perked high, and Miss B pleads to be allowed to go make friends.

ME: Huh, that's odd. It's canine…pretty small to be shaped like that, though, wonder what breed–

MISS B: NEW FRIEND! NEWFRIEND NEWFRIENDNEWFRIEND!

ME: And that's a strange color, too–HOLY SHIT GET IN THE CAR IT'S A COYOTE!

MISS B: CAN WE PLAY NEW FRIEND NEW FRIEND, OH PLEASE OH PLEASE–

ME: NO IT PROLLY HAS RABIES JESUS STOP IT LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!

PHRED THE COYOTE: Chillax, you guys are scaring the rabbits!

Yep, you read that right. A coyote. In the middle of the neighborhood. He probably comes down from the hills to hunt wabbit. I don't know if Miss B has ever seen a coyote before. She certainly wanted to make Phred's acquaintance, in a big, big way. No barking, but that back of the throat ohpleaseohplease whine she uses when she just wants to play with another dog. And me, grimly running onward–Miss B and I, we could probably take anything short of a pack of hyenas, but she is looking like she'd be no help. Plus, if Phred is going to put a dent in the rabbit population, he's welcome to go about his business.

See, I love crows and coyotes and seagulls. I love the omnivorous trash animals, the ones that creep around the corner and do Nature's dirty cleanup work. They're usually smart as hell and interesting to boot. So as long as Phred keeps to his bidness, we'll keep to ours.

He just better not come a few streets over and start messing with cats instead of bunnies. Because then, shit will get real. I will sic Neo on him.

Speaking of Neo…but that's tomorrow's story.

See you then!

Related posts:Follies Animaux
Neo & Miss B
Long Night Is Over

Unfallen, Izzie Borden, and Hedgewitch

Good morning, dear Readers. No, I haven't forgotten about you–it's just that the kids are going back to school, and last weekend I finished a brand-new YA book. (At least, the zero draft.) I can't say anything about it yet, which just kills me, but just know that I'm hard at work on the next New Thing now that I've said a fond farewell to Dru.

For those of you asking about the Defiance audiobook, I did a Google search and turned up this. Really, when it comes to audio editions, I do not know when they will come out or anything. About all I can do is hit up our overlords at Google, just like you. Sorry about that.

I'm happy to announce that Orbit short fiction will be bringing out my "teenage Antichrist" short story, Unfallen, this fall. I must admit a great deal of the genesis of that story was reading Slacktivist's awesome blow-by-blows of the Left Behind series. (He reads so we don't have to! And really, we're grateful for that.) Slacktivist articulates a number of things that have always made me incredibly uncomfortable about evangelism and Dominionism, and especially the current craziness swallowing evangelical Christianity in America as a whole. All that aside, however, the short story came from a very simple question: what if the Antichrist was just a teenager who wanted to be liked?

Also included will be a bonus story–The Last Job, featuring a character I love, the private detective Izzie Borden. She's very unlikeable, and her stories are very short–I think I give myself 5-6K max for her, mostly because I use her as an exercise in building shorts. Anyway, The Last Job is the first Izzie story I ever wrote, and I'm happy to have it see daylight.

But wait, that's not all! Also included in the bundle is a teaser for The Hedgewitch Queen. Which, again, I can't say very much about until my editor gives me the okay, the announcement, and the cover art. But just know that I'm excited, and I can't wait to finally share these things with you.

All that aside, there's not much to report, since I'm in the zombie stage that follows finishing three zero drafts in short order. I didn't realize how hard I'd been working until I finished the YA zero draft (working title: WHITE) and opened up my calendar to search for the next fire that needed to be put out…and found out it was revisions instead of all-new drafts. Which is sort of a relief. As soon as my brain gets back to where it's crunchy enough to start working on new wordcount, I have a project or two I'd like to smack around a bit…

…but I hesitate to promise anything. So, there it is, the full report from chowder to cashews. I'll be interesting again very soon–I have to pen the tale of Neo and Steerpike, and Steerpike's Fall From Grace, and the story of Loretta the Crazy Hawk.

Just as soon as I can string words together again in a reasonable fashion.

Over and out.

No related posts.

Just Ask, Preorders, And More!

Attention Selene and Nikolai fans! The story of Selene's return to Saint City, Just Ask, is now available in the Mammoth Book of Hot Romance! I hope you like it.

Also, I've updated the FAQ, the Strange Angels page, and the Jill Kismet page. Preorder information for Reckoning and Angel Town is now live on those pages.

A lot of you are asking me about audiobooks, especially for the Kismet series. I do not know when or if specific books will be released on audio. I'm sorry, I just don't know.

I'm still sore and hobbling from the fall I took earlier this week, so that's about all she wrote. (Literally. Ha ha. I kill me.) I'm gonna go take some ibuprofen and brace myself for climbing.

Related posts:Announcements!
Short Story Madness, and Updates!
Events! And Cold Comfort.