'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 76

Friday Flash Fics — Gently Down the ‘Stream

Today’s Friday Flash Fics struck me as a bit odd. The man, his suitcase, the setting behind him, it just seemed like this was a guy who wasn’t quite where he was supposed to be. Which reminded me of a flash fiction piece I wrote for a contest, “First Shift,” about a time-traveler sent to save a life. It’s a very short flash fiction piece, but I crafted a lot about the time travel organization in my head, and this felt like a fun picture to revisit it with, and with more words, I could play it out a little bit more.

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Gently Down the ‘Stream

I’m off target.

Grant was on his knees, blinking away the after-images of the ’stream, and waiting for his sense of balance to return. The practice jumps—all forward—had supposedly been to prepare him for this, but the practice jumps had turned out to be the equivalent of sliding down a kiddy slide.

His trip through the ’stream to now was more like cliff-diving. Agent Giffin had been right. Going backwards was harder, and going further than a few minutes was far, far more turbulent. The old Canadian had been his mentor from the start, and her stories about her early life had been as much born of friendship as they’d been training.

He’d miss her.

Enough, he thought. You’ll see her again. She was part of the chain. Protected on a quantum level, Agent Giffin would be there no matter how much he changed the world.

Of course, he’d need to stand up to change the world, and that was feeling a bit out of reach right now.

There was grass beneath him, and it was daylight, and the air was warm.

Definitely off target.

He gave himself another minute to recover, counting off the seconds in his head. His fingertips stopped tingling by fifteen, and his legs felt less rubbery by thirty. By forty-five, he could turn his head without vertigo, and he saw trees around the edge of the field where he found himself.

“Okay,” he said, rising as he hit his mental count of sixty. It was almost okay, but sometimes saying a thing was something other than it was was half the battle.

There were dandelions. He smiled. These weren’t Vitamin C crops, either, they were just wildflowers in a field. Or were they weeds? He was never sure of the difference, and when it came to edible plants, the distinction didn’t matter, really.

He hadn’t let go of the suitcase, and the weight of it was a comfort. He felt strange in these clothes, in this field, but the suitcase reminded him he had a purpose.

Which, given he was off target, he needed to focus on.

Kneeling again, Grant opened the suitcase. From the outside, it was a plain leather suitcase, old fashioned even by his current point in the ’stream, but inside it contained many compartments, and each was sectioned off with a small black screen. He pressed his thumb against one, and it flashed green and opened. He slid out the contents—a slim black phone—and then resealed the suitcase.

He powered on the phone and waited. Like the suitcase, it appeared contemporary enough, but inside was a different story. Status updates scrolled by the screen as it sought out local connections, faked accounts, and tricked various carrier signals into believing it belonged. A moment later, the screen cleared, and the phone mimicked what it appeared to be.

Date and time were listed at the top of the screen.

Grant exhaled in relief. He was physically off target, but temporally, he was just shy of three days earlier than the target date.

I’ll be born in eleven years, he thought. And I should have died in forty. But Agent Giffin had stopped that from happening, and the whole world had changed around him. And the work he’d been doing—work that had led to the “phone” in his hand—had born fruit it never would have done had he died.

Another link in the chain. Now it was his turn.

The GPS signal kicked in, and he tapped the icon for a map.

Grant smiled. He wasn’t too far off target after all. He was in “the Greenbelt,” a section of untouched forested land that curved through the city back then.

No. Now. He shook his head. Not back then.

Now that his head was clear, if he listened, he caught the sound of traffic in the distance.

Grant took a second to look at the map. It was going to take some walking, but he was within the city limits. He could use a walk, really.

He straightened, looking off into the distance. It was beautiful. It smelled beautiful, too.

There were things to do. He had to set up a quantum safehouse once he got to the address they’d researched for him. This era wasn’t completely without detection technology, so he also wanted to keep his “phone”’s hacking down to a minimum, which meant blending in as quickly as he could manage.

He had every intention of getting a job. He had all the forged documents he’d need to appear as a local citizen, and ideally, he was to make contact with his target at a local coffee shop. If they were hiring, he’d greatly improve his chances.

He started walking.

He had a life to save, and a future to improve.

He also wanted to try that “poutine” stuff agent Giffin was always talking about.

November Flash Fiction Draw

I feel like I blinked and missed fall. Max seems to be happy that it’s getting colder out, which is at least one of us here in our house. He’s definitely enjoying Squirrel-vision as the tree-rats try to gather food at a hectic pace. Either way, it’s November, so I dug out my Geek & Sundry playing cards and did the draw for the monthly challenge.

If you don’t know what that is, the deal is this: I set a challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to play) last January. It’s a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw challenge. Using three suits from a deck of cards, and assigning thirteen genres to clubs, thirteen items to diamonds, and thirteen locations to hearts, I made a deck of prompts. Once a month, drawing three cards creates the challenge. No more than 1,000 words, and no longer than a week to work on it, and… voila! Stretched writerly muscles, fun, and zero stress. (And that last rule is super-important: if it gets stressful or stops being fun? Skip the month. The next challenge—and the final draw of the year—will be December 3rd.)

In January, we had Fairy Tales involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison! The results were fantastic. February? Crime Caper, Compass, and a Soup Kitchen was a challenge (though with awesome results). March brought Romance, involving a VHS Cassette, set in a Firewatch Tower (results). Then in April, we had Historical Fictions set on Dirt Roads dealing with Rat Poison, and the timelines involved in those results were all over the place. Or time. You get it. May delivered some Science Fiction in our laps, taking place Above the Clouds and involving a Dog Whistle (results). For June, it was a Fantasy involving Hot Chocolate, set in a Junkyard or Scrapyard (which you can happily sip here). In July, we crafted Mysteries involving Typewriters set on a Dam (results here). August brought Ghost Stories involving Earrings set in Tobacco Shops (results here). And September gave us Suspense stories set at a Border Crossing and involving a Bag of Money (results here). And October we had Horror stories set at Blood Drives involving Frogs (results here).

I made a video of this month’s draw, if you want to check it out.

The chart from which the draws were made was this (minus the cards from previous draws, greyed out):

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And the result for November? Queen of clubs, Ten of diamonds, and Five of hearts. Which means anyone who wants to play along is going to write a flash fiction piece of 1,000 words within the following guidelines: Action/Adventure, set on a Bridge, including a Sandbag.

If you do participate, please pop a link to this post, or to the Facebook video above so I can gather all the stories again for a round-up post next week.

But the most important thing? This is supposed to be fun and inspiring. If it’s not working for you, take a pass. There’ll be one final challenge on the first Monday of December (that’s December 3rd), from the remaining two items from each suit on the list. The “rules” such as they are are pretty limited: You have to use the genre, the item, and the setting (though you can play a bit fast and loose within those guidelines), no more than 1,000 words, and the piece needs to be finished by next Monday (November 12th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Friday Flash Fics — Fourth Cohort

There was a glitch with what should have been today’s Friday Flash Fics photo—it didn’t post last week, though I thought it had (I was having some interesting internet issues, though, so I’m not surprised in retrospect). I did already write a piece, so I’ll post it, but if you’re wondering why others hadn’t, that’s why. I didn’t actually give them the photo.

This one takes me back to If you want to read these pieces in chronological order, they were: First Cohort, Second Cohort, Third Cohort, now this one, then Fifth Cohort, Sixth Cohort, and then Helios. Amusingly, this is how I usually write: jumping all around in the timeline of whatever I’m writing in first draft, and then sewing it all up together after.

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Fourth Cohort

“Geophysics is having a field day up here,” Flood said over the comm.

Adamson flipped the channel open. “Well, this is a very big hole.”

“Ngô says it’s deeper than Song Doong.”

“That’s fantastic,” Adamson said, with false cheer. “Whatever that means.”

“It’s a big hole in Vietnam,” Ngô’s voice came on the channel, and Adamson winced.

“Sorry, Thị Ly. I’m just thinking about the hospital.”

“I understand, don’t worry.” There was humour in the geophysicist’s voice. “We can always go to the alternate location for the hospital.”

Adamson was nodding, though he knew neither of the women could see him. He and Patel had scaled down the huge shaft together. Patel was near the wall, but Adamson had come out to stand on a huge outcropping, not even half-way to the bottom of the massive hole that opened up kilometres away from the colony zone. Somewhere down there the shaft ended and then zagged laterally back to the colony and ended up leaving a significant cavern in the bedrock beneath where they’d planned to put the hospital.

It was just poor luck, really. And it wasn’t the end of the world. As Ngô Thị Ly noted, they could use the alternate location for the hospital, and swing the colony core out in a slightly different direction for the rest of the cohorts. When it came to planning the colony, flexibility was key, and had to be, for exactly this reason.

Still, it felt oddly like an omen. The first big thing not to go as planned.

Adamson rolled his eyes. He was being ridiculous. Since the day they’d arrived on Chiaroscuro, he’d been waiting for a shoe to drop. He supposed it was natural enough, what with the running for his life and his time with the Railroad, but he had to let it go. He was out of reach of the ever-worsening Earth Government.

He could relax.

He eyed the shaft, and took a deep breath. The cool air was damp, but not unpleasant. Light filtered in from above. He checked his ropes, and nodded again.

“We’ll go with the alternate location,” he said.

“Perfect,” Patel’s voice came over the comm as well as drifting to him from near the wall. “Maybe we could go back up now?”

Adamson turned and grinned at him. “I thought you liked climbing?”

“I like climbing up things.” The former military man shook his head. “Not down into things.”

“Okay,” Adamson said, hiding a smile. Patel was a wall of a man, and the thought of him finding discomfort in a shaft as wide and open as this wasn’t exactly funny, but he couldn’t help being amused.

They packed up their gear, and then eyed the long climb back up. They’d rigged their way down with care but even with all the kit they’d used, it would be a workout to head back up.

“Why is it I’m always climbing when I’m with you?” Adamson said. It was a rhetorical question. Patel had the most experience with climbing, thus he was often sent on missions like this. And Adamson liked to see things for himself.

“I was surprised you didn’t bring Constantinou,” Patel said, once they started the ascent.

Adamson felt his skin burning. “You know, I didn’t tease you about being afraid of a big hole in the ground, but I can start if you’d like?”

Patel’s grin was just visible in the dim light. “I just thought caves were sort of your thing. The two of you, I mean.”

Adamson sighed. “Please tell me this information is not general knowledge. Please.”

“It’s not,” Patel said.

Adamson exhaled. Then frowned. “How did you find out, then? I mean, you and Giorgos… you and Constantinou… You’re not close… I mean, I don’t see you hanging out.”

Patel laughed. “Wow. You’re funny when you’re flustered, aren’t you?”

“You know I can veto the schedule Flood drafts, right? I can totally assign you to any duty I’d like. Night shifts. How do you feel about night shifts?”

Patel laughed again. “Giorgos didn’t tell me. I don’t think he tells anyone about his, uh, friendships, to be honest, though he’s not subtle about them when other people are watching.”

“Okay,” Adamson said. “Then how did you find out?”

“You didn’t turn off the recorders on the sample kit.”

“We didn’t…” Adamson frowned for a few whole seconds before realization dawned. “Oh my God. You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

The kits they’d brought to collect luminescent lichen and other biological samples scanned and recorded everything once they were activated. Adamson had used his telekinesis to raise a kit to the ceiling of a large underground cave to collect a sample of some of the lichen for Constantinou—it had been how Adamson had let Giorgos know about his gentech gifts—and then he and Constantinou had…

“Oh my God,” he said again.

“Anyway. I was pulling night-shift in the Coop and I figured I’d download the kits for you two, since you both got back so late. There’s not a lot to do on those shifts, as you know.”

“I want to just let go and fall to my death, but you set up the damn belays and I’m tethered in too safely,” Adamson said.

“I deleted the, uh, extra data,” Patel said.

Adamson blew out a breath. “Thank you.” He could only imagine what would have happened if the…data…had ended up in the biology team’s files.

“For the record?” Patel said. “I think you can do better than Giorgos Constantinou. The guy is a total player.”

“This is a super fun conversation,” Adamson said. “But maybe we could get back to climbing. Unless you want me to give you advice on what you’re doing wrong with Flood?”

“What?” Patel’s voice rose, and his foot skidded on the side of the shaft. He recovered almost instantly, but stopped climbing, turning to face Adamson and staring with a mix of horror and accusation. “How did you..?”

Adamson laughed. “No telepathy required. I just see how you look at her when she’s not watching.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds.

“Let’s get back to climbing,” Patel said.

Adamson nodded, and they got back to work. Slowly, the embarrassment of what Patel must have seen (and heard) on the recording faded into the background while he worked to ascend the rock.

They’d covered half the distance before Patel broke the silence.

“Okay. I give. What am I doing wrong with Flood?”

Adamson grinned.

 

 

Friday Flash Fics — “Just Us”

Back in 2011, I wrote a short story, “Hometown Boy,” about an author who wrote under a pseudonym and though the lighting-in-a-bottle moment of perfect timing with an A-list celebrity on a major interview mentioning his first novel attained sudden success. In the story, he finally reveals who he is, many books later, in his hometown of Grand Rue, Louisiana, as the start of a book tour for “Hometown Boy,” his latest novel. It leads to a reunion with his high school best friend, and then coming face-to-face with someone who betrayed him, and finally leaves him with someone he loved—who tells him something he can never unknow.

When I picked this week’s Friday Flash Fics photo, I will admit I was rushing and I’d fallen behind because of Can-Con and so I just laughingly said, “Hot guy with book, done!” But as the days passed, it occurred to me that I’d like to revisit Reuben, and the buff guy with a book made a more than passable Matt Samuels, so I headed back to Grand Rue.

(Spoilers, of course, for “Hometown Boy.”)

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Just Us

The heat of Grand Rue wrapped around him like a long-hated relative at a childhood birthday party: too hot, too tight, too familiar, and with no escape.

I should have worn shorts instead of jeans.

Reuben tugged a cap on, already sweating and missing the air conditioning in his car, and glanced around the small gravel parking area.

There it was. The truck. Samuels’ Auto.

Some things didn’t change.

It wasn’t too late. He could always get back in his car, crank the AC, and drive away from Grand Rue. No one would know except him, and he wasn’t likely to tell.

Reuben laughed. Right. No one keeps a secret like Benny Matthews.

Except maybe the man in the woods.

“Move,” he told himself, and a second later, he did, starting down the familiar path to a hidden spot he hadn’t been to in more years than he cared to count. He walked slowly, consciously trying to keep his footfalls light, and rounded the small corner to find exactly what he’d expected and still feeling a rush of surprise at being right.

Matt Samuels was sat on a blanket, leaning against a tree, reading a book. His shirt was tossed beside him, and his rucksack—a dark and battered grey thing he’d had for years—lay near his elbow.

The only things he wore were shoes and running shorts.

Reuben had to stop at the sight of him. Big and strong, Matt Samuels had been his first everything, and even now, with two decades to spare since, the man made his brain stutter. If it was possible, he’d gotten even bigger over the last year—his hairy chest was pumped, his biceps thick holding up the slight weight of the library book—and he’d grown a beard, too, which was coming through just a bit redder than Reuben would have guessed.

Reuben froze, caught in the pull of him, then forced himself to speak.

“Hi,” he said.

Matt lowered the book. He didn’t smile, but there was something in his eyes—how did Reuben always forget how shocking a shade of blue those eyes were—that seemed warm.

“You’re back.” Matt didn’t get up.

“I’m back,” Reuben said, and then, awkwardness making him twitchy, he added, “Good book?”

“Yes.” Matt held it up so he could see the cover.

It was Benny Matthew’s latest: Just Us. The cover was a short of a court building’s sign, up close. The “Us” was spray painted over the last three letters of “Justice.”

“I’m sorry it’s taken me so long,” Reuben said. “There was the book tour for Hometown Boy, and then I started writing… well, that.” He nodded at Just Us. “And…” His mind flailed. And you admitted you killed three people and I couldn’t decide why I didn’t care and how somehow that made me love you all over again, not that I ever stopped, and it freaked me right the hell out because what does that say about me?

Matt just looked up at him, patient and waiting.

“You look amazing with the beard,” Reuben said. “Also, this whole stud-with-a-book thing really works for you.”

Matt finally cracked a smile. He patted the blanket. “Have a seat.”

Reuben joined him. The slightest scent of Matt made him want to lean in. It was like gravity.

“Does the lawyer die?” Matt said, nodding at the book.

“You want me to spoil my own novel for you?” Reuben held a hand to his chest.

“I’m just making small talk,” Matt said. “What I want is you.”

Reuben’s breath caught, but a second later, he was finally touching Matt. His hand against the hard, warm skin of Matt’s chest while they kissed—he was definitely a fan of the beard, which rubbed so perfectly against his own goatee—and then Matt’s hands were under his shirt and he was pulling Reuben toward him and coherent thought took a back seat to skin and lips and the rough hands of the man Reuben had been in love with for most of his life.

When they finally came up for air, Reuben pressed his forehead to Matt’s and closed his eyes. He had no idea where his cap had fallen, and didn’t care at all.

“I’d like to move back. Here. To Grand Rue, I mean,” Reuben said. “I can work from anywhere. But only if it’s okay with you.”

Matt slid one hand up the back of Reuben’s neck, cupping the back of his head. “Live with me,” he said. Then, squeezing. “If you want to. I know I…scared you.” For the first time, he sounded hesitant.

“You didn’t,” Reuben said, opening his eyes. He met Matt’s gaze, willing him to understand, to believe. “And that was what freaked me out. How much I didn’t…how much I don’t…” He trailed off. He’d lined up all his words so neatly on the drive here, but now they were slipping through his mental fingers before he could get them out. He sighed. “I love you. So much it’s been all I’ve thought about since Hometown Boy, and I don’t want to be anywhere else. I touch you and I feel right. I feel good.” He smiled, pressing his hand against Matt’s chest for emphasis. “Even when we’re both sweaty.”

“Especially when we’re both sweaty,” Matt said, and that tiny smile returned.

“Yeah. That.”

Matt’s smile faded in the slowest of increments. “Really?” There was weight to the word. A question in it. Words they weren’t saying, words Matt had already said, last time, months ago. Death. Vengeance. Murder. Not justice.

Just us.

“Really,” Reuben said, and kissed him again.

“The lawyer does die, though, right?” Matt said.

Reuben laughed. “Of course he does. He’s a bastard and he deserves it. It’s a Benny Matthew’s novel.”

Matt squeezed him. “Just checking.”

 

Can-Con 2018 — Where I’ll Be and the last day for the @BoldStrokeBooks table!

Everyone ready for the last day of Can-Con? What’s Can-Con? Well, if you’ve not been around the last couple of days, it’s the Conference on Canadian Content in Speculative Arts and Literature (see why we call it “Can-Con”?), and it’s fabulous. Also, not only am I taking part in Can-Con, but also myself, Christian Baines, and Stephen Graham King have been manning a table in the dealer room with queer Canadian SF titles from Bold Strokes Books, and today is your last shot!

The full schedule for Can-Con is here, but if you’re looking for me today here’s where I’ll be, trying to be a grown-up moderating some people who are flipping amazing:

All Your Genre Faves Are Actually The Worst

Sunday October 14th, 2018; Salon-E; 10:00 am. Many of us love characters like Commander Riker, Kara “Starbuck” Thrace or Matt Smith’s Eleventh Doctor, but if we’re honest with ourselves, our 80s and 90s faves wouldn’t pass muster today. How do we still appreciate characters that are problematic and a product of their time period? Timothy Carter, Jennifer Carole Lewis, Kelsi Morris, K.W. Ramsey, ‘Nathan Burgoine (Moderator)

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Urban Fantasy in the 21st Century

Sunday, October 14th, 2018; Salon-E; 1:00 pm. What is left to explore in urban fantasy? What authors are doing surprising and new things in the genre today? What areas still need to be covered, or could be improved upon? Charles de Lint, Jennifer Carole Lewis, Evan May, Linda Poitevin, ‘Nathan Burgoine (Moderator)

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One Last Day for the Bold Strokes Books Table!

The Bold Strokes Books table—and the entire Dealer room at Can-Con—is open to the public, but today is the last day, so if you’re coming by, be aware the hours are:

Sunday: 10 AM — 2 PM

[image error]Bold Strokes helped us bring you some Canuck science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy, and horror! I’m bringing all my spec-fic offerings, which means Light, Triad Blood, Triad Soul, Of Echoes Born and—for the first time, ahead of its release anywhere else—I even have copies of Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks. So if you want to be one of the first to read my queer gay YA kid with a teleportation problem, now’s your chance.

At all times, either myself, Stephen Graham King, or Christian Baines will be there.

If you don’t know Stephen Graham King yet, allow me to squee about how much you need to read the Maverick Heart Cycle books, Soul’s Blood and Gatecrasher, and how they’re basically Killjoys-meets-Firefly-only-Queer. You want to get squishy, trust me. King’s world-building is beyond awesome, and reading his books means finally finding space opera inclusive of people like me.

And Christian Baines brings the dark in such a brilliant way—and we all know how I feel about dark usually, so from me this is all the more praise, lemme tellya—and his Arcadia Trust novels (The Beast Without and The Orchard of Flesh) are two of the most vividly crafted urban fantasies I’ve ever read (and also one of the most viscerally crafted ones, too). His vampires—sorry, Blood shades—are not gonna sparkle, trust me.

Even better? We managed to make sure our other Canadian authors at Bold Strokes Books who dabbled in the science fiction sides of things would be there in spirit, so we have copies of both Lambda Literary winning Jessica L. Webb‘s first two novels in her Dr. Kate Morrison thrillers, Trigger and Pathogen, as well as C.J. Birch‘s first two books in her New Horizon series, Unknown Horizons and Savage Horizons.

Can-Con 2018 — Where I’ll Be, and don’t forget the @BoldStrokeBooks Table!

It’s time for day two of Can-Con! What’s Can-Con? It’s the Conference on Canadian Content in Speculative Arts and Literature (see how “Can-Con” rolls off the tongue easier?), and it’s fantastic. Also, bonus, as I mentioned yesterday, not only am I taking part in Can-Con, myself, Christian Baines, and Stephen Graham King are manning a table in the dealer room with queer Canadian SF titles from Bold Strokes Books.

The full schedule for Can-Con is here, but if you’re looking for me today here’s where I’ll be:

Economics of Traditional Publishing

Saturday October 13th, 2018; Salon-E; 11:00 am.What are the economics around traditional publishing? Small press, mid-sized and Big 5 publishing houses have very different advances, print runs and sell throughs, but traditional publishing can open up opportunities with secondary sales like Audible and translations. Kurestin Armada, ‘Nathan Burgoine, JF Garrard, Tanya Huff, Sandra Kasturi (Moderator)

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I’ll also be on two panels on Sunday: one about how so many of our genre favourites really haven’t aged that well, and another about where Urban Fantasy is today—and where it could maybe be heading. I’ll be back to post more about those tomorrow and Sunday.

Didn’t Register in Time? Don’t worry! The Dealer Room is Open to the public!

The Bold Strokes Books table—and the entire Dealer room at Can-Con—is open to the public. Today and tomorrow, the hours the Dealer room operates are:

Saturday: 10 AM — 5 PM

Sunday: 10 AM — 2 PM

[image error]Drop by, say hello, and find yourself some awesome queer Canuck science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy, or horror! I’m bringing all my spec-fic offerings, which means Light, Triad Blood, Triad Soul, Of Echoes Born and—for the first time, ahead of its release anywhere else—I even have copies of Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks. So if you want to be one of the first to read my queer gay YA kid with a teleportation problem, now’s your chance.

At all times, either myself, Stephen Graham King, or Christian Baines will be there.

If you don’t know Stephen Graham King yet, allow me to squee about how much you need to read the Maverick Heart Cycle books, Soul’s Blood and Gatecrasher, and how they’re basically Killjoys-meets-Firefly-only-Queer. You want to get squishy, trust me. King’s world-building is beyond awesome, and reading his books means finally finding space opera inclusive of people like me.

And Christian Baines brings the dark in such a brilliant way—and we all know how I feel about dark usually, so from me this is all the more praise, lemme tellya—and his Arcadia Trust novels (The Beast Without and The Orchard of Flesh) are two of the most vividly crafted urban fantasies I’ve ever read (and also one of the most viscerally crafted ones, too). His vampires—sorry, Blood shades—are not gonna sparkle, trust me.

Even better? We managed to make sure our other Canadian authors at Bold Strokes Books who dabbled in the science fiction sides of things would be there in spirit, so we have copies of both Lambda Literary winning Jessica L. Webb‘s first two novels in her Dr. Kate Morrison thrillers, Trigger and Pathogen, as well as C.J. Birch‘s first two books in her New Horizon series, Unknown Horizons and Savage Horizons.

Can-Con 2018—Where I’ll Be, and the @BoldStrokeBooks Table

It’s that time of year again, when I pack up my bag and head downtown Ottawa for Can-Con! What’s Can-Con? It’s the Conference on Canadian Content in Speculative Arts and Literature (yeah, it’s a mouthful), and it’s pretty much magic. This year, I’m not only taking part in Can-Con, I’ve hooked arms with two other awesome Bold Strokes Books authors and we’re going to be manning a table in the dealer room with queer Canadian SF titles from Bold Strokes.

The full schedule for Can-Con is here, but if you’re looking for me specifically (and aw, aren’t you the best?) here’s where I’ll be taking part in a panel today:

Romantic Story Structures

Friday October 12th, 2018; Salon-E; 4:00 pm. Traditional romances can have some difficult plot problems. The writer must, over the course of a novel, prevent the romantic fulfillment of two characters who are obviously attracted to one another. This panel of romance writers discusses the broad structures and beats they use to evoke reader emotion. ‘Nathan Burgoine, Jenn Burke, Jessica Ripley, Leslie Brown (Moderator)

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I’ll also be on a panel tomorrow morning about the economics of the publishing world, and moderating two panels on Sunday: one about how so many of our genre favourites really haven’t aged that well, and another about where Urban Fantasy is today—and where it could maybe be heading. I’ll be back to post more about those tomorrow and Sunday.

But Wait, There’s More…

Now, I mentioned before there was a Bold Strokes Books table, and here’s the kicker about the Dealer room at Can-Con: it’s open to the public. The hours the Dealer room operates are:

Friday: 2 PM — 7 PM

Saturday: 10 AM — 5 PM

Sunday: 10 AM — 2 PM

[image error]Drop by, say hello, and find yourself some awesome queer Canuck science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy, or horror! I’m bringing all my spec-fic offerings, which means Light, Triad Blood, Triad Soul, Of Echoes Born and—for the first time, ahead of its release anywhere else—I even have copies of Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks. So if you want to be one of the first to read my queer gay YA kid with a teleportation problem, now’s your chance.

At all times, either myself, Stephen Graham King, or Christian Baines will be there.

If you don’t know Stephen Graham King yet, allow me to squee about how much you need to read the Maverick Heart Cycle books, Soul’s Blood and Gatecrasher, and how they’re basically Killjoys-meets-Firefly-only-Queer. You want to get squishy, trust me. King’s world-building is beyond awesome, and reading his books means finally finding space opera inclusive of people like me.

And Christian Baines brings the dark in such a brilliant way—and we all know how I feel about dark usually, so from me this is all the more praise, lemme tellya—and his Arcadia Trust novels (The Beast Without and The Orchard of Flesh) are two of the most vividly crafted urban fantasies I’ve ever read (and also one of the most viscerally crafted ones, too). His vampires—sorry, Blood shades—are not gonna sparkle, trust me.

Even better? We managed to make sure our other Canadian authors at Bold Strokes Books who dabbled in the science fiction sides of things would be there in spirit, so we have copies of both Lambda Literary winning Jessica L. Webb‘s first two novels in her Dr. Kate Morrison thrillers, Trigger and Pathogen, as well as C.J. Birch‘s first two books in her New Horizon series, Unknown Horizons and Savage Horizons.

Circling the important stuff

This speaks so readily to me. The stories never quite flow right if I haven’t really gotten theme locked in. And it absolutely was an evolution in my writing life (alongside a brilliant course I got to take on theme with Jess Wells.)

Brey Willows

A writer and teacher I greatly admire once said during a lecture that many writers find themselves revolving around themes. At first it’s a subconscious thing, and then with each book (or story), if you can step back and look at your work, you’ll find you dance around particular issues that mean something to you. Knowing this can deepen your work and make it more meaningful.

I’ve just finished editing a printed draft of my book Spinning Tales, which is out around February. It’s already with my editor, but I always go over it again myself, with old fashioned pen and paper, to see if I can spot areas I’d change/make better. Toward the end of this process, I started thinking about my next book, which I’ll be starting on shortly.

A quick side-step:

Robyn and I are both dealing with family matters right now, and we’re both worried about…

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October Flash Fiction Draw Roundup

Spooky October! The tenth collection of stories! The drawing of my least favourite genre card! A week of feeling really sick!

Okay, so yeah, not my best intro. Still got a cold and today is “coughing non-stop” day.

What’s a Flash Fiction Draw, you might wonder? If you’ve not read a roundup post before, the Flash Fiction Draw is a randomized card-draw that spits out a genre, an object, and a location, after which writers have a week to come up with up to 1,000 words that fit the criteria. It’s meant to be for fun and inspiration, rather than for serious competition (stretching writer muscles, rather than stressing writers out). I make the draw on the first Monday of every month (the next draw will be November 5th, if you want to join in) and post results the following Monday, updating the post as I find new stories writers have written.

These were the cards drawn (and what they meant):

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Very October, no? With “Horror,” “Blood Drive,” and “Frog,” what did the authors come up with? Well, if you’ve seen previous months you know the results are always varied and fascinating (and often with a dash of funny, or dark, or mystical). This time is no different.

Here they are, alphabetically by contributor:

Lilly Amadu wrote Untitled.

Jeff Baker wrote “It’s a Bird! It’s a Plane! It’s a Frog!”

‘Nathan Burgoine (that’s me) wrote “It’s in Me to Give.”

Alex deMorra wrote “Anything for You.”

“The Dark Netizen” wrote “The Blood Drive.”

E.H. Timms wrote “Kiss it Better.”

Jon Vokins wrote “Processed.”

Jamieson Wolf wrote “Blood Gives.”

Did I miss your entry? Let me know and I’ll add you to the list! And by all means join us next month, when I do the draw again on November 5th. And if you want to see what people came up with for previous stories? The roundup for January (which was “A Fairy Tale,” “A Tattoo Machine,” and “A Prison”) is here. The roundup for February (which was “A Crime Caper,” “A Compass,” and “A Soup Kitchen”) is here. The roundup for March (which was “A Romance,” “A VHS Cassette,” and “A Firewatch Tower”) is here. The roundup for April (which was “Historical Fiction,” “Rat Poison,” and “A Dirt Road”) is here. The roundup for May (which was “Science Fiction,” “A Dog Whistle,” and “Above the Clouds”) is here. The roundup for June (which was “Fantasy,” “Hot Chocolate,” and “A Junkyard or Scrapyard”) is here. The roundup for July (which was “Mystery,” “Typewriter” and “A Dam”) is here. The roundup for August (which was “Ghost Story,” “An Earring,” and “A Tobacco Shop”) is here. And the roundup for September (which was “Thriller,” “A Bag of Money” and “A Border Crossing”) is here.

It’s in Me to Give — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the October Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original October draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the monthly draw), but the quick version is this: I use three suits from a deck of cards to randomly put together a genre (in this case: suspense), a location (in this case: a border crossing) and an object (in this case: a bag of money) and challenge anyone who wants to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

This did not come easily by any means—I don’t really like horror, and I don’t read a lot of it, and as an added bonus I’ve been sick most of the week. But, given blood drive and horror, I had a motive spring immediately to mind for someone to do something horrific, and from there, it was about figuring out a way to tie in frogs.

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It’s in Me to Give

“Oh no,” Beth said.

“Who’s turn is it?” Andrea said.

Jessica frowned. Everyone had a job, barring unforeseen circumstances. They didn’t take turns. She almost asked, then saw who was there, waiting.

Oh.

“I’ll take him,” Jessica said. Beth and Andrea, both volunteers, relaxed. Beth was a grandmother who’d recently lost her husband and seemed desperate to fill a caretaker void in her life. She also liked to dole out unwelcome advice to other volunteers about the benefits of Yoga. Andrea never seemed to have a completely good day—there was always some tale of woe she needed to share—but she was efficient once she had it out of her system.

It’s all about the blood, Jessica had to remember. Beth and Andrea were some of her best volunteers. Blood Services needed blood, and that was just the way it was.

Jessica looked at the man. He made eye contact, but didn’t smile.

Speaking of things that are just the way they were…

Jessica grabbed a clip-board, and gestured to a cubicle. “This way.” She resisted the urge to call him by name—Denny Bates—it might give him pleasure to be remembered.

It was a familiar dance, and she forced a neutral tone into her words as she once again asked him all the basic questions before starting the questionnaire proper.

Name, birth date, blood type, and…

“Yes, I’ve had sex with another man in the last year.” He always spoke flatly, in a cold monotone. He crossed his arms. The full sleeve on his left arm shifted with the motion, and her gaze caught on the ring of brightly colored frogs encircling his left biceps. He always wore a sleeveless shirt when he came to their drives. Jessica figured it was an intimidation tactic. But she refused to be intimidated. Muscles, tattoos, and an ax to grind. Denny thought the world was unfair.

Join the fucking club.

She opened her mouth to give him the usual line, but he kept speaking.

“We’re monogamous, tested often, but this isn’t a question you ask straight people, is it?” Denny’s voice continued without inflection. “Whether or not they’ve been monogamous, or if they use safer sex practices? No, gay blood is immediately bad, because you’re homophobic.”

She waited for him to stop, took a breath, and opened her mouth to try again.

Denny continued. “Are you going to tell me all about how it’s not you, it’s Health Canada again? You can tell me all the other lies you always tell, whatever helps you not feel bad demonizing queer people. Again.”

Jessica swallowed. She hated this smug asshole and his tattoos and she was sick to fucking death of being told she was homophobic. He came to every damn drive they had. Didn’t he have a life? She was helping people, damnit.

“Denny—”

He cut her off again. “This was the last time.”

Jessica needed a second to parse what he’d said. “Pardon?”

“Last chance,” Denny said. “You had plenty of chances.”

“Leave,” she said. “Now.”

He rose slowly, and Jessica stared up at him, refusing to look away. He raised his right hand, and for a brief, terrifying moment she wondered if he was going to hit her. Instead, he put his index finger in his mouth and bit down.

Jessica pushed back from the desk and rose, glancing around for Chuck, the security guard, but she didn’t see him.

When she looked back, Denny held his finger out, red blood smeared on the fingertip.

She stared at it, repulsed.

“Blood gives life.” He smeared it across one of the small blue frogs on his left arm.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Jessica said.

He looked at her, then smiled. It was the first time Denny Bates smiled at Jessica, and she hoped it would never happen again. Even without blood on his teeth, his smile was fucking creepy.

“Everything okay?”

Chuck. Finally.

Jessica exhaled. “Mr. Bates was just leaving.”

Chuck gestured.

“It’s in me to give,” Denny said.

“Sure, buddy. Let’s go.” Chuck led him out.

Jessica rose, and checked in with Beth and Andrea.

“You look tense,” Beth said. “You know, if you stretch you can fix that.”

I hate you. “Thanks, Beth. I’m gonna grab a coffee.”

The tiny kitchenette in the building wasn’t great, but it had a door. She closed it.

“Asshole.” She put her hands on the counter and closed her eyes.

There was a loud crash outside the door.

“For fuck’s sake,” Jessica said. “Can’t even get a fucking coffee…”

There was another crash. And a scream.

Jessica froze, her hand an inch from the door handle.

Loud voices were yelling—Chuck, she thought, and maybe one of the donors, a regular who always demanded two cookies.

“Don’t touch them!” someone yelled.

Jessica opened the door to see Chuck hit the ground at the end of the hallway, twitching and foaming at the mouth.

“Chuck!” She ran toward him.

Something small darted from his outstretched hand. She stared at it in utter confusion.

A tiny frog. Bright blue and black. And familiar.

There was another scream—Andrea?—and Jessica stepped over Chuck, who’d stopped twitching, now deathly still, to turn the corner.

They were everywhere. Tiny spots of bright blue among the people. The chairs and desks and even the donation beds were covered in them. Bodies lay scattered between. She could see Beth sprawled out by the front door, and a little blue frog perched on her grey hair.

Jessica exhaled. She just needed to get to a door. To get outside.

She took a single step.

Every frog in the room jumped once.

Toward her.

Jessica froze, and the frogs stopped moving, too. She looked left, then right, and no matter which way she looked, they were looking at her. Watching. Waiting.

She lifted her foot as slowly as she dared.

The frogs crouched, just as slowly.

Jessica stared at the door, and got ready to run.