'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 84

Lucky — A Flash Fiction Draw Challenge

Here’s my entry for the first Flash Fiction Draw Challenge (the post for the original April draw is here). In case you didn’t know about this challenge, there’s a video here explaining (and showing the fourth draw), but the quick version: I used a deck of cards (three suits) to randomly put together a genre (in this case: historical fiction), a location (in this case: a dirt road) and an object (in this case: rat poison) and challenged anyone who wanted to play to write something over the next week, with a maximum of 1,000 words.

I really waffled here, until I decided I wanted this to be two people on the run from an impossible choice, and then I looked around in history a bit until I found a place where two gay men could have easily worked together without raising suspicion: the California Gold Rush.

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Lucky

California, 1849.

 

Samuel can’t help but reckon enough gold for blackmail is enough gold for murder.

Samuel eyes the dirt road ahead of him. You’d never think it led to somewhere special, and maybe it took a while before it got there, and met up with better paths, but it was the only road. And with the moon accommodating, they could walk through the night.

Might even be enough of a head start, if anyone turned out to be chasing.

“Just no choice, Samuel.”

Asher says this quietly, the same way he’s said the same four words at least a dozen times so far in as many hours, with what little pieces they could carry strapped to their backs.

What little they took before they set the place to flame.

For the first time since they left, though, Samuel decides to answer.

“I know.”

Just two words, but Samuel swears he can see the whole world return to Asher’s eyes, backlit by the accommodating moon.

“We’re gonna be good,” Asher says. “You and me. As good as two can.” He nods his head, sharp.

“You saved my life, Osh.” Samuel says.

Asher stops walking. Samuel doesn’t notice for a pace or two, and when he turns, Asher’s head is hanging, and his narrow shoulders are shivering like he’s caught cold, but it’s not that.

“None of that,” Samuel says, but he says it gently, to take the sting out of it.

They’re alone on a dirt road, so he touches the small man’s shoulder, too.

“I apologize,” Asher manages. When he looks up, there’s a clean streak down one cheek. He swipes at his face with the back of his sleeve, and the mark is lost somewhere between clean and dusty.

“He was lying. He would’ve stuck me,” Samuel says. “And bled me dry right there. And then he would have taken it from you, and killed you, too.”

Asher takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

Samuel squeezes his shoulder once more. Asher is too thin, even for him. Maybe they could stop at the Barbary Coast, find a good meal, a good room. Before they pick another place to go.

Another place to find… something.

The weight in his satchel was comforting, knowing what it was.

“I apologize,” Asher manages again, and they walk on. Samuel wonders if there’s more to the apology than just the death of Polk. Is Asher sorry for all of it? For even that first kiss? For getting caught by Polk? Spied on by the bastard who had led them think he didn’t care, that he understood a dalliance when women were scarce was all he was seeing.

Until they struck gold. Then…

Well.

Samuel can understand Asher regretting all of that. But the Devil take him, Samuel hopes he doesn’t.

“How many tongues you got?” Samuel asks.

It takes Asher a second, and Samuel wonders if he’ll reply right up until he does. “Four. Five, if you don’t mind me being slow with French. Not many around here to practice with.”

“And reading and writing, too?”

“Yes.”

Samuel nods. All he has to offer is a strong back, but Asher, with his love of words and bookishness and clever mind? That’s what they’ve really got going for them.

Hell. He’d never have thought of offering that rat bastard Polk a final, perfect glass.

“We’ll find a place. And we’ve got a lot of time to plan it out.” He shifts the weight of his satchel. Gold is money. Money is time.

“If…If they catch us…” Asher says, and Samuel looks at him again. Damn but he’s so damn little in the moonlight. “I don’t want… I don’t want that.”

That. Samuel nods, understanding well enough. Prison and worse. And not just for the murdering. Still, that’s assuming anyone knows about the murdering in the first place enough to come after them at all. Their shack will have burned clear down, and Polk will be nothing but ash and bone, which is a better death than the rat deserved.

Which, of course, reminds him of just how Asher fixed him to rights in the first place.

“It won’t be that,” Samuel says, and it’s a promise.

“You can’t know,” Asher says. He sounds tired, and afraid.

“I can,” Samuel says. And, because he thinks it might help Asher to know he’d never let it happen, he decides to tell him. “I brought the whiskey. If it comes to it, we’ll pour ourselves a big glass.”

Asher’s eyes go wide, and he misses a single step and a breath before he starts again. Samuel waits for him, and they walk on together.

“Every time I believe I understand you, Forty-Niner, I end up asking myself the same question.”

Samuel smiles at the term. This is good. Asher is calmer, if he’s calling him Forty-Niner again.

“That so?”

“It is.”

“What’s your question?” Samuel says.

“How is it I keep getting so lucky?”

It’s Samuel’s turn to pause. “Lucky?” For the gold, maybe. But by his reckoning, they’ve got a dead body, a burned building, murder and worse potentially hanging over their head, and a whiskey bottle with enough rat poison mixed in to kill them both as easily as it did Polk. Where’s the luck in all that?

Asher nods. “We got a night more than I thought we’d have when Polk pulled that knife. And if no one’s after us come sun-up? We get another.” He smiles that book-learning smile he has. “I don’t know how many we get, but I don’t think any man ever did.”

Samuel looks around. They’re alone on a dirt road with only the moonlight. He kisses his murdering love, right there, before they start to walking again.

“There are boats we can get in San Francisco,” Asher says. “Places we can go.”

Samuel nods. “Yes.”

“I have a few ideas.”

He’s not surprised. And he decides Asher is right.

Samuel has never felt so lucky in his life.

 

 

Giveaway—Paranormal Week at Joyfully Jay

[image error]Hey everyone! Today begins the awesomeness that is Paranormal Week over on Joyfully Jay, and this includes a massive freaking giveaway.

I’m tossing my own hat in the ring (you totally have to go check out the titles available, by the way—so many freaking books!) so I thought I’d let you know now, rather than a week from now when it’s too late and Anders has walked his sexy demon butt away.

You’ve got a week to enter, and all you have to do is list your “wish-list” of eight to twelve titles from all the giveaways offered.

Keep your eyes on the site, and if you’re feeling like maybe a little bit of urban paranormal set in Ottawa might be your thing? Well. You could get lucky, no?

Friday Flash Fics — Lenses

Today’s Friday Flash Fics inspiration was… well, inspiring. The pose of the fine gentleman in question, however, sent me back to my photographer character, Caleb, who has a particular gift of seeing more than he wants to if he makes eye contact with people. Caleb will eventually get a novella of his own, but these flash fiction pieces help me explore him before I get there.

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Lenses

Caleb gripped his camera like a lifeline. It helped with the not-drooling.

“I want to show off the necklaces we got from Third Eye. Any chance you could undo another button or two?” Phoebe said.

There is a God, Caleb thought, pretending to change a setting on his camera, and her name is Phoebe.

“Sure.”

Caleb raised his camera and snapped a couple of candids while the model—Duke, because of course the man had a name like Duke—undid another button. The more-or-less-tuxedo, handmade by Phoebe and tailored to perfection, was partnered with a black kilt instead of tuxedo pants.

“Okay, try that,” Phoebe said, stepping back.

I’d love to, Caleb thought. He eyed Duke, doing his best to avoid making eye contact, and tapped the bottom of his own chin. “Can you raise your chin a little. And turn just a bit more to the left…perfect!”

He snapped a few photos, adjusted the lights again, and took another quick series. Duke wasn’t a tall man, but good lord he was broad. And the moustache and beard combo—not to mention the perfectly groomed chest hair on display—was a whole thing, and that thing was basically mouthwatering.

“Should I undo my hair?” Duke asked.

Caleb lowered his camera. “You’ve done this before,” he said, aiming the words somewhere at Duke’s moustache. It had honest-to-God curls.

“Only a couple of times,” he said, and raised both hands to undo the leather tie that held his dark hair in place. He shook out his hair, and Phoebe stepped forward to take the leather string from him.

“Well, you’re a natural,” Caleb said, putting the camera between the two of them again. For whatever reason, looking through lenses blocked Caleb’s…quirk, so he allowed himself a moment to look into Duke’s deep brown eyes. “Let me guess, book cover?”

“Yes.” Duke blinked, and the little surprised smile that crossed his face was captured when Caleb snapped a quick series of shots.

“I’ve done some cover shoots. You’re perfect for them. Did they at least use your face?”

“They only wanted my chest.”

“That there is a crime,” Caleb said, and felt his cheeks blazing. Why had he said that? Checking the screen on his camera for a couple of seconds, he cleared his throat. “Okay. I think we’ve got the tux and kilt covered.” He glanced toward Phoebe. “What’s next?”

*

Four outfits later, they were done. Caleb stretched, and watched the memory stick copy raw files to his laptop, just in case. He’d never lost a shoot before, but there was a first time for everything. Once he saw the files wink into his cloud, nodded, and closed the laptop.

And stared straight into Duke’s brown eyes.

“Do I get to see?” the model said, smiling.

Caleb stared at the ground, but it was too late. Eye contact. Crap. Had he made eye contact with anyone else today? He didn’t think so. That meant…

“Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” Caleb said. He swallowed, and re-opened the lap-top, turning it a little sideways. Duke moved to stand beside him, and Caleb opened the folder and clicked a few of the images, bringing up previews.

“Wow,” Duke said. “These are great.”

“Wait until I’m done with them,” Caleb said. “You’ll single-handedly help Phoebe nudge kilts back to the height of fashion.”

“Your lips to the universe’s ears,” Phoebe said, joining them. “I agree. These are fantastic.”

“I’ll have them ready for you by Thursday,” Caleb said.

“That’s great.” Phoebe waved. “And on that note, I am going to take my frocks home and then have Dennis mix me something sweet.” She waved, and by the time Caleb had gotten most of his gear put away, she was gone.

To his surprise, Duke was waiting. With his hair tied back again and back in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, he wasn’t as entirely intimidating. Only mostly.

“If you need someone for more book covers, I’d appreciate it,” he said. He held out a card.

Caleb took it. “Definitely. Once Phoebe picks which shots she wants for Urbane Myth, if you want, we can see what we can do with some of the other shots? There are some solid stock art sites, and if you wanted, we can definitely take more.”

“Great.” Duke smiled, and Caleb stared directly into his teeth. They were lovely teeth. Of course.

They parted outside the studio, and Caleb walked the rest of the way home trying not to freak out about the eye contact. It had only been a second. Maybe it wouldn’t have been enough…

He sighed. Of course it would. It never mattered before.

He worked on the photos until nearly one in the morning, until he was blinking and barely awake. Finally, he crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Nothing bad, please,” he said. His usual prayer.

*

He’d never been in this apartment before. It wasn’t large, but it was tidy. And blurry as hell. Whoever’s point of view he had, they were reading a large print library book, and even with the larger font, it wasn’t entirely clear.

This hadn’t happened before, though Caleb supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Law of averages.

“Hey Pop,” Duke said, stepping into view, blurry though it was. He sat at the same table, on the other side. He had a bunch of white…something…in his hand.

“Those the bills?” The man’s voice wasn’t robust. Caleb’s point of view shifted, as the older man whose eyes Caleb was borrowing tried to see the mail in Duke’s hand.

“Only one bill,” Duke said. “We’re fine.”

It was said casually, and effortlessly, and Caleb didn’t buy it at all. He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he knew Duke well. But he didn’t believe him for a second.

Neither, it seemed, did “Pop,” if the snort was any indication.

“We’ll be fine,” Duke said again. It sounded more like a promise than a fact this time. Hopeful.

*

Caleb woke, and found himself rubbing his eyes until they cleared. Okay. Well. That wasn’t a rosy, awesome future, and who knew how far off it was, so…

So what was he going to do?

“The world is not yours to fix,” he said, still staring at the ceiling. Much like Duke’s pronouncement of everything being okay, however, it didn’t come off entirely confident. He groaned at himself, and then got up to make himself some coffee.

While it brewed, he eyed his computer for a few long seconds, then gave in with a sigh. Who was he kidding? Even if Duke hadn’t been freaking sexy-on-a-stick, he’d worry this to death until he did something. He called up a list of his clients, and created a blind cc list, heavy on the romance authors he’d worked with from all over the country.

I have a model that I think would you might want to consider, he typed. He attached one of the candid shots that he knew wouldn’t work for Urbane Myth. He added a few more details, suggestions of how best to use Duke, and then sent the e-mail before he could second guess himself.

By the time the coffee had finished dripping, he had three replies. One, especially, caught his eye.

He found the little white card and dialed.

“Hey, Duke, it’s Caleb. How would you feel about being the next Steampunk Romance bad-boy?”

 

 

 

April Flash Fiction Draw

Hello! It’s the first Monday of April, so I’m back!

As a kind of challenge to myself (and anyone else who wanted to try), last January I started a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge.

The first draw (which was a Fairy Tale involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison!) and the results were fantastic in January, and February’s draw (Crime Caper, Compass, Soup Kitchen) and results were—I think the general sentiment agreed—much more of a challenge. And for March? A Romance, involving a VHS Cassette, set in a Firewatch Tower gave a wonderful range of results.

I made a video of this month’s draw (you can go check that out on my Facebook page if you want).

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 April? King of clubs, two of diamonds, and eight 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: a historical fiction, involving rat poison, set on a dirt road.

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 another challenge on the first Monday of May (that’s May 7th), from the remaining nine items 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 (March 12th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Friday Flash Fics — Helios

Today’s Friday Flash Fics brings me back to the Cohort series, and picks up just after the arrival of the Vanguard ships and the station—all ahead of schedule thanks to things going very, very wrong back on Earth.

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Helios

Adamson poured a cup of tea from the teapot, and glanced at Flood and Dr. Adebayo. They both nodded, so he poured two more. They sat around his small kitchenette table, filling the small space. It was late in the day.

He could have held this meeting in the Coop, but…

He exhaled. “Okay. How are we doing with the new arrivals?”

Flood took a sip of her tea, eyeing Dr. Adebayo before speaking. “As well as can be expected. Cassandra had already begun the screenings on the journey here in the station, and we’re almost finished. There’s placement options for everyone.” She paused. “The Vanguard didn’t have access to the screenings of course, so we’re just starting with them, and…” She blew out a breath. “Well.”

“We’re lucky Cassandra is here,” Dr. Adebayo said. “This many people finding out they’re here to stay has been a strain. Many didn’t sign up for this—the Helios project was only part of what the research station was involved with, and even among those who took part in the project, it wasn’t intended for everyone to leave Sol and join us here. Now? They’re on a new planet, they’re being screened for the best ways they can contribute, and…” She hesitated. “And they can’t go home.”

“How about you?” Flood asked. “How’s it going with him?”

Adamson shook his head.

“Trauma,” Dr. Adebayo said.

They all fell silent for a moment.

Adamson cleared his throat. “The station?”

“Stable orbit, and all systems green. She weathered the journey perfectly, and my team has been figuring out all the options for what we can complete up there, what we need to drop, and what we can accomplish with the pieces they brought.” Flood looked pleased. “We’re going to get close to the full goal.”

“Close is good,” Dr. Adebayo said. “And, frankly, having something to do is going to be a big piece of that. The last thing we need are idle hands—or minds. Doing something, building something, making a future? That’s going to help the new arrivals who never intended to come.”

Adamson tapped the side of his cup.

“Bradley said the Helios at Sol was destroyed?” Flood said.

Adamson nodded. “They scuttled it. It was that or maybe have a bunch of EDF ships chasing after them, and… no.”

“Idiots,” Dr. Adebayo said. Adamson agreed, then wondered if she meant the EDF, like he did, or if she was referring to the station crew and the Vanguard for blowing up the gate.

“They had no choice,” he said, to be clear.

“At least we know we’ll have no unexpected guests,” Flood said.

“Why are we in your kitchen?” Dr. Adebayo said.

Flood frowned slightly, but she looked at Adamson.

“The station was intended to come once we had a gate to head back home,” Adamson said.

They both frowned now. They knew that. But the station had fled, with three private security ships, and the return gate hadn’t even been due to begin construction back in Sol for months.

“Okay,” Flood said.

Adamson let out a breath. “I might be able to do it.”

They stared at him.

“They have the probes. The probes use the same technology, only, of course, on a micro scale. But Helios is my baby, and there’s more. Part of the design of the station is the framework for the gate, and—”

“You didn’t say any of this, and you cannot say it again,” Dr. Adebayo said.

Flood stared at her, mouth open.

Adamson started to speak again, but the Doctor held up her hand. “No. Listen. You cannot give that kind of hope to some of these people until you’re sure. Do you understand me? We signed on for this. We knew it could be forever. They didn’t. And if you dangle that kind of hope and can’t deliver? It would be cruel and…” She shook her head. Then she stopped. “And that’s why we’re in your kitchen.”

“I’m not entirely stupid,” Adamson said.

Dr. Adebayo blushed. Chagrin was a good look on her, he decided.

“What do you need?” Flood said.

Adamson pulled out his list. “The biggest thing is the probes. But there’s more, of course, and I’m not sure if you’ll be able to figure out a way to get it to me.”

Flood flashed him a scornful look. “Please.”

He held up both hands.

*

There were thirty-eight children, and five in the twilight between childhood and adulthood. Patel had set about organizing a school—that it had been Patel had been something of a surprise to Adamson. Flood had lined up instructors, and there had always been plans for schools in the future, of course.

Things were just ahead of schedule in some places, and behind in others. They’d figure it out.

And Adamson himself would be teaching physics.

Luckily, the vast majority of the children had come with their parents. The few exceptions—sad circumstances in no small part due to the EDF’s raid—had meant some of the children had been absorbed into the other families, and according to Cassandra and the other counsellors, it was the best move for their wellbeing.

There was one adolescent, however…

The dorms were full again, though Flood and the engineering teams had promised there’d be no doubling-up by the end of the next two months. Everyone would have their own place to live. The supplies from the station—and the fast growing shamboo—made that possible.

It was another thing that wasn’t to plan, but would be okay in the near future.

On the top floor of the dorms, Adamson went to the furthest door, and knocked.

There was no answer, which was no surprise.

He used his override, and closed the door behind him after stepping through.

*

The boy was kneeling on his bed, holding the hologram again.

“Hey Mica,” Adamson said, in his gentlest voice.

The boy didn’t react.

Technically, there was nothing for the boy to hold. The hologram was exactly that: projected light creating a 3D image of the pre-colonized moon. Luna. But…

Adamson shifted his senses just so, and could feel the hum of telekinetic effort coming from the boy. He’d created a sphere of pressure around the image of the moon, and that’s what he was holding.

The hologram was the only light in the room.

Adamson sat down beside Mica’s bed, and reached out with his mind.

Mica’s mind was cool on the surface. Flat, empty, almost a kind of white-noise. The moon, mostly. Just thoughts of the moon. But beneath…

Pain. Fear. Running. Fire.

Their facility on Luna had been raided first. Bradley had told Adamson that. And only a few ships from Luna had made it out of the EDF’s tightening fist—in no small part due to the Vanguard ships—and gotten to Enceladus. It wasn’t just the Helios project, or the larger company. It had been a WorldGov coup.

And it had not been bloodless.

Mica had managed to pilot one of the escape craft. His parents had been on board. They had not survived. And Mica himself hadn’t known how to pilot the ship. His mother was a professional pilot, however. Bradley had said the kid had done a brilliant docking of the pod with Vanguard-Three.

Telepathy was an amazing thing.

He imagined the son had stayed telepathically connected with his mother the entire time. If he’d managed to block her from sensing her own pain, she could have guided him every step of the way.

Sometimes, he got glimpses of Mica’s memories of those moments, beneath the moon.

“You’re going to be okay,” Adamson said. He reached out and touched Mica’s bare shoulder.

For the first time, Mica didn’t flinch.

Home.

Mica’s thoughts returned to the white-noise after the word, but Adamson hadn’t imagined the word.

“This is home, Mica.” He rose. “And I promise, you’ll be safe here. You’re going to be okay.”

It took another fifteen minutes before Mica would turn off the holo, and nearly half an hour to convince him to eat a meal. But he did. He still didn’t speak, though.

But that was okay. They didn’t need words.

When he was drawing the covers over Mica, the boy reached out and touched the side of Adamson’s face.

Helios, the boy thought. You made Helios.

Adamson nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “All of this? It was me.”

Mica took a long, deep breath.

This is home.

“Yes,” Adamson said. “It is.”

 

Nervous

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Seriously, this cover.

Yesterday I shared the awesome cover for my YA novel, Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks (which is listed on Indiebound for pre-order!). I shared the blurb, described the book, chatted about it on Twitter and Facebook, and…

And got nervous.

Like, super nervous.

It took me a day to figure out what was bothering me, and once it clicked, it took me a bit longer to figure out how to feel about it. But, here it is, as simplified as I can put it:

I wrote a spec-fic YA novel. It’s a dash of coming-of-age, with a dose of adventure. It’s a bit funny, I hope, too. It’s about a kid who’s got a plan for the rest of his life, even though he’s seventeen, facing up against something completely unexpected: teleportation.

Oh, and the main character is gay.

And that was the thing. That was when the nerves started. It’s not about being gay. It’s not about him coming out (though, to be clear, his queerness impacts the story—of course it does—and there’s a character who is earlier on in their progression of coming to terms with their own queerness and that’s a sub-plot). Cole is out. He’s proud. He hangs with his rainbow club. He’s dated. He’s had his first few kisses (none of them were wow-moments, alas).

But this teleporting thing? That’s a real problem.

I realized I’m nervous because I’ve written a book where the gay isn’t The Big Thing ™, and I do that in my adult books all the time, but this is a YA, and…

Well. Cue the nervous spiral of doom.

Followed by the spiral of frustration. Because we’re allowed this. Queer people are allowed characters in all the genres. Be it spec-fic, or romance, or mystery, or—yes—YA, the stories should include us.

So that’s what I wrote.

In a couple of days, I’ll be good. It’s not like I don’t have minor meltdowns every time I finish a book (this is a thing I think I have in common with pretty much every author I’ve ever met and spoken with). Just this time took me by surprise with the why of it.

I suppose it’s a little like when I wrote Light—a science fiction novel—and no small number of reviews proclaimed upset at the fade-to-black. Unpacking how many people assumed anything gay meant on-page sex—regardless of genre categorization—wasn’t pleasant.

I often answer the question “Why do you write?” with “I’m trying to write back in time.” I want to write the stories I didn’t get to read growing up. Light was exactly that: my ode to my love of superhero stories. Triad Blood and Triad Soul go back to my love of urban fantasy, and the constant frustration of zero queer characters ever seeming to exist (unless they were a gay werewolf doomed to die protecting the heroine).

Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks is the same thing. It’s the kind of book I wish I could have read: a YA spec-fic adventure/coming of age story.

And also queer.

 

Cover Reveal — Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks

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Being the kid abducted by old Ms. Easton when he was four permanently set Cole’s status to freak. At seventeen, his exit plan is simple: make it through the last few weeks of high school with his grades up and his head down.

When he pushes through the front door of the school and finds himself eighty kilometers away holding the door of a museum he was just thinking about, Cole faces facts: he’s either more deluded than old Ms. Easton, or he just teleported.

Now every door is an accident waiting to happen―especially when Cole thinks about Malik, who, it turns out, has a glass door on his shower. When he starts seeing the same creepy people over his shoulder, no matter how far he’s gone, crushes become the least of his worries. They want him to stop, and they’ll go to any length to make it happen.

Cole is running out of luck, excuses, and places to hide.

Time for a new exit plan.

I’m over-the-freaking-moon about this book cover. First off, Inkspiral did an amazing—as per usual—job. The kid on the cover is so very Cole. No moment he can’t make awkward. It’s his thing. Also board games, planning stuff, enjoying quality time with his bullet journal, more planning of stuff, making to-do lists, and did I mention planning stuff?

Of course, all that goes to hell, fast, once the whole teleporting thing starts to happen. Also a cute boy. And his rainbow club friends know something is wrong. His parents, too. In fact, it’s all going wrong, and that’s never the plan.

Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks is a YA story, a contemporary sci-fi, and has a healthy dash of action, a wee bit of romance, and a lot about friends, family, and figuring out what to do when you’re already sure you know exactly what you’re doing but something unexpected comes up. Oh, and Cole’s gay, too.

It’ll be out in December from Bold Strokes Books (it’s not listed yet, though). Somehow, it’s already up for preorder at the ‘Zon, and even better it’s also listed at Indiebound!

Monday Flash Fics — Poet

Monday Flash Fics had a gorgeous inspirational picture this week, and it reminded me of a character I wanted to write for ages, but hadn’t figured out a way to put it all together. I had this notion of a New Orleans filled with people on the edge of a reality fraying a bit, and it began with a man with a voice capable of magic, or at least something like it, when he encountered poetry.

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Poet

He stared at the ceiling for a long time before taking a deep breath, pulling his hat off just enough to see, and held up the piece of paper.

They’d all started calling him Poet. That’s what Hope said. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, though it was fitting enough. He didn’t write, but he read, and if he spoke…

“Okay.” The word was meant to force him into action. It worked well enough. He held the paper just far enough away to read it.

I guess I’m reaping what I’ve sown,

I dropped the seed and watched it grow,

And now I’ll eat my cake alone.

He didn’t know the poet. Copeland, it was signed. But it was hand-written. That mattered. It didn’t work from books, though sometimes it worked when it was typewritten. And that one time, a tagged poem on the side of a building on Chartres.

Another deep breath. “Okay.” Maybe if he said it again.

Through the closed door of his bedroom, he heard Hope coming home. That meant it was after midnight at least. He listened while she quietly moved, while she showered, while she went into her own bedroom and the silence—or what passed for it in New Orleans—surrounded him again.

If he hadn’t had Hope, he’d have gone mental by now. He knew that. She’d seen it happen, the first time. When it hadn’t been just Hope and Poet, but Hope and Raj and whoever he’d been before Poet.

If he’d ever been someone else. Had the words, the speaking, been there all along?

“Okay.”

Third time was the charm. Poet sat up, rubbed his face, and took another breath.

“I guess I’m reaping what I’ve sown.” Each word made every cell in his body shake, like he was invoking a spell, or willing the universe in some way. Hell. Maybe he was.

“I dropped the seed and watched it grow.”

Speaking the words on the paper, the poem from some poet he’d never even met, was doing its thing for him. The way poems did when he spoke them. His vision got blurry, things shifted…

“And now I’ll eat my cake alone.”

Poet lifted from the bed, hovering while the speaking worked itself out of him. Syllables grabbed hold of him, words turning him slightly. His eyelids flickered. His hat fell free.

He landed, dropping onto the bed unceremoniously. It squeaked, and he waited, wondering if he’d woken Hope.

Silence.

“Okay.” He sat up, breathed, and looked around his room.

No sign of Raj. Everything that had been theirs, or specifically Raj’s, was still gone. But there’d been changes. The poem had done its thing.

For one? Different books on his bookcase. He’d never read half those folk. And he’d lost his shirt again—why did poems always take his shirt?—but gained a new pair of sweats.

There was a pinging sound, and he picked up a phone. New case.

On my way home. A text from Hope. So he’d gained a few hours, maybe, or lost a day.

But no Raj. He was still gone. Still taken with that first damn poem.

A path diverged…

Poet got off the bed and walked his room. He added the poem to the pile of papers on his desk, now used of its potential, and noticed a set of artist pencils. Without touching them, he knew he could draw now. A whole history fell into place in his mind, memories of a life he never led—but now knew.

He could trade them for poems, he thought. It’d probably be easier than playing his guitar and singing. Or he could do both.

The phone pinged again. Any luck?

Hope knew. She’d been there. She was the only other person who remembered Raj, though sometimes, she admitted, she didn’t remember all the things Poet did. They’d all been there, in the museum, when he’d read aloud from the paper hidden behind glass.

Not yet.

A poem took Raj.

A poem had to be the way to get him back. Or at least let Poet find him.

Either would do.

 

9th Annual Bold Strokes Book Festival!

The schedule of events is here! I’m heading back to my homeland for an awesome two-day festival in Nottingham, where myself and fellow Bold Strokes Books authors will be chatting about all things books!

I’m going to be a part of the “The Writer’s Life,” and taking part in the “Out of this World” reading slot with my fellow spec-fic authors Saturday, followed by a Q&A and an after-party. On Sunday? There’s an awesome signing session (with snacks!) and then I’m moderating a panel on the reader-author connection, “Is Anyone Out There?” Then there’s a team-vs-team quiz (eep) and then one last evening to meet, mingle, and get anything signed.

It’s going to be a blast.

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Writing Wednesday — When it Rains

Anyone who has been a part of publishing knows the whole “hurry up and wait” thing that happens. Tight deadlines drop right before months of radio silence, and then all of a sudden it’s back to “I need this yesterday.” It’s just a part of the way things work, and as much as you try to balance everything, it always seems to land just so.

Case in point? This week. I’ve been working on the final edits for Exit Plans for Teenage Freaks, and it’s been a total joy. And the proofs for Of Echoes Born are landing in my in-box at the same-time. They’re both due pretty much beside each other.

So, of course, I caught a cold.

Whee!

I’m excited for both. I’m so happy they’re going to both drop this year (June and December), and it’ll be fine. But as I blow my nose and cough and work my way through each book line by line, there’s a part of me chuckling at the timing of it all.

Upcoming Appearance!

The 9th Annual Bold Strokes U.K. Book Festival has been announced (click the link for more details) and I’ll be there! Check it out, especially those of you in the U.K.

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Submit, submit, submit…

I fell behind on my submission goals of once a month thanks to vacation, sickness, and this lovely new cold, but I’ll get there. I’ve got a piece I’m working on for this month, and another to play catch-up. But right now my yearly total remains: January: 1 submission (a reprint); February: 1 rejection.

Open Calls for Submission

I also try to list off calls for submission I find (and find tempting) every week on Writing Wednesdays, so without further ado:

Chicken Soup for the Soul—Various titles, various themes, various deadlines, 1,200 word count limit.
Mischief Corner Books—Open to submissions for various themes, including Legendary Love, Everyday Heroes, Cowboys and Space; these are open rolling calls, so no deadline.
NineStar Press—Open to submissions for various length prose, paranormal, science fiction, fantasy and horror; Click “Currently Seeking” header for details; word count limit variable.
Spectrum Lit—This is an ongoing Patreon flash fic provider, 1,500 hard word count limit; LGBTQ+ #ownvoice only; ongoing call.
What’s Your Sign?—JMS; Looking for queer astrological-based romances; 12k words or more; Deadline March 31st, 2018.
Impact—QSF’s annual flash fiction contest, this year the theme is “impact.” No more than 300 words; Deadline April 1st, 2018.
Tru-Romance: Love in the Age of PrEP—Beautiful Dreamer Press; stories involving the impact the Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis regimen has on the standard model of romance fiction; 4,000 to 7,000 word count limit; deadline April 15th, 2018.
Lost—NineStar Press. LGBTQIA+ romantic pairing. Both HEA and HFN are acceptable, Click “Lost” header for the theme. 30k to 120k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
Happiness in Numbers—Less than Three Press; Polyamorous LGBTQIA+ anthology, non-erotic polyamorous stories that explore the idea of “Family”; 10k to 20k word count limit; deadline April 30th, 2018.
MLR Press—Quite a few different themes are open; 10k to 40k word count limit; deadlines vary, but the earliest right now is April 30th, 2018.
Artefacts and Alchemy—Edge Books; Tesseracts 22 is doing a historical magical realism theme; 5k word count limit; deadline May 15th, 2018.