'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 87

February Flash Fiction Draw

And we’re back!

Last month I started a year-long monthly Flash Fiction Draw Challenge, and we had our first draw (which was a Fairy Tale involving a Tattoo Machine set in a Prison!) and the results were fantastic. Well, it’s the first Monday of the month, so I’m back and I’ve made the second round of draws.

I made a video of it (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 last month):

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And the result for February? Jack of clubs, queen of diamonds, and nine 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 crime caper, involving a compass, set in a soup kitchen.

Last month we had a dozen participants, and that was awesome! 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 March (that’s March 5th), from the remaining eleven 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 (February 12th). That’s it.

Enjoy!

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Monday Flash Fics — Second Cohort

This is becoming a thing, but the image for Monday Flash Fics just struck me again for the same world I’ve been exploring lately. So, we’re back in the world of the story I began with First Cohort, and followed up with Fifth Cohort and Sixth Cohort. A bit of a fallback this week, to the time just before the Second Cohort arrived.

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Second Cohort

Adamson exhaled, and stared out over their new world. They had probe maps, of course, but he and Patel had hiked their way to the highest point within the safety radius, in order to set up the primary beacon and relay.

The climb had been challenging. The folds of rock along the river were old, covered in greenery that Patel and Adamson had dutifully scanned and sampled as they traveled.

Their first night out in the wilds, which they’d spent once they’d arrived at the bottom of the arched stone peak, their new world had offered up yet another surprise.

Firefly-like dancing lights had filled the night around them. Luminescent moth-like creatures had come out, shifting from green to blue to a pale yellow. Breathtaking.

Then the arrival of the bat-like creatures swooping to catch them, which had caused the lights to blink out almost immediately.

“This place,” Patel said, his meaning carried in the reverent tone. Adamson hadn’t been sure about Patel at first. A former soldier with the Earth Defense Force, Patel represented so much of why he’d left Earth in the first place.

But he’d also had nightmares that first night, and Adamson had slipped gently into Patel’s mind, telepathically calming down the flashbacks without delving deep enough to pry.

“I haven’t slept like that in ages,” Patel said, upon waking.

Adamson had smiled and agreed. He would tell Patel, he’d decided. Once they were back with the rest of the First Cohort and the satellite uplink was solid.

Then they’d spent the day climbing the huge stone arch that towered over the river far below.

*

“So, instead of climbing back down, what do you say we go back the fun way?” Patel said, holding up some bolt-anchors.

“Are you kidding me?” Adamson said.

Patel’s grin made it quite clear he was not.

Adamson checked over the beacon once more. It was active and stable, and the signal was already established with the satellite. As he watched, the uplink connected to the network and a cached message from Flood popped up on the screen.

“Congratulations!” filled the display. “Now come home. Second Cohort is due any day now, and there’s stuff left to do, slackers.”

Patel looked over his shoulder. He was taller, and broader than Adamson. He chuckled at the display.

“It would be much faster than walking back down,” he said.

Adamson took a long breath. “Every reason I can think of for us not to do this? You’re more than qualified to handle. Which is sort of intimidating.”

“You read my file?” Patel’s thick eyebrows rose.

“It’s my job,” Adamson said.

“So you trust me, and we’re doing this.” The grin was back.

Adamson gestured. “I’ll regret it, I’m sure.”

Patel slapped his back. “You will not.”

*

They were a quarter of the way down before Adamson admitted that he was, in fact, having a blast. The wind was catching them at random intervals and swinging them a bit, but Patel walked him through the process of controlling their descent on the ropes and he was right. They’d be down in no time.

And the view. The river far below, the green-covered hills, the clear blue sky. It was…

It was freedom.

“You’re smiling,” Patel said, a few feet above him. “You’re loving this.”

“And you’re gloating,” Adamson said.

“Damn right.”

“This is awesome.”

“Here, hold that smile,” Patel said, pulling out his portable pad and working it with one hand.

Adamson spread one hand out and smiled, hamming it up for the camera.

Patel got the shot, and then a gust of wind sent them swaying without warning. The pad slipped from Patel’s hand. “Shit!”

Adamson reacted instinctively.

When they stopped swinging, Patel stared at his pad, which floated in the air between them. It took him a few seconds to reach out and take it. He turned to look at Adamson, and his expression was inscrutable.

“So,” Adamson said, wishing he’d just let the damn pad drop. What had he been thinking? But his telekinesis was second-nature when adrenaline hit, and now that they’d left Earth, the constant habit of suppressing it had atrophied. “The thing is…”

“Gentech are treated like less than human beings and you deserve better than that?”

Adamson swallowed. “Yeah. That.”

Patel nodded once. Then that cocky grin returned to the former-soldier’s face. “Does that mean you could get a wide shot of us both?”

It was possible that Adamson made a show of telekinetically drawing his own pad from his sleeve pocket and circling it around their ropes twice before it drew back to get the shot.

It was, after all, a new world.

Time for new habits.

Sunday Shorts — “Peripheral,” by Jeffrey Ricker

[image error]One of the wonderful things about this lovely internet age in which we live is that I can connect with authors I adore through newsletters and blogs and updates so I don’t miss things.

Except, of course, I then miss things because I’m trying to keep up with newsletters and blogs and updates. It’s a Catch-22.

But that’s one of the things I love about Jeffrey Ricker’s newsletter: it doesn’t drop into my in-box so often that I’m struggling to keep up, it’s concise (hashtag-life-goals), and he often shares wonderful pieces of his writing that I can read while, say, I’m waiting for the freezing to kick in at the dentist because part of my bionic jaw went Sproing! again.

Case in point? “Peripheral.” Subscribers to Jeffrey’s Newsletter (which you can sign up for here) got a lovely e-collection of his short fiction recently. I missed “Peripheral” when it was originally published in UNBUILD walls journal (which you can now click and go read), so happily my e-reader and I sat, waiting for whatever that stuff they inject into my jaw to make it numb to make with the numbing, and I fell into this wonderful character facing his end.

Hobson is a scientist who has sent probes out into the great beyond, and is struggling with getting the connection to work just-so, and at the same time, his own living, breathing connections are also faltering. Added to this? An awful diagnosis.

As is likely obvious from my own writing, I really enjoy stories where characters face uncertain futures (or, more to the point, certain futures where it’s the timeline that’s the only real variable before inevitability) when they’re done a certain way. There can be triumph in a character staring down mortality.

There’s triumph in “Peripheral,” in a fantastic, spec-fic, and lovingly crafted way.

You should go read it.

(And you should go sign up for Jeffrey’s newsletter, too.)

 

Friday Flash Fics — Sixth Cohort

Yep, I’m revisiting the same flash fiction thread for a third time. If you want to catch up, it began with First Cohort, and then Fifth Cohort (you may notice a theme) and then today’s entry, which I have to admit gave me a giggle. The image might be from a cartoon, but it made me think of a character I was planning and let me move the story ahead a bit.

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Adamson took measure of those seated around the table. Patel looked as calm and unreadable as ever, Dr. Adebayo was paying too much attention to her tablet, Flood was tapping her stylus against the table, though not hard enough to make an annoying noise, Constantinou held a mug of coffee with both hands like it held all the warmth in the system, and Maxwell had a far-away look in her eyes.

Adamson could imagine just how far.

“Okay,” he said, bringing their attention together. “Let’s talk.”

Dr. Adebayo’s smile surprised him. “On or off the record?”

“Let’s start with off. We can figure out what to put on the record later. Agreed?”

They all nodded.

Constantinou raised his finger. Adamson nodded.

“What do we do if they don’t show?”

And there it was. Said aloud.

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” Adamson said. “We’ve been operating under the assumption that there was a critical failure of the fifth cohort, and that Enceladus has no way of knowing they didn’t arrive. If that’s the case, the sixth cohort will be here…” He waved a hand. The Helios schedule wasn’t perfect, but they were looking at any time within the next couple of local days.

Or today.

“If they show up, we’re solid,” Maxwell said. “We’re not one hundred percent to where we’d planned on being for the arrival of the sixth. We couldn’t, not without what they were bringing, but we spread what we had and from a point of view of housing, feeding, and powering everything they’re bringing? We’re solid. Backtracking to fill in the gaps isn’t going to be completely doable with their redundancies either, but we’ll hit the main points. If the rest of the cohorts drop in on time, we’ll catch up at the seventh.”

Adamson was impressed, and he let it show. “You’ve all done amazing work.”

“We had some luck,” Constantinou said. “Shamboo grows like a weed. A lot of interior work in the newer buildings are pretty much entirely shamboo.”

“Did you really have to call it that?” Flood said.

Constantinou chuckled. “Why not?”

“It’s…not very serious.” Flood said.

“Well, it is pretty close to an Earth bamboo analog,” Adamson said.

“Ugh,” Flood said. “You’re totally encouraging him.”

“While the boys were busy with naming plants,” Maxwell said, sharing a look of mock annoyance with Flood, “we’ve come up with a potential mining plan.”

There was a moment of silence. And here it was. Mining wasn’t on the original plan, barring unforeseen issues. Cutting into bedrock for foundations, yes. Geothermal systems, yes. Aquifiers and waste pipes and even a tertiary tanked water power system, yes.

But mining? That would have come after the tenth.

“Okay,” Adamson said. Not for the first time, it struck him he wasn’t supposed to be in charge any more. The torch should have been passed at the arrival of the fifth cohort.

Maxwell tapped her tablet, and the plan appeared on the table in front of them.

“It’s a very modest plan,” she said. “And environmental impact is our biggest concern. And honestly? We’re only going to go looking for things we’ll truly need in the next few years. Obviously, our range is limited at the moment, and—”

Constantinou’s watch chimed. A moment later, so did Adamson’s. The alert display was a yellow symbol. A sun.

“Helios effect,” Constantinou said. The relief deepened his voice.

 

*

 

In the Coop—Constantinou had coined the term for the Colony Operations Office—they all gathered around the displays. No one had left, even Dr. Adebayo, who didn’t really have any reason to be there. They all wanted to see.

“Satellite is up,” Flood said, tapping.

The image that showed up on the screen brought stillness to the room. Adamson wasn’t sure what to say. Was there anything to say?

“Oh shit,” Constantinou said.

Okay, that would do.

Adamson cleared his throat. “How far out are they?”

“It’s a favorable position,” Flood said, and with a few more taps, a countdown timer appeared beneath the image of the ships.

Ships.

It wasn’t supposed to be ships.

But there, on the screen, it was clear: the tenth cohort, the station that had been in orbit of Enceladus itself, was on its way. And around it? An quartet of smaller ships, none of which appeared to be anything remotely like the sixth cohort they were expecting. They were lean, not large like science or colony support vessels.

And clearly armed.

“Can we ID the…support craft?” Adamson said.

Dr. Adebayo made a noise that could have been a snort of derision, but she covered it with a cough.

“Definitely military,” Patel said. “But they’re not Eds or Reds.” He’d know. He’d served with the Earth Defense Force prior to joining the Helios project. Adamson had read his file—had read all their files—they’d all had reasons for being willing to leave Earth.

“Satellite AI has them marked as a security company,” Flood said. “Vanguard.”

Adamson eyed Patel, but Patel shook his head. He hadn’t heard of them, then. Damn.

“How’s our lag?” Adamson said.

“Just shy of half an hour,” Flood said.

Adamson eyed the timer. “Okay. Send them a signal. Let’s see who’s coming to dinner.”

 

*

 

The landing pad had only been used three times. The first cohort had had to rely on a flat field and landing struts. The second, third, and fourth had the luxury of the pad the first cohort built. Seeing the first of the sleek, black, and undoubtedly military grade ships coming in for a landing made Adamson shudder. It reminded him of that last, long walk across to the shuttle that had taken him away from Earth.

Only with danger getting closer, not further away.

They’d only had time for a few exchanges with Enceladus Station. The first sight of Cassandra’s tired, worried face had filled Adamson with a twist of fear. She had never intended to leave Saturn. That meant the people on the station hadn’t had time to prepare. Who knew who was aboard?

Then she’d explained the barest details of what had happened, and things had only gotten worse.

The ship landed. Vanguard-Five, from the marking, though there were only four Vanguard ships escorting Enceladus Station. The port slid out and to the side.

Adamson forced himself to walk up and smile.

The soldier wasn’t wearing armor nor a full uniform. Just a black shirt with the company logo, black cargo pants. That made Adamson feel slightly better, even if the man was armed. The man’s right arm glinted silver in the afternoon light. Cybernetic.

“Hi,” the man said, and he held out the silver hand. “Commander Chase Bradley. We brought your people though some sort of gate-thing before the Eds blew it out of Saturn’s orbit. I guess we’ll be staying with you for a while.”

For a while? Adamson held his smile in place with an effort of will, shaking the soldier’s hand. It was, of course, cool to the touch. Cassandra hadn’t told them. Then it hit him. Of course she hadn’t told them. Inside the Helios effect, ships couldn’t communicate with each other, not with any standard systems.

“Welcome to Chiaroscuro,” Adamson said. “I’m Jay Adamson. Are you the ranking officer of your company?”

“I am.” Bradley nodded. He had a few scars, Adamson noticed. His left arm, and one across the bridge of his nose. Frankly, they suited him, which wasn’t a thought he should really be having in the moment.

“Well, why don’t you come with me,” Adamson said. He itched to reach into the man’s mind and skim the surface, just in case, but he resisted. “There’s a lot we need to talk about.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched, and he nodded. “Agreed. A lot happened back home.”

Adamson led the way. In the back of his mind, he heard Constantinou again.

Oh, shit.

 

 

 

 

Writing Wednesday — Suckuary

My husband and I joke that January and February are actually one long month called “Suckuary.” And as January ends today, I’m there.

There are so many good things happening right now. For one, today and tomorrow are the last two days of #KrakenFriends2018 (did you check that out yet?) and it’s been awesome seeing people take the quiz and discover new queer spec-fic authors at awesome pricing.

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For another? I finished edits for Of Echoes Born and sent them off to my editor. The next time I see that book it’ll be for line proofs, and then the book will actually exist. I cannot wait to have this book out and about, though I’m trying to remind myself not to set expectations super-high, given that it’s a collection of short fiction. I worked decades in the bookstore. I know what many, many readers think of short fiction. But I don’t care: I want this book out there so much.

So, those two awesome things alone should be just that: awesome.

Instead, I’m struggling my way out of bed, feel gross, groggy and gritty all the time, and am barely sleeping. Because Suckuary.

I have one of those lights that helps (and it does help). And normally, walking the dog three (sorry, four) times a day also helps, but ice rain fell a week or two ago and nothing has happened since to defeat it, so it’s more like sliding around the block than walking, and we can’t get to anywhere I can let him off leash without a car, so… all week it’s me and him, doing loops on icy sidewalks and neither of us are getting anything out of it.

And, one last thing, even though it’s self-imposed: if I don’t send off a piece today (and it’s looking around fifty-fifty at best), then my self-imposed “submit something once a month this year” will fall flat right out of the gate. Now, I’ve got plenty of reasons to be gentle with myself (and I’m always telling people to be gentle with themselves, so y’know, physician, heal thyself). Multiple trips to the endontics/dentist office, that whole fainting thing, the worst migraine I’ve had in at least a couple of years, edits for Of Echoes Born and Saving the Date…

It still feels like falling down. So I’ll try, today, to maybe send something off. We’ll see if that works. If it doesn’t, we’ll try very hard for that to be an okay thing.

Triad Magic

Update for Triad Magic for the week was pretty much nil, given the working-on-edits state for the last week. I’ve got more edits now, for Saving the Date, so this might repeat, but that’s okay. This is why my word count goals are so light.

Faux-Ho-Ho

See above, re: edits.

Other Short Stuff

Well, as I said above, I’ve kind of stumbled here. I’m hoping I can finish a piece today and send it out for the “submit one thing a month” goal, but if I don’t… *deep breath* I’m totally capable of taking the advice I give to others. Totally.

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.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to F*** Them—Circlet Press; Erotic short stories with magical beasts and shapeshifter tropes; 3,000 to 7,000 word count limit; deadline February 1st, 2018.
Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction—Uncanny Magazine; Doesn’t require stories to explore issues relating to disability, but encourages them; 750 to 6,000 word count limit; deadline February 15th, 2018.
Multipartner Anthology—ERWA/Excessia; Multi-partner erotica; 4,000 to 10k word count limit; deadline March 1st, 2018.
War on Christmas—ChiZine; Deranged and demented stories and poems that snap back against holiday schmaltz; 500 to 5,000 words; Deadline March 4th, 2018.
What’s Your Sign?—JMS; Looking for queer astrological-based romances; 12k words or more; Deadline March 31st, 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.

Monday Flash Fics — Surviving, Thriving

The image for this week’s Monday Flash Fics made me think of a character in the upcoming Of Echoes Born, André. André is a graphic designer, a talented artist, and in his story, “Negative Space,” he makes a conscious choice to face down the worst thing that ever happened to him, a bashing that left him dead for a little over two minutes. This tale takes place later, but doesn’t spoil the tale.

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Surviving, Thriving

André had no idea what to do with his hands, and his eye kept going back to the stylized blending of the two words on the placard by the door: “Surviving/Thriving.” Beneath it was a description of the night, the charity in question, and a picture of André himself, and his bio, which Michel had crafted to include both the words in question.

I am a complete fraud.

“Here,” a voice said from over his shoulder. He turned, and Justin passed him a glass. It was water.

André smiled in thanks and took a sip.

“It gives you something to hold,” Justin said.

“You read my mind.” André’s voice sounded wobbly, even to his own ears.

“You okay?”

“Feeling exposed.”

“Your welcome speech was perfect.” Justin patted his shoulder, one of the few people who touched him. “Everyone here adores you. It’s a brilliant theme, and an fantastic cause. Though Michel and I still think you priced your pieces too low.”

“It’s for charity,” André said.

“You’ve already sold three pieces.”

André blinked. “Really?”

“Really.” Justin nodded to the glass desk where the gallery owner, Michel, was talking to a pair of older men. “Those two just bought the large piece.”

“Oh wow,” André said. “I didn’t think I’d sell anything to people I didn’t already know.”

Justin smiled. “It’s a nice feeling, no?”

“Mostly I want to barf.”

Justin laughed, and patted his shoulder again. A second later, he was gone, and André once again felt like he was somehow completely alone in the unusually crowded FunkArt gallery. He had no idea if he could get through the next—he checked his phone—hour and a half that remained in the evening.

The irony of  wondering if he could escape his own “Surviving/Thriving” event wasn’t lost on him.

“I’m impressed.”

The new voice brought a measure of calm to André’s nerves. Bao Nguyen raised a glass, and they clinked.

“Thanks,” André said. “If it weren’t for you, none of this would be happening.”

“That sounded like an accusation.”

“It was. I’m barely holding it together.” The admission didn’t sting. His relationship with Bao was like that. They’d forged an odd, fragile friendship over the months since André had first faced down his own demons in the parking lot of the gay bar where he’d nearly died.

Well, technically he had died. But he’d been resuscitated.

“I like this one,” Bao said, nodding to the piece in front of them. The change of topic didn’t mean he hadn’t heard what André had said. Far from it. It meant Bao understood what he needed. Distraction. A new focus. “Tell me about it?”

“This is Jaylen.” André said. “He needed two surgeries to fix the damage done to his throat and his collar bone. He was one of the first people to agree to pose for me.”

“And if I’d known I’d end up looking that hot, I’d have volunteered faster.”

They both turned. The living, breathing version of the man in the piece offered them a smile. The collar of his black shirt was undone, leaving the trail of the scar beneath his Adam’s apple visible.

“Bao Nguyen, Jaylen Williams,” André said. “Bao’s one of my good friends, and one of the officers with the Hate & Bias Crime Unit here in Ottawa. Jaylen is one of the models, like I said, and he’s also volunteering to do some of the renovations at the shelter.”

“You can call me J.J.” Jaylen said.

They shook hands, exchanging pleasant “nice to meet you”s. Bao looked at the piece again. It was monochromatic, and anywhere Jaylen’s scars would have shown, André had used encaustic to build physical volume into the image, and then overlaid impressions of organics: branches, threads, fern leaves. It was a motif repeated throughout the gallery: survivors of violence thriving and growing.

“You have a great eye for representation,” Bao said, after a moment of comparing the two.

“In other words,” Jaylen said, “my ears really do stick out that much.”

André laughed, shaking his head. “You’re gorgeous and you know it.”

“If I were gorgeous, you’d have said yes by now.”

“Yes to what?” Bao said.

Oh no. “It’s nothing,” André said.

“Ouch,” Jaylen said, putting a hand to his heart. “I ask you out, and it’s nothing?”

André could feel his face burning. “I’ve just been busy.”

Bao turned to Jaylen. “Do you need embarrassing stories for blackmail purposes?”

“Yes,” Jaylen said. “Yes, I do.”

“You stay out of it,” André said, but Bao ignored him.

“Do not. Do not stay out of it, Bao,” Jaylen said. He looped one arm around Bao’s neck. It was a casual, easy touch, and André had to fight a wave of longing. He still struggled with that. Being touched.

Surviving. Thriving. They’re not the same thing.

He realized they were both grinning at him. André shook his head.

“How about this?” Jaylen said. “If you sell me,” he nodded toward the piece in question, “we get that coffee you keep delaying.”

“Sounds fair to me,” Bao said. André shot him a glance, but Bao just smiled. Oh, it was gonna be like that, was it?

“Fine.” André knew when he was beat.

“Excuse me,” Justin said, returning. He stepped through their small group, then reached forward and put a little red dot on the piece.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” André said. Had these two arranged this somehow?

Justin shook his head. “Nope. You’re having a great night. I’d be jealous, if I wasn’t so proud.” He gave André another shoulder-squeeze in passing, and was gone again a second later.

“I think I see Ian.” Bao didn’t even try to hide his delight. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

André looked at Jaylen again once they were alone. He was so handsome. The man had high cheekbones, and gold undertones in the deep brown of his skin, and the bow of his lips…

“So,” Jaylen said. “How do you like your coffee? And how’s Saturday for you?”

I have filled this gallery with stories of people who haven’t just survived, but thrived. Time to try joining them.

André swallowed. “Saturday’s fine. And just a little bit of cream.”

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday Shorts — “Stake Sauce” by RoAnna Sylver, a #KrakenFriends2018 title!

Hello! A couple of days ago, I did an interview with RoAnna Sylver, and we talked characters, rep, and inspiration. Today I want to focus a bit more on Stake Sauce (Arc 1: The Secret Ingredient is Love. No, Really).

I read this over the last week leading up to the Kraken Collective anniversary celebration (which includes nineteen fabulous queer spec fic titles on sale, and you should check it out), and it was a freaking blast.

The thing is, RoAnna Sylver has a way of balancing tones with real finesse. Like, on the one hand, we’ve got a former firefighter (like, the hop-out-of-a-helicopter type) who has suffered major loss and is now a mall security guard, and on the other, we’ve got a pink-haired vampire who thinks drinking blood is gross.

No, really.

And really, really centrally? It’s so phenomenally queer. Like, rep all over the place, done so darn well, and building on a foundation of the “Family of Choice” thing that I’m always seeking.

Anyway. Go. Buy. Read. And right now? It’s on sale, so everything’s coming up you.

Those two facets: someone dealing with loss, PTSD, pitch-perfect disability rep and a fun, fresh take on a creature of the night? In RoAnna Sylver’s hands, they blend. This book is alternately fun, dark, twisted, and amusing. It’s one of the most unique urban fantasy books I’ve ever read, and that’s a genre I adore already.

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Jude used to leap out of helicopters to rescue/protect people from terrifying infernos. Now, by day, he protects the local mall from rowdy teenagers who ride their skateboards inside. By night, he protects the the parking lot, and the rest of Portland, from undead, bloodsucking creatures of the darkness. Or would if he could find them.

But he’s just about ready to give it up (living with PTSD and pain from the traumatic event that cost him a leg, a friend, and a lot more is hard enough), when something crashes into his life. And his window.

It’s one of these creatures of the darkness – and he’s a lot less scary than expected. More cuddly, with dark fuzzy wings, and neon-bright hair.

His name is Pixie, and he refuses to bite anyone. Assault/murder/draining fluids isn’t punk, even if being a vampire really kind of is. He’s very hungry by now, and the much bigger, meaner, deadlier vamps kick him around on the nightly. Jude would love to find and fight some actual undead bullies. And Pixie could use some help staying… ‘alive.’ Time to make a deal.

Together they fight crime. And maybe even heal.

Of course, life still sucks when you’re a vampire who refuses to suck blood. Fortunately, there’s a really interesting new barbecue restaurant in the mall, with an intriguing new recipe. (We hear that the secret ingredient is… love. No, really.)

Kraken Collective: A Q&A with RoAnna Sylver, author of Stake Sauce (Arc 1: The Secret Ingredient is Love. No, Really)

Hey gentlefolk! Today starts a week-long deal organized by the Kraken Collective. If you haven’t heard of the Kraken Collective, allow me to introduce you to the awesomeness: The Kraken Collective is an alliance of indie authors of LGBTQIAP+ speculative fiction,  committed to building a publishing space that is inclusive, positive, and brings fascinating stories to readers.

And this is the anniversary of said awesome collective, and so a gathering of nineteen awesome LGBTQIAP+ spec-fic titles are dropped to the $0.99 price-point for the next week, from today, January 26th, until February 1st.

Which titles? Take a peek at this:

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Click the image to go to the Kraken Collective’s post and all the purchase links for the individual titles. You may notice my wee time-travel romance novella there, too.

But wait, there’s more! As part of this awesome deal, I got the chance to sit down and chat with RoAnna Sylver, who was kind enough to answer a few questions. RoAnna’s book, Stake Sauce (Arc 1: The Secret Ingredient Is Love. No, Really) is part of the deal and I read it and loved the sauce out of it.

So, without further ado, may I introduce you to RoAnna Sylver, and the awesome cast of Stake Sauce.

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RoAnna Sylver

NB: The combination of fun and serious you juggle with Stake Sauce really struck me. Pink-haired wee bat vampires and PTSD isn ’t a combo I expected. I ’d love to know where the ideas came from—will you share the inspiration?

RS: It is weird! And honestly, I just tried to write a book that I wanted to read. Like – Chameleon Moon is kind of my Magnum Opus Thing, and I think that’s what most people recognize it as. So, much as I love it, I really just wanted something to… play in, and try new things, palate cleanse and have fun.

So if I think it’s cool, it’s going in Stake Sauce/Death Masquerade.

Vampires? Check.

Soft punk boys? Check.

Teenage vampire girls on skateboards and heelys? Check.

Tarot cards? Check.

Tons of PTSD/trauma/chronic pain/grief processing? Check.

Ace and aro and polyamorous and queerplatonic characters/multi-dynamic relationships? Check.

The weirdness of Portland, OR? Very much check.

And Death Masquerade (Stake Sauce’s companion series) gets the opera singer vampire/witch hunter lesbians, nonbinary fire witches who walk around in plague doctor masks and ride bears, and the Venetian mask Aesthetic I’m just… so very always here for.

Also, there was this weird thing where… I had a dream, ok, about being in a mall, and being really happy and excited about something, and looking down this long bright hallway with skylights and sun coming in. That was it for the dream, but the next day, I did actually go to the mall, and as I was walking around, I had this idea about a cute punk vampire, and the pun/title, Stake Sauce.

I sat down to write it down, and when I looked up… I was in the exact spot in the mall I’d seen in my dream the previous night. Bright long hallway, sun coming in through the skylights.

So that made me think… ‘okay. I’ll pay attention to this.’

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These characters. Seriously.

NB: That’s brilliant. I’m such a believer in noting the little nudges the world offers up. And speaking of little… For a short piece, Stake Sauce is packed to the gills with rep I don ’t often encounter. Exploring identities we don ’t often see in contemporary urban fantasy seems to be something your readers can count on, and I know it ’s not a fair question, but: do you have a favourite among the gang here?

RS: Ohhhh wow.

I probably… get Jude the most, his thought processes (which is good because he’s my main POV character, ha!) and relationship with PTSD – the “oh shit, not this again” feeling is such a real one. I understand his… brittle rigidity, if that makes sense, even if I like to think I’m not quite where he is anymore.

But I also just really like how people can have very different reactions to the same trauma, and that’s what I tried to explore with Jasper and Eva, and both of them are really cathartic in different ways. Pixie has his own, and yet another way of dealing with pain and grief. I think they’re all different pieces of how I try to put myself back together. And am still trying.

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NB: I really loved that about the characters, frankly: that there’s “better” but there’s no falsely simple “all done/fixed” moment (which is so much more true to life). Okay. Speaking of done, I’m done Stake Sauce, and I know readers will do the same pretty dark quickly once they pick it up. Once they ’re done Stake Sauce (and the rest of the series) what can your readers look forward to next? What are you working on at the moment?

RS: …A lot. Like always, ha.

Starting with Death Masquerade! This is a companion series to Stake Sauce, taking place in the same universe, but around 150 years earlier, and in Venice, Italy, and centering Letizia, a badass witch/vampire hunter, and MonaLisa, her adorable squishy opera singer girlfriend. Who is also a vampire.

Friday Flash Fics — Fifth Cohort

This is a first for me, with the Friday Flash Fics. It’s a sequel to last week’s piece, First Cohort. So, if you want, read that first.

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Fifth Cohort

“You wanted to see me?”

The screen on his wrist pad bore an amber icon when he’d woken. Despite it not being an emergency, he liked to start his day in the Colony Operations Office anyway. It was the start of his morning route. He eyed the displays behind the broad-shouldered woman manning the situation displays, and saw nothing but green.

“Good morning, Flood,” Flood said.

“Sorry,” he blushed. “Good morning, Flood.”

“Morning,” she said. “I have the update for the contingency protocols ready.”

He blinked in surprise. “Already?”

She shrugged. “It’s possible I was already working on them.” She tapped her pad, and his own chirped.

He eyed the plan. Even at a glance, it was obvious the various department heads had taken something already lean and streamlined it. No doubt Flood had worked with all of them.

“This is great,” he said, meaning it. The more he looked, the more he liked what he saw.

The cohorts had all come with redundancies. The Helios technology was new. They were flinging themselves to a distant star, with no way back. And while probes had reported a planet so perfect for their needs it had been so obvious a first choice, they understood there could be any number of unforeseen circumstances. Flexibility was key.

The first four cohorts had come with specific plans for how they would dismantle their rides and begin their colony. Each cohort was designed to fully prepare for the next—plus an ever-growing “extra.”

Adamson had been the first man to step on the planet. Another planet. In another star system. He’d been the one to lead the first team to decide that the probe had indeed been correct, and the site of the colony was confirmed. Their ship came down—never to fly again—and over the course of months, they’d followed the plan, though they’d adapted parts of the plan to reality multiple times.

They’d gotten the entire checklist completed—plus a couple of the optionals—when the second cohort had arrived.

It seemed like their only setback would be during the fourth cohort, and it had been an issue of the bedrock being more trouble than they’d expected. Even then, the hospital had been set up before the deadline, and the science labs expanded into the former medical centre.

Then the arrival day of the fifth cohort came.

But the fifth cohort didn’t.

They’d prepared for the fifth cohort on time, if only just. But when the satellite showed no sign of the Helios effect in the system over the next week it became clear that the fifth cohort wasn’t coming.

Thus the contingency protocols.

Every step of the plan involved self-sustainment. Even the first cohort could have—in theory—survived with what they’d brought. That was always the plan.

Looking at the points on the list Flood had put together, he saw just how much everyone was holding to the plan. An extra greenhouse. Tertiary tanked water power systems. And—in a move no doubt as much from optimism as anything else—as much of the prep work for the sixth cohort as possible.

It wasn’t insignificant. If the fifth cohort had suffered some sort of catastrophic failure, and the project leaders didn’t know, and the sixth cohort arrived on schedule, the damage to the colony project as a whole would be as minimized as possible.

“What’s this?” Adamson said, noting the last item on Flood’s aggregated list.

“Oh, that?” Flood leaned over him. “That’s a…suggestion…from Dr. Adebayo.”

“She’s got to be kidding.”

“You know, I don’t think she is.” Flood said.

Adamson sighed. He lifted his wrist pad and tapped the screen.

“That’s not going to work,” Flood said.

Adamson waited for the connection request to go through. “Trust me,” he said.

*

It didn’t work.

Dr. Adebayo had pointed out she could order him to take a leave of absence, had reminded him the fifth cohort had intended to include relief staff including the first arrival of an administrator who outranked him. Adamson hadn’t had time to point out the fifth cohort hadn’t arrived before she pointed out everything was running smoothly and she was serious about making it an order if she had to.

First he’d tried to just stay in his apartment, catching up on any number of tasks, but on the first day of his “vacation” Dr. Adebayo had shown up, handed him keys to one of the electric cars, and told him if she didn’t see him connected to the intranet at the coastal cottage, she’d lock him out of the network completely.

So here he was.

The small cottage had been a side-project he’d happily approved. Using local materials only, no time or resources removed from the project proper, build a “vacation cottage.” A project for the engineers and scientists both, and a resource that could be used thereafter by the colonists. They’d picked a place by the coast, near the future site of what was planned to be an observatory, and the end result?

Gorgeous. Not large, but built open and airy, a bedroom and sitting area and small kitchen, and at one end of the cottage there was a large white clay tub. He filled it, opened the sliding glass door, and listened to the sound of the gentle waves on the beach outside.

There were clay pots with some of the local plant life in them. He wondered who’d fired the pots—they were beautiful as well as functional, which probably meant his head of security, Patel, had had a hand in them. Whenever possible, they’d stacked the deck with colonists who had artistic talents, too. Flood was a talented musician. Dr. Adebayo wrote novellas.

His wrist pad connected to the cottage node, and to his amusement, a small icon of a thumbs-up appeared from Dr. Adebayo.

By the time he slipped into the tub, he’d decided Dr. Adebayo had been right to make him take a break. His mind was still spinning over all the variables he was juggling, but at least he was doing it from a heated tub, watching the slow sunset on this brave new world.

If the sixth cohort didn’t come?

He exhaled. The date was far enough away it wasn’t yet a colony-wide worry. But he knew the time would come faster than it seemed right now. The contingency protocols would buy them time. Redirect anxious energy on the part of the colonists.

They didn’t have a way home. That would arrive with the tenth cohort.

If the sixth cohort didn’t show…

Adamson sank into the water. This had been a one-way trip for him. People like him weren’t safe on Earth except in a few countries—and those countries were losing ground against the ever-evolving world government—and Mars and Luna were in the grip of corporations. Helios, his Helios, had been a way to escape.

His wrist pad chimed. He reached out one hand, snagged it with his mind, and telekinetically floated it across the room.

The message from Dr. Adebayo made him smile.

See how much easier it is when you just admit I’m always right?

He considered a response, then smiled. He tapped it out.

You were right. I surrender. Your turn next week. No arguments.

There was a long pause. He watched the sun sink on the horizon.

Finally, his wrist pad chimed again.

Jerk. Fine. My turn next.

He grinned. Now? Now he could relax.

 

Writing Wednesday — When The Story Doesn’t Work

It’s Wednesday again, so it’s time for a public check-in on the whole writing thing. It’s been a good week, but I’ll be putting both Triad Magic and “Faux Ho Ho” on hold for a little bit while I get through the edits on Of Echoes Born.

Because, yes, I have the edits! I’m so freaking excited I cannot tell you.

I also replaced one of the new stories.

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Available for pre-order via Bold Strokes Books.

Let me explain: in my original visualization of the book, I knew I wanted to both start and end with a particular character: Ian Simon (or Christian, as his parents named him). He’s a character I’ve been working on since before I had my very first short story accepted (and indeed, he appears in “Heart” briefly). In the first Ian story (when he’s still going by Christian, and is sixteen), he’s young, worried, and just learning he can see how people feel as visual auras, as well as other abilities that are coming to light. In the last Ian story, he’s thirty-six, and a lot of life has happened between. It occurred to me I could also drop a story in the middle of the collection where Ian is twenty-six, and show some of that life.

And therein was the mistake I made.

Happily, I have an amazing editor who called me up and let me know the second of the Ian stories was…perhaps salvageable, but hey, is there any chance I had something else that would fit, like the other story I’d already had him edit to maybe someday release as the start of a novella series? Y’know, that one with the perfect tone for the collection and many of the characters included in the collection already? That one?

We trimmed down the “setting up a series” part of the novella in question—”A Little Village Magic”—and as a self-contained short(ish) story it did exactly what the middle Ian story didn’t do, and did it better. The pieces connected better as a whole, the collection flowed better as a whole, and honestly? I don’t know if I’ve ever been this excited to have the book in hand.

This is why amazing editors are worth their weight in gold, by the way. They tell you when you’re too close to something to see where you’ve gone off track.

Triad Magic

Before I got my edits, I was on track. Post edits, I’ll nudge up my word goal targets for a few days and catch up. It shouldn’t be a problem.

I still haven’t actually written the pitch, so I know this means I’m procrastinating on a part of the process I don’t enjoy. Deadline for self has been set for the end of the month. One more week of waffling, and then it goes in.

Faux-Ho-Ho

Ditto for the writing here; I’ll catch up once I’m past the edits on Echoes.

Other Short Stuff?

Speaking of the end of the month being close, yeah, I still haven’t submitted anything. I’ve still got some time. But officially hitting the “eep” phase on that front.

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.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to F*** Them—Circlet Press; Erotic short stories with magical beasts and shapeshifter tropes; 3,000 to 7,000 word count limit; deadline February 1st, 2018.
Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction—Uncanny Magazine; Doesn’t require stories to explore issues relating to disability, but encourages them; 750 to 6,000 word count limit; deadline February 15th, 2018.
Multipartner Anthology—ERWA/Excessia; Multi-partner erotica; 4,000 to 10k word count limit; deadline March 1st, 2018.
War on Christmas—ChiZine; Deranged and demented stories and poems that snap back against holiday schmaltz; 500 to 5,000 words; Deadline March 4th, 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.