'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 88

Monday Flash Fics — Argot Status Green

It’s possible that when I saw this week’s Monday Flash Fics prompt, I found myself in a sci-fi place again. I’m not sure what’s with me these days, as that’s not my go to style, but the idea wouldn’t leave, and the way he was holding the satchel struck me. Also the hat.

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Argot Status Green

“Helping to me to location find?”

The frown on the male’s face made it clear that this was not quite a correct translation. Also, the male’s eyes widened.

My lens display highlighted the movement of his eyes and scrawled information across my vision: Surprise/Amusement. Well, duh. I’d already realized my garb wasn’t quite right. If only there’d been time for covert data mining.

“I beg your pardon?” the male said. He was very young, perhaps not long past adulthood.

Across the lens, his words were translated for me almost instantly—inbound translation was at least fifty percent ahead of outbound, as usual. In the corner of my vision the argot status circle pulsed from a deep orange to a pale amber. Aha. Progress was being made. Attaching to the local signals for a communications database was difficult. None of the locals within range used portable communication devices, and my AI was left mining weak airborne transmissions as fast as it could create discrete connections and parse low tech signals.

My dialog phonetics line updated. Some of the sounds were similar, but there were differences.

“Would you help to me find to a location?”

“You’re lost?”

“Agreed.” I reached into the satchel I’d fabricated on the ship, and pulled out the map. It had been taken from orbit, zoomed in, enhanced and the specific point was marked.

The male stared at the map. Despite being amused and taken aback by my lack of coherence and—I was pretty sure—having misgivings about my garb, he was taking my request seriously. This was the first individual I’d met like this all day. Others had been rude, dismissive, or scornful.

While he looked, my AI tried to translate the lettering on his own garb, but there were too many possibilities for what “ACT UP” might mean to confirm clear communicative intent.

“You want to head that way,” the male said, pointing. He rotated the map and traced a finger along the pathways.

Another update to my phonetics line.

“I am thanking you.” I held out my hand, as per the suggestion on my action line.

He eyed my outstretched hand, then took it in his own and pumped it twice. An interesting gesture. “You’re welcome.” He eyed the map. “I’ve never seen a transparent map like that. Is it for an overhead machine?”

His question lacked appropriate context to be clear. I read my phonetics line.

“From above, correct.” I bowed in thanks, and he returned the gesture with an odd little smile my lens denoted as once again amused.

As I left, my audio implant caught him telling his friend I was “crushable” which seemed unlikely given my nanotech, but perhaps it was another linguistic misrepresentation.

By the time I made it to the bolt hole of my quarry, the argot status circle was starting to be a pale green. I was attracting too much attention, and pulled the head covering a bit lower. Most people wore darker colours, and the vibrant red of my upper body wear seemed less common on males.

The lock was mechanical, but nanotech had been added to the bolt. At least I knew I was on the right track. My AI was struggling to find even minor signals, and had been for a while. Scattering field. Luckily the scattering field had stuck out on this backward planet enough for me to get a general idea of where—and when—I was to look.

I hated temporal shifts. I hated being out of the present.

He fought—they always do—but one positive of the satchel was being able to carry a larger weapon. Even a glancing shot with the stunner knocked him cold. I placed a retrieval node on him, and he vanished up to the ship.

Data flashed across my lens. I swore.

The quarry worked with seven known associates. All of which were missing, and no sign of their presence nearby.

I sent a request for a planetary-wide scan. It would take a while. At this point in time, this planet had a rudimentary capability to detect an orbiting vessel.

There was an object in the corner that appeared to be a viewing screen, if a bit bulky. I activated it while I sought out the scattering field, and finally locating the device, switched it off. The AI connection to the signals coming to the viewing screen lit up. The argot status circle darkened to a rich green moment by moment. Finally.

An alert came from the ship’s computer. Trace readings of scattering fields, but they had an odd drift. The data crossed my lens.

Temporal shift. Not a high tech one. They’d be within a decade or so. And not high enough tech to go any further back. The fellow I’d just captured must have anchored them here, and then the rest leapt ahead some amount. Still not all the way to the present. I’d still be working on my own.

Why was it never easy?

I sighed.

I left the building and began making my way back to the area I’d arrived.

“Hey faggot!”

My lens translated with a warning icon. Dodging the attack from the first of the three males wasn’t difficult, and when they co-ordinated, it was still within my range of ability. My nanotech nudged my adrenals and my attention focused.

They were larger and stronger. Still, this likely wouldn’t be an issue.

They spread out, still taunting.

And then a wooden placard with a familiar declaration—“ACT UP”—was brought down hard on the head of the first assailant. He stumbled, and the other two realized the young male from earlier was involving himself in the battle.

This was inconvenient, though I admired the young man’s spirit.

It took only three more moves to deal with the assailants, thanks to discrete stuns from my fingertip nanotech. When all three assailants were leaning against the brick walls, groggy and confused, the youth with the now-broken sign stared at me.

“How did you do that? You just touched them and they passed out.”

My dialog phonetics line was written in sold, dark green.

“I’m a martial artist,” I said.

He blinked. “Wow. That’s…cool.”

“I’m afraid I need to go,” I said.

“Yeah, we should go before the cops get here. You’re right.” He grinned. “I guess I didn’t need to follow you after all. This hasn’t been a good place. Bashers.” He gestured. “Well, obviously.”

Even with a perfectly green argot rating, this didn’t quite parse, but I smiled and we started heading quickly back the way I’d come.

“I’m sorry about your placard,” I said.

He eyed me. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“I am not.”

“Well, you’re cute, and you’re handy in a fight.”

“Thank you. You are also very attractive.” I was surprised he’d said so, as this area of the planet seemed to be organized in differently gendered pairs.

He laughed. “So, where are you headed?”

“I’ll be here, but in about a decade.”

He blinked. “Wow. That’s…” He shook his head. “When do you leave?”

“Soon.”

He sighed. “Just my luck.”

Between the biometrics of his tonal range, the movement of his eyes and set of his shoulders, my lens declared this a statement of disappointment.

“Do you intend to be here in nine point six years?”

He eyed me, and lifted his ruined placard. “That’s the idea.”

“Then I will see you then.”

He laughed.

“I am Ahn Elek.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard a name like that before,” he said. “I’m Joey. Joey Brown.”

I held out my hand again, more confident in the gesture. When he took my hand, I activated the fingertip nanotech and my scan ring and got biometrics, intending to mark him.

Alerts scrolled across my lens.

He was the first of his kind to be remotely kind to me, and had bravely followed me to defend me into an area where he’d known I might be in danger. On instinct, I delivered a small pulse and he blinked heavily.

“Woah,” he said.

I helped him to a public wooden seat, without letting go. I sent a seeding of nanotech into his bloodstream through our contact while he recovered from the mild stun.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Do not be,” I said. We sat for a moment. I continued to keep my hand in his, my other hand now placed on the back of his neck.

My lens alerted me: I was nearing the point of having depleted all my backup nanotech into Joey Brown. It would take weeks for them to replicate back to safe redundancy levels.

That was fine.

While we sat there, a few passers-by eyed us with varying expressions. Much of it was hostile.

After a few moments, he looked at me. “Thanks. I feel better now.”

I broke off contact. “So,” I said. “Joey Brown. I will see you in nine point six years?”

“It’s a date,” he said.

I nodded.

“Make sure you eat,” I said. “You will be hungry.” The nanotech would use excess materials to speed up their own replication, and with only their own base AI to work with, their range of augmentation would be limited, but it would be more than enough to counteract the infection my ring had detected.

“Okay,” he said. I was getting used to his amusement, and fond of its occurrence.

We rose, and I offered my hand again. Instead, he pulled me close with both arms and wrapped them around me. I exchanged the gesture with him, squeezing with equal pressure, and then he let go.

“You should probably get my number,” he said, rattling off a series of numbers. I had my AI take a note.

“You want to write that down?” he asked.

“I have memorized it.”

He laughed. “Nice to meet you, Ahn. I’ll see you in… nine point six years.”

We parted.

Once I was out of sight I returned to my ship and enacted the shift. This time, the technology of the planet was far more conducive to information gathering. What a difference in nine point six years. It would take time to find the scattering fields again.

The update for garb appeared on the screen. I decided the hat was within range enough of acceptable—I quite liked it—and updated the satchel. And though the new upper body covering was far less ornate, I kept the bright pigment. I liked the shade.

The AI updated information across my lens about “ACT UP” and located current whereabouts of a Joey Brown. The number he had given me was linked to a personal communication device, and though it had been changed since, the old was easily connected to the new within an archiving system. It linked to an address.

The AI also suggested that to deal with seven more targets—of which only one was so far detected—I might consider utilizing a local better able to navigate.

I had to agree.

I printed another map with Joey Brown’s location marked, and went down to the planet.

 

 

 

 

Sunday Shorts — “Shoots and Ladders” by Charles Payseur

Something a bit different today for Sunday Shorts, in that I’m here to chat about a story I found online, Charles Payseur’s “Shoots and Ladders.” Click the title right there to go read it. I’ll wait right here.

Now, I bumped into Charles Payseur via twitter (he’s at @ClowderofTwo) and he’s a force for good in the world of short fiction and queer rep both. If you’ve followed me for any length of time, you know how much I love short fiction, and so finding someone like Charles is a freaking treasure trove for me.

And he’s flipping talented to boot.

[image error]There’s a lot to love about “Shoots and Ladders,” not the least of which is the casual queerness. I cannot tell you how much I love reading spec fic pieces where a bisexual character just gets to breathe, where there’s a slice of queerness, yes, but the queerness isn’t the tale in and of itself (not knocking those, either, but come on: the damn future can be queer, and I’m sick to death of it not being remotely so).

This tale doubles down with something I freaking adore: alternate realities, done through a personal lens. The narrative voice is brilliant, the iterations we join the character through are painted so clearly (and with such an economy of words) that even while I was reading I was marvelling. I love that feeling.

Finally, the tone. Oh man, handling that level of dark and light, bittersweet, or whatever you want to call the dichotomy at play here between exploration and a brutal (potential?) nihilism, it just freaking sang. Gah.

I’d be furiously jealous, but I was too busy being impressed.

Friday Flash Fics — First Cohort

Friday Flash Fics this week was something super sci-fi, and it made me think of a novella series I’ve had on the back-back-back-back burner for if I ever try to write something harder SF.

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The First Cohort

The walk to the shuttle is the last dangerous thing. If any part of this plan has gone wrong, this is when it will happen. Every decision I’ve made in the last few years comes down to this moment.

Have I trusted even one wrong person?

Ahead of me, the spotlights from the transport shuttle light the walkway. I take a deep breath of twilight air, and I wonder if this is the last free breath I will take.

The shuttle lands.

“Ready, husband?”

I look at Manny. He offers up a smile, and I can see the humour in his eyes.

“I am,” I say. The kindnesses he has done me are beyond listing.

We embrace as the shuttle lands, and I surprise him with a kiss. A few others see us, some smile.

And then it’s time to make the walk.

“It’ll be over before we know it. See you soon,” he says. It’s meant for the watchers.

“I love you,” I say.

It is the longest short walk of my life. I almost panic when I see the short triangular shape of a security ship coming toward the same platform, but I enter the transport. My ID is scanned, and confirmed. The attendant raises his eyebrows when he sees my connections. Earth to Luna, Luna to Mars, and then… “All the way to Enceladus?”

I nod.

“Fancy scientist?” he says.

“Not so fancy,” I say.

He laughs.

The security ship is still there. I try not to stare at it, right up to the moment when the transport shuttle lifts off. On the walkway, I can see the tiny figure of Manny. He even waves.

I wave back.

It’s done.

*

The reds and oranges and yellows of Saturn are as gorgeous as I’ve always imagined. I still can’t believe I’m here. Away from Earth and the slowly closing fist of the forming world government. In the small office, I’m still looking at one of the large screens—not really a window, but so high in resolution it might as well be—when a familiar voice nudges me from my reverie.

“You made it.”

Cassandra. The older woman smiles when I turn, and I hug her as tight as I dare. I hadn’t even heard her come in.

“Thank you,” I say. My voice cracks, and I have to clear my throat.

She just shakes her head. “We got you out. Now the real adventure begins.”

“Between you and me, I’d be happy for some non-adventure.”

She laughs. “No trouble?”

I shake my head. “The hardest part was getting out of the US. The fake ID held up in Canada, the marriage got me citizenship once the year waiting period was up, I took the equivalency exams while I waited, got my credentials…” I shook my head. “Your contact at the registration facility was incredible. The whole railroad.” My voice is breaking again.

“Between Canada and Norway, we can get Gentech out. And once we’re out of legal range of the Eds and Reds…” She smiled. “Well. Here you are.”

“Here I am. So. What can I do?” I’m eager to begin my free life. Not wondering if someone is going to find out my genetic code was manipulated. Not less-than-human in most of the countries of the world.

Her smile grows. “I can’t wait to show you. There’s a reason we wanted you specifically, beyond the…” She waves her hand beside her temple.

I grin. “I’m a little rusty. What with the hiding for my own safety.”

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a red ball, tossing it at my face.

I catch it with my mind. It stops an inch away, hovering in mid air.

“Rusty?” she says.

“Just a little.”

I reach out and pluck the ball from the air.

“Come on,” she says. “Let me show you why we called for you.”

*

“It worked.” I barely breathe the words. “It worked.”

She’s nodding.

I eye the screen. The image display has been divided into four images. On each, a multi-coloured marble, streams of data. “Which one?”

Cassandra pointed. “This one.”

“And the Helios?”

“We’re almost ready for the first cohort. A few things missing. Oh, and a team lead. Who just arrived.” She eyed me, then winked.

“Do they know?” I ask. I’m not even sure who I mean, exactly. Earth? Mars? Luna? The corporations?

“No one but us.”

“How many cohorts?”

“Ten.”

I think about that. Ten groups of people on one-way trips to a new world. Or, well, nine. The tenth cohort would include a Helios system of its own, making it possible for others to return.

Helios worked. I’d figured out a way to throw a ship faster than light, letting the gravity of a far star to serve as an exit point. Tiny probes were one thing, launched through the prototype Helios, and sending back even tinier message-in-a-bottle results through their own one-shot Helios, but a full-size gate here, almost ready to send colonists…

I stare at the screen. One marble in particular.

It worked.

“I can’t wait,” I said.

Conversion Therapy, Revenge Porn, and Criticism

I always feel like I need to start blogs like this with a caveat: I’m not telling someone they can’t write something. I will never tell someone they can’t write something. Much like my latest “Why You?” post over at SpAN, or previous discussions over Pseudonym vs Identity or Gay-For-You, I want to be super clear on this point, again, just in case: I’m not suggesting a limitation who can write what. At all.

What I am suggesting is there are topics that need a tonne of forethought, and that some topics are definitely going to get critical feedback. This? This is critical feedback.

So. A book crossed over to my radar yesterday which had multiple plot threads that gave me pause. I only ended up talking about one of them because I had spoons enough for one go, but I’ll touch on more today likely.

Now, this book hit my radar because of a review, and between the review and the blurb, I knew enough to know this was not a book I was going to read. The set-up is this: a gay man who is the sun of a reverend who runs a conversion therapy camp is outed viciously by another gay man who will stop at nothing to bring down the conversion therapy camp, so he films them having sex and releases it to the public. Years pass, and the man who released the video is now a war veteran returning to the same town, the conversion therapy camp is still running, and the man who was outed speaks at the camp in support, while dating a woman and trying to defeat his gay demons. Oh, and then they fall in love, forgive each other, and the religious fellow finds balance in his faith and his queerness.

And, deep breath.

Now, where I got frustrated yesterday was with the framing of the conversion therapy camp. The review made it clear that while the camp isn’t successful, and the story in no way says “it works, you can be cured!” and even touches upon how damaging it is, the father is presented as not-a-monster, someone who is misguided, who really does love the kids in his care, and that’s a really big problem, and is the first part of my criticism.

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I talk about writing queer stuff at conferences often, and questions of “real life stuff as plot bunnies” comes up a lot.

With respect: there is no loving way to support conversion therapy, and presenting a scenario any other way humanizes a dehumanizing, violently homophobic practice that kills queer people. I get this is fictional, and the character(s) of the father and son (who, again, works/speaks at this camp) might be written as otherwise amazing and compassionate, but no. One of them owns/runs a conversion therapy place, the other works there.

Conversion therapy kills queer people.

This strikes me as similar to the “redemption of the homophobic parent who kicks out the queer kid” plot I struggle with, but—frankly—all the worse. The review read very much like the character is perhaps “meaning well.” Like, somehow the father believes these children will truly be cured of their queerness and that would be better for their souls. Certainly, there are religious elements out there who feel that way. But framing it as coming from a loving place? That’s not loving, not at all. It’s somewhere in the Venn diagram of bigotry, gas-lighting, and brainwashing, just done super politely and with an “amen.”

It’s an imperfect analogy, but maybe compare this plot set up to any story where children die because the parents believe faith means they should use maple syrup rather than any form of medicine. The important thing isn’t whether or not those parents meant well otherwise, or aren’t outwardly abusive, no? It’s that the kid needs the medicine and if the child dies, that’s neglect/abuse/murder. You don’t see empathy levelled at parents who let their children die, nor would a redemption arc be welcomed.

Now, within the book review were mentions of suicide attempts, and mention was also made that this may have been a turning point for the reverend character. A person running a conversion camp is literally, actively, completely responsible for that. Deconstructing their motive as loving/not-so-bad/not-intentionally-awful?

That’s a poor choice. There’s no mention of whether or not the camp is shut down in the review, or whether or not the reverend goes to jail, or whether or not the rest of the children in his care are rescued and removed from their parents or, or, or… But the review did make it clear that care was taken to paint the reverend as a complex man who truly does, gosh darn it, love and care for his son.

No. No he doesn’t. He can’t. Not if he’s involved with conversion therapy.

Conversion therapy is abuse. Supporters of conversion therapy are abusers. They are not loving, misguided parents who just need a NOH8 face sticker and our empathy so they see their institutions are bad. Those places need to be fought to a standstill, outlawed, and torn apart. They still exist. Today. They run. They’re not fictional. They’re awful and evil and kill queer people.

But, like I said, maybe the book does all these things to make it clear the man is evil, the organization is evil, and the queer kids are rescued and the institution is burned to the ground and the reverend ends up in jail. Maybe I’m misreading the review and the blurb, but it sure sounds like these characters are presented as “bad, but y’know, they do love them in their own way.”

And, again: no. All the no.

Conversion therapy kills, maims, tortures and destroys queer folk. Even if it’s wrapped in some “we love you, but pray hard to be different!” snuggie, it’s still all of the above.

So. I said all of that yesterday, and then stopped because I didn’t have more in me, but I also want to talk about the other character, too.

He videotaped himself having sex with the reverend’s son and then released it to the world to out the son. That’s… reprehensible. And, like conversion therapy camps, this is a scenario with a similar occurrence in reality. A young gay man, Tyler Clementi, was outed via a web-cam as a victim of homophobic cyberbullying. He committed suicide. His tormentors were charged, though one got community service.

I imagine the intention was to spin motivation as a key factor. The gay man in question is trying to destroy the conversion therapy camp, which is a solid goal. But to do so by violating and assaulting the closeted gay man is abhorrent (and let’s be clear, he did not gain permission for this act—this is assault). Revenge porn—even to bring down a hateful conversion therapy camp—is abhorrent.

And this character is a romantic lead.

Because, yes, this is marketed as a romance. A happy-ever-after (or -for-now) is in the cards for these two men.

And this is the second part of my criticism. I’ve mentioned this before with the whole “redemption of the gay basher who turns out to be gay” thing, but I struggle to imagine a romance scenario where a man would violate and assault a woman in the same way—film his taking of a woman’s virginity for any reason, without her consent, and air it to the world—and would still be considered redeemable as a hero for a romance novel.

And that’s just considering him a worthy romantic lead. Going one step further and pairing a man with the very person he violated and assaulted publicly? Putting the abused with the abuser as a romantic happy-ever-after or happy-for-now narrative under the umbrella of “forgiveness” is worrisome. Surviving (and thriving) after violence, or assault, or any form of traumatic victimization is in and of itself a lifelong effort. Pairing the survivor of trauma up with the person who traumatized them?

That’s a choice. And framing it as romantic is another choice. If those who’ve survived trauma criticize this choice was abhorrent, and dismissive, and adding to the struggle and stigma that already exists around surviving trauma and the pressure of “forgiveness” from others, I don’t think “it’s a romance” or “it’s just fiction” will really cut it. It’s similar to the whole “gay-bashers-aren’t-hot” discussion I had recently.

Anyway. This is already too long.

Conversion therapy is hateful, violent, and kills queer people; people involved in it cannot be allies or claim to love queer people.

Revenge porn is abhorrent and a violation and an assault; no one has to forgive someone who violates and assaults them.

It’s unfortunate that has to be critical feedback.

Writing Wednesday — Faint

So, Monday I collapsed.

I turned out to be nothing major, which is of course the most important thing. But it was frightening at the time (especially for my husband, who had to watch it happen), but it turned out that the migraine I’d had on Saturday left me dehydrated, I already have low blood pressure, and the combination made for a fainting spell first thing in the morning on Monday.

This is why I give my writing goals so much wiggle room. Migraines I’m used to. Fainting? Not so much. But lesson learned. When I suffer migraine headaches (and especially when I have migraine headaches complete with multiple episodes of vomiting), I need to replace the liquids.

So that was my week so far. How’s yours?

Triad Magic

To no one’s surprise, I didn’t write much on Monday/Tuesday, what with the collapsing and the doctor’s offices. I’ll make it up. I’m not even upset with myself. I freaking fainted. It’s allowed.

Faux-Ho-Ho

I’m on track with this today, and if I get my word count in place, I may see if I can do a couple of writing sprints elsewhere, too, to catch up a bit, or to make the catch up less work for later. Either way, like I said, I’m not upset with myself.

Other Short Stuff

This is where I’ve dropped the ball this month, and this month is more than half over now, so… Some focus will likely be needed here. I haven’t submitted anything yet for January. Last year, it was my strongest month. This year? Not so much.

There are some great calls, and I have ideas, but I’m just sort of zoning-out when I’m done the big projects for the day, and while that’s okay, I’m still going to try for at least one thing on the following list of open calls for submission.

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.
A World Unimagined— Left Hand Publishers; 4,000 to 9,000 word count limit. Speculative fiction, deadline: January 21st, 2018.
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.

Friday Flash Fics — Inspiration

For Friday Flash Fics this week, I saw this image and immediately thought of both a character (and type of creature) I hadn’t yet introduced yet into the Triad universe, but also Mackenzie Windsor and part of her back story that comes to light in Triad Soul. So, of course, spoilers for Triad Soul in this one. And once again I went way over word count.

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Inspiration

Mackenzie picked up the cup and took a sip of air. It was empty. She sighed, put the cup down, and picked up the small teapot.

It was empty, too.

“Would you like more hot water?”

Mackenzie glanced up. It was the man she’d bought the tea from, and he’d come out from behind the counter, and there was no sign of his apron. She blinked at him. It took a second to find her voice. “Sorry?”

“More water?”

It took her longer than it should have to process. How long had she been here? She was the last customer, she realized, and half the tables had their chairs stacked on top of them. She’d been working on ideas for hours.

Getting nowhere.

“You’re closing,” she said.

“I’ve got stuff I still need to do. And you look like you’re working on something important.”

His kindness in his voice, a soft patience she wasn’t expecting, hit too close to home. Her eyes filled with tears, and she couldn’t blink fast enough to stop them.

“Oh, hey,” he reached out one hand, but it hovered just an inch or so from touching her.

“It’s okay,” Mackenzie said. She lowered the book she’d been searching, and closed her laptop, just for something to do. She wiped her cheek then took a deep breath.

“Let me get the hot water,” he said, and he turned to do it before she could say anything else. She let him, deciding that more Lady Grey might be just the ticket. She felt like she was on the edge of a solution, but kept missing it by just a breath.

There has to be a way.

He brought the water, and refilled her tea pot. He’d rolled up his sleeves now, and she saw an eclectic range of tattoos on his right arm. A mask. A feather. The Millennium Falcon.

He put the chairs on tables while she drank the tea. Between sips, she gathered her books back into her messenger bag and, finally, slid her lap-top in as well.

“Can I make a suggestion?” he said again, when she stood and looped the bag over her head.

She eyed him. He was handsome, in an ever-so-slightly coiffed way that made her think he spent more time preparing his look than he wanted anyone to know. Short hair, artfully tousled. Just enough scruff to be almost a beard.

“Sure,” she said. Because if you’ve got some spell or crystal I’ve not thought of, I want to hear it. I’m starting to think nothing short of a philosopher’s stone is going to save her—and it turns out no one’s even sure if those exist.

“Get out of your head. Stop thinking. Drift. Let your mind wander.” His voice was charming, and gentle, and she would have given anything to slap his face, hard.

“My sister is dying and there’s nothing I can do about it.” The words came out in an angry rush.

He’d been wiping down a counter. He threw the towel over one shoulder. “You’re used to being able to fix things.”

She stared at him. I can make bodies heal overnight with a touch. I can make crystals dance. But not cancer. “Yes.”

“Come dancing with me.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it. “Does this routine work for you often? Find women in a bad place and swoop in and offer your best Dr. Phil?”

He shrugged. “I don’t meet wizards very often.”

Mackenzie held out one hand. Her magic moved beneath her skin, strong and solid and ready for her. If he was going to throw down, she was very much indeed in the mood to break his face.

He held up both hands. “Not looking to fight, flick. Was thinking dancing. Get you out of your head. My name’s Leo. I promise, I’m no threat.”

“You’re not an incubus,” she said. “Because I’m so not into you right now.”

He rubbed his chin. It was adorable, and really worked for him, and the move only conjured more annoyance. Nope. Definitely not an incubus.

“There are demons, and there are demons,” he said.

Mackenzie swallowed. “Dancing, huh?”

*

In the morning, she checked her phone. There was a text from Matthew.

Your mother did check in with me. I covered for you. You were fast asleep when she called, in case she asks. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where you really were?

Mackenzie’s thumbs hovered over the screen. Finally, she tapped a reply. Just needed to get out of my head.

She heard him come back into the bedroom. His apartment wasn’t big, but it had been close to the club where they’d danced. And she had indeed left all her worries about her sister to the side, just for a night. No thoughts of magic, no notions of spells, no catalogs of stones and crystals known for healing properties. Nothing that might fight cancer. Just music, and movement, and a really cute boy who’d had even more tattoos once his shirt had come off. And green boxers with a repeating cannabis pattern, apparently.

Out of her head indeed.

“You okay?” he said. He leaned in the doorway, watching her. He’d slept on the couch, and had given her his bedroom.

“I needed that,” she admitted.

He nodded. “I could tell. Now. You fed me, how about I feed you?”

She sat up in the bed. In her T shirt and underwear, she should have felt exposed. Instead, she felt oddly calm. “I fed you?”

He shrugged. “You have a great imagination, and you were working on your…problem…for hours at the café.”

“And that fed you.” She’d knew there were demons who could feed on things other than lust. Incubi and succubi were the most common, at least in most of North America, but there were others. Wrath demons—furies—fed on anger.

He nodded. Okay, he really was cute, and if she’d been in a better place emotionally, she’d totally go for that whole rumpled and adorable thing. Also, he had a Mockingjay tattooed on his shoulder, and who didn’t love Katniss?

“If it helps,” she said. “I’m a big fan of bacon.”

“I wasn’t thinking that kind of food,” he said. He tapped his temple. “I was thinking maybe inspiration.”

Her heart shivered in her chest. “What?”

“I’m not saying you haven’t thought of everything. Maybe you have. But…” Another shrug. “Maybe I can jog something loose you didn’t consider.”

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

He sat with her on the bed, looked down, and when he looked back up, his eyes were the liquid black of a demon. It should have made him terrifying. He was a creature who fed on human emotion. Maybe not lust and not wrath, but something. At least he wasn’t a vampire, she thought, remembering something she’d been told about how vampires found the taste of wizards to be something of a delicacy.

No, she wasn’t afraid of Leo. Instead, Mackenzie felt a sliver of hope.

He touched her hand.

And just like that, Mackenzie had a terrible idea.

She couldn’t save her sister’s life. There was no magic, no crystal that worked in the face of cancer. Healing spells sped up the body’s restoration and growth, but cancer was growth gone wrong. There was no magic to hold it still, no spell to force the body to stop growing. There was no way to stop time.

At least, not with magic.

Mackenzie leaned back on Leo’s bed. His eyes returned to the hazel they’d been at the café. His smile was amiable, gentle, and maybe even a little shy. “You thought of something.”

She nodded slowly. She had a tonne of research to do. There had to be a way to make sure this could work without her sister losing all of her magic in the process. But first? First she had a really big problem.

“I don’t suppose you know any vampires?” Mackenzie said.

 

Writing Wednesday — Re: Solutions

I used to be a bigger fan of resolutions when I was younger, and I generally kept them, but the older I get the more I try to think of them more as solutions to things that are impeding me in some way. So, last year I managed something pretty amazing: I completed writing two book-length works in one year.

And I shouldn’t have tried.

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So. Pretty.

Don’t get me wrong, one of those was a collection, Of Echoes Born (and yes, I’m going to post the cover again because Inkspiral is freaking amazingly talented), so really it was like I wrote a novel-and-a-half, but I knew going in that it was maybe pushing my limits. Then we renovated part of the house, my head decided to have a bad year, and…

Yeah. I got them done. That’s fantastic. But the new limit is firmly in place: One novel (the pitch for which I’m working on now, so hopefully it’s accepted); a novella project (without a contractual deadline); and short fiction in between as I can. No overload. Lots of wiggle room. If my head melts down again, there will be breathing space.

Solutions. Not resolutions.

Triad Magic

Speaking of the novel writing part, the next goal is to bring the Triad boys home with Triad Magic. Writing Wednesdays is when I check in with how things are going, and things are going well. I’ve not sent off the official pitch yet, I’m still working on the synopsis, but I’ve more-or-less decided on the blurb, which is this:

The law of three is everything: three vampires for a coterie, three demons for a pack, and three wizards for a coven. Those who travel alone or in pairs are vulnerable to the rest. Luc, Anders, and Curtis—vampire, demon, and wizard—sidestepped tradition and formed a bond that continues to defy those who have ruled for centuries.

When a series of kidnappings target those who can glimpse the future, the powerful do what they’ve always done: close ranks. But for Luc, Anders, and Curtis, the missing include members of their chosen family, and they alone seem willing to risk themselves to seek whoever might be capable of such a feat.

Outwitting an enemy who can seemingly get the drop on the prescient is no easy task. The powerful of Ottawa scramble to take advantage of the chaos, leaving Luc, Anders, and Curtis to find a way to undo a darkness far crueler than anything they’ve faced before.

The triad of blood, soul, and magic is their greatest power.

The future might not care.

Word-count wise, I’m ahead of the goal (that always happens at the beginning) but the more cushion the better. And on the theme of solutions, I’ve packed more wiggle room in there, too.

Faux-Ho-Ho

My other project, which I’m writing without a home and no plan to look for a home until it’s done, is another holiday novella. I loved, loved, loved having Handmade Holidays out there in November/December, and I won’t lie: it was a selfish love. I got to talk about the holidays they way they are for queer me, and it was an actual joy. I don’t think I’ve felt that way about the holidays in a very long time, and I want more of that feeling, so I’m working on a “fake-relationship” holiday story. I’m still going to try and hit some of my key focus points: queerness, chosen family, and making your own way, but this time it’s going to be more about how we sometimes navigate toxic people to keep the people we love in our lives, and maybe there are better ways.

It’ll be different not to do a vignette style story, too: this one is going to happen over the space of a week or so leading up to the holidays and a family wedding, rather than over the course of fifteen years. And Ru (at least) will have a cameo.

Also there’s a really hunky kickboxer-type who agrees to pretend to be a boyfriend over the holidays.

Writing for this project is also more-than-on-track.

Short Stuff

I’m going back to my usual goal of submitting something short once a month for the year, and also trying to remember reprints are a thing. I haven’t submitted anything just yet, but January has barely begun.

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.
Best Gay Erotica for the Year, Volume 4—Cleis Press; 2,500 to 5,000 word count limit. Original stories strongly preferred; deadline January 5th, 2018 (but the earlier the better).
A World Unimagined— Left Hand Publishers; 4,000 to 9,000 word count limit. Speculative fiction, deadline: January 21st, 2018.
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.
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.

January Flash Fiction Draw

Happy New Year, everyone!

So, as I mentioned a week or so ago, I decided to throw together a Flash Fiction Draw challenge once a month, patterned after the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction contest I entered a couple of times. I didn’t like the two day limitation (or, less, really since I’m not one to stay up until midnight to find out my assignment), so I figure giving a solid week to put the three pieces together would be more fun.

So, I sat down and did the draw. I even 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:

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And the result for January? Three of clubs, eight of diamonds, and two 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 fairy tale, involving a tattoo machine, set in a prison.

I can’t wait to see what you all come up with, and if you’re willing to share, by all means drop by my Facebook page above on the 8th, or here, and link back to your pieces.

Most importantly? This is supposed to be fun and inspiring, not hard work that leaves you feeling frustrated or angry. If it’s not working for you? Don’t sweat it. There’ll be another challenge next month, from the remaining twelve items on the list.

Which I just realized I said wrong on the video, because there were thirteen cards in play for each suit, not ten. Sheesh.

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Monday Flash Fics — Happy, New

Happy New Year! Today’s photo from Monday Flash Fics seems right at home in Fuca, British Columbia, my made up town where “Wind & Tree” and “Time & Tide” are both set. That town has more than its fair share of elemental magic through a series of families who are related to creatures like sylphs, or dryads, or naiads.

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Happy, New

“Are you sure about this?”

Rio smiled. “It’s a family tradition.”

“Your family tradition is watching the sun rise over the Strait on New Year’s?”

“My family is sort of odd. Besides, you said you haven’t seen it yet.”

“I’ve been here all of two weeks,” Parthy said. “And I’ve been busy.” It came out a little harsh, and Rio glanced at him.

“Hey, I’m sorry.” Rio paused in their walk. “I’m not criticizing.”

Parthy shook his head. “No, I’m sorry… It’s just…” He blew out a cloud of breath. “It’s been kind of a rough month.”

“Of course.” Rio fought the urge to reach out and squeeze Parthy’s arm. “And if you don’t want to do this today, we can come back another time. You live here now.”

“Legacy family,” Parthy said, eyeing the woods ahead. “So everyone keeps telling me.” He looked at Rio again. “Whatever that means.”

He wanted to tell him. But instead, as they started crunching through the snow again, Uncle Cary’s voice echoed in his head.

He might not be like us, kiddo. Your sister is, but your brother isn’t. It doesn’t come to all of us. Before you start telling him he’s heir to something special, you’re going to want to make sure. He’s been through enough already.

That much was true. But…

Hey, Rio wanted to say. It doesn’t make up for losing your dad and having to move here, but you know what? You might be magic.

“What?” Parthy said.

“Hm?” For a second, Rio wondered if he’d said something out loud.

“You keep staring.”

“Oh,” Rio said. “It’s just…” Think. Think. “You’re cute.”

Parthy tripped over one of the rocks at the edge of the woods. He went down hard, though he got his hands out in front of him in time, and the snow was something of a cushion.

Rio helped him up.

“So, I have a habit of blurting out stuff,” Rio said.

Parthy rubbed his palms free of snow, and seemed to gather himself. Then he noticed the view.

“Oh… Oh wow,” he said, whatever other thing he’d been about to say forgotten.

“Right?” Rio said.

Parthy nodded. The first rays of the sun lit the strait, and the two stood there, watching the light play over the ice by the shore, the snow on the ground, and the water itself between the islands.

Rio’s uncle could do all sorts of things with water. Rio’s gifts were a bit more muted, but as far as he was concerned, maybe muted was better. He didn’t have to be careful around liquids, lest his emotions cause things to spill over. He eyed the water.

In the dawn’s reflected light, he saw himself, and Parthy, standing together on one of the rocks by the Strait. It was early on a morning, but much warmer given their clothing and the lack of snow, and…

“Oh.” In the reflection of the water, Parthy leaned forward and they shared a kiss.

In the hear and now, Parthy looked at him. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Rio said. Glimpsing the future in a sunrise on water was the whole point of this particular visit, but he hadn’t expected…that.

“So, for the record?” Parthy said. “You didn’t have to make family traditions.”

Rio blushed. “How’d you know..?”

“There’s nobody here but us,” Parthy said.

“Oh. Right.”

“Also for the record? You’re pretty cute, too.”

Rio grinned. “Good to know.” He glanced at the reflection again. In the reflection, Parthy was raising a hand now, and twists of sunlight gathered in his palm. The glimpse into the future lasted just a moment longer: Rio leaned in for another kiss, and Parthy released the light into the air.

“Did you see that?” Parthy said. He frowned at the water.

“What?”

“There was…a light or something.”

Rio held out one hand. After a second, Parthy took it.

“So.” Rio led him back towards the town. “There’s some things you should maybe know about the legacy families.”

Sunday Shorts – “Skin,” by Christian Baines

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Available from Bold Strokes Books.

Kyle, a young newcomer to New Orleans, is haunted by the memory of his first lover, brutally murdered just outside the French Quarter. 

Marc, a young Quarter hustler, is haunted by an eccentric spirit that shares his dreams, and by the handsome but vicious lover who shares his bed. 

When the barrier between these men comes down, it will prove thinner than the veil between the living and the dead…or between justice and revenge.

This novella was dark psychological/paranormal perfection. I know I say it too often, but I’m not a reader of horror, nor a reader of gore, so finding a dark read that walks the line of thriller without crossing over, or a paranormal nudging the edge of the same borders is a rare, rare treat for me, and Skin is the best example of this I’ve read in years.

Opening with Kyle, a young man coming to New Orleans without much of a net (or a plan), we watch as Kyle loses the first person who makes the city remotely welcoming for him. That death sets everything in motion.

We also follow Marc, a hustler in the quarter who dances for singles and shares a room with a dangerously tempered fellow dancer, and with whom he shares a love/hate/lust/obsession tangle of dark emotion.

The intersection of the two men goes down as one of my favourite moments in prose in years, and even as I dared to hope, I knew to expect the worst of the human psyche to be explored in Baines’s writing, and Skin delivers exactly that. After all, in the hands of Baines, you know what will come of a character’s best intentions.

Skin was so richly written, so incredibly twisted, and was so rewarding to me. If it’s possible to be darkly satisfied and still raw, that’s what Skin delivered. Grab it. Give it to all your friends who want to read something shadowy and twisted and vengeful.