Jeffrey Ricker's Blog, page 13

Friday Flash Fiction: Santa Baby

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m in a Facebook group called Friday Flash Fics. We’re given a photo as a writing prompt, with our flash fiction responses (500 words or less) to the photo posted every Friday. And also again I’m late and over the word count. What was this week’s photo prompt, you ask? Well, it’s Santa themed, sort of, but I think I’ll just let the picture speak for itself:

I briefly considered putting a black bar over a portion of the picture to keep this family friendly, but where’s the fun in that. Anyway, without further ado…

Santa, Baby

At first Blake thought he might still be asleep when he turned from the coffeemaker and saw the man standing in the kitchen doorway. Someone had written “Naughty or Nice” across his chest. He wore a Santa hat and red boxer briefs, and judging from the way the briefs fit, the man was having a good morning.

Blake was not having a good morning. It was Christmas Eve, he had worked an evening shift on the copy desk last night, and he had to go in again this evening. And tomorrow, well… it wasn’t like he had any plans. His family had seen to that years ago.

His coffee-deprived brain kicked into gear, and he started to put the pieces together: His roommate, Kate, who was still probably asleep; this man, who must have been one of her rotating cast of characters. She was more of a horndog than most other gay men he knew.

This might have been why they got along so well.

“Sorry,” the man said, holding a hand in front of his shorts. His voice was annoyingly chipper for—Blake glanced at the oven clock—six forty-five. Fuck. “Morning. You know. I didn’t think anyone else was awake.”

“Uh huh.” Blake was barely verbal in the morning, to say nothing of before coffee. He held up a finger, turned around, and lifted the carafe from the coffeemaker and poured a cup. He didn’t turn back around before taking a long, greedy sip and burning his tongue. Not that he cared. Some things, like caffeine, were worth minor pain.

When Blake turned around, the man’s eyes flicked up to Blake’s face quickly. Was he just staring at my ass?

“Want some?” Blake asked, then added, “Coffee, I mean.”

“Thanks.” Blake stepped aside as the man walked over to the counter and helped himself. “Do you have any cream or sugar?”

Blake’s brain was getting up to speed, so he almost said the first thing that came to mind. Instead, he pointed at the sugar bowl on the other side of the stove and said, “Milk in the fridge.”

“Thanks.”

“So, you are…?”

“Oh, sorry.” The man shut the fridge and, turning toward Blake, held out his hand. Blake kept his eyes from flicking down the man’s body (but tried not to look like he was not looking). “Adam. Kate didn’t mention me?”

Blake shook his head. “It’s kind of hard to keep track of Kate’s dance card.”

That made the man laugh, the tassel on his hat bobbing over his shoulder. “No, I’m her little brother.”

“Not so—” Blake shut his mouth, then tried again. “I can’t see the resemblance, to be honest.”

Adam smiled, and then Blake could see it: the squaring of the chin, the half moon of teeth… he and Kate actually did look a little bit alike…

Except for obvious things. Blake lifted his coffee mug to his face and hoped it concealed enough of the forest-fire blush he felt raging across his cheeks.

“So, why are you dressed up all….” Blake waved a hand toward Adam’s—well, everything—and Adam rolled his eyes.

“Oh, this. You know Derek and Malcolm?” Blake nodded. They were Kate’s other gay friends, although Blake didn’t really travel in their circle, which was at least one tax bracket higher than his own. “They had their bachelor party last night and I was… the entertainment.”

Adam was plummeting in Blake’s estimation by the second. “You’re not serious.”

Adam shrugged. “It’s gonna cover my car payment for the next three months.”

“Will it cover your dignity too?”

“Dignity doesn’t pay the bills.” Again, Adam shrugged. “Besides, this is the nakedest I got all night.”

Blake smirked. “It’s good to know you have standards. Speaking of those, let me guess what you danced to…. ‘Santa Baby’?”

“Guilty as charged.” Adam leaned back against the counter and cradled his mug in both hands. It wasn’t lost on Blake how that posture made certain things stand out even more.

“Sounds like a fun night,” Blake said. Which was a total lie. It sounded ghastly.

To his surprise, Adam shook his head. “Not really my scene. If it weren’t for my sister and making bank, I’da skipped it.”

Something about what Adam was telling him needled at Blake. If Adam hadn’t kept fiddling with the tassel at the end of his hat, he might not have figured it out. “So, did you sleep in that hat?”

“This? Nah, I just figured I’d put it on to cover up my terminal case of bed head.”

“I thought you said you didn’t think anyone would be awake.” Blake narrowed his eyes. “So why bother? Besides, I highly doubt that Kate would care one way or the other.”

Adam looked as if he was on the verge of answering Blake’s question, but his shoulders sagged and he lowered his mug. “Clearly I should have planned my cover story a little better.”

“Covering things up doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.”

“Ha. When she was trying to talk me into this shit show,” he gestured at the hat, the words scrawled on his body, the shorts, “Kate showed me your Facebook profile and said I should meet you.”

“Because….”

“Because you’re totally my type?” Adam grinned sheepishly and fiddled with that damn tassel again. “So, um, hi?”

“Hi.” For a long moment neither spoke, choosing instead to stare into their coffee mugs. “Well, this is awkward,” Blake finally said.

“You’re probably seeing someone, is that Blake shook his head. “No, it’s just… usually it takes me slightly longer before I get to see what a guy looks like in his underwear.”

“Well, at least we got that out of the way early,” Adam said. “That is, early if there’s going to be a later.”

Blake considered for all of five seconds before asking himself what the hell there was to consider. “I have to work today, but not until this evening, if you’d like to go out for coffee or something.”

“You mean more coffee?” Adam hoisted his mug.

“I basically run on coffee.”

“Good to know.” Adam set his mug down and stepped a little closer to Blake. “I guess I should probably get dressed if we’re going out for or something.”

This time, Blake didn’t even try to pretend he wasn’t looking. He let his gaze travel down the length of Adam’s body. When he looked Adam in the eye, it didn’t seem as if he minded being admired. “Well, not on my account, but it is December and it’s kind of cold outside. And most places that serve or something do require shirts and shoes.”

Blake glanced down again. “And probably pants.”

The post Friday Flash Fiction: Santa Baby appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

Friday Flash Fiction (a day late): The One with the Cat

To recap: I’m in a Facebook group called Friday Flash Fics. We’re given a photo as a writing prompt, with our flash fiction responses (500 words or less) to the photo posted every Friday.

Except this week, apparently, because it’s Saturday and I’m just getting around to posting this. Also, I went over 500 words. Like, way over. The picture that inspired this edition:

I love cats, even the ones that would probably eat me.  I remember reading once that the average domestic housecat would have us for lunch if it weren’t for the size differential, so lucky us, I guess.

Anyway, this story is late which means I haven’t had much time to proofread it, and I wrote a big chunk of it on my phone. Typos might abound. Hopefully I’ll have time to clean them up later. Without further ado:

The Houseguest

When Jerry threw Carl out, the last thing Carl said to him was, “You’ll miss me.”

“Please.” Although Jerry shut the door in Carl’s face, he was proud that he did not, in fact, slam it. “If I’m lonely I’ll get a fucking cat.”

Perhaps the universe was listening. The next day, when Jerry opened the front door to head to work, there was a cat curled up on the doormat.

“Cat” was perhaps an understatement. The mountain lion was at least twice as long as the doormat. As Jerry stood there, tempted to scream if not for the way his heart was clamoring to get out by way of his throat, the mountain lion opened one eye then the other, yawned, and stretched.

“Hello. My home burned down. I was wondering if it would be too much trouble to stay with you for a while.”

Jerry briefly considered he might be going crazy, but then the mountain lion said, “Look, I’m kind of desperate here. Help a guy out, please?”

Jerry still said nothing. The mountain lion gently butted his head against Jerry’s leg. “Hey, anyone in there?”

“Sorry,” Jerry said, and briefly the mountain lion’s ears dropped. “No, I mean I’m sorry for just standing here. It’s just, kind of a shock.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. You’ve seen the fires on the news though, right? All up the mountainside.” The mountain lion shook his head. “Stupid campers.”

The shock dissipating, Jerry finally noticed the srteaks of black soot marring the beast’s coat. He stood aside. “Come in.”

“Thanks, man. You don’t know how much this means. It’s pretty crazy out there.”

Jerry left the front door open. He still wondered if he was hallucinating, but if the mountain lion was real, he wanted an open escape route just in case.

Once inside the confines of the house, the smell assailed him.

“What?” the mountain lion asked as Jerry coughed and made a gagging noise.

“Look, you can stay, but you have to take a bath.”

“A bath?” The lion sighed. “Really?” Jerry didn’t respond. The lion sighed again. “Oh, fine.”

Once he was in the tub with warm water running off his back, the mountain lion didn’t seem to mind it all that much, not even when Jerry cleaned between his toes.

“My name’s Jerry, by the way.” Jerry set down one paw and picked up the other.

“Nice to meet you, Jerry. I guess this is where I’m supposed to tell you my name?”

“That’s usually how it goes, yes.”

The mountain lion looked down at his paw. “I don’t have one. It’s not something we do. There isn’t really much need for names out in the woods.”

“Oh. I have to call you something, though.”

“But I don’t want a name.”

“How about I just call you Lion? It’s not a name per se, but you are a mountain lion so it’s just kind of a shortening of that.”

“Lion. I thought you people called us cougars.”

“Would you rather be called Cougar?”

“Not really. What is it with the human need to put a label on everything, anyway?”

“It’s just what we do.”

“Then I guess Lion is the least offensive option.”

After Jerry rinsed him off and pulled the stopper from the drain, Lion stood and gave himself a vigorous shake, soaking everything in reach—including Jerry.

“What?” Lion asked as Jerry wiped water and bits of fur off his face. “It’s what we do.”

After he had dried off, Lion announced that he was kind of hungry. At a panic-stricken look from Jerry he quickly added, “No no no. Eating my host would be rude. Besides, that causes a whole lot of other problems.”

“Have you ever…?” Jerry started to ask, but trailed off. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Lion shook his head.

“Not on your life, but word gets around. Me, I stick to deer, rabbits, a cat or dog in a pinch…”

Again Jerry blanched. “Please don’t eat any of the neighborhood pets.”

“Yeah, I can see where that could cause problems for you.” Lion glanced toward the kitchen. “Maybe there’s something in the fridge?”

Something in the fridge turned out to be two steaks, three pounds of frozen hamburger (Jerry defrosted it, but Lion said not to go to the trouble of cooking it), and the last of a half gallon of milk. Jerry wasn’t sure what he’d do about dinner for his guest.

“Why me?” Jerry asked suddenly. Lion looked up from the bowl of milk, white mustache painted across his snout.

“You mean why did I stop here instead of one of your neighbors?” Jerry nodded. Lion tilted his head in what Jerry figured was a kind of shrug. “Why anything, really. Most things are just…” Again, Lion seemed to search for the right word. “Instinct.”

Jerry didn’t think he could just leave his guest alone in the house, so he called in to work and took a personal day.

“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Lion said. “Please, just do what you’d normally do.”

Jerry considered that. After everything with Carl the day before, though, the prospect of staying home with an apex predator was preferable to a day at the office trying not to dwell on the apex predator at home along with the ex. He dropped his keys back on the foyer table and flopped onto the sofa.

“I think I could use a day,” he said.

Jerry was surprised, after a time, to discover that whatever primitive monkey part of his brain screamed “danger” at the first sight of the mountain lion eventually stopped raising the alarm and relaxed into his guest’s presence. Which is to say: Lion ended up staying a long time. While the fire chewed its way up and down the mountainside, the two settled into a routine: up before work, Jerry ate yogurt and granola while Lion ate a pile of whatever meat Jerry bought at the store (Lion ate a lot). Jerry felt comfortable enough to return to work, and at night they went hunting.

That is, Lion went hunting and Jerry went for a walk.

“You don’t have to come with me if it upsets you,” Lion said. He’d just caught and finished off a rabbit with a speed that stunned Jerry. They were out at the state park not far from the base of the mountain, which still glowed with fire.

“It’s not upsetting,” Jerry said. The cat’s snout was painted red and Jerry couldn’t look him in the eye.

“Jerry,” Lion said, deadpan. He licked a paw and used it to clean off the blood. “I can smell how weirded out you are by all this.”

“You can?” Jerry considered. “What does being weirded out smell like?”

“Kind of sour, kind of like metal.” Lion got up and trotted in the direction of the parking lot. “I guess I should say it’s what fear smells like.”

“But I’m not afraid of you.” It was true, any fear Jerry’d had at the beginning had faded to nothingness.

“I worry that’s not a good thing, though,” Lion said. They had known each other for two weeks now, so they were more comfortable telling each other frank truths. “If you lose your fear of me—which is a very normal fear, I might add—I’m concerned you won’t have that fear if you encounter other mountain lions.”

Jerry fished his car keys out of his pocket. Despite his squeamishness, he was afraid of what might happen if another human crossed Lion’s path. “Doesn’t that go both ways, though? Are you losing your fear of humans?”

Lion did that tilt with his head again that Jerry figured was a shrug. “Nah, you people still scare me.” He looked up toward the mountain. “But maybe not as much as that. Can you smell it?”

Jerry breathed in deep, but all he could smell was the dark rich dirt beneath their feet, the sharp scent of pine needles. “Not really.”

“Things that smell like burning make me want to run and never stop,” Lion said.

*

“So, what happened?” Lion asked. This was about four weeks after he’d moved in—around week three, Jerry stopped thinking of the arrangement as temporary. They were in the kitchen eating dinner. Jerry had taken to sitting on the floor next to Lion while he ate instead of at the table. It was Wednesday, chicken night.

“What do you mean?” Jerry asked.

Lion scarfed down a whole chicken breast. “Whoever you shared this house with. His scent is still on the place.”

“What does he smell like?”

Lion stopped eating and lifted his nose. “Artificial.”

Jerry laughed out loud and set his fork down. “Well, that’s certainly accurate. He wore a lot of cologne.”

“What was he trying to cover up?”

Jerry didn’t answer right away. He set his plate down and got up, opened the fridge, and pulled out a beer. “I don’t know if he was covering up so much as he wasn’t the person he claimed to be. It’s not even an interesting story. He lied, he cheated. That ever happened to you?”

Lion didn’t answer. Jerry turned around to see him eating the last bit of food off Jerry’s plate.

“You were done with this, right?”

*

After six weeks, the fires on the mountainside were finally out. When Jerry came home from work, Lion was sitting in the foyer.

“It’s time, Jerry.”

Jerry closed the door. “I know, I know. I’ll get dinner started.”

“No. I mean it’s time for me to leave.”

“Leave? But you just got here.”

“Jerry, it’s been more than a full cycle of the moon. I’ve been here a long time.”

Jerry set his keys on the foyer table. “Oh.”

“The fires are out now, which means I can go back.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to go right away.”

“Jerry.” Lion patted the floor in front of him. “Sit down.”

Jerry sat. He’d been spending more of his time at home on the floor since Lion had arrived.

“Listen to me, Jerry. I told you at the beginning that this would be just for a while, and I meant that.”

“But—” Jerry found he couldn’t finish the sentence. Soon after, the tears started.

Lion wrinkled his nose. “Whoa, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“You smell funny, Jerry.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“No, I mean, what is this?” He waved a paw at Jerry’s face.

“Sadness, I guess.”

“Sadness?”

Jerry paused and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You’ve never been sad before?”

“I’m not even sure what sadness is.”

“Well, how does it smell?”

Lion bent close to Jerry’s face and sniffed. “Kind of sweet. Like a beehive.”

“Imagine being stung by a bee. That’s kind of what sadness is like.”

Lion flinched. “Sounds awful, Jerry.”

“Yeah, it’s not my favorite.”

“I don’t want you to feel that way about me. I’m very grateful that you let me stay with you during the fire, but I’m a wild animal, Jerry. I belong out there.”

Jerry was no longer crying. “I know.”

He opened the front door. Lion sauntered out. It was already starting to get dark, and the typically quiet street seemed even emptier than usual. Lion paused and turned back.

“If you see another mountain lion like me, Jerry, it probably won’t be me, so be careful, okay?”

Jerry nodded. “Do all mountain lions talk as much as you?”

“Nah, I’m kind of an outlier. Most of us don’t have a whole lot to say. It’s not in our nature.”

“Why do you talk so much more than other mountain lions?”

Lion paused and seemed to be considering it. “You know what, I have no idea why. It’s just my instinct, I guess.” He lifted a paw. “Take care, Jerry. You’re gonna be all right.”

“You too, Lion.”

Before he turned away for the last time, he said, “I think I picked the right house.”

The post Friday Flash Fiction (a day late): The One with the Cat appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

Friday Flash Fiction: The Archer

As you may (or may not) recall, I’ve joined a Facebook group called Friday Flash Fics. We’re given a photo as a writing prompt, with our flash fiction responses (500 words or less) to the photo posted every Friday.

As soon as I saw this week’s photo prompt, you can guess where my mind went:

It’s also where my friend ’Nathan‘s mind went, given his comment “If Jeffrey Ricker’s story isn’t about Jamie I will ragequit.” He was kidding, of course, but once the idea worked its way into my head, I couldn’t get it out.

Jamie, as you may or may not know, is the main character in my YA fantasy The Unwanted. Now, the guy in the picture (um, wow) is obviously much older than a teenager. Also, if you’ve read my book, you know something that wouldn’t quite square with this picture. In the sequel that I was working on and set aside, I had a plan to address that. So, ripped older Jamie firing arrows in his underwear? Not completely outside the realm of possibility.

Anyway, without further ado…

The Archer

The other side of the bed is empty. Billy rolls over and hears the whistle of an arrow, the sharp thwack of impact against wood outside. Silence, then again: whistle, thwack.

Billy looks out the window. The bedroom faces the backyard—more of a clearing, really, the woods surrounding it on three sides. At the far end is the target he and Jamie set up shortly after they bought the cabin. These days, whenever he needs to think a problem through, Jamie picks up the bow.

Close to the cabin, Jamie readies another arrow, raises his bow, and fires. The arrow hits dead center. Billy squints to get a closer look: Jamie’s split the arrow he’d fired previously. Another dozen split arrows litter the ground.

Mostly, though, Billy watches Jamie, who wears sandals, an arm guard, and a pair of briefs only slightly darker than his tanned skin. They’ve spent a lot of time outdoors this summer, but apart from skinny dipping in the river that runs just at the back of the property, they’ve normally gone out in much more coverage, on account of the mosquitoes if nothing else.

Billy doesn’t pull on shorts or a shirt before lumbering outside in his underwear. He doesn’t even put on coffee to brew, which is why he feels kind of lopsided as he takes a wobbly trajectory across the yard to Jamie, who keeps firing arrows, hitting the bull’s eye every time.

“You won’t have any arrows left at this rate,” Billy says.

Jamie doesn’t stop. “I’ll buy more.”

Billy could watch Jamie do this forever, the way his arm tenses and his torso clenches with each draw of the bow, the grace of his pull and release. Jamie’s never been aware of his own beauty, and for Billy that’s just one of the many things that drew him to Jamie.

Well, that and the whole sons-of-Amazons thing.

“Hey.” Stepping behind Jamie, Billy rests a hand on Jamie’s drawing arm. “What is it?”

Jamie’s head drops at the same time he lowers the bow. Billy wraps his arms around Jamie’s torso. “Sparky, what’s wrong?”

Jamie sighs before answering, and Billy notices the morning sounds: the drone of insects, a wood thrush’s musical song carrying high on air so humid it feels like it might be dripping around them. A film of sweat forms between their skin.

“We need to go home.”

It takes a moment for what Jamie’s said to sink in. “You don’t mean back to St. Louis.”

Jamie shakes his head.

“Sparky, you know nothing good ever happens when we go to Penthesiliopolis.” It’s taken Billy the better part of twenty years to be able to pronounce the name of the Amazon homeland. Most times, he still calls it P-town.

“How long since we’ve been back, three years?”

Billy calculates in his head; it’s been longer, but he doesn’t say that. Instead, he traces a finger along the scar running up Jamie’s flank. “Every time we go back, one of us gets a new scar—and that’s if somebody doesn’t die.”

“That only happened the first time.”

“Yeah, well, I died first, so excuse me if I’m not all that thrilled about going home.”

“Ha!” Jamie spins around so they’re facing. “You called it home. Don’t try to pretend it doesn’t matter to you, too.”

Now it’s Billy’s turn to sigh. Why does he let Jamie do this to him? Actually, he knows the answer to that, too. He draws Jamie’s head to his shoulder.

“Something’s wrong,” Jamie murmurs, his lips brushing the hollow above Billy’s collarbone. “I’m not sure what, but I just know it.”

“You know what I know?” Billy asks. At the moment, there are three things he knows: one is that if Jamie has a hunch about trouble, he’s probably right. Another is that there’s no way he can talk Jamie out of going home. The third is that Jamie at his most headstrong and obstinate is also the Jamie that Billy can’t resist.

He draws back and looks Jamie in the eye at the same time as he hooks a finger in the waistband of Jamie’s shorts. “What I know,” Billy says, “is you’re still way overdressed.”

The post Friday Flash Fiction: The Archer appeared first on Jeffrey Ricker.

My year of embracing rejection, year-end roundup

At the beginning of 2017, I set a goal for the year of actively seeking rejection. What this meant was that I would send out my short fiction to contests and magazines, apply for fellowships and residencies, and otherwise just get my work out into the world so that other people might possibly read it. Because let’s face it, all those stories aren’t going to get published just sitting on my hard drive and taking up space.

Now that the year’s almost over, how did I do?

I keep track of my submissions in an Excel spreadsheet.

There’s not a lot of activity to show for this year.

So-so, I’d have to say. But throughout the process, I’ve learned two things:

I need to send out more stories more often.

I keep track of all my story submissions in an Excel spreadsheet. Every time I send one out, I note the date, where I sent it (obviously), and whether it was for a contest (and if so, how much the entry fee was). I also track when I receive the rejection notice and any details, such as whether it was a form rejection or included any personalized comments. (The ones with personalized comments, regardless of what they say, are the best.)

As you can see above, according to this spreadsheet, I made seven short story submissions between January and November. This is below my goal of at least one submission per month. So, between now and the end of the year, I hope to make up that ground. Still, this is way below my 21 submissions in 2016.

Now, the good news: one of those seven submissions was accepted. (That was my story “Multiverse,” which Phoebe published on their website.) However, compare that with 2016, when I successfully placed three of my stories. I know correlation does not equal causation, but more submissions does seem to coincide with more publications. (Though not always: in 2015 I made 23 submissions and only published one story.)

Not tracked in the spreadsheet are submissions for residencies, fellowships, and the like. I made three applications for those this year. So far, I’ve gotten rejection notices for two. I’ll be honest, I don’t hold out much hope for the third—it’s kind of a big deal—but it’s free to apply, and you don’t get accepted if you don’t submit in the first place.

I need to finish more stories.

At the moment, I have 10 stories in my “done” folder. If I’m honest, I should move a couple of those back to my “working” folder, where I keep the stories that aren’t finished.

Speaking of that “working” folder, it tells another story. (Ha, see what I did there?) That folder contains 19 stories that are in varying stages of completion. Some of them are only a few sentences. Others are finished drafts that need to be revised. Some of them might get moved over to the “abandoned” folder, where I put stories that just don’t work.

All of them, though, are opportunities. More stories to send out. More chances to collect rejections. More chances to publish. Until I finish them, though, they’re just potential.

I also have a novel to finish revising, and another one to start. Those take priority, but after that? More stories.

PS: Hey! I just remembered a story I started in Google docs that isn’t in my “working” folder. So I have 20 stories that I could send out once they’re finished… and that feels pretty awesome.

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Friday Flash Fiction BONUS: Calendar Killer

Two—yes, two—posts in the same day. When I first joined the Friday Flash Fics group, I’d just missed the previous Friday photo prompt. But, it still got me thinking, so I went ahead and wrote a a flash fiction response.

I mean, how could I not?

(This is inspired in part by the flash piece ’Nathan wrote in response. You should go read his, too.)

Fair warning ahead of time: I know next to nothing about medical examiners and autopsies. Yes, I need to do that research. No, I didn’t have time before I wrote this. However, Malcolm may appear in a book  I’m working on that draws together characters from at least three other things I’ve written. Trust me, I’ll be doing the research before that.

Right. Without further ado…

Calendar Killer

Malcolm set the scalpel down after he pulled aside the sheet. On the table in front of him was Mr. August.

He resisted the urge to glance at the wall behind him, where the Men of St. Louis calendar hung over the desk. He’d flipped through it when Allison hung it up, each of them wondering how many were really doctors, firefighters, and construction workers, rather than models hired to get half-dressed in the appropriate uniforms, all arranged strategically to look as if they might slip at any moment.

Mr. August looked like the real deal, even with the pencil clenched ridiculously between his teeth. (Who ever held a pencil like that?) The one difference that set him apart from the others was a pale, hairless scar running diagonally along his left forearm. Malcolm could have reached out and touched that scar right now. Instead, he glanced toward the clock over the doorway—Allison wouldn’t get in for another forty-five minutes. He had time.

Malcolm placed his hand on Mr. August’s chest and exhaled. Closing his eyes, he followed that breath down his arm and into his fingertips. With a tingle that almost itched, it led into Mr. August’s chest, along blood vessels that were quiet, cold, until he reached the heart—

Gasping, Mr. August sat up.

“Where—how—“

It almost always happened like this. Malcolm had to decide, in the initial disorientation, whether to tell them they were dead, and that this would only last a short while.

In this case, being on a table in the morgue kind of took care of that.

“Whoa.” Mr. August looked down at himself, then around the room. “That really  happened, didn’t it?”

Malcolm nodded. “Who did this?”

Mr. August pointed over Malcolm’s shoulder at the calendar. “Mr. February,” he said, “that backstabbing son of a bitch.” He was speaking somewhat literally. There were three knife wounds in his back. He returned his gaze to Malcolm. “How long does this last?” Malcolm’s hesitation apparently said all he needed to. “That’s what I figured.”

“Were you really a carpenter?” Malcolm asked. Mr. August flinched a little.

“Were. I guess I’m glad I don’t have to get used to hearing about myself in the past tense. But yeah, mostly furniture. Some custom jobs. People thought I was crazy for doing the calendar, but I figured it might help business. And I might meet someone. Guess I did, but not in the good way.” He stared hard at Malcolm. “What’s your name?”

“Malcolm White.”

Mr. August held out his hand. “Drake Coleman. But you probably already know that. I need a couple favors.”

“I’ll try.”

“First, make sure Mr. February doesn’t get away with this.”

“I’ll tell the police.” He was used to delivering anonymous tips. “What else?”

Drake grabbed Malcolm’s lab coat and drew him closer. “I’m kind of scared right now.”

Malcolm hadn’t ever been kissed by one of the people he’d revived. In the moment, he couldn’t say that he minded.

Once their lips parted, Drake got a faraway look in his eyes, as if he were seeing something just on the other side of Malcolm’s face.

“I think I should lie back down now,” he said.

Malcolm eased him back, and he was gone again before the back of his head rested on the table.

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Friday Flash Fiction: The Page Turner

As you’ll recall, I’ve joined a Facebook group called Friday Flash Fics. We’re given a photo as a writing prompt, with our fiction responses to the photo posted every Friday.

So, this week’s photo is quite… different from last week’s. In fact, if you’re under 18 this is probably where you should go somewhere else:

Obviously, I couldn’t wait to write my response to this. So, without further ado…

The Page Turner

“Well, that looks like a page turner if I ever saw one,” Dennis says.

“Ssh. I thought I’d read for a while before going to bed,” Jim explains.

“Which is why you’ve still got your glasses on, I assume.”

“Everything else was superfluous.”

“Well, I like this look on you.”

“You want me to read to you for a while?”

“Considering that you’re not wearing a damn thing besides your glasses, I can think of a lot of other things I’d rather be doing. But, if you insist.”

“I can read quietly to myself if you prefer.”

“You know, I can’t remember the last time anyone read something to me. It was probably my mother when I was a kid.”

“Honey, you just compared me to your mother.”

“I can’t think of anyone you’re less like than my mother. Her legs aren’t nearly as hairy as yours.”

“Or her chest, I’d imagine.”

“I can’t say I know anything about the state of my mother’s chest. What are you reading, anyway?”

“The Great Gatsby. Have you ever read it?”

“Not that I can remember. Although it seems like the sort of thing I would have been assigned in high school.”

“I try and read it at least once a year. It’s my favorite book.”

“Really. How is it I never knew that?”

“Trust me. After two years, there’s probably still a lot we don’t know about each other. I don’t think I know what your favorite book is, for example.”

“Well, right now it’s the one you’re holding in front of your junk. Actually, strike that. The book you’re holding in front of your junk is probably my least favorite book because it’s interrupting an otherwise spectacular view.”

“So you don’t want me to read to you, then?”

“Absolutely I want you to read to me. That will require you to move the book.”

“Not at first, actually. I know the first part by heart. Ahem: ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years—’”

“‘Vulnerable’ is hardly a word I’d use to describe you.”

“Do you mind not interrupting? And besides, that’s not about me, that’s what Fitzgerald wrote in the book. Don’t confuse the reader or the writer with the narrator.”

“I’ll do my best, but I have to confess it’s kind of hard to concentrate at the moment.”

“Hands on top of the covers, then. Now where was I? ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.

“‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’”

“Go on. Aren’t you going to read any more?”

“Yes, but that’s all that I’ve ever memorized.”

“You know, I always like a good reveal.”

“Hey, I said hands on top of the covers, buster.”

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Friday Flash Fiction: The Bookstall

God help me, I’ve joined a Facebook group. It’s called Friday Flash Fics and presents a photo as a writing prompt, with responses to the photo posted every Friday.

You know, because I haven’t obligated myself to enough things already. But seriously, it’s good exercise for me. I’m not great at flash fiction, so these will probably be more like vignettes or scenes than fully fleshed out stories, but I’ll do my best.

So, here’s the image prompt for this week:

This made me think of Detours. It’s been six years since my first novel came out. (Time flies, doesn’t it? Sure, it’s been six years, but you can still add it to your Goodreads shelf.) Readers may recall that it starts with the narrator, Joel, coming home from a stellar vacation… in London. Where he met a guy. That meeting happened offstage, as it were. But maybe it went something like this:

The Bookstall

Joel’s hand lingered over the Woolf, an old edition, the slipcover scuffed with a tear in it. If he lifted it to his nose, he expected it would smell musty.

He looked up, staring across the river and trying to calculate how much room he had in his suitcase and whether he should be buying books at all. In the aisle across from him, another man looked up.

It was one of those awkward moments where two people catch each other’s eye—not staring, but obvious that each has seen the other. There’s always two choices: look quickly away and pretend it didn’t happen, or…

“So, what’s caught your interest?” the man asked. It took Joel a moment to realize he meant the book. Joel held it up.

“Mrs. Dalloway? Never read it. Wasn’t that a movie?”

English accent, a bonus for Joel on top of the dark hair, the stubble along the square jaw.

“The book’s better,” Joel said. “The book’s always better.”

The man looked surprised. “You’re American.”

“Guilty as charged. What are you getting?”

The man held up a Dan Brown, and Joel’s optimism fell a little. “Wasn’t that a movie?”

The man nodded. “Somehow I doubt that the book is better, but…” He glanced down at the stalls in front of him. “I imagine it’s more gripping than The Joy of Soufflé.”

Joel recognized an opportunity. “Hey, don’t knock soufflés.” He moved to the end of his aisle and circled around to stand next to the man. He picked up the cookbook and started leafing through it. “I make a pretty mean souffle.”

He was only half looking at the cookbook. Glancing sideways, Joel slid his gaze along the man’s torso, taking in the wisp of black hair at the neck of his t-shirt, plain white, on his way down the v of his half-zipped track jacket.

“You’re a cook?” the man asked. Joel shook his head.

“Only to keep from starving. I work in marketing. Do you cook?” I bet we could cook was what he was thinking.

“The best thing I make is reservations.” The man set down the Dan Brown and extended his hand. “Philip.”

“Joel.” The handshake lingered for maybe half a second longer than appropriate, and Joel wondered where the British reserve was that he’d heard so much about. Somewhere other than here, he figured. Thankfully.

“Do you have plans this evening?” Philip asked.

If he had, Joel fully intended to cancel them. “No, why?”

“Would you like to go to dinner? There’s a wonderful Italian place in my neighbourhood.”

In his neighbourhood possibly meant close enough to home that they didn’t have to have dessert out. “I love Italian.”

Philip scribbled his name and number and the address of the restaurant on a receipt he pulled from his wallet. Another handshake, a charmingly crooked grin and Philip was off. Joel watched him walk away, admiring the view, and hoped his vacation might end on a high note after all.

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What is your first best destiny?

There’s a moment in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan (the best of the Star Trek films, if you ask me) when Spock offers Admiral Kirk command of the Enterprise. Spock has captained the ship as a teacher of cadets on a training cruise. If they’re going into combat, though, Kirk should take command. Kirk demurs, but Spock gently and logically persists. Eventually, he says it was a mistake for Kirk to accept promotion to the admiralty. “Commanding a starship is your first, best destiny. Anything else… is a waste of material.”

This line is one of two that has stayed with me since I first saw the movie in 1982. (The other line, also from Spock, is: “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” I don’t always agree with that one, however.

(Have I mentioned that I’m a huge nerd? Huge. MASSIVE. You may not have caught that yet.)

Answer the question, Spock.

Anyway, I was talking about the topic of best destiny not too long ago with a photographer friend of mine. He understood the tension between what we do to make a living and what we do that really drives us.

I know what my best destiny is, of course. (Writing. It’s writing. Do I EVEN have to point this out?) But it’s also what I’m not spending the majority of my time on these days. I have a day job, a good one. It’s enjoyable and it’s allowing me to add to my skills—even at 48, I don’t ever want to stop learning new things—and it’s giving me a safety net in unsettled and uncertain times.

Having this job, however, means from 8:30 to 5:15 for five days of the week, my time is spoken for by someone else. Between it and all the mundane things that go into everyday life, I look at the vanishingly small amount of time leftover for writing and wonder: How do I keep working toward that best destiny?

Something else I know about me, though: I get more creative when I have to operate within constraints. Having to find the narrow windows of time where I can write has reminded me of this. I think of it like the poet working within a form, meter, and rhyme scheme, or the painter working within the dimensions of a canvas. If I have a time limit, I will get things done within that.

Time constraints also remind me of something my former boss Elizabeth told me: The perfect is the enemy of the good. I could tinker and tinker and rewrite something endlessly if I wanted to, but I’d never finish anything.

If our best destiny were a destination, we can’t always take the direct route to it. We have to make compromises, defer things, choose a detour when there’s a roadblock in the way, like real life.

When we know what our best destiny is, though, we can’t ignore it. We can try, but that really doesn’t work for long. I think at heart we know that anything else is a waste of material.

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Yes, Coming Out Still Matters

I usually try to confine my posts here to writing, books, and Captain Janeway, but It’s National Coming Out Day in the U.S., and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone that I’m gay.

Gay gay gay gay gay.

Like, realllly gay. (Seriously, ask me about my Wonder Woman bracelets sometime.)

But anyway. Does something like that still matter? Yes, if you’ll pardon my language, it fucking matters. Because for a lot of people, coming out is still not the safe option. They have families that will throw them out, or live in communities where they’ll be in real physical danger if people know they’re not straight. Queer people may not have cornered the market on oppression—unfortunately, there’s a lot to go around. But people still get beat up and killed for being gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans, ace, or any other orientation that doesn’t fit in convenient little boxes.

Speaking of that: if you’re reading this and it’s not safe for you to come out now, don’t put yourself in danger. Reach out for help when you are able. It’s our job, those of us with privilege and means, to try and make it possible for you to do so. Yes, other things matter, and yes, some of them are just as if not more urgent right now—racism, gender discrimination, police brutality, the completely whacked out imbalance of wealth and opportunity in the nation, the deeply unbalanced individual in charge. (Just a few examples.) But don’t let anyone use any of those things to dismiss the importance of  you and who you are. Just because they’re trapped in binary thinking doesn’t mean you have to be.

You matter, just as you are.

So, celebrate that, being who you are, even if only with yourself. The rest of us will keep fighting for everyone who doesn’t have it as good as we do. Captain Janeway would want you to. Probably with a cup of coffee. Black.

And if you’re not queer, my challenge to you is this: Do what you can to make it more accepting for those of us who are queer.

Captain Picard would say “make it so,” but no-nonsense Janeway would just say “do it.”

So do it.

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Five Things I Learned by Failing at This Novel

They (that ambiguous, omnipresent “they”) always say that you learn more from your failures than you do from your successes. Unfortunately, it’s true. Equally unfortunate for me, I just got reminded of that recently.

I’ve been talking a lot about the as-yet-unnamed sequel to The Unwanted over the past three years. Recently, I came to a decision: I’m shelving it. Or rather, putting it in the drawer. Well, even that’s a metaphor. It consists mainly of a collection of files on my hard drive that I’m going to drag into a folder labeled “Abandoned.”

No, really, I have a folder labeled “Abandoned.” See?

There’s tons of stuff in there. TONS, I tell you.

Here’s the thing, though. I feel pretty good about this decision. I wish I’d come to it sooner, as I’ve gone back and forth on it several times in the last few months. In the process of making the decision, though, I realized a few things:

Don’t go back to the same dry well.

The Unwanted got some nice reviews, including a really positive one at the American Library Association’s GLBT Reviews website. I’m really proud of that one. But the book didn’t really find a significant audience, certainly not in the way that would justify going back and revisiting these characters (and working out just how to get some of them back on the stage for a sequel). There’s also the risk—and this alone is not a reason not to write a sequel—that what happens to them in a follow-up novel could alienate readers who were perfectly happy to let the story end where it did.

I’m not gonna lie. I think I knocked it out of the park with that book. If it ends there, I’m happy.

Don’t fall for the sunk costs bias.

Like I said, I’ve been working on the sequel for well over three years. You might think after that long, I’d be in the frame of mind to just get behind this thing and shove it across the finish line. But that would mean at least a few more months before I had a draft I felt comfortable turning in, and then another several months with all the requisite edits, proofreads, and so on before it even came out. Of course, the job doesn’t end with publication day, either. There’s promotion and readings and everything that goes into getting a book noticed and in people’s hands. 

This is not me complaining. I love doing that stuff. And this isn’t me complaining about The Unwanted not being the success I’d hoped it would be. This is me working out tough choices about where to focus my limited time and resources for the good of my writing practice.

Don’t wait to start on the next thing.

I might feel bad about the decision to shelve something I’d worked on for three years if I hadn’t already started four more novels in the meantime. One of them is in revision, another is a very rough, incomplete draft waiting for me to sift through it, the third is a forty-five page story that I wrote in grad school that doesn’t want to be a short story, and the fourth is an idea that’s just starting to take shape in a composition notebook. If I find myself wondering “what now?” I know I’ve got options.

Don’t draw your self-worth too much from any one project.

Or any one part of your life. In addition to my aforementioned facility with ardha chandrasana, I’m a pretty good cook and a more than passable bread baker. I’m also not half bad at Scrabble and, according to a former boss, I have an unusually good recall of the Associated Press Stylebook. When a writing project is giving me fits, I know that I can go into the kitchen and bake a cake and make buttercream frosting with my eyes basically closed, and I can get a batch of homemade pickles started, no problem. I may not be able to string two sentences together at times, but at least I won’t starve. Also, I can hold plank for two and a half minutes, which helps counteract the cake.

Don’t throw away anything.

I could just as easily have dragged all those files to the trash folder and clicked “empty trash.” But I didn’t. Even though the novel won’t ever see the light of day in its current form, there’s something in it that kept drawing me back… and I don’t think it had anything to do with Jamie and Billy. There’s a story within it that’s not the one that I was trying to tell, but it’s one that I might want to try telling later.

This year has pretty much been about embracing rejection. And I would say that embracing failure is a companion on the journey, and maybe the more important one. Do the things that seem impossible. Write the stories when you don’t know how they’ll end. Fail bigger. Fail often. Try again. Eventually succeed.

What I don’t regret is spending more time with these characters, even if it was just them and me. I’m still very fond of Jamie, Billy and Sarah. I don’t think that’ll ever change. I hope it never does.

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