DeAnna Knippling's Blog, page 74

On Building a Writer’s Mission* Statement

It’s a good morning.  I’m having a professional-sale short story published in Crossed Genres Magazine.  I’m having another short story accepted in eFiction magazine.  I’m walking around the house, barefoot, pantsless, making another cup of tea and putting on shorts while the water heats in the microwave.  I have long since made my peace with microwaving water:  it’s not as romantic as boiling it on the stove, but it’s a heck of a lot less screechy.  And, for one cup of water…ugh, no, I don’t want to get a countertop water heater either, thanks.  At any rate, my mind is wandering.

It’s going to be a hot day, 80 degrees already at 9 a.m.  I’m sure in other areas this wouldn’t seem like such a threat, but in Colorado, which heats up and cools down quickly, it’s a pretty reliable heads’ up.  I stayed up late last night playing Mah Jongg on my tablet, which I initially felt slightly guilty about but reminded myself that if I spend all day working it’s bound to spill over somehow.  So I’m tired but I’ve got a cup of tea in me with another on the way.  It’s Ceylon, good Ceylon but not the transcendental kind of Ceylon that makes you stare out into space and nod to yourself.  Really good tea strikes me as the ideal drug, unless I’m having my period, in which case only coffee will do.  I’m in the PMS phase of that swing of things, which might be considered TMI, but really what it means is that whatever emotions I have have a force multiplier on them.  So when I’m feeling mellow I’m feeling really mellow.

I’ve recently worked out that all of my writing is about bullies.  I knew this about my kids’ fiction, but for some reason, the connection to my adults’ fiction escaped me.  I’m writing about power structures, I’m writing about things that happen because one group is stronger than another.  I’m writing about bullies–it’s just that the bullies are bigger, institutional things a lot of the time in my adult stories.  I’m writing about how everyone thinks they’re getting pushed around when really they’re doing a lot of pushing around themselves.   I’m writing about why the war of the sexes sucks.  I’m writing about the strains that drive people to lash out–to become the bullies they hate.

But I also know that’s not all I write about.

I want to know what it is that makes me write, what purpose I’m trying to accomplish.  I want to try to figure out what I bring to the world–why it should pay me to write!  Like a half-built robot who wakes up to find its master dead of a heart attack on the workbench, I want to find out what my purpose is in life–and to change it, if necessary.  (Because I’m meta like that.)  I want something that lets me know when I’m off course.  I think I’m off course a lot of the time, but I’ve also recently learned that maybe being off course is part of my purpose.  Maybe the things that make me go, “What the @#$% was I thinking?” are the things that most express what it is I am and do.

It would be nice to go into a dark place and write something personally horrifying and be able to go, “It disturbs me…and it should.”

And so I know now that I write about bullies, and when I write something horrific, after I’m done, I can go back and say, “Was this about bullies or power imbalances?”  And if the answer’s yes, I know I have at least part of what I was meant to do.

But this morning, I’m walking around on the perpetual hunt to try to remember where I’ve left my cup-sized tea strainer, which I should probably clean because no doubt it’s so covered in tea stains that it’s starting to affect the taste–this is the world’s best tea strainer.  It’s got this superfine gold mesh wire which is now several shades of dark brown.  The tea’s been a little bitter tasting lately.  I walk into the living room, and it smells like cat pee again.  Great.  I’ve got a cat with apparent Alzheimer’s and an attitude problem, and I love him but it’s a strain.  I carry him over to his litterbox.  I try to remember what I was doing.  Oh, yeah, looking for the–

And it hits me:  something else I write is about finding and accepting the secret self.

The Crossed Genres story?  About an alien teacher who’s trapped on Earth and finds her calling here.  The eFiction story?  About a woman who haunts other people’s dreams, judging them mercilessly, only to find out that she’s judged herself, too–and who then faces her fear, liberating herself as she wakes.

I think back to other stories:  a woman whose horrifying past has revealed to her the horror inside herself, which she decides to use (Dexter-like) against the kinds of people who hurt her.  A Rapunzel who fears her hair until she finds out how easily it’s controlled.  A geisha to aliens who becomes other than human, and more herself.   A hundred others.  A kids’ story about a girl who thinks she knows it all until an emergency happens, when she finds out that strength doesn’t look like what she expected, but that she has it.

The idea cascades.  It rings like a bell.

I find the tea basket and make new tea and eat a cereal bar.  While I write this, I pick honey-covered oats out of my teeth with my tongue.  I’m not there yet.  I don’t have the whole shape of what I am and what I do:  but I have another piece of it, and it feels good.

—

*So here’s what got me thinking:

Matt Buchman (a.k.a. M.L. Buchman of the Night Stalkers romance series and more) has a personal writing mission statement, of which he has three versions:

Simple:

To Champion the Human Spirit

Middle-sized:

To Champion the Human Spirit, the Power of Joy, and the Wonder of Love

Complete:

To Champion the Human Spirit,

To Celebrate the Power of Joy,

And to Revel in the Wonder of Love!

The simple version for me now embodies the full scope of what I’m intending.

The middle version is the one I initially came up with and expresses it in a form that doesn’t make others eyes glaze over.

The full version, I love the verbs celebrate and revel (my absolute favorite) and wanted to include those.

You can see I have a ways to go before I can be this clear on what I’m doing

Sample Chapters from Exotics #1: The Floating Menagerie

Nobody knows what really happened when Rachael Baptiste’s mom disappeared a week ago. So when Rachael’s second-grade classmate Raul tries to break into her mom’s computer only to be chased away by giant talking dogs, she follows him into the night and discovers that Raul—and her mom—have caught a magical sickness that lets them turn into magical animals, or Exotics.

A group of evil Exotics, the Shadow Dogs, kidnap Rachael and Raul to a mysterious ship and try to force them to tell them her mother’s secrets…but Rachael’s not talking. Instead, she’s trying to find a way to escape the ship and rescue the Exotic kids trapped on board, waiting to be sold as pets…or are they?

These chapters of Exotics #1: The Floating Menagerie will be here permanently.  You can find a full copy of the ebook online at B&N, Amazon, Smashwords, Apple, Kobo, Powell’s and more.  The print book will be available at Amazon.com and more.

–

 

Chapter One

Rachael, who had just brushed her teeth and changed into green spotted pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers, was almost ready to kill the final wave of zombies on her video game when the doorbell rang.

From the kitchen where he was washing dishes after supper, her dad yelled, “Rachael! Will you check the door?”

“I’m on the last wave, dad!” she yelled back.

“Just push the pause button.”

“Please?”

“It’s your turn!”

That was true. Rachael pushed pause on the game, annoyed because it was never the same when you had to push pause all the time. Meanwhile, the person at the front door had started pushing the doorbell button over and over again and pounding on the door.

Rachael peeked out of the glass beside the door. Even though it was dark out and he should have been getting ready for bed, Raul was outside their door. He looked mad and scared at the same time.

“Open the door!” he yelled.

Rachael liked Raul, but he wouldn’t talk to her at school. They were both in Mrs. Sorensen’s second-grade class. Sometimes they played tag at recess, and she’d let him catch her. He was part of a club, the Animal Lovers’ Club, that met with Rachael’s mom at their house once a week (Tuesdays). Sometimes he would talk to her after the meeting, but mostly not.

Rachael unlocked the door. Raul rushed in, slammed the door behind him, and locked it.

“Your mom—” he said, too out of breath to say anything else.

“Nobody’s found her yet,” Rachael said. Rachael’s mom had disappeared a week ago, but Rachael was an ordinary girl who couldn’t do anything about it. So she tried not to think about it too much.

“Your mom’s computer. Hurry.”

Rachael said, “Why?”

“Just come on.” Raul led her upstairs to her mom’s office.

“What’s the matter?”

Raul still had his uniform on from school, and it was dirty, with bits of leaves stuck to his back. “Nothing,” he said.

Somebody banged into the front door like they had run right into it. Raul said a bad word and ran up the stairs really fast, leaving Rachael behind.

“Rachael,” her dad called. “Would you get that? Please?”

“Don’t open the door,” Raul said. He went inside the office.

The front door thudded again, and Rachael heard a cracking sound as the wood started to break.

“Rachael,” her dad whined.

She ignored her dad and followed Raul into her mom’s office; she really didn’t want to open the door.

Raul was sitting at the computer desk, jiggling the mouse and saying more bad words. Rachael knew her mom’s password (she’d looked over her shoulder), but she wasn’t sure that she should give it to Raul.

Then the front door broke open and slammed against the wall. Rachael started to scream, but clapped her hands over her mouth to stop herself.

Raul jumped out of the chair. “I have to get out of here.”

“I’m coming, too,” Rachael said.

Raul almost growled at her. “Stay here. Hide in the closet, and they’ll leave you alone.”

“I said I’m coming too.”

Something barked loudly from downstairs like a really, really big dog.

Rachael’s dad said, “What is going on, Rachael? Are you messing around again?” Then he said, “Who broke the door? What are these dogs doing in here? Out! Out!”

Rachael opened the window into the back yard, where their gigantic dog, Ox, was barking and growling. “Go down the trellis,” she said. “Dad made it really strong in case of storms. Then jump onto the shed. There’s a big trash can on the other side.”

Rachael pulled out the window screen, and Raul slid out the window. She started to follow him.

“Go back,” he yelled.

Rachael stuck her slippers in the trellis, reached up, and slid the window shut the rest of the way, as quietly as she could. “Shh,” she said. “They’ll hear you.”

 

Chapter 2

Raul banged down onto the shed, then jumped down to the trash can, knocking it over. Rachael followed him, quiet as a snake, then pointed toward the back gate. The gate led to a gap between Rachael’s back yard and their neighbor’s back yard. The gap, which was full of weeds and trees and stuff, ran all the way to the end of the block.

They tiptoed through the garden. The streetlights were so bright they almost covered up the stars.

Ox licked Rachael’s hand, then walked to stand under the office window, woofing to himself very quietly. Inside the house, Rachael’s dad yelled, and something crashed and broke.

Rachael reached the gate and opened it, and she and Raul left just as the upstairs window slammed open.

Rachael expected Ox to bark, but he went perfectly quiet and stood in the shadow of the shed.

Something stuck its head out the window. “I smell him,” it growled. There was something weird about its head.

Raul grabbed her arm. “If you’re going to come, then hurry up.”

Rachael followed Raul through the weeds I juas something thumped in the back yard. Suddenly, Rachael heard a big, angry bark from Ox as he attacked whatever had jumped out of the window. Raul pulled her arm even harder, so hard that she had a hard time following him and not tripping in the weeds.

Rachael heard another thump, and the sound of dogs fighting got even louder. Rachael’s dad screamed her name, but she and Raul kept running until they reached the sidewalk.

Raul started to head right, but Rachael grabbed his arm and jerked him back the other way. “We can cut across the dead end,” she whispered. She whispered because the crickets and leaves sounded too loud, like they were spying on them.

Raul ran with her up the street. Running uphill is always the worst, she thought. I always feel like I’m running through glue.

Ox yipped with pain then whimpered, and the back gate broke with a crash. A police siren started howling, far away. The wind blew harder for a second, making the leaves rustle all the way down the street, and Rachael ran even faster, passing Raul.

She was almost at the dead end when the animals reached the other end the street. They howled so loud that it drowned out the police siren, and Rachael couldn’t help but look, even though she knew it was a bad idea to slow down.

There were two black dogs—not quite as big as Ox, who was part Mastiff—at the bottom of the hill. A white truck with the words “Animal Control” stopped by the two black dogs. One of the dogs wagged its tail when it saw the truck.

Then Raul grabbed her again. “Which way? You stay here. Just tell me which way.”

Rachael pointed between two white houses. “Go that way. It comes out behind the school.”

Raul shoved through the bushes in front of one of the houses, making a lot of noise.

The two dogs started running up the street. It took them a lot less time than it had taken her and Raul. The dogs raced like two motorcycles speeding under the streetlights, they were zooming up the street so fast.

Rachael had been almost ready to give up the adventure—her dad would be scared out of his mind; he’d think she’d been kidnapped, just like her mom—but the way those dogs ran up the hill made her panic, so she ran after Raul.

She was a lot quieter, though.

 

Chapter 3

Raul hissed at her from behind a tree. “Go home!”

They ducked under branches, climbed low fences, and got prickly plants stuck in their socks. It sounded like the two dogs were right behind them.

“No!” Rachael whispered. “They’ll eat me. What’s going on? Do you know where my mom is?”

“Shut up,” Raul said.

One of the dogs growled—but not from behind them, from in front of them.

“Oh, no,” Rachael whispered.

“Shut up!”

The other dog was behind them; Rachael could tell, because he growled, too.

“We’re going to have to turn left,” Raul said.

“Don’t,” Rachael whispered. “We’ll just come out on the football field. They’ll catch us for sure.”

“They’ll catch me,” Raul said. “You go home.”

“No.”

Raul sighed. “Close your eyes for a second.”

“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t.

It was even darker under the trees, and they were in the middle of a bunch of bushes, so she couldn’t see much. But she did see Raul bend over. He grunted, shook off his clothes, and changed into something else.

“You looked,” he growled.

“Wow. You’re a werewolf. But it’s not a full moon.”

“I’m not a werewolf,” Raul said. His voice sounded growly, but more like a puppy trying to sound tough than a scary monster noise. “Grab on.”

Rachael sat on Raul’s back, grabbed the fur on the back of his shoulders, and leaned forward. Raul started running so fast that she almost slid off. She grabbed on tighter and squeezed her legs together around Raul’s belly.

Raul turned to the right, running toward the playground behind the school and right past the big dog, which yipped in surprise. Raul ducked between the swings, under the monkey bars, over the teeter totters, and out the other side of the playground.

Even though Raul was carrying Rachael, the other dogs were falling behind, because they were too big to jump through the playground equipment. Raul, who was much more graceful as a wolf than as a kid, turned around the corner, almost spilling Rachael onto the sidewalk. She was feeling a little sick to her stomach, to tell the truth.

Raul ran onto the school’s front lawn, toward more houses. The two big dogs started to catch up to them.

Raul ran across a couple of empty lots and turned onto a narrow side street. The houses on this side of the school were packed together, with tall fences everywhere, so Raul couldn’t hide.

The white Animal Control van pulled into the street, blocking the way out. Behind them, the two dogs were almost close enough to knock her and Raul onto the ground.

Suddenly, Raul stopped, and the two dogs ran past him, unable to stop as fast as he had. Raul was panting so hard it sounded like he couldn’t breathe, and Rachael realized that carrying her had exhausted him. She should have let him go without her—he was going to get caught because of her. The two big dogs stopped and ran back toward Raul, guarding him.

Rachael rolled off his back and onto the street. Her whole body hurt from hanging on so hard. “I’m sorry, Raul,” she said. “I only followed you because I thought you might know what happened to my mom. I didn’t mean to get you caught.”

A man got out of the truck. He was wearing a blue-and-white shirt with what looked like a picture of a black dog on the pocket.

“Here, boy,” the man said, whistling at Raul. “Miss? You should stay back. That animal is dangerous. He might have rabies. Do you know what rabies is?” He pulled a long gun out of the van. “Don’t worry. This is a tranquilizer gun. It won’t hurt him; it’ll just put him to sleep.”

Rachael looked at Raul. Now that she could see him, he looked just like a really big wolf, only kind of skinny. The streetlights made his gray fur shine orange.

The man aimed the gun at Raul.

 

Chapter 4

“Don’t shoot!” Rachael shouted.

The man ignored her and kept aiming the tranquilizer gun at Raul.

Raul whimpered.

Rachael made up her mind to do something to help Raul, because it was mostly her fault that he hadn’t been able to escape.

Rachael ran straight toward the man. “Help!” she yelled. She ran right in front of the man, waving her arms, then followed him when he tried to step to the side, staying between him and Raul. “Help me, mister! I was almost eaten by that wolf. He picked me up and dragged me all the way here!”

“I’ll help you, miss,” the man said, “if you’ll just get out of the way.”

“I don’t know what happened to my friend Raul,” Rachael said. “One minute he was there, the next minute, he had run away!” She yelled the last two words really loud, hoping Raul would get the hint. “Yeah, he must have run away!”

“Get out of the way!” the man shouted. He snapped his fingers twice.

Rachael heard something moving behind her. She looked around and saw the two dogs starting to circle her.

Rachael screamed. Where was everybody? Couldn’t anybody hear her?

A few lights went on in the houses nearby. The man said a bad word and waved his hand toward her while he aimed the gun at Raul.

Rachael screamed again and ran toward the man. “Help me, help me,” she sobbed. She didn’t have to try too hard to sound scared. “Now there are three big dogs attacking me.”

She heard the click of claws on the street behind her, then Raul was knocking her out of the way, charging the man, jumping onto his chest, and knocking him to the ground.

The two big dogs grabbed Raul with their teeth and tried to pull him off the man, who was moaning. Raul tried to bite the dogs, but they were both bigger than he was and knocked him to the side.

Rachael didn’t dare jump into that dogpile.

Then Rachael heard more barking as the sound of sirens got a lot louder and closer.

Suddenly, Ox rushed into the dogs and dragged one of them off Raul, shaking the bigger dog back and forth with his jaws.

“Ox!” Rachael yelled.

Raul and the other dog rolled off the man and attacked. Now that Raul wasn’t outnumbered, he was beating the bigger dog.

The man sat up and reached for his tranquilizer gun again.

Rachael heard a bark of pain and saw Ox cowering in front of the other dog. It looked like he was hurt, one paw held off the ground. The other dog was walking slowly toward Ox and growling.

Rachael was getting really, really mad. Ox was hurt, Raul was in trouble, her mom had disappeared a week ago and nobody knew where she was, and nobody would tell her why any of this was happening.

Rachael ran at the man, grabbing the long part of his gun. “Your dog is attacking my dog! Make him stop! Make him stop!”

The man tried to push her away, but she grabbed his gun and twisted it around like she’d learned in karate class. He was a lot stronger than she was, but Rachael could tell she was hurting him. She twisted harder. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought she was going to die—then the man finally dropped the gun, yelling and grabbing his hand.

Rachael felt something sting her leg. It hurt a lot—then stopped hurting. She looked down and saw something sticking out of her leg, probably one of the tranquilizer darts from the gun, full of sleepy medicine.

Shoot, she thought.

Suddenly, all she could see was the man’s face, which looked scared for some reason. Rachael tried to stay standing up, but she couldn’t. She was falling asleep, whether she liked it or not.

 

New Fiction Online: “The Nest”

I have a new short story up online in the August 2013  Crossed Genres magazine:  ”The Nest,” a SF story about a teacher who has to deal with the terrors of an alien planet–Earth!

Powell’s City of Books: Big. But not IKEA big.

I have just learned that Powell’s bookstore isn’t as huge as people describe it.  Powell’s!  It’s bigger than Tattered Cover, to be sure, but not of the immensity that people describe.  When people (i.e., book lovers) talk about it, it sounds miraculous: more than a collection of books, a Mecca.  I was expecting something that was as big as, say, the Denver Art Museum.

Why do people describe it as being more immense than it really is?

I think it has something to do with the speed at which you travel through the place.  In a museum (or a store), you stop, look at things, and move on.  Zoos are the same way.  The monkey house is way bigger than the wolf woods, for example–even though, rationally, I know this not to be the case.  It’s only when you stop gawking at everything that you can get a sense of how big a place “really” is.  So when you’re walking through Powell’s, you’re digesting a sense of space in two different ways:  in square footage, and in space shaped by your attention.

Okay.  Let me back up to the actual experience itself.  I came into Portland the night before, after a week-long writing workshop on the Oregon Coast, with thirty-five pro writers (that I can, in any context, think of myself belonging with the rest of that crowd blows my mind).  I had time to kill before my flight back to Colorado and a city with which to kill it.

For some reason, the journey from the motel to Powell’s was very long–subjectively speaking.  I’m not used to riding light rails, city buses–public transportation.  I’ve done it before, but not regularly.  So the distance seemed disproportionately long.  On the MAX I sat next to a nice couple and their kids, from south of Portland by about four hours, who were headed up to Washington to see family and who were taking a break to go to the the Portland children’s museum.  Two cute kids, both girls under the age of six.  One who faced life with a mixture of motion sickness and amusement, and the other who was going to be a candidate for Sarcastics Anonymous in a few decades.  A dad who looked like a former college football player, with tattoos and shades and some kind of tech job; a mom who had curly red hair and talked about getting smashed in San Diego in previous times without either embarrassment or regret.  Good people.  After a week of writers it was heaven.  Stop after stop, the world distorted, longer and longer, as I worried:  Why the hell wasn’t anyone checking my ticket?  Would I miss my stop?  Where were we?  Why were there so many distracting and interesting things outside?

We watched the train go around corners.  We sat next to a circular section with two sets of accordion walls and put our feet on either side of the two sections of floor, to feel it turn and try to make it turn faster.

—

I got out at the right stop and walked toward Powell’s:  there was a block of so full of food trucks on the way, so many that I passed three Thai places alone.  I ordered food at one that looked busy and stood around waiting.  A couple of people asked for change.  The food trucks, as far as I could tell, only took cash, so it wasn’t a bad strategy.  But I’d already dealt with several sets of people asking for change.  Portland?  Has a lot of beggars.  Not a level worthy of fable.  But more than I’m used to.

I picked up my Thai and realized there was noplace to sit.  I walked toward Powell’s, trying to find a bench.  I did eventually find one, but a homeless person had spread out over it.  So I ended up at Powell’s (another three beggars at the corner), sat behind the bikes area, and ate panang curry, which was probably one of the less interesting things I could have ordered from the food truck area, considering that I eat it about once a month, but I was giving myself a break.  I gave a couple of bucks to a guy on the corner, who had a sign that said, “DIVORCED.  WIFE HAD A BETTER LAWYER God Bless” on it, who posed once for a couple of tourists and had this great, gravelly voice–no, not gravelly, more whiskey on the rocks (more booze, less smoke)–and who, every time someone spoke to him, tried to shift the conversation to the point where he–and the people around him–were people.  Everyone else just wanted the change.  ”Spare some change?” And then they’d give you whatever reason they needed the money.  Need change to park a car (?!?), need change because they lost a job (this from a hot goth girl outside Powell’s who did well for herself), need change for a bus transfer (which nobody ever looked at, when I had one).

This guy, though, he was a showman.  A storyteller.  He didn’t give too much detail; he didn’t have much time.  I listened to him and ate.  He didn’t really resent his wife–or so the story went–she took what she could get, which was what he would have done, if the circumstances had been reversed.  He was doing all right.  Times were hard but he’d see it through.  And you young guys?  You don’t know what you’re in for.

I finished up and thought about offering my leftovers to the guy, and decided against it.  Because he didn’t look like a panang curry kind of guy, but also because, shit–I thought it’d be insulting.  He had enough cash to buy lunch, especially considering the prices at the food trucks.  I tossed in an extra buck instead.

How long would it take him to make $500?  Did he have days that were good enough to pay for the days in winter when people rushed by shivering and didn’t absorb that little blast of cynicism and hope?  I hope so.

—

Powell’s.  I checked my backpack, which probably saved me from hating the place.  I wandered a little, and decided to get a feel for where everything was before I got too far into the weeds.

At first I had that rush.  The place is huge.  But slowly I realized–compared to an IKEA, it’s nothing.  Costco seemed closer.  Like, 1.75 Costcos = 1 Powells.*

Powell’s is a warehouse for books.  They’re scattered all over the place, and I’m sure there were more books elsewhere that I didn’t see–but it’s still a warehouse for books.

This is not to say that it’s not a magical place.  They’re books; I love books; Powell’s has a lot of books.  But the space wasn’t distorted for me the way the train ride to the city center was, or the way the block full of food trucks was, or the way the corner behind the bikes where I ate Thai and listened to a panhandler work his trade was.  I thought a couple of times about leaving early, and walking around the city center, but if I had done that, I’d had to have carried my backpack, and @#$% that noise.  So instead I got a cup of coffee, which helped.

Suddenly books started popping out at me, and I started texting myself titles.  I’d have to look them up later–I couldn’t buy, let alone carry, all of them.  I’d already shoved three books in my backpack through the course of the workshop, and I didn’t think I could shove in a fourth.

I decided, nevertheless, to try.

I knew the book as soon as I saw it.  Pleasure Bound:  Victorian Sex Rebels and the New Eroticism.  I have a crush on the 19th Century, and Richard Francis Burton in particular.  This book was mine.

I found it in History–Britain–Hanover/Victoria, I think.  The entire section was enchanting, but there was one shelf where I texted myself five or six titles alone, and thought about doing more.

That shelf felt enormous, larger than (say) the entire section on archaeology, plus all the foreign languages, as well as all of the rest of history, and the–well, entire rooms full of books.  That shelf distorted all the space around it, and made the entire store feel larger.

Terry Pratchett, in his Discworld books, writes about L-Space, Library Space, in which all libraries connect throughout space and time.  Powell’s is like that–but the space isn’t created by the books, but by our perceptions of them, our attention.  It would be cool to compare how big various people think the store is, what areas are bigger than others.   Someday, we’ll have virtual realities where we can do that, virtual bookstores whose shapes, whose very layouts change, as people move through them, in real time.  We will be able to build strange maps that change around the readers, subject by subject, book by book.**

I’m sure there’s someone out there who will whine that virtual bookstore maps are killing their love of reading.  There’s always someone who can’t enjoy the moment and has to get all wound up about oh my God the books are dying, dying… Well, I hate to say it, but Powell’s looks like it’s doing pretty well for itself.  They even have a Kobo kiosk, because you can buy Powell’s ebooks via Kobo now.  It’s a good place.  I liked it.

But it’s still just a warehouse for the books.

So here are the numbers:

Powell’s:  68,000 square feet.
IKEA in Centennial, CO: 415,000 square feet.
Costco in Colorado Springs, CO (Powers): 158,000 square feet.
Tattered Cover, downtown Denver, CO: 41,700 square feet.
Denver Art Museum (entire complex): 350,000 square feet.
Denver Public Library (new building downtown): 540,000 square feet.
Cheyenne Mountain Zoo in Colorado Springs, CO:  146 acres, or over 6.3 million square feet.
Amazon warehouses:  the numbers change almost as fast as the ones on a McDonald’s sign used to.  Millions and millions.

*As you can see, I wasn’t even close on that one.

**Yes, I know, online bookstores almost do this.  But not in a way that we can really feel or see in front of us.  Also, yes, I’ve read the Thursday Next series, although I didn’t realize where I might be going with this post when I started it.

Free Fiction Monday: Winter Fruit

Adrienne hides a secret face from the world:  she craves eating with an insatiable, magical hunger.  Only her husband, Miklos, an undertaker, knows the truth.  And yet loves her, passionately.  Because of her appetites, not in spite of them.

Then Miklos dies of a heart attack, and his brother Andros, the owner of the family Greek restaurant, creates a feast that tests Adrienne’s resistance to the core.  Andros has somehow learned Adrienne’s secret.  He wants to possess her, all of her, flesh and bone, and now Miklos isn’t there to stop him.  But he wants more than just Adrienne…

Someone removed Miklos’s  great bull of a heart from his chest after he died.  And Andros thinks Adrienne might have done something horrible with it.  Adrienne must discover what rules her:  her love of Miklos, or her appetites…

“Winter Fruit” will be free here for one week only, but you can also buy a copy at B&N, Amazon, Smashwords, Apple, Kobo, Powell’s and more.

—

Winter Fruit

 

Miklos had always wanted an old-fashioned Catholic funeral, with incense and a tomb, so he’d converted a few years ago, when the doctor started to warn him about his heart. He didn’t change his diet.

The tomb was cold, but not actually unpleasant.

I locked the door of the tomb behind him and placed the key on a black ribbon inside my dress, singing an old song under my breath. Outside the tomb, it was cold but sunny, and a light breeze played with the black silk scarf covering my hair.

I had to choke back an appalling giggle. Miklos would tell horrible jokes at funerals—the one about switching heads—the one about the man who wanted to be buried with his money, so his wife wrote him a check—

Andros stood next to me with his hand on my shoulder, squeezing hard. The family looked like dancers at a costume ball wearing masks of tragedy, which would soon be cast aside for the hideous grimaces of comedy at the dinner.

If only they had known how hungry I was.

—

The family stood near the man-made lake across the street and watched the wintry sun set behind the mountains. As soon as the arc of the sun left the sky, the aunts drew their scarves away from their faces and sang. It was not a Catholic song. It was not a Greek song. There were no words, no wailing, only harmonies. Suddenly they stopped, and we returned to the restaurant to eat.

Afterwards, we walked the half-mile to the restaurant. Andros had prepared the food himself, chewy, spicy kollyva, toasted paximadia, and piles of pomegranates, their crowns sacred to Miklos’s old religion and least worth an old-fashioned superstition from his new one.

And meat.

Andros had roasted an entire lamb in the parking lot behind the restaurant. He’d marinated it with yogurt and salt over three days while we prepared for the funeral. One of his cooks had stayed with the lamb during the last rites, basting it with garlic, lemon, oregano, and olive oil. Andros and I had viewed the lamb before the service had started.

He had left the head on, the spit driven grotesquely through the hole in the bottom of its jaw, making it seem as though the creature had suffered horribly, dying in the flames.

I swallowed back my desire to fling myself on the roast. “Is it ready?” I asked Andros.

Andros arched an eyebrow at me, making the hairs along my arms stand on end. “Certainly,” he said. “Hungry?”

I bit my lip. “I haven’t eaten since last night,” I said.

Andros pulled a switchblade out of his pocket and cut off a thin sliver of charred meat. “For you, the first cut.”

I held it under my nose for a second and popped it into my mouth. It tasted of bitter ashes.

—

Miklos was a mad clench of muscle and gristle, not an inch taller than I. His hair was wiry and black; his jaw couldn’t stay clean for over an hour. He was made like stone, so incredibly dense that on our honeymoon, he stood on the ocean floor near Naxos while fish and tiny octopi darted through his fingers as if he were a fallen statue. Perhaps he was.

—

The Harbor, white and Greek blue, shimmered in the twilight like a ghost. Miklos and Andros had claimed it was haunted by a third brother, a lost triplet who had died in their mother’s womb. Andros opened the door. Inside, the tables had been heaped with the feast and the wine stood ready to pour. Although I had been the first to walk through the door, Andros seated the aunts first. But who could blame him? I was only a beautiful young widow. Hardly family.

As he held the chair for me, he whispered in my ear, “Be with me.”

I sat, and he pushed the chair to the table. His arms weren’t as strong as Miklos’s, but they were strong enough.

“What, lovers?” I whispered.

“I will satisfy you in ways Miklos could not.”

“Ah. Food.”

“You never gain an ounce.”

I pinched Andros in the waist, and he jumped. One of the aunts glared at us.

“You are the perfect woman to me.”

“Let me mourn in peace, Andros.”

“I know your secret.”

“Which secret?”

“You killed Miklos.”

I hissed through my teeth. “I did no such thing.”

“You were hungry, weren’t you?”

“Not that hungry.”

“You gave him the heart attack. You frightened him.”

“It was your over-rich food that killed him,” I snapped out loud. “Andros, respect the dead for at least one meal.”

And then I started to eat.

—

If Miklos was a statue, Andros was an avalanche. Andros would seduce women by changing their children’s diapers, then insist the brats be left to cry while they made love. He would sell lobster with sea-urchin sauce for less than the food cost, because his customers must taste it. His staff quit within weeks or lasted for years: students, sadists, perfectionists. He regularly took waitresses for lovers, then fired them when he tired of them. He never admitted to fathering a child—but never denied it, either.

Andros’s hair was a soft brown, falling in soft waves that he tied back when he was in the kitchen. His hands were softer than Miklos’s—but covered with scars. Miklos could stand still for hours on end. Andros was light on his feet; he loved to dance. Miklos could only waltz.

—

The feast lasted well into the evening, and Andros was generous with the Amethystos. I ate heartily until I saw one of the aunts frowning at me; then I pushed my plate away and groaned at my fullness, tugging the waistband of my skirt.

Being so close to the mounds of food remaining on the table made me foul-tempered, so I stepped outside for air. Andros followed me. He put his arms around me, and I pushed him off.

“I want to make love to you,” he moaned.

I snorted. “Here?” The garbage was redolent.

“Here. Anywhere.”

“Go find one of the cousins. They won’t mind a little incest.”

“Please, Adrienne—” He ran a hand across my chest.

I slapped him. “Andros! Your brother is dead!”

“You killed him!” He reached for me again.

I tried to walk past him into the restaurant; he grabbed for me again. But I have known Andros for years, and I was ready. I rushed him against the trash bin with a loud, empty clang, slammed his head against the rim, and stormed off. Andros is persistent but easily shifted. And I am strong.

As I yanked open the door, the family doctor, Dr. Alex, stepped out. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’d be more worried about Andros if I were you. He might not survive the night, if he doesn’t keep his hands off me.”

Dr. Alex put an eyebrow up at me. “Several drugs, when combined with alcohol, cause erectile dysfunction. Perhaps it’s time for a prescription.”

I laughed. My stomach growled.

Dr. Alex said, “You can’t possibly be—”

I shoved past him. “It’s just gas,” I said.

“Ah,” he said, looking at Andros.

—

I fumed and helped myself to some wine and a plate of cookies, regardless of the aunts and their observations. Dr. Alex glanced at me, a bland look on his face—he had the most remarkably bulging forehead—from across the room.

I hadn’t killed Miklos! Dr. Alex knew it for the truth, no matter what poison Andros whispered. Miklos was older than I, with a heart even older than the years on his birth certificate could show. I wanted to shout the truth into the room.

Instead I picked up a pomegranate and shredded the rind and pith with my fingers. I left the vermillion, jeweled pips piled on a plate. I promised myself I could leave as soon as I had finished them, eating the vermillion jewels one by one to pass the time. And then I would take my memories of Miklos and go home, away from his squabbling, glowering relatives.

I was just about to eat the first pip when Andros returned. He tried to steal a handful of pips from my plate, but I grabbed his hand by the wrist and forced it away, unceremoniously knocking the spectacles off a nearby cousin.

Before his blood-kin could protest, Andros shouted, “A toast!” He picked up his wine, but his glass was empty, so he picked up my glass instead. I stood up, taking my plate of pomegranate pips with me, so quickly I nearly knocked over my chair.

“A toast! To Adrienne!”

“Andros,” I hissed. “Shut up!”

“To Adrienne and her hunger!” he roared, his voice echoing through the room as all conversation stopped.

No one echoed his toast. He drank regardless.

“May it never fail,” he concluded.

I flung the pips at him—the plate fell and shattered—I refused to eat anything he’d touched—and left, weeping tears of outrage and humiliation. I swore to myself never to walk through the door of Andros’s restaurant again.

You may judge for yourself whether I succeeded.

—

Halfway home and almost blinded by the moon in my eyes, a hand gripped my arm, and I wrenched myself free, ready to launch myself down Andros’s throat.

“Adrienne—” I should have known it was Dr. Alex, following me again.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted.

“Let me examine you,” he said.

I laughed. “You told Andros, didn’t you? After all these years, he knows. You think I killed Miklos, don’t you?”

Dr. Alex shrugged, turning his enormous forehead into a beachside of creases.

“I didn’t kill him!”

“Don’t tell me you never thought about it. He was almost as bad as Andros. In his own way.”

I shook my head. “No. Never. I would never hurt either of them.”

“All right,” he said. “Now, will you come back to my office tonight?”

I sighed. “Go back to the restaurant, Dr. Alex. People will talk. I can’t afford it.”

“Promise me.”

“All right. Monday.”

“We open at eight.”

“All right! Now, go!”

He smiled, the moonlight turning him into a ghost even before his scent left my nostrils. Then my stomach growled, and I turned and ran all the way home.

Oh God, what am I going to do? I thought. Miklos, Miklos, why did you leave me?

The phone was ringing off the hook, but nobody had left any messages on the answering machine—Andros. I locked, bolted, and chained the doors, put a pile of sliced, roasted lamb from the refrigerator on a platter, and went downstairs, eating as I went. The smell from the basement raised the hairs inside my nose, as always—disinfectant, bleach, and rancid fat.

Miklos had left me with six clients; Yuri had taken care of all but the two who needed more than rouge. I flipped on the lights.

The two clients were alone, sadly, their families leaving them to my care rather than spending the night. I would guard their bodies from the spirits, I promised them.

The dead are always heavier than they look. To move one part of the body is to try to move an entire life, they are so heavy.

I pulled open the gentleman’s drawer and pulled his gurney out, then wheeled it under my lights. The man had died young and handsome—until the automobile accident that had put him through the windshield and onto the asphalt. Yuri had done his best. He’d cleaned the face down to the pores, rebuilt the jawline and teeth, and attached the skin as securely as possible without damaging it further. Luckily, the eyelids were undamaged.

I scrubbed and dressed and left the empty platter in the sink. I’d already set up the man’s photograph at my table, along with a molded latex cheek I’d cast from the other side of the man’s face. I never try to make the dead look like the living, no matter how much the clients’ families beg me; it’s never a mercy.

A couple of hours later, I was still fussing with the way the bones of the jaw molded the cheek to match the photograph (they didn’t) and decided to take a break. Despite the ache in my back, I felt at peace, my stomach finally settled. I stripped off my gloves, washed up, and went upstairs.

The light on the answering machine was blinking. No messages from Andros, thank God. One from Dr. Alex reminding me of my appointment tomorrow morning. One from Yuri, begging me to unchain the door, because he couldn’t get in and finish with the female client before morning.

“Oh, hell,” I said, just as someone pounded on the back door. I unchained the door and flung it open before Yuri could leave. “I’m sorry—”

Andros shoved his way through. “You should be.”

I slammed the door, but it was too late. “Get out! I won’t sleep with you, no matter what lies you yell from the top of the mountain, you bastard!”

Andros walked into the kitchen and flung open the refrigerator. “Where is it?”

“Where is what, you fool?”

“Don’t play with me. It’s downstairs, isn’t it?” His voice crackled, as if he’d screamed himself hoarse, which would have taken some work, for him. Andros ran out of the kitchen, leaving the refrigerator door open.

My peace of mind had melted like grease in a frying pan, spitting and hissing in the heat. My stomach growled again. I slammed the refrigerator door and stalked after Andros.

Andros was looking inside the refrigerators downstairs, looking inside the other client’s bag.

“Get out of there!” I shouted.

“Where is it?” he gasped, trying to shout but unable to raise his voice above an ugly whisper.

“What? What? What is so important that you violate the peace of the dead?”

“Miklos’s heart!”

I was too confused to shout. “Why would his heart be here? We just buried him.”

Andros’s eyes seemed to catch fire, and he rushed me, both hands out to shove me or strangle me or both. I hit my head against the concrete wall. For some reason, my nose hurt like all the rages of hell for a moment before I passed out.

—

When I awoke, I was locked in the refrigerator downstairs. I knew this because the air was cold and humid (to keep skin from cracking in the dry air), I was surrounded by the smell of old blood and metal, and the door at my feet was locked. I kicked, saddened by the dents I must be leaving in the refrigerator door but unable to keep myself from lashing out.

After a few dozen kicks, I twisted myself around (I am just small enough; Miklos could never have done it), and fumbled around in the dark until I found the catch. I forced it with my fingers, pinching the rollers until the spring forced back, and pushed the door.

It opened only a fraction of an inch; the room outside the refrigerator was hardly warmer than the inside. But I could tell, from the metal rattling as I beat the door, I was well and truly locked inside my drawer.

I howled. “Andros!” My voice echoed back to me.

I could have begged Andros for my freedom, but he would have heard the threat in my voice regardless. I meant to kill him, as I had never meant to kill Miklos. One way or another, the body would never be found. I howled again, and my stomach howled with me.

But Andros didn’t answer me; no one did. Eventually I fell asleep.

—

I awoke to the smell of heaven, of succulent meat. Pork, burnt and smothered in a piquant sauce. Lamb from the ceremonial feast. Sautéed mushrooms, onions. The deep-earth smell of pickled cabbage with wine and garlic. Olives, bitter oranges, oregano. I could list the scents for you, one by one, until you covered your ears and laughed at me to stop, mocked me for my over-delicate nose. Cumin, turmeric, coconut. Mussels. Fresh cream. Cheese so passionate about its own molds it stung the nose to be within a dozen feet of it. Coffee, as fresh as a new-killed rabbit.

Another might call it a kind of seduction or a peace offering, a feast meant to tantalize or lull me. But I knew Andros, and Andros knew me.

I growled, “What do you want?”

Andros chuckled. “So you’re awake.” The lock of my cage rattled, and the door opened.

I listened. Andros backed away from the door quickly, almost running, then stopped. Someone else was in the room with him; I heard the breathing, which was so slow and even you would have thought the other was asleep. How could anyone have slept through that jackhammering of smells?

I slid the drawer free and dropped into the room like an animal, crouched until my hands were touching the tile floor, my nostrils open wide.

The room was filled with food. The gurneys were piled with it, the shelves, the tables, the chairs, every inch of space was crowded with a feast.

Andros stood next to the door, halfway out already. “Hello, Adrienne. This is all for you—help yourself.” He slammed the door behind him, and I heard the sound of a padlock quickly closing home.

I stalked to the door and tried it. Of course it was locked. I rammed the door with my shoulder. The door was too solid simply to break through, but I might have heard the hinges creak a little.

I rammed the door again and felt a little give. “Andros!” I howled.

And then the smell defeated me, and I started to eat.

—

Of all things, it was the kataifi, an almond dessert, that I reached for first. Ah, they were so good. And closest. Then I started on the dishes that would fade first. Olive oil ice cream with lemon-basil sauce so sour I could feel it burn my lips. An omelet with spinach, tomato, and feta. Sesame-seed biscuits with butter. Then red-snapper soup with zucchini, tomatoes, and potatoes. The lemon and olive oil in the soup was like silk on my tongue. How had he made all the food? In such a short amount of time?

With that, although I eyed the octopi, I was sated enough to attack the door again. “Let me out!” I screamed. My shoes were missing, so I beat at the hinges with my shoulders until they were raw, then cleared the food off a side table and used that until I had smashed it to bits. I had almost twisted the bolt off when I heard a moan from within a mound of food on a gurney.

I froze.

The moan came again, thick with mucus, like something drug up from the depths of the sea. “Aghch—”

A platter of crabs slid onto the floor and lay still.

Oh, God. What had Andros done? What had he tried to make me do? Had me meant me, God forbid, to eat someone?

I walked back into the room, my heart thudding with fear for the first time, so hard I thought it would choke me.

On tiptoe, I approached the gurney. The cement floor was cold on my bare feet, colder than death. I do not fear the dead—but I feared whomever or whatever was on the table, breathing harshly. A dozen skewers of shrimp slid to the floor. I held my breath and reached out one hand to push aside the platter of garlic and wine-steamed mussels—

“Dr. Alex!”

—

Food didn’t trouble me until I became a woman. I have always been strong for my size, but it wasn’t until I developed these hips that I started to feel a terrible hunger.

Perhaps, when I was a girl, I might have lost control and eaten someone, in the depths of my need. But at thirty-five, there was no chance I would do so, no matter how hungry I was. I would—and I swear to you that I truly would—eat my own leg first.

That damned Andros!

—

Andros had not used subtle arts to make Dr. Alex unconscious—Dr. Alex’s head was tender on the back, bloody and obviously swollen through his thinning hair.

His eyes were open but wandering. I waved my hand in front of his face, and he twitched but could not follow it. I squatted next to him and murmured in his ear, “You must be quiet, Dr. Alex. We don’t know what Andros will do. He believes in his heart that I killed his brother. Perhaps he believes you helped me hide Miklos’s death.”

“Don’t eat me,” Dr. Alex whimpered.

I snorted. “I swear, Dr. Alex, I will pick those crabs off the floor before I eat you.”

His eyes flicked toward mine, almost seeing me. He smiled a little. I reached over, picked one of the crabs up, bit through the shell—and swallowed. His eyes went wide and I laughed, spraying chunks of shell on the floor.

I was calm then, or calm enough to hold myself back from either breaking down the door or consuming the feast. The food had all been made with fondness, if not love. How could I tell that? Ah, how could I not?

I thought Andros would burn down the house with myself and Dr. Alex in it. He would shoot me if I tried to take Dr. Alex to safety. But he cannot think of a woman he could love more, with insatiable appetites that he considers a blessing, not a curse. He will kill the woman he loves—but first, the horrifying, loving feast.

Dr. Alex must have come to the house to check on me when I did not appear for my appointment and been hit on the head for his trouble.

“But what about the heart?” I murmured to myself.

“A bull’s heart,” Dr. Alex mumbled. “I used a bull’s heart. And it was barely large enough.”

I grabbed the gurney to keep myself from sliding to the floor, knocking loose a pattering rain of oysters in their shells, alabaster calamari rings laid on pasta ribbons dyed black with their own ink, and a plate of lobster, bright red shells like the armor of the god of war. Dr. Alex wobbled, but I steadied him as I steadied myself.

I could see it, as plain as I can see the sky.

“Where did you put it?” I asked.

“In a jar,” Dr. Alex said. “In storage.”

And it was I who had given Dr. Alex permission to perform the autopsy, his little look-see to determine the cause of death: heart attack.

“When?” I asked.

“Why did he have to—I sent him all the—why did he have to ask so many questions?” Dr. Alex panted and turned his head from side to side.

“What about Yuri?” I asked.

“What about him?” Dr. Alex asked. He sounded suspicious, and I guessed I might have only one more question before he was fully conscious.

I leaned closer, so my hair, which had come loose, trailed across his face and filled his nose with my scent as though I were his lover. Of all the things I wanted to know—proof of his guilt—who else was involved—blackmail—revenge—I wanted to know what he saw when he looked at me, when he stood next to me and implied that I had scared Miklos to death with my appetites.

I purred, “How big is my heart?”

“No bigger than a lamb’s,” Dr. Alex said. “It will fit into the same jar easily.”

—

It would be easy enough; the room was well-stocked with knives and saws and served with an abundance of drains.

Because I had told him I wouldn’t hurt him, I hit him in the head with a bone hammer first, knocking him out like a steer. His expression was stunned even before I hit him. I had to consider—should I run his fluids down the drain? I could eat his bones, if I sawed them in small enough pieces. The idea of his raw flesh disgusted me, so I called for Andros to let me out, so I could cook it. But I received no answer. I called again. Nothing.

Either the police would come, or they wouldn’t. Either Andros would open the door, or he wouldn’t. I did not think, one way or another, that I would have time to prepare Dr. Alex properly, as meat. As offal.

Miklos! With that cry and a scalpel, I cut Dr. Alex’s throat. The hammer had not killed him: the living blood pumped free. I leaped back. Even though I had taken care to stand behind him, the blood sprayed widely at first. After a time, I rolled Dr. Alex onto the floor, kneeling on his back until the blood had stopped running, long after he had died. Then I washed him and hung him from a ceiling joist, after I had pushed away the acoustic tiles.

—

I decided not to damage the door any further—the story I would have to tell would be complicated enough without having to explain having torn the bolt out of the door.

I was only just finishing up the last swirl of juices and grease from the bottom of a platter of fried oysters, a splash of water I’d poured in to save myself the indignity of having to lick it clean, when Andros unlocked the door. I tossed the platter at his head; he gulped back whatever he had intended to say and disappeared as the platter rebounded from the door frame.

I laughed.

“It’s all right, Andros,” I said. “It was only a joke.”

He peeked around the corner like a little boy. I growled; he vanished again; I almost burst from laughing.

When he reappeared, his eyes wandered the room.

But for a pile of dishes stacked neatly by the sink—I had been only just about to wash the last platter before I had thrown it at him—the room appeared as it normally did.

“I suppose the clients’ families are worried,” I said. “Or is it still only Monday yet?” No clocks in the preparation room; Miklos had insisted. And a lock on the massive door; it could only be opened from the outside. A mystery. I wished I’d asked him while he’d been alive, asked, and not allowed myself to be turned aside.

“Just now Tuesday,” Andros said. He glanced at the refrigerator and away, but not so quickly that I didn’t notice. I wiped my hands—wet with suds only—and opened the door to the autoclave.

The silvery dental amalgam was cool to the touch, barely. I took the mass in my palm and crushed it with my thumb until it tangled together. I tossed the mass to Andros. “A memento,” I said. “Or use it for blackmail. Your choice.”

Andros caught the amalgam in his fist, held it over his heart, kissed it, and put the metal in his pocket. Then he shuddered.

I told myself it would not matter whether Andros loved me or not.

We interrupted each other.

“Did—” I asked.

“Did you kill—” Andros asked.

“I killed Dr. Alex,” I said. I tried to smile ironically, but I think I merely appeared bitter. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Miklos is avenged.”

Andros dropped his head on his chest, his face trapped in as ugly a grimace as I’ve ever seen. “You didn’t kill Mikos then,” he said.

I suppose I should have rushed across the room to comfort him, or at least pretended to cry, so he could comfort me, but I am not that kind of woman. That was not what had made Miklos steal me away at sixteen, his brutal, sad eyes more thrilling than even his caress.

Also, I admit I was angry.

“It is time for you to go,” I said. “I forgive you. But you must go.”

He nodded, unable to speak. I closed my eyes, smelled ozone as the hot air shocked through me, counted three, and opened them again.

He was gone.

—

Upstairs, in the kitchen, a cake box and an envelope had been placed on the breakfast table, a place of pleasant memories.

I cut a slice of the cake and opened a bottle of Irish stout to drink with it.

The cake flesh was supple chocolate, its fine crumb springy enough to spring back under a caress without crumbling. Between its two layers was pomegranate jam, sweet yet astringent, just barely blessed with thyme.

The entire cake was draped in ganache, rich as butter and bitter as death. In fact, I think he mixed in ashes—but not many, not many at all.

Across the top of the cake he had scattered pomegranate pips, blood-jewels, love-jewels. The symbol of both marriage and death.

I ate it all.

I did not open the envelope, although I treasure it still, because I already know what is inside.

Later, I found that Andros had deeded the Harbor to me, for moneys and services rendered. It thrives under my hand and the aunts’ cooking, but I cannot make it sing, not the way Andros made it sing, and not the way the women sang beside the lake the night Miklos was sent home.

I am happiest here, with the clients, sharing their peace. And, of course, the aunts make sure I always have enough to eat.

 

Giveaway for Reviews: Guinea Pig Apocalypse

Would you like a free copy?

The print version of Guinea Pig Apocalypse is up.  Yay!  You can order it online at Amazon or B&N, and probably a bajillion other online bookstores.

However, I could use some reviews.  I have a giveaway going on at LibraryThing right now; you can scroll down or do a search for “guinea” to find it (there are a lot of different giveaways–if you want free books, it’s a great reason to sign up for LT, because they do this every month).  For a limited time, I will also pass out ebook copies to anyone who drops me a line to request one, barring anything weird, like someone with a signature line that reads “violates copyright for fun and profit.”

 

Guinea Pig Apocalypse

by De Kenyon

What? It’s summer and you have kids who are bored? Who knew?!? Why not hand them a copy of this story to keep them amused? It’s a cute story, especially for those of use who are Guinea pig fans, but there’s no shortage of action (or poop). Parents with a sense of humor required, but I’m especially looking for reviews by kids aged 9-12. (If they’re younger, you may want to skim the book first.)

Galileo’s mad-scientist parents have done it again: invented something that got completely out of control. This time, it’s a matter replicator in their basement. And a squirrel army out to get rid of the humans. And lots…and LOTS of Guinea pigs out of sewage. Yuck!

Now it’s up to Galileo and his friend, the giant Guinea pig Max, to stop the pigs from being mind-controlled by the squirrels and taking over the world!

You can get the ebook of Guinea Pig Apocalypse at these online retailers, and more: Amazon, Kobo, Smashwords, B&N, and Apple.

 

 

First reader request: The Throckmorton Bond

Right. If you would like to be a first reader on a 42K Victorian fantasy short novel with some sex, a soupcon of WTFery, and a gallon of smartassery, let me know; I’ll send it out on Monday.

Sample:

James sprinted to the door and flung it open. In the brief glimpse I had before he slammed it shut after him, I saw the face of the guard, red and angry, lit by the brighter light of the corridor.

“They are dressing in men’s clothes,” James announced. There was an angry statement in a low voice, and then James added, scandalized, “Of course not!” A question, less angry, and James replied, “Lord, man, I don’t know. Whatever it is that gels get up to in men’s clothes. Horseback riding. Putting on tableaux. Trying to sneak past their guards to gad about town.”

Or, I considered, going fishing, and thus in need of fishing-poles from the boathouse where Cook was being held. I crept slowly toward the door.

“When they…ahem, when Miss Elizabeth threatened to begin removing her dress, I exited the room as quickly as possible. It was clear that Nicholas wasn’t about, and that they weren’t to be dissuaded from their plans.”

After another low bit of conversation on the guard’s part, with James making various noises of wordless agreement, the door creaked, and footsteps–two sets–began walking away down the corridor. I reached the door and locked it, leaving the key in the keyhole. The stairs downward creaked, then stopped, and James’s voice called out, “I should keep an eye on them, if I were you. You never know what mischief that girl is going to get up to.”

The panel behind me brushed against the floor as Victoria closed it. “What are we getting up to?” she whispered.

“Take off that dress,” I whispered back, going through my brother’s wardrobe, looking for trousers that might be pinned up or let out to fit Victoria’s decidedly womanish curves. “If we’re going to get into trouble, we may as well get into the kind of scrape that has to be hushed up because it’s so ridiculous that no-one would believe it. We’re going to be village boys out for a few trout, and sneak out and find Cook at the boathouse to question her.”

“Hmph,” she said, but when I turned to face her, my arms full of humble trousers and plain linen shirts, her face bore not an expression of disgust but of satisfaction. “That’ll tweak Conroy to no end, I’ll wager.”

“Indeed,” I said. “Now put on these trousers.”

New Horror Story: Be Good

Available from Amazon, B&N, Kobo, and Smashwords.  Awaiting Apple.

Be Good

DeAnna Knippling

Laurie Lee can only watch across the fields as the tornado comes barrelling down on the Home, a place where parents send their kids when they’ve been bad–a place from which her Pa has been saving runaways for years. In the destruction, she finds a choice: stand up for what’s right…or “be good.”

 

Cover Updates.

Cover updates on ebooks continues!

Things You Don’t Want but Have to Take

DeAnna Knippling

Madeline lived an ordinary life, married to a company man, staying home all day to help out at church, bake cookies, and pretend that she had never been anything but a housewife. Then the past comes back to haunt her: a box, carefully taped up, containing a horror that she’d never be able to get rid of, never be able to hide from. Not for long.

She’s decided it’s time to stop running from the thing in the box.

She just has to find a way to keep David from ever finding out.

Available at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, and Smashwords.  Still waiting on Apple to upload (le sigh).

 

Goddess of the Floods

DeAnna Knippling

The gods can build in a single night a tower that would require the toil of many men over many seasons. Balathu, chief of scribes, brings the King’s offerings to the gods. Balathu is a virtuous man, but the tools of the gods—a mysterious woman, made of water, and forbidden to any man’s touch—are lovely in his sight, and in the sight of the King.

Truly, weak men are always seized by fate.

Available at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, and Smashwords.  Still waiting on Apple to upload.

 

 

Abominable

DeAnna Knippling

You’re just a guy who fell in love. Fell in love with a woman and got her pregnant. And married her. And helped her rebuild her family farm. And had a kid. And…and now she’s leaving you. You need something to ease the pain.

You need something warm.

The only problem is that you’re not the only one. Something’s outside in the snowstorm…and wants to get in.

Available at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, and Smashwords.  Still waiting on Apple to upload.

 

Mecharai: What to do with all those empty video stores?

Lee asked me last week what should go in the empty video rental store locations.

I like thinking up business ideas: I don’t actually want to do the work of implementing them, I just like thinking them out.  I should start using these businesses in stories.  Sheesh.  My last one was for a corner pan-ethnic grocery store that focused on providing neat, healthful, and easily-made food, customizeable by neighborhood…spending more time on data collection than perhaps other stores would.  Sadly, Walmart has stepped into that gap with mid-sized groceries that provide cheap crap food that you can’t make into much (unless you like boiled potato chips) and that resemble every other Walmart, everywhere, only with just the grocery.

Anyway, after some brainstorming on the video rental store problem, I ended up with Mecharai.

General concept: Internet Cafe.

Why another Internet Cafe?: Increasingly, people need comfortable places to meet and do stuff together but don’t want to do it in the privacy of their own homes, what with one thing and another.  Thus, coffee shops.  Another example would be that of the tabletop gaming store:  a place for people to socialize and entertain themselves.

However, coffee shops are places where you have to be quiet, and you’re also easily interruped by non-like-minded folk.  Internet cafes tend not to be places to socialize so much as let your eyes glaze over as you check email–very isolating.  And gaming stores with open tables are (I’m sorry) not as widely spread or as profitable as they used to be (well, from my experience, anyway).  Comic book shops used to be this way, too, but I don’t see that happening anymore.

And so: why not have a geek-minded place where people can meet and socialize in a way they’ve become comfortable with?

Market: Young adult to about 35 or so, more men than women.  (Probably.)

Features:

Espresso bar.
Vending machines, possibly automat machines (the kind where you open an individual door to dispense pie and the like.
Microwave.
Preferential relationships set up with nearby delivery restaurants, not for cheaper food so much as more prompt service.
LAN stations with popular games installed.
Places to set up your own systems.
Quite possibly Very Large Screens to display Firefly marathons, latest episodes of beloved series, tournament play, or particularly intense battles.
Soundproofish side rooms for actual meetings, study, projects, tabletop gaming, cards, etc.  A nap policy should be put in place, but I’m not sure what yet.
An open area in the middle for adaptability, with extra tables/chairs available, probably with beanbags or some such when not otherwise in use.
Onsite tech.  Must be able to troubleshoot LANs and brew a mean espresso.
In areas where warranted, Mech pods.

Decor: Ukiyo-e art, but not traditional ukiyo-e art.  Ukiyo-e art with mechs.  Mech-samurai aesthetic, in other words.

Rules of thumb:

Keep the techs doing tech work 80% of the time.  Not so much fixing computers but jumping into games, getting people to try new games, facilitating tournaments, passing along funny cat videos.  Keeping this flexible yet consistent is going to take some finessing on the operating procedures, but I think it’s worth it.
Do not split tech vs. nontech jobs.  To work there, you have to be a tech.  And you have to be willing to make espresso/work on backend shit/count the drawer.  A lot of the tech guys I know who are younger (under 30) have been stuffed into tech-only jobs from an early age, so this will be an issue training them–but I think it’ll be a great benefit, with people who are smarter and more flexible than if people were kept in separate tracks.  Non-techs can get hired but contingent on getting certs or showing other significant benchmarks.  So benefits should reflect $$ for continuing ed.
Create a community, both of clients and of people who used to work for the company, to help spread the business and to establish insider contacts with gaming companies and other tech companies, with eventual goals of having games premier at the company or other exclusive, preferred treats.
Experiment with new tech: new software, new hardware, new ways of approaching the idea of “game.”  Have one location with Arduino toys.  One location with a prototype Jenga game where the center of gravity shifts based on some algorithm, I don’t know. Rotate new toys through locations.

Needs satisfied:

A public geek-cave, that is, an area away from people who can’t deal with a house full of geeks; a place to host stuff with people you don’t actually in your house.
Caffeine.
Community space for people who hate the forced togetherness of a lot of in-person communities:  a very informal, irreverant community.
Tech help not invested in Selling You More Crap; SMEs on site.
A place to try out new stuff–oh, like a treadmill station.

I’m not sure how to approach the whole liquor issue.  On the one hand, it would be nice to be able to get a beer.   On the other hand–issues.  I’m going to say, “Probably no alcohol,” based on keeping techs doing tech work 80% of the time, and also to foster community.  A gaming store that doesn’t bring in teens is going to weed itself out of a business in short order.

http://www.theonion.com/articles/if-you-wish-to-be-a-writer-have-sex-with-someone-w,32687/