A. Lee Martinez's Blog, page 18

Two Appearances

A quick update on two local appearances in the DFW area.

I’ll be at the Euless Public Library this Thursday evening, along with several other fabulous writers.

And this weekend I will also be at Fencon, a local con. It was my first con ever, and one I heartily recommend.

Plug-In Humor (writing)

The comedian Paul F. Tompkins talked about “Joke Stealing” once. It’s an occasional accusation among professional comedians. “Hey, you stole my joke.” His commentary boiled down to two thoughts:

First, your average person will never care about Joke Stealing, even in a professional capacity because for most people, humor is entirely joke stealing. Someone hears something funny and repeats it later. They almost never attribute it to the source they heard it from, and it would be weird if they did. So while there might be a case against stealing jokes in a professional capacity, it doesn’t really fly with comedy amateurs, which is pretty much everyone not standing on a stage.

His second thought was that it only works to steal a joke if it is fairly generic. It can’t be something complex, built around observation and the teller’s personality. It has to be something that can be dropped in easily and that almost anyone can use. To paraphrase Tompkins, if it takes more than seven seconds to say, it’s probably not a comedy bit that can be stolen with ease.

This is why most easily repeatable jokes have almost no context around them, and why they’re popular but also, usually not that funny. We’ve all heard them before. They’re the “funny” racist jokes that lead into a punchline that everyone already knows is coming because a variation of it has existed since humans started telling jokes. They’re “Why did the Blonde do this?” jokes. They start with a universal premise and work backwards, and even if they’re harmless (though they aren’t always), they require almost no creativity on the teller’s part, no point of view, no personality. They only require the teller memorize a series of words and repeat them.

Kids’ jokes are a lot like this, and it makes sense. Children are still trying to understand what humor is, so they need something they can repeat easily. They also don’t generally have as much sophistication as adults (generally) and so anything requiring more than a pun or a funny image tends to be lost on them.

As a “Funny Writer”, I sometimes bristle at the title. Not because I mind being called funny, but because I find that most humor is pretty generic stuff. I almost never write jokes. I write absurd situations and have characters honestly deal with those situations. I tweak fantasy conventions. I create odd characters with unique points of view. The humor in all those cases is meant to come almost always from those elements, not from a gag inserted like a plug-in in the middle of the scene.

I’d compare it to the musicals I like versus the musicals I dislike. The musicals I love, such as The Nightmare Before Christmas, has songs that are related to the plot and often advance the story. The musicals I dislike tend to have songs just because it’s time to have a song. The tune might be pretty, but it’ll always seem superfluous. So it is I often find with humor in fiction.

Not coincidentally, this is why I’ve never been a fan of puns. I know some people adore them, but they tend not to be particularly clever. One word sounding like another doesn’t strike me as especially funny. It’s why I’ll always rebuke anyone who says I rely on puns for humor because it’s just not true.

The problem with situational and personality driven humor though is that it isn’t nearly as quotable and simple to carry forward as more generic humor. Donkey from the Shrek movies is the most quoted character of the series because nearly everything he says is unnecessary for the scene and doesn’t add anything but a quotable line. It works fine for most people, but it’s why Donkey was always annoying to me. He has personality occasionally, but mostly he’s just there to spout generic jokes to put in the trailer.

The other truth is that this isn’t just about humor. We’re talking about how people tend to create opinions as well, a cute and paste patchwork of ideas they’ve borrowed from other sources. Life is complicated. Who has time to think about it all? So we putter along, spitting back what we believe we believe.

Plug-In Humor works fine. It’s great for casual conversation with strangers and passing acquaintances, but we should recognize it for what it is: A conversational substitute, a superficial exchange. And great humor doesn’t fit any situation or even most.

Take it from this Funny Writer.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Too Many Curses

I love Too Many Curses, my fifth novel. It is, however, probably my most obscure and least loved. There are a few reasons for this, but most practically, it was my last novel with Tor Publishing, which meant it didn’t get a lot of love from the publisher. They did eventually release it in mass market and on Audible.com, for which I am grateful. But it was my last book with the publisher, and I can’t blame them for not being terribly excited by it.

Beyond that, I think it’s just a tough book for a lot of people to get because it is so gosh-darned optimistic. Granted, I’m not renowned as a dark or negative writer, but Too Many Curses is deliberately a very positive book about a bunch of characters in way over their head and how through perseverance and pluck, they manage to save the day. It is a tale of genuine heroism through sheer determination and practicality, a theme that runs throughout the story. In a world that equates cynicism with sophistication, that’s always going to be a bit of a tricky sale.

At the heart of the novel is Nessy, as unassuming a protagonist as you can get. She’s small, inconsequential, with no great powers and a reserved stoicism. She has no greater dreams than to tend her castle. She takes pride in her job, and she believes in doing things right. She could easily be a doormat, and at first glance, one might even assume that she is. Many of the characters do, including Margle, her master.

We’re so trained to see heroes as awesome people or people who become awesome that Nessy is an intentional subversion of that. Nessy is awesome, and by the book, she’s become more awesome. But it is a reserved, quiet form of competence. She doesn’t have a magic sword. She doesn’t defeat the forces of evil with a smirk and a quip. By the end of the book, she has grown into a more capable, more confident person, but she hasn’t changed how she acts or views the world.

Nessy is defined by her own unshakable confidence in herself, and her belief that those around her are not her enemies. She lives in a castle full of curses, and she tries to do right by everyone and expects them to do right by her. This sort of optimism isn’t grounded in naivety, but in a belief that the world is a better place to believe in the good in people rather than assume the worst. With almost no exception, she greets every challenge with a dogged (pun intended) determination to rise to the situation as best she can, and by doing so, brings about the best in everyone around her.

The ultimate theme of Too Many Curses is that of family and the power of optimism. The world can be better if we strive to be better, and even a little kobold housekeeper can save the day (with some help of course) if she doesn’t give in to cynicism. It’s an idea that is difficult for people to accept, and reality isn’t always like that. But the job of fiction isn’t to tell us that the world sucks. It shouldn’t always be its job anyway. And in my worst moments, I sometimes think of Nessy and try to be more like her.

(And, yes, I know I created her, but it doesn’t mean she hasn’t grown into something bigger in my mind. She feels like a person, and one I would love to know.)

The entire point of Nessy is that we’re so often told that heroes are larger than life figures, who swoop in and save the day, often with their wits or martial prowess, that it’s easy to forget that most problems in real life don’t require us to be superheroes. I’m all for escapism, and I love a good action hero as much as the next fellow. But Nessy is something else, and I think she’s fairly unique in terms of fantasy literature, where often being able to summon dragons or slay sorcerers is the defining aspect of our heroes.

Nessy doesn’t slay. She doesn’t plot. She doesn’t scheme.

She works. She believes in others. She refuses to back down simply because something is difficult, and she places compassion and honesty as virtues. She’s never preachy about it. She doesn’t demand respect, but damn it, if you don’t respect her by the end of that book, I just don’t know how that’s possible.

I have a feeling that Too Many Curses will always be the obscure work in my catalog, and I’m fine with that. It’s a shame, but the book itself is one I’m immensely proud of. And I love Nessy more every year.

And you should too.

Keelah Se’lai

Fighting the good fight, Writing the good write,

LEE

Suspicions

“It’s better to think the best of everyone and be wrong than assume the worst and be right.”

–Nessy, Too Many Curses

 

We are an inherently suspicious species, but it is, often, a dishonest form of suspicion. We don’t mistrust and suspect on evidence but on our own preconceived notions and ideas. Once you know where to look for it, you see it everywhere.

I have a weird habit of watching paranormal “reality” shows like Finding Bigfoot and Ghost Adventures. Not because I believe in these things. If anything, these shows have convinced me there is simply no such thing as ghosts, psychic powers, or cryptids. Yet when I discuss these shows with other unbelievers, it’s often assumed that the participants of the shows are all duplicitous or deceptive. They don’t believe. They just pretend for the camera.

That suspicion always bothers me, and you see it everywhere. In politics, it’s the assumption that the other party is full of scheming manipulative tricksters while our party of choice is full of flawed, but sincere, idealists. In culture, it’s the unspoken truth that if someone likes art we don’t care for, it’s because they simply don’t “know” any better. How many prejudices are justified by assuming the worst of a group simply because they look, act, or live in a different area? This sort of default suspicion isn’t founded on anything other than a desire to discredit and dismiss those who walk a different path than us.

There are hypocrites and cynical manipulators. These sorts of people do exist, and you’d be hard pressed to find a level of society or a social group they haven’t infiltrated, but determining whether a person is genuinely sincere or not isn’t as simple as determining whether they agree with you. It’d be simpler if that was true. There are times when I’m watching Zac and the Ghost Adventures gang running around in the dark, NOT actually finding anything even remotely close to a ghost, and think, “They can’t still believe this stuff.” But then I think, belief is a funny thing, isn’t it? People believe all kinds of weird things, and to those on the outside, those beliefs look downright bizarre. I’m sure this applies to myself as well. And to you.

Sincerity isn’t a measure of how often people agree with us, and if our first thought is that someone is lying to us simply because they say something we don’t like then we aren’t being skeptical. We’re being obnoxious.

The God of Mire (short fiction)

They cast Brant into the swamp, leaving him to die because none of them had the guts to kill him themselves. They’d push him into the muck and the mud, but getting their hands dirty was beneath them. They thought it made them better people, but it only made them cowards, hiding behind tradition and rules they all followed without question.

Noma had hesitated to follow Brant. She would’ve liked herself more if she hadn’t, but she wasn’t as strong as she hoped. She watched him trudge into the mire and thought there wasn’t any point throwing her own life away when she couldn’t save his. Whatever cruel mercies the swamp offered, it never surrendered a sacrifice.

She wasn’t broken. She was still useful, even a bit pretty. If she stayed, she’d be sure to find a suitable husband and a nice home and as much happiness as their gods allowed them. But in a village of blind fools and harsh gods, she wondered if there could ever be anything of the sort.

She caught up to him, limping through the mud, and put her arm over his shoulder. He could move adequately with his crutch, but she could help.

“You don’t have to–” he said.

She smiled. Until now, she’d never pondered the harsh miseries of her world. Until the accident, she had assumed they would marry and everything would go on as it was supposed to. Now she saw it as all a lie. Even if the gods hadn’t taken his leg, there was always someone somewhere being sacrificed. It shamed her that she hadn’t realized that before.

It was said that those who managed to cross the swamp might find peace on the other side. Another lie, but they carried on, believing it because they had nothing else to believe in. They managed to avoid the hungry river reptiles and the venomous beasts, but exhaustion set in. They stopped to catch their breath.

“You should go on without me,” he said.

“We go together,” she replied as she took his hand.

A withered shape lurched from the darkness. The thing was almost a woman, but not quite. Hunched and pale-skinned and with a face absent of features save a single, sickly green eye.

“What do we have here?” asked the hag. “Two new visitors to my kingdom?”

They were too worn out to be frightened by the long-toothed woman, the goddess of this marsh.

“I see this young man belongs here,” she said, “but why are you here?”

She noticed their clasped hands and nodded to herself. “It is a special kind of foolishness to die like this when you don’t have to.”

“I love him,” said Noma.

“You’re young. Love is easy when you’re young. Talk to me in another twenty years.” She poked a long, gnarled finger into her ear and pulled out a spider. She dropped it to the ground, and it skittered away. “Come along then.”

She disappeared into the swamp, and they followed. Their lives were hers to do with as she willed. They saw no point in resisting. The vegetation parted for the hag, and the mud stopped clinging so tenaciously.

“Are you going to eat us?” asked Noma.

A coughing chuckle was her reply.

“Are you a god?” asked Brant.

“I don’t know. I think I was. Once. I remember a place, and it was beautiful. More beautiful than I can say, but it wasn’t a place I wanted to be. I left. And here I am. Here I have always been. Waiting.”

“Waiting for what?” asked Noma.

“Just waiting.”

They arrived at a village. A child with one arm and another with a missing eye ran past them.

“What is this place?”

“Just a place,” said the hag. “Damp and cold, but home to some.” She plucked a black rose from the ground and handed it to the one-armed girl. “It isn’t much, but it is more than some will ever have.”

“You aren’t going to kill us?” asked Brant.

“What do your deaths matter to me?” replied the hag. “Whether they come today or tomorrow or seventy years from now, my sacrifices come to me one way or another. In the meanwhile, live as best you can.”

She loped away into the gray swamp.

“Thank you,” said Noma.

“Don’t thank me,” said the goddess of the mire. “Leave the gods to our own affairs and live.”

She disappeared into the darkness.

Noma lifted Brant over her shoulder, and the two of them walked into their new home. Maybe the first true home they’d ever known.

The WHY of Your Story (writing)

Hey, Action Force. Here’s a cool, short article on writing I did for writers group, the DFW Writers Workshop. Check it out:

The WHY of Your Story

 

The Fall of Venus: Weird War of the Space Vampires

So a while back, I posted this idea of a gigantic A. Lee Martinez Crossover Event called The Weird War of the Space Vampires. Is this the beginning of it? Maybe. Still experimenting with the idea a bit here, but if I get a good response, I don’t see why I can’t continue it.

Regardless, I hope you enjoy it. Always glad to see Zala from Emperor Mollusk vs. the Sinister Brain.

 

THE FALL OF VENUS

Weird War of the Space Vampires

 

The war was over.

The invaders had come out of nowhere. Their armada had materialized like titanic phase vorps over Venus’s major cities and unleashed a tide of soldiers and war machines. A defense might still have been mounted, but the infiltrators and saboteurs had struck at that same moment. Protectorate headquarters had fallen, destroyed by its own Master General. Of the soldiers left, perhaps one in a hundred was a spy for the enemy. It was enough to sow distrust, enough to stifle resistance, enough to turn the tide of every desperate battle against the Venusians.

A distress signal was sent out to the other worlds of the Sol System, but these calls for help were met with pleas of their own. The invaders had been planning this for centuries, building their armies, infiltrating every arm of opposition. Now an impregnable force barrier covered Venus. It shut out the stars and cast darkness over the planet. In the darkness, the enemy had already won.

Zala watched on the monitors as cities surrendered against this scourge. The enemy soldiers standing around the capital palace was too much to bear. She turned away from the monitor and scowled.

The Beloved and Immortal Queen sat on her throne, watching the video feed as her planet fell, one lost battle at a time. She was a tall, regal figure in a golden gown. Her scales glowed with a soft blue light, and her large green eyes betrayed no expression. She was the beauty, grace, and power of Venus, but it was all meaningless.

“Your Majesty,” said Zala, “I request permission again to take my battleguard to the front.”

“Denied.”

“But Your Majesty, are we to sit here and wait for death? Surely, it is better to meet–”

The colorful plumage on the Queen’s head flattened. “Do you dare question my wisdom?”

The rest of Zala’s battleguard averted their gaze. The Queen stared Zala in the eye.

“Well, do you?”

Zala frowned, but said nothing.

“Venus has faced worse than this, and we shall carry onward, as we always do,” said the Queen.

“But this is different.” Zala pointed to the monitors. “This could very well be the end of us all, and we’re supposed to cower here–”

The Queen held up her hand. “Enough. You overstep yourself. I would think, given your past failures, you would accept your limitations. You will wait, and when the time comes, you will die for me and no other.”

Zala bowed. “Yes, My Queen.”

The Queen chuckled. “I think perhaps you’ve spent too much time with that Neptunon criminal you obsess over. It’s corrupted your thinking.”

Outside, an explosion shuddered against the bunker’s walls. Bits of dust fell from the ceiling.

Zala thought that perhaps the Queen was right. Emperor Mollusk was despicable, reckless, arrogant. He was also intelligent, insightful, and capable. She almost wished he were here right now. If there was anyone who could save her world, it was him, but he was doubtlessly too busy saving Terra from this unknown menace. If he hadn’t caused this in the first place. It was always possible.

The monitors flickered and a long, pale face appeared in all of them. He smiled. “It is done. Venus is ours.”

“And what of the other worlds?” asked the Queen.

“They will fall soon enough. Only Terra puts up noteworthy resistance, but even it cannot stand against us long.”

She grinned. “Excellent.”

Zala turned and drew her scimitar. “You’re one of them.”

The Queen laughed. “We all are, my dear Zala.”

Zala’s loyal battleguard all drew their weapons. She stood alone in a room full of enemies.

The bunker quaked.

“Really, Zala,” said the Queen, her face paling, her eyes darkening. She sprouted two long fangs as she smirked. “What do you hope to accomplish now?”

Zala held up her sword. She would meet her death with glory this day.

“Kill her,” commanded the Queen.

An orb crashed through the ceiling, crushing the monitoring equipment. Zala expected it to be another trap, but the infiltrators were just as surprised as her. The orb whirred and clicked and slid open. A giant ultrapede unfurled herself and clicked her mandibles at everything in the room.

“Snarg.” Zala grinned. “I should’ve known.”

With a shriek and a howl, Snarg set upon the battleguard, tearing them to pieces as they screamed.

Zala advanced upon the Queen, who drew a disintegrator pistol. A flash of Zala’s blade later, the Queen lost her weapon and her hand.

“It’s too late!” screamed the Queen. “You can’t stop us now! You’ll never stop us!”

“No, I won’t.” Zala grabbed the Queen by the gown. “But he will.”
She thought about killing the Queen herself, but that was an honor undeserved. Zala threw the Queen to Snarg, who finished her off with the rest of the battleguard in moments.

The orb projected a hologram of Emperor Mollusk’s familiar smirking face. It was, she noted, the first time she’d ever been happy to see that smirk.

“I trust you have a plan, Mollusk,” she said.

“Always,” he replied.

The war had just begun.

I Married an Earthling (short fiction)

I woke up with a headache that threatened to swallow my brain whole, like the fang dragoots of Venus, except less merciful. My alarm blared on the nightstand, and I telekinetically hurled it across the room. Or I tried. All I did was give it a nudge and worsen the throb in my skull. I had to roll out of bed and switch the burfling thing by hand. I was about to fall back into bed and pull my pillow over my head when Zort Jr. appeared in the bedroom doorway.

“Hello, Father,” he said.

“Hi, Junior.” The words crawled out of my dry throat.

Zort Jr. stood there silently. His sickly olive green skin and white hair were marks of his half-human heritage. Those didn’t bother me. Much. But his cold blue eyes and the way he never blinked creeped me out every now and then.

“Mother says breakfast is nearly prepared, Father.”

“It’s Sunday,” I said. “I think I’ll sleep in for once.”

“Mother will disapprove, Father.”

I coughed. “I think I’m sick. Earth germs. You know what I’m talking about.”

Zort Jr.’s expression didn’t change. It never did. “Father, have you been taking your pills?”

I almost thought it was concern in his voice, but there was no inflection.

“The Health Master advises all Martian citizens to take their pills daily, Father. To perish of easily preventable causes is a correctable offense.”

I thought about Martian order, where those who died before they could be corrected were cloned and corrected anyway. Sure, the clone wouldn’t really be me, but I couldn’t do that to the poor bastard.

“I’m up, I’m up,” I said.

“I shall tell Mother you’re getting ready, Father.” He turned mechanically and disappeared down the hall.

I trudged into the bathroom and avoided looking at my blotchy green face in the mirror. I popped my pills, a selection of medication designed to keep me alive on this hostile planet for another twenty-four hours, brushed my teeth with my eyes closed, and put on some clothes. My headache wasn’t going anywhere, and my antennae felt like they might break off at any moment. But I drew on the will of countless Martian warriors before me and made my way to the kitchen.

Sarah was making eggs. The smell both enticed and sickened me. The triplets sat at the table, arms at their sides, staring straight ahead.

“Mornin’” I grunted.

“About time you got up, sleepyhead,” Sarah said.

“Earth germs.”

“Right. And the alcohol has nothing to do with it. You’re not as young as you were.”

“I’m barely one-hundred and twenty,” I said. “Long after you’re dead and gone, I’ll still be here.”

“Not if you insist on drinking like a seventy year old.”

I sat at the table with Zort Jr., Zeeg, and Zurp. They were identical. All hybrids were, aside from gender, and even then they tended toward androgyny. It didn’t matter the individual Martian and human contributors to their DNA, they all came out the same somehow. I couldn’t even be sure they were my kids. The hybrids, two boys, one girl, that went to school might not be the same ones who came back. Except they were all pretty much the same.

According to the Sovereign Intelligence, this was the future of the Martian race. It wasn’t a pretty thing, but I was only a lowly soldier. I followed orders. And orders said to come to Earth, settle down, and procreate.

The kids rotated their heads like they were mounted on gears and silently studied me. I erected a telepathic barrier, but I could feel them pushing against it. They were stronger every day. I pictured a race of these things leading Mars in conquest across the galaxy, and I shuddered. Maybe the Intelligence had made a bad call this once.
I thought about something else before the kids detected my mental treason.

“Breakfast is on.” Sarah, tall and dark, set a plate before me. I sometimes wished the kids had inherited some of her height and color, but genetic diversity wasn’t the goal of this operation.

She kissed the top of my head and smiled at me. I felt a little better. She might have been a hideous lesser life form, but familiarity had lessened my revulsion. I’d learned to sort of like the breasts on the human female. My eyes strayed toward her cleavage as she bent over to serve the kids.

She caught me staring. “Oh Zort, you’re incorrigible.”

“Father, would you like us to leave the room so that you may impregnate Mother?” asked Zeeg.

“Not right now,” I replied.

“You are in danger of falling behind birthing quotas, Father,” said Zort Jr.

“Oh leave your father alone,” said Sarah. “There’s plenty of time.”

The triplets said nothing else. It might’ve been the Martian half of their DNA that compelled them to obey the matriarch of the unit. Or it might have been Sarah’s way of deflecting everything with a casual wave of her hands. The kids levitated their bacon to their lips, in unison, and bit and chewed, in unison. And I got the impression that every hybrid in the neighborhood was doing the exact same thing at the exact same moment.

“Don’t forget, Honey, that we have a meeting with Zurp’s teacher at the school tomorrow afternoon,” said Sarah.

“I’ve memorized the ten thousand verses of the Xylonian War Ballad,” I replied. “I don’t need to be reminded of basic appointments.”

“Uh huh.”

I had forgotten, but she had no way of proving that. Unless one of the triplets had telepathically noted it and passed the information onto their mother. They did that sometimes.

“What did she do?” I asked.

“Scotty Bryson was thinking unacceptable thoughts, Father,” said Zurp. “I corrected him.”

“You can’t go around correcting people yet,” I said. “You’re not old enough.”

“I see. Shall I be corrected, Father?”

“Just don’t do it again.”

“Father, without appropriate correction, unacceptable behavior is likely to continue,” said Zort Jr.

“Perhaps it would be best if I corrected myself, Father,” said Zurp.

“You do that. Be sure to send a report of the correction to the Intelligence while you’re at it.”

“As you wish, Father.”

While eating breakfast, some bacon grease stained my shirt.

“You’re not going to Allegiance Ceremony like that, are you?” asked Sarah.

“I was thinking about not going,” I said.

“Oh, Zort. Not this again. Do we have to have this conversation every Sunday?”

“It’s my Sunday,” I said. “I doubt the Sovereign Intelligence gives a damn if there’s one less ass in the seat.”

“Maybe, but this is one of the few things we do as a family.”

“I just want to sleep in. Studies have shown that even with the pills that sleep deprivation can cause vulnerability. Zyff down at the office went to Allegiance every week right until he died from the common cold. Do you want that to happen to me?”

She said nothing. Just stared at me blankly. Maybe there was more of her genetic material in the triplets than it first appeared.

I focused my will and gave her a subconscious push. “You don’t care if I go.”

My head was pounding and I’d lived on Earth for too long and she’d grown resistant to my telepathic powers over the years. She didn’t budge.

“Fine,” I said.

“And don’t go grumbling about it,” she said. “You’re the one who decided to stay out all night carousing with your friends.”

“It wasn’t carousing. It was a celebratory ritual for Brian’s promotion.”

“Whatever it was, you need to get changed. We’re not going to be late again.”

“Repeated tardiness can lead to correction, Mother,” said Zeeg.

“Yes, sweetie. Your father is well aware.”

I changed, and when Sarah rejected the new shirt, I changed again. We were off to Allegiance. Sarah sang along to whatever pop song was topping the charts while the kids sat in the backseat, staring straight ahead.

We weren’t late though we did make it under the wire. We had to sit in the back, which I preferred. You could barely hear the Speaker Envoy as he extolled the virtues of Mars and our glorious leader. I was as loyal as the next soldier but could only be told how amazing the Sovereign Intelligence was so many times before realizing that, despite its promises of galactic domination, it was a giant brain in a jar that had nearly died when a janitor had accidently tipped it over.

Next cycle, I was voting for the Grand Acumen, but in the end, it’d be a different brain, the same old promises.

Afterward, we made mandatory small talk with the other couples while the kids played. The purely human children ran around the playground while the hybrids stood in a row to one side and watched in silence. Once in a while, one of the humans would stop suddenly and move like an awkward marionette. Then the hybrids would switch to another as amused them.

Zug pointed to his kid. It might have been his kid. Who knew?

“They tell me Zar is mind controlling at a fifth grade level,” he said with pride.

I sipped my punch and smiled. “I’m sure the Intelligence will be pleased.”

Zug nodded toward his wife, talking to Sarah. “Chloe is expecting quadruplets. I think we’ll get an official commendation with this batch.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“You and Sarah haven’t birthed in a while.”

“We still have time,” I said.

“Well, sure, but you’ll never get any recognition if you don’t put more effort into it.”

Zug was a good guy, but he spent his whole happy life blindly meeting quotas and expectations. Martian society had always valued order, predictability. There was no word for Suck Up in Martian, but I lived on Earth. Every burfling certificate and minor award given to him by the Intelligence was hanging, framed, on the walls of his home, including that one acknowledging Zug for Outstanding Achievement in the Field of Unquestioning Loyalty.

His wife was much the same. Sarah glanced over at me with quiet desperation in her eyes and broadcast a telepathic plea for help. Not that I needed telepathy to pick it up. I rescued her with a half-mumbled excuse and pulled her away.

“My hero,” she said.

“You wanted to come.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

“Five more minutes is mandatory,” I said.

She stroked my antennae gently. Even with my hangover, it felt good. Several nearby couples averted their prudish eyes. “I don’t care.”

We grabbed the kids (or a close enough set) and headed home. Along the way, we stopped at a drive thru and picked up some burgers.

“Will we be eating a family lunch, Mother?” asked Zurp.

“We’re skipping it today, sweetie.”

“This is highly unusual, Mother. Deviations of expected behavior should be reported. Shall I report this?”

“Use your own judgment,” I said.

We pulled into the driveway, and Sarah and I ran into the house. The triplets could take care of themselves. They’d been doing it since they’d been telekinetically changing their own diapers.

Sarah led me into the bedroom as I used my mind to unzip her dress, revealing smooth brown shoulders. She turned, holding her dress with her hands. She leaned down and kissed my forehead. My antennae twitched.

The back of my head tingled like we were being watched. I turned to see Zort Jr. standing on the other side of the door.

“Are you preparing to meet birthing quotas, Father?”

“Mind your own business, Junior.”

I telekinetically shut the door as Sarah pulled me toward the bed.

There were times when I missed the red plains of Mars, the grand cities, the singing forests and the glittering seas, the sights and sounds and smells of the world that I’d once called home before it had been deemed more efficient for me to become a genetic forefather of a new Martian empire.
Sarah pulled me close, burying my face in her chest. Breasts definitely had their charms.

“I love you, baby,” I said.

Smiling, she ran her finger down my nub of a nose. “I love you too.”

There were times I missed Mars.

But this was not one of those times.

Sorcerers’ Circle (short fiction)

Wren & Hess

 

They came from across the country for a shot at the magic academy. Mostly kids with a smattering of mystic talents who thought they had what it took to make it to the top of the Wizard’s League. Most didn’t. Being able to conjure a rabbit out of a hat or turn invisible for six seconds might impress folks down at the village, but it took more than that to win entry into the academy.

Most went home disappointed.

Some stuck around, believing they’d get in the next time. Or the time after that. Or the time after that. If they studied on their own, if they applied themselves, they’d prove themselves worthy. And some were right.

And some ended up dead.

The five failed wizards lay in a circle. Their bodies had been reduced to husks, drained of all their life and innate magic. These desiccated corpses were all that was left, and there were whispers that the circle even destroyed souls.

Constable Hess didn’t know, nor did he care. Lizardmen didn’t worry about souls, but constables did worry about murder. There was a gap in the circle, the place the lone survivor had been standing. The one who had walked away with the stolen power of the five others. Hess could smell the twisted magic in the air. It smelled like burning hair, a scent he’d never been fond of. He didn’t like hair in general, but he lived among mammals, so he’d gotten used to it.

Wren knelt down to take a closer look at one of the corpses. She reached out and almost touched the long gray hair of the body.

A sorcerers’ circle was a dangerous game. A bunch of low level magicians and conjurers gathering together, completing a ritual that would kill one of them and empower the rest. Every participant played the odds that they weren’t the one to end up dead. It was risky, but people did stupid things in the pursuit of power. Especially those who played with magic. This time, the ritual had gone wrong. Five dead. One inheritor. The only question was whether it had been intentional or if the idiots had simply screwed up the ritual.

“Accident or murder?” asked Wren.

“Is there a difference?” said Hess. “They all knew someone was going to die tonight. They all showed up.”

“Stupid kids,” said Wren. Although they might not have been kids. It was hard to tell. Older desperate wizards with waning power weren’t immune to the temptation of the circle.

They left the scene to the alchemists and thaumaturgists, and hit the streets. If an inheritor was smart, they’d lay low for a few weeks. Then they’d slowly reveal their new levels of power, making it seem natural and earned. Wizards who did that were almost never caught. But the power of the circle was heady, enthralling stuff, and anyone who participated was usually dumb enough not to do that.

They checked Enchantment Alley, a whimsical name for a rotten place where struggling wizards waited to be hired for whatever jobs they could find, not all of them legal. Forbidden love spells, dangerous rites, and curses-for hire happened here. As Wren and Hess walked the darkened street, customers shuffled quietly away, wizards retreated to the corners.

They found Turnbuckle the troll magician in his usual spot. Trolls didn’t tend toward much magical talent, but Turnbuckle was better than your average street sorcerer.

“Oh, hell,” he said.

He waved his hands and disappeared in puff of colorful smoke.

“He can’t have teleported far,” said Wren as she darted one direction. “I’ll cover this way.”

“I’ll cover the roofs.” Hess slithered up a wall and found Turnbuckle waiting for him in a quiet corner. “Thought you’d maybe run for real for a moment.”

Turnbuckle frowned, took a tug of his flask. Hess could smell the horrible stuff from here. Trolls drank acid that’d burn a hole straight through any other creature’s gut.

“Thought about it. You know I don’t like you coming to my place of business. I’m happy to throw some information the Tower’s way now and then, but if you do that too often, nobody is going to trust me. Won’t do me or you any good. So let me guess. You’re looking for the new kid. The one who had a big jump in power.”

Hess nodded. “He’s already showing it off?”

“She. And of course she is. She’s an idiot. They all are.” Turnbuckle took another swig. “We’ve all thought about the circle. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. You don’t know what it’s like. It’s like being bound your whole life, of sensing this greatness in you that you can’t quite reach. You think just because I can do a few tricks that it should be enough, but that’s all it is. Tricks. Real power, it’s just out there if you’re willing to take it.”

He wiggled his fingers and conjured a handful of bright blue butterfly. They flew into the air and vanished into mist. “I’d give almost anything to have those last a full minute.” He smiled ruefully. “Almost anything.

“Her name is Bean. Although she’s calling herself Bianca the Bold now, I think. You’ll find her in the slums. You won’t have to look hard.”

“Thanks,” said Hess.

Turnbuckle shrugged. “Don’t mention it.” He transformed into a patch of shadow and slithered away.

They had no trouble finding Bianca the Bold. She was putting on a show at a broken down tavern. When she spotted the constables, Bianca tried vanishing. The thaumaturgists had already thrown up containment wards. Cornered, she tried throwing fireballs and lightning bolts. The spells fizzled against the countermagic of the more experienced constable team. Power mattered, but experience mattered more.

Hess threw the anti-magic manacles around Bean’s wrists. She didn’t fight it.

“I didn’t do it,” she said. “It was Cull. He rigged the circle to kill everyone but one. He told me, but I didn’t believe him.”

“You stepped into the circle,” said Hess.

“I was taking the same risk as anyone.”

“But you’re alive. They’re dead.”

She lowered her head. “They were my friends. You understand, don’t you?”

She mumbled to herself as the constables led her away.

“Don’t you?”

“Hell of a waste,” said Wren. “You all right, partner?”

Hess had little sympathy for those who stepped into the circle. Until he saw them and was reminded how the city might beat a person down until all they had was their desperate, hungry hope for a better tomorrow.

“Come on, Hess,” said Wren. “I’ll buy you a beer. You look like you could use one.”

He nodded as they stepped up to the bar and ordered the strongest drink available to cleanse the stink of rotten magic from his nose.

 

Euryale (short fiction)

She was everything he wanted in a girlfriend: smart, funny, sexy, with a voice like an angel, and a kind, encouraging nature. She was always there for him, but not in a creepy Center-of-Her-Universe way. She was a wonderful, warm, beautiful woman who brightened his days with a smile or a touch of a hand or just by singing in the kitchen while cooking breakfast. She was the perfect girlfriend.

She was a lousy muse however.

Bram stared at his blank computer screen. Not a word. Not a lousy word. And it was Euryale’s fault.

The smell of bacon and eggs drifted from the kitchen. She made incredible eggs. And the bacon, there were no words to properly describe it. There should’ve been words. He should’ve been able to come up with something. Nothing especially poetic. It was bacon, after all. But he had more options than delicious, but he couldn’t think of them at the moment.

Because of her.

“Breakfast’s on,” she sang out.

“Be right there,” he called back.

He rested his fingers on the keyboard. He would type something. Anything. One sentence. The beginning of something great. Or something terrible. But the beginning of something.

Her bacon was really good, he typed.

The sentence pained him as surely as if his keyboard was a sprung bear trap. He jumped away from the computer. This was all her fault.

She stuck her head in the study. Her beautiful green eyes and reassuring smile made him feel better. A few strands of curly hair fell across her face. He loved that. He loved her.

“How’s it going?” Euryale asked.

“Good,” he lied. “Good.” He sounded less convinced the second time.

“You should eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

“I’ll be right in.”

She blew him a kiss and disappeared.

Euryale had always been a terrible muse. But the service had promised that she was the best they had at his price range. She’d show up once a week and give him ideas, inspire him. He’d been entranced by her beauty immediately. Her humor and joy came later.

But her ideas. Her ideas always sucked.

“What about a talking fire truck who solves crimes with the help of a telepathic Dalmatian?” she’d suggested in that first session.

He should’ve thanked her for her time and canceled her then. But he hadn’t. He liked her too much. The thought of hurting her, of not seeing her, of even simply requesting a new muse was out of the question.

And so she came back, week after week, and gave him rotten ideas. Terrible opening lines. Horrible premises. A robot shoe salesman who finds love. A story of WW2 from a flea’s perspective. An apocalyptic thriller where everyone dies in the first chapter and the rest of the book was about how quiet everything was.

And then he’d slept with her.

Now, she lived with him. He didn’t pay for her inspiration anymore. She gave it freely, and there was no way to get rid of it short of breaking up with her. And he couldn’t do that. She really was perfect. Almost perfect.

He hated that word because it seemed shallow and inadequate, but it was the only one that came to mind. He knew there were better ones, more descriptive, more interesting, but he couldn’t find them.

He joined her for breakfast. The eggs were great. The bacon was . . . something really awesome. Transcendent?, he supposed, though that was a cheap, ten dollar word that sounded meaningful but wasn’t.

He didn’t care. He loved her. She loved him. And it might have been a bad idea to fall in love with his muse, but everyone sacrificed something for love.

“Hey, how about this?” Euryale said. “A theme park full of dinosaurs where everything goes wrong!”

He smiled at her. “That’s a great idea, honey. They already did that. Four times.”

She frowned. “Oh.”

Bram reached across the table and took her hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get it. Eventually.”

Euryale smiled, and nothing else in the world mattered to him.

They ate their really, really good eggs and their really, really, really good bacon. And then they made love. And Bram mused on his life.

It was really, really good too.

And that was more than enough.