Cedar Sanderson's Blog, page 261

Voyageur’s Cap

I have a new story out! Naked Reader Press published my tale of space, if the Hudson’s Bay Company came back into the business of exploring, trading, and saving humanity… Well, that last might be a new thing for them. I’m including a snippet to get you interested, and you can buy the story for only $1.99 on Amazon… it will be available in multiple formats later this week at Naked Reader Press, along with many other nifty stories by authors you may recognize.

Duty was neither to be entered upon lightly, nor to be worn as a badge of honor. Yet even in her short life, Liatris had seen both. Had done the first, as a matter of fact. Which was arguably what had led her to this forgotten backwater. She liked backwaters, had grown up in one, chosen another to spend most of her adult life in. But this one… this one gave her the shudders. She squared her shoulders yet again, heaven forbid a Voyageur of the Hudson’s Bay Company show less than a bold countenance. Lifting a clenched fist, she prepared to knock at the door, only to be surprised as it swung open.

Liatris put a hand on the holster at her hip, fingering the worn leather, but not yet pulling her weapon. “Hello?” she called, pitching her voice to carry without too great a volume. “Anyone home?”

No answer came from within, and from the scents swirling about her on the air from the house, she thought no-one had lived her for quite some time. Duty bound, she stepped into the tenement hall.  The stillness in the air was almost complete, although Lia thought she saw and felt the ghostly movement of rodents in each room as she wound her way through the rooms in a circle ending back at the door.

None within. Dusty furniture and littered floors spoke of residents at some lost date. Duty had not driven Lia to inspect the food chiller. She was unwilling to inflict that on her nose. She hesitated at the threshold weighing duty. Was her long journey balanced by this empty place where her quarry ought to have been? She sighed and pulled the door closed behind her. Overhead, rain drummed on the dome and green lightning tore through the mineral-laced atmosphere that had brought humans to this planet. A whole planet, and all the men on it packed into this squalid place. Her nose wrinkled as she looked around. Narrow streets dominated with towering tenements, each floor an apartment unto itself, accessed by grav elevators. Many of them, she had been told, could only be accessed by the previous owner’s DNA, a design flaw that left landlords gnashing their teeth when renters refused to leave or to pay rent.

Lia pulled her toque back onto her head, affixing that badge of her status and livelihood firmly. Even in this misbegotten place, the voyageur’s cap would be recognized and respected. She set out for the nearest bar, sure it wouldn’t be far. Every settlement on every planet in the known galaxy had at least one bar, and her rule of thumb was that the more poor and miserable the place, the more bars there would be. Her only criteria was, where would the widow of a spaceman hang out?

It took her three bars and a few quiet questions of bouncers and barmaids to find the place. It took her longer to find the woman slouched at a table, half lying on the bench. The woman’s face was blotched and purpled with her drinking, and Lia almost didn’t recognize her from the photo feed Daz had always been streaming. Lia stood at the foot of the table for a few moments, frowning down sternly at the sodden female.

“Angel? Angel R’driz?” she finally asked loud enough to cut through the truly awful sounds that the sound system was projecting in the guise of music.

“Yeah? Who wanna know?” The woman levered herself upright and peered blearily at Lia, who knew from experience what the woman saw. A petite female dressed in soft trousers and a blousy white shirt that partially hid round breasts. Her eyes widened and then narrowed in speculation as she looked up to the red hat Lia wore.

“You’re a v’ger. Voy-ager.” she tried again.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lia replied politely.

“M’husband was a v’ger.”

“Yes, I know.” Lia sighed inwardly. The woman wasn’t belligerent, but she wasn’t all there, either. “I served with him on his last ship.”

“You see him die?” she demanded.

Lia shook her head slightly. “No. I helped bury him after…” she decided not to give the details to the drunken woman.

Angel stared down at the table, seemingly lost in thought. Lia waited patiently. Soon enough, the bloodshot eyes swung back to her. “Why ‘re you here?”

“Daz had left something with me.”

The eyes brightened. “Money?”

Lia shook her head again. “No, a voucher.” She held it out now, pulled seemingly from thin air, but in reality it had been strapped to her forearm along with another of her weapons. Angel snatched it and held it close to her face, puzzling over the words.

“This’s for the girl.” She finally announced, handing it back to Lia. Nonplussed, Lia took it.

“Yes, it is for his daughter.”

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“Work, hopefully.” Angel sniffed suddenly. “Damn Daz, dying like that.”

She put her head down on the table and began to sob noisily. Lia backed away from this display of emotion and turned to the bartender who had pointed her in Angel’s direction not that long before.

“Do you know where her daughter works?” she asked. He shrugged and swiped at the bar. She grunted and slid a coin to him.

He grinned briefly, a flash of white teeth through the smoke and dim lighting. “Happen to be in the kitchen. She helps out, pays for Mam’s beer.” He jerked a shoulder in the direction of a hidden door.

Lia opened the door cautiously, unsure what she would find. The crowded room beyond was typical of many commercial kitchens. More brightly lit than the bar, it was surprisingly clean and gleamed of stainless steel and white tile. There was little room between the counters, but the floor didn’t stick to Lia’s boots as she walked across it. She found the girl, one of only three in the kitchen, around the corner bent over a cutting board. Lia stopped short and stared.

She knew the child had to be Daz’s daughter, the other cooks were small, swarthy men who spared her a brief glance before continuing their frenetic work. But the girl was wearing a dushabi, the enveloping head cover of the militant H’lallah and she was very sure that Daz had not belonged to that violent religious persuasion. Lia had had unpleasant encounters with them, herself. Suddenly duty was very heavy on her shoulders. The child wore the head cover pulled up to her nose, even here in the sweltering kitchen. The dark blue fabric draped down her back, covering her hair completely. Oddly, she wore ordinary street clothes for the rest of her costume.

Lia cleared her throat. The girl looked around, and then stood up straight and faced her. “You were with Da.”

Lia nodded. All she could see was a pair of emerald green eyes. “He asked me to find you, should anything happen to him, and to give you this.”

She held out the voucher. Unlike Angel, the girl hesitated before slowly taking the card and reading it. She looked up at Lia. “My name is Serene. I suppose we will be getting to know one another.”

 

The End

Looking for Rainbow’s End

When you are reading a novel, how important is the end to you? What’s a great ending you remember? What’s one that will make you toss the book and think ‘never reading that author again’? I’m getting to the very end of Pixie Noir, and I want to make it good for you, my readers!

For grins and giggles, here’s some ending lines from a few more-or-less random books on my shelf.

Robert Heinlein’s The Moon is a Harsh Mistress

“My word, I’m not even a hundred yet.”

Mickey Spillane’s The Deep

“Sergeant Hurd said, in a tired command voice, ‘nice going, Lieutenant.’”

Louis L’Amour’s Galloway

“But it was worth it because when I opened my eyes, Meg was there.”

James H. Schmitz’s The Witches of Karres

“‘Well,’ the captain muttered, heading hurriedly across the outer room towards the passage, ‘here we go again!’”

Margery Allingham’s More Work for the Undertaker

“It sounded ominously like Lugg.”

Review Friday

Today I review a story called Snow Angel, by Stryder Dancewolffe, at her behest, to compare and contrast the stories with two very similar titles, themes, and yet very different in content and style.

Stryder’s novella is set in a world decimated by plague, where the mentally ill are discarded like broken dolls. One such woman, after years of carefully hiding from the authorities, is caught, and offered a terrible choice. Either give up her daughter for adoption, or the child will die. And once she gives up, the woman is shipped off world to a prison planet, sentenced to death by hard labor. Only her doctor flame keeps her going, until the bitter end… Where a twist and revelation bring renewed hope to the woman and her long-lost child.

Stryder and I discussed why my own story, where the mother is able to provide a loving, warm home for her special-needs son, is so different from her own, with it’s theme of abandonment. In each our stories, our own experiences with motherhood were reflected. Her own bitter pill was having to be separated from her daughter at a young age, while I was a stay-at-home mother, like my mother before me, until my children were older. My faith has been shaken, but remains unbroken, hence my story’s angels, who are not perfect, but still want to help and fulfill the traditional role of guardian. Stryder’s Snow, the mother, becomes an angel to a whole world of abandoned convicts. Each of us ends with hope, love, and a sacrifice, that of a mother who will do anything to care for their child.

Book Plug Friday! 

Over at PJ Media Sarah Hoyt and Charlie Martin are hosting a fun promotional column for Indie Authors. If you’re a reader, looking for fresh, original works, this is the place to shop. If you are an independent author looking for a place to let people see your work, shoot them an email with a 50 word blurb, an Amazon link, and they will do their best to set it up for you. There are some guidelines, but they are simple and basically boil down to common sense.

“To submit to Book Plug Friday, send an email to book.plug.friday@gmail.com for guidelines. (Hint: Authors name, book title, a short blurb, and a LINK TO AMAZON FOR CRYING OUT LOUD.)”

Discoveries of the Day

For writers, I give you this quote from Kristine Kathryn Rusch: 

“Ultimately, though, it’s not about money. It’s about creativity and control. If you want to be creative, original, and surprising as a writer, then publish indie. If you want to forge your own path to bestsellerdom, publish indie. Indie allows for creativity and control.” – See more at: http://kriswrites.com/2013/08/14/the-business-rusch-the-biggest-news-of-the-summer/#sthash.PoVQyQS1.dpuf

Also for writers of short fiction, poetry, and more… 

“Welcome to The Grinder!

The grinder is a submission tracker and market database for writers of fiction (non-fiction and poetry coming soon!). Use our extensive and powerful search engine to find a home for your work. With new features being added weekly we hope to provide a permanent and stable home for your submission tracking.”

http://thegrinder.diabolicalplots.com/thegrinder/Default.aspx

For Readers, and Devotees of Oz, I give you: 

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

All the Oz books, the original 14 titles written by L. Frank Baum, free online. One of the characters in my science fiction story Plant Life was inspired by the Vegetable Princess in Baum’s stories, and I spent many delighted hours dwelling in Oz with Dorothy, Betsy, Ozma, and many more unforgettable characters…

And for general amusement and because the Internet demands a kitteh picture every so often: 

In 3 – 2 – 1 – Caffeinated Kitteh!

 

Ok, that’s not a today discovery, it’s several years old, but I miss my cats, and besides, the idea of a kitten on coffee is making me giggle.

Story Snippet!

If you’re interested in my new mystery novella, Memories of the Abyss, but wanted to see what it was about before you bought it, here’s a snip! Let me know what you think… 

Memories

She sat in the warm afternoon sun, her face tilted toward the warmth, eyes closed. It was finally spring, and she cherished the heat against her skin, she had been so very cold all winter. She was trying to wait, to be quiet, and it was hard. She wanted to be up and doing, searching for a way to happiness.

Memories flooded her mind, forcing her back toward the cold. She remembered sitting with her back to the bed, on the floor, knees to her chest. He stood over her with a look of disgust on his face.

“You’re a worthless sack of shit, you know that?”

She flinched, burying her face in her knees.

“Look at me, Violet. You can’t hide behind your rose-colored glasses. Look around you.”

She looked up, not at him, but around her at the cluttered bedroom. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been allowed out, even to the laundromat, so there was a pile of laundry. A few books, but none of them hers. He’d told her hers took up too much space, and she was wasting time reading, anyway, so they had to go.

“I’ll clean it up,” she spoke softly, trying not to trigger the cough.

“You’d better. I have to go to work, this place had better be spotless when I’m home.”

He walked out of the room and she could hear him moving around in the next room. She didn’t move, not yet. When he was gone and she was safe again. The outer door opened and closed, and Violet collapsed to the floor, sobbing and coughing. She couldn’t stop the wrenching coughs, and crawled toward the kitchen, where she vomited on the tiles. Having to clean that out of the carpet would be impossible, she knew.

She lay on her side, feeling the welcome coolness against her fevered body. She knew she had pneumonia. She also knew he’d never let her get treated for it. He’d say they couldn’t afford it. She stared up at his television, game systems, and grimaced. His toys were more important than she, so why wouldn’t he let her go?

Violet opened her eyes and jerked up with a gasp, back into the warm spring sunshine, away from the cold places in her mind. She relaxed again with a sigh. He couldn’t hurt her anymore, she was safe. Her lips curled up in a smile, and she took an experimental deep breath. The good green scent of growing things, and no pain. She took another, knowing that the years had left scars inside her, but today they didn’t hurt, at least.

A hand on her shoulder made her flinch, before she looked up and saw who it was. Violet smiled a little at her friend, and Lori sat down next to her on the step overlooking the green lawn.

“Nice day, isn’t it?” The dark haired woman asked.

Violet nodded, looking at her. She reached a tentative finger out and tucked a lock of Lori’s hair behind her ear. The older woman looked startled, fleetingly. Violet watched the emotion run across her face and disappear.

“Vi, you ok? Having a bad day again?”

Violet let her face relax and her smile go lopsided, conveying her chagrin at transparency. She shrugged slightly.

Lori took one of her hands and rubbed it. “Feeling cold?”

Vi reached her free hand up toward the sun, tipping her head back and letting the light bathe her face.

“It does feel nice and warm, doesn’t it. I’m glad you came outside.”

Lori touched Vi’s shoulder again gently, but Violet was prepared and didn’t flinch.

“Vi, I wanted to get your take on something.”

Violet looked straight at Lori, one eyebrow raised slightly.

“You know that Walter died, right?”

Violet nodded, feeling her brow furrow slightly. Walter had been a sweet old man.

“I don’t think it was natural causes. Something wasn’t right there.”

Violet sat back slightly, sighing a little. She shook her head. Lori might be right, but what could Vi do that her nurse couldn’t? Her past was dead, and she had buried it along with the man who had killed her soul.

Lori stood and squeezed her shoulder. “Think about it. Let me know in the morning, all right? Time to go in, now.”

Violet stood slowly and preceded the nurse with her soft soundless shoes into the big, cold stone building. She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder at the sunlight still flooding the broad veranda. It would be there tomorrow, she reminded herself, and then stepped into the building that smelled of industrial disinfectant. She looked at her feet, shoulders hunched, until they came to her room and she could feel safe again.

Lori came in with her.

“Do you need anything, Vi? All set until morning? Jake has night shift, you know. He’ll come if you need him.”

Violet nodded tiredly and sat on her narrow bed. Lori looked sadly down at her, and Violet smiled at her to show the woman that it was all right, really. It wasn’t the nurse’s fault, and she was a friend when she didn’t have to be. Lori sighed and went out, locking the door when it was shut behind her.

Vi sat on her bed for a long time, staring at the blank wall in front of her. Painted cream to add some warmth to the clinical atmosphere, she wasn’t really seeing it, she was looking into her memories. Walter had been quiet, almost mousy. He’d rarely spoken in group session, although to Vi herself he had come out of his shell and become almost garrulous. She supposed it was so much safer for him to talk to a woman who could not, herself, utter a word.

After a long time of sitting in utter stillness recalling their conversations, she stood up and took a notebook from her desk drawer. This was a rare privilege, for an inmate, but she supposed she was a rare inmate. She sat and began to transcribe some of the more relevant passages of his monologues. It hadn’t been entirely one-sided. Her mind slipped back to their first chat, in the communal room.

“Hi, you’re Violet, right?” he had plunked down next to her on the couch. Violet had just shivered and looked away.

“You can’t talk, they tell me. You used to, but now you can’t.” He fell silent, but didn’t move, and slowly Violet sneaked a peek at him.

He was thin, with profuse wrinkles and feathery silver hair that floated around his skull like a halo. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days, she estimated from the gray stubble. His eyes were gray, too, sunken in and rimmed with watery pink. He caught her looking and gave her a toothless grin. Violet decided she would stay where she was.

“So I had a cat.” He told her, and Vi blinked at the seeming non-sequitur. “She was so pretty, once I’d fed her a while. But she never did let me touch her, except once. She was half-dead when I found her in the gutter, all broken and I figure some punks had been using her for a football. I scooped her up and took her home. Got her clean and put her in a box with blankets.” He shrugged, his thin shoulders swooped up and down like abbreviated wings. “Couldn’t afford a vet. Splinted her broken leg, and fed her with an eyedropper. Once she could move on her own, which was about a month later, she wouldn’t let me touch her. But she’d come sit on the couch next to me and purr. Purr so loud it was like the world was on vibrate.”

He fell silent and Violet stared at him in astonishment. He knew about her past, she thought, he must. No other way he could have known how she felt. She shivered. Like the broken kitty, she couldn’t let anyone touch her. She got up abruptly, too full of emotion to stay there any longer.

He stayed put, merely looking up at her. She turned deliberately back and faced him squarely, and then nodded. Walter smiled and nodded back. Violet put her head down and hurried from the room, back to her sanctuary.

It had become a challenge, then, she remembered. To see how far she could push herself to let the little man close without running. There had been some bad moments, but he’d never judged her when she simply bolted at his approach. He’d come sit with her and talk to her. Never anything consequential, at first. She’d thought wryly she was his cat, for him to tame, the way he treated her.

After a few weeks she began to wonder why he was here, with her and others like her. He seemed so normal. She began to observe him, using her now-long hair to shield her face while she peeped through the veil of her bangs and watched him move around the common room. He chatted with most people, she realized. The orderlies, the other inmates, but only one on one, never in group. Nor did he speak to anyone if they weren’t alone. Violet, the most alone of them all, he sought out.

She had known him for about six weeks, she thought, when she presented him with a note as he sat beside her. He’d looked startled, then pleased.

“What was the cat’s name?” He read aloud, “well, now. Questions from the quiet girl!”

 

Review: Sharper Security

I read the short story Hitchhiking Killer for Hire, written by Thomas Sewell, and was rewarded with more than I had expected. Well plotted, with one of the best flashback sequences I have read in a short story, this little tale ties together no fewer than three time streams to form a action-packed story of a man ambushed for seemingly no reason, a man walking away from a military career tarnished by his code of honor, and a man who, driven by that honor, takes vengeance not for himself, but an innocent victim of the gang that attacked him.

The story is the set-up for a series of novels about Sam Harper, the hero of this short story, and I am looking forward to reading those soon. Reminiscent of Louis L’amour, Sewell’s writing is tight, character filled, and fun to read. My favorite sequence involved the almost silent take-down of three people supposed to be guarding a house with a cast-iron skillet…

Questionable Marketing Tactics

First, read Amanda Green’s post over at Mad Genius Club today: Work Smart and Think

When I saw ithe link to a marketing company with a facebook page promoting marketing for writers, it set off red flags. Marketing isn’t easy. I don’t feel like I have a great handle on marketing my writing, because it is different from my other business. But I do know that word of mouth is probably the best way, and it’s slow. It’s not selling your work to other writers, although a loose network helping one another with reviews and shared links is a good way to help ‘feed’ your readers and theirs. But as Amanda points out, you have to know and trust the work of those cross promotions, or you risk losing the trust your readers have in you, and setting back word-of-mouth marketing.

Because it is about trust. This is also why pushy marketing, begging, and even that crowd-funding she mentions are not very (if at all) effective. Your readers (customers) don’t want to feel like you only want to milk them. The kick starters I see working are happening with artists (in whatever medium) who have a substantial fan base, and those fans are getting a trusted product they want and eagerly anticipate, in return for their investment. Trying to do this without that foundation of trust is going to fail.

And now I’ll step off the soapbox – where did that come from, anyway?

Part Two of the Art of Covers

Part Two of the Art of Covers

Eric Gustafson’s continuing take on cover art and design. Good stuff, take a look! 

IndyFur Con AAR

My Fox face, since I was wearing Kitsune tails.

I went to IFC as a dealer, performing face and body art, and selling my book. So this was a different event for me. Only my fourth convention ever, it was my first time working at a con, and my first Furry con. I had a blast. I didn’t make any money, but that is ok, I was learning, meeting new people and cultivating fans. I’ve decided that is what I’m calling it. I’ll water them with smiles and chit-chat, and feed them with stories until they grow into… ok, I have no idea what.

When I arrived on Friday I couldn’t find the convention at first, the lobby was all but empty. Then I heard a buzz of voices on the second level, and headed up. As soon as I could see the crowd, I knew I had found my people. There is something about geeky congoers that I find very recognizable. And, I was in the right place! Hours from home, all alone, and Cedar is not a happy camper. So it was a relief to check in with registration and Dealer’s Den. I was doing the con in conjunction with Mystik Waboose’s Road Crew, but he had not yet arrived, so I took the time to haul in my gear, set up, and then go out and hunt lunch.

This very nice young man with the lovely lion persona and I had a lot of fun.

Friday after opening I smiled, watched the crowd, and talked a lot. I painted a couple of faces, handed out book cards, and got to know what was going on. A furry con is a bunch of people having way too much fun dressing up like cartoony animals, and it’s a very artistic Dealer’s Den, with some art being created all around me I enjoyed very much. I can paint on skin – I can’t draw. Mostly, the con was about what all cons are for – seeing old friends and making new ones.

Saturday I was given a subtle push (ok, not subtle. The man is one of the most assertive people I have ever had the pleasure of watching work) toward scheduling a reading of Vulcan’s Kittens. The con found a hole in their program and put me into it, and I was both excited and nervous. For the rest of the day I painted a little, henna’ed a little, and talked a lot about my book, inviting everyone in sight to my reading. Meanwhile, the crowd flowed through the room, some looking normal until they turned and revealed a tail, others in full fursuits that made it like being in a child’s dream of stuffed animals come to life, with hugs and pats and lots of laughter.

The blue woad, sword, and shillelagh all suit him beautifully.

I took a break after the Den closed, to eat in the Zoo, where one of my new fans came and sat next to me and talked at me non-stop until I fled to set up for my reading. And here I must mention Merrick Swiftfoot, who was quietly supportive and even protective, despite having just met me that day. A true gentleman, and I really appreciated the back-up when he came with me while I did my huckster call in the main hallway to attract con-goers to the reading. The short red-headed female gets more attention with the kilted marine carrying a shillelagh behind her! Also, I have decided that he and KilteDave are long-lost brothers separated at birth.

Between the hallway cold-call, and people I had spoken to during the day, I wound up with ten people for the reading. I read a chapter, then answered questions about the book, indie-publishing, and writing. We wound up talking, four or five of us, long enough to be displaced by the next panel and finished in the hall. It was a lot of fun, meeting people with shared interests in both writing and reading material. I’m looking forward to doing it again!

Sunday was quieter. I actually ventured out of Dealer’s Den a bit, and met a talented chain maille artist in Artist’s Allery. Slayazar was good enough to drop in on me later and show me how his lovely scale flower was constructed and we talked about hair sticks – he gave me some fun ideas! Talking to Amy of Misc Etc. was great fun – I will have to find her at a non-event and pick her brains on moulage sometime. Er… maybe I need to rephrase that, given the zombie topic of part of our conversation!

I packed up tired, but happy. I knew it wasn’t a profitable weekend financially, but I felt like I was enriched by the people I’d met, the things I had learned, and the time spent with a friend, and making new ones. I’m going to do a few cons a year, I think, and maybe I’ll see you there!

The artist at work.
Photo taken by Brad Handley

Tip the Author

The Author Awaits your Response…

In my other business, I frequently work for tips, or at least partly for tips. So I know that feeling of someone slipping a larger bill than anticipated in my hand and telling me “you did a great job, thank you!”

So how, you might ask, can you tip an author? You sat quietly and read their story, they weren’t coming by your table to check and make sure you were enjoying it, topping off your beverage, or fashioning you a wacky and wild balloon hat. I had an idea on this, having given away more than 300 copies of my story Snow Angel last week during the Human Wave Garage Sale. What if you read a free story – there are a lot of them out there – by an indie author, and you really enjoy it. Not only can you go right out and buy more by that author (Please, Do! and not only for me, but the others who participated in the sale) but you can leave a review of their story.

I know some of you find the idea of leaving reviews difficult. Memories of childhood and delivering book reports aloud in class has scarred you. But you don’t need to be in-depth, or leave a long review, just touch on what you liked, and if you didn’t, be honest. “Remember, this is for posterity, so please, be honest.” – The Princess Bride

We, the few, the proud, the indie… geez, I’m corny tonight, I must be more tired than I thought! – need you, the readers. We need you not only to buy our stuff, but to help us build a tide of word-of-mouth that will help others find our work. What’s in it for you? More stories you like to read. More sales, like this one, that enable you to find new authors, stock up on favorites for less, or perhaps gift copies to those you would like to hook – er, introduce to us Indies.

What say you? Can you spare a few minutes to tip your author?

And look… Amazon put it on sale for you all!