Katherine Villyard's Blog, page 5

Broad Universe Rapid Fire Reading

The reading went great! I got to read with my sister, and… generally if the Broads are in the house, GO SEE THEM.

I read from Immortal Gifts, and people chuckled in all the right places, so there you are.

Psst! Are you on Apple or Kobo?

Do you want to preorder a COOL BOOK?

Apple Books readers, click here!

Kobo readers, click here!

(It’ll be on other retailers as well. Stand by for more links, or join my mailing list!)

P.S. It’s also on Goodreads!

Grandfather Paradox

This story was originally published in Electric Velocipede, issue #17/18, Spring 2009, reprinted in Escape Pod, March 10, 2011, and reprinted in Love Stories.

JUNE 23, 1994

Ann stuffed her blood-spattered clothes into the next door apartment complex���s dumpster. He wasn���t dead, but it was harder to get a knife through someone���s chest than she���d expected. Maybe he���d bleed to death before someone found him. She didn���t care either way. She was a juvenile, so it wasn���t like she was going to fry.

She walked. The YMCA was open. She locked herself in the men���s room, curled up on the floor, and fell asleep.

The next morning, she stopped at an IHOP and told a grey-haired waitress, ���I don���t have any money, but can I have a cup of coffee?��� The waitress must have felt sorry for her: she bought her breakfast. Afterwards, she went to Safeway and hid a steak and a bottle of beer under her coat and walked out. And kept walking. Someone had a barbecue grill in their back yard. She took it, and the charcoal, too.

What she could really go for now was some mushrooms. She should swipe some Kool-Aid and find a cow pasture. Or maybe she could rob a veterinary clinic. Anything to get the thought of him touching her out of her head, and that beer wasn���t going to cut it.

Steak and beer. Almost luxurious.

The sign read ���Open House.��� Yes, that sounded about perfect. She spent the night there, on the carpet smelling faintly of shampoo.

It had happened to him, too. What her father had done to her, his father had done to him. Which, in her opinion, just made it worse. He knew what it was like.

When the police arrived and told her she was under arrest for murder, she couldn���t stop laughing.

JANUARY 4, 2014

The crane lifted the sealed concrete container out of the hole in the ground. Ann lay down in the snow next to the hole and reached inside. ���My arms are too short,��� she said.

Martin lay down next to her.

���Excuse me?��� Dr. Chandler, the president of the university, said.

���I���m sorry,��� Martin said. ���I thought my department chair had spoken to you. Martin Robbins, physics. My head programmer, Ann O���Connell. Please, continue.���

Dr. Chandler gave them a dirty look, then walked over to the microphone. ���This time capsule was sealed in 1914. The items inside represent what they wanted us to know about the past. I���m sure our history department is hoping I���ll cut the speech short and let them get at it������

There was a chuckle from the crowd.

���Got it,��� Martin said. He pulled out a grimy Tyvek envelope, and opened it. Inside, there was a penny dated 2013. Martin smiled at her. ���Looks like our own time capsule arrived intact.���

FEBRUARY 9, 2014

���How are you feeling today, Ann?��� Dr. Katz asked. Her glasses were perched precariously on her nose, and her bun was in danger of falling down.

Screw her. ���Is my hour up yet?���

���No.���

Fine. Be that way.

���How are things going with Martin?���

���I stopped dating Martin.���

���Why?���

���Because he wanted to sleep with me. It was awful. Ugh.���

Dr. Katz was giving Ann that psychiatrist look. Well, Ann had felt like she had to. Saying no would be rude. Well, not rude, but��� Anyway, no more Martin. She���d had her phone number changed, and if he came around again? Restraining order. Work the system, or the system works you.

���How does that affect your job?��� Dr. Katz asked.

���I have vacation time,��� Ann said. ���I took it.���

Dr. Katz looked like she felt sorry for her. Ann hated that.

Dr. Katz asked, ���Do you have any remorse over your father?���

���Do you think I should?��� Ann asked.

���I was asking you,��� she said. Crafty. Ann guessed that was why she paid her the big bucks.

���Is my hour up yet?���

���I know you���re tired of my asking you that, but you���ve never answered.���

Ann shrugged and looked away.

���Do you really think his dying made your life any better?���

No. Ann didn���t have to live with him any more, but it still happened.

Hmm. Maybe Dr. Katz was worth the money Ann paid her after all.

FEBRUARY 10, 2014

Martin looked skittish. Well, Ann supposed she didn���t blame him.

���I���m sorry I��� whatever it was I did,��� Martin said.

���It���s not you,��� Ann said, and smiled the most charming smile she could muster. ���It���s me.���

Martin just looked confused. Confused and skeptical.

���Can we take it slower?��� Ann said.

���You tell me,��� Martin said.

Ann looked away. ���How���s the project?���

Oh, he seemed so excited she���d asked. ���After the penny,��� he said, ���we tried animal subjects, but it���s a lot harder to confirm that those arrived safely. We think they did.���

Perfect. ���Will you show me the notes?���

Martin seemed to consider it. ���Well,��� he said. ���I suppose you do work here.���

NOVEMBER 11, 1955

Ann dropped her blood-spattered lab coat in an alley and hotwired the car. It was an older model, of course���perhaps she should say ���contemporary model��� instead���but those were easier. Billy Watson had taught her how to hotwire cars in exchange for a blow job. She���d promptly stolen his car.

Grandfather was in the phone book. They lived out in the suburbs.

Time to change a little history.

DECEMBER 25, 1988

Ann sat on the floor with her Raggedy Ann doll. Her grandmother was in the kitchen, cooking. Daddy was��� well, she wasn���t sure where he was.

���Ann? Sweetie?���

Ann looked up.

Ann���s grandmother was holding a sheet of cookies fresh out of the oven. ���Where���s your father?���

���Outside, I think.���

���Go and tell him Christmas dinner is ready.���

Ann put on her coat and gloves, and picked up her doll. She went outside, shutting the door behind her. ���Daddy?��� she said.

There was no answer, but there were footprints leading to the back yard, already filling up with snow. Daddy was lying in a snowdrift with a bottle, his eyes closed. He was covered in a light layer of snow, too, melting off his face, but clinging to his eyelashes.

���Daddy?���

He opened his eyes.

Ann didn���t know what to say. She thought she should know. She was nine years old, not a baby any more. But she stood there, clutching her doll and looking at him.

He sighed, and sat up, and said, ���What���s up, baby girl?���

���Dinner is ready,��� Ann said.

Daddy started to cry. He dried his eyes and wiped his nose on his sleeve, then took Ann���s hand and went into the house with her.

���You���re drunk,��� Grandmother said. ���Couldn���t you just behave yourself for one day?���

���He put his cigarettes out on my arm,��� Daddy said. ���Look!��� He tried to roll up his sleeve and failed.

Grandmother started to cry. Ann stood there in her coat and hugged her doll.

AUGUST 12, 1989

The car came to a stop in front of their house. ���Thank you for taking me, Mrs. King,��� Ann said.

���It was good having you with us,��� Mrs. King said. ���It���s a shame your father doesn���t take you camping more often.���

���He gets sick a lot,��� Ann said.

���I���ll wait here and make sure you get inside okay.���

Ann climbed out of the station wagon and retrieved her backpack. She walked up the sidewalk and unlocked the front door. She opened the door, and Mittens the cat rushed out. There was an awful smell.

Mittens cried, a mournful meow.

Ann stepped in, cautious, slow, walking towards���

She screamed, and ran out the door. Mrs. King was starting to drive away. She chased the station wagon, and Mrs. King stopped. She climbed in.

���Drive,��� Ann said.

���What���s the matter, Ann?���

���Wait! I want Mittens!���

���Ann?���

���Wait!��� Ann opened the car door and picked up the cat, then got back in and shut the door.

Mrs. King just looked at her.

���He���s dead,��� Ann said, and started to cry.

FEBRUARY 9, 2014

���If I could give my father one gift,��� Ann told Dr. Katz, ���I would give him a happy childhood.���

She wasn���t a detective, but she wanted to solve her grandfather���s murder. She���d read all the newspaper accounts. If it wasn���t for grandfather���s murder, Daddy would still be alive.

���Maybe we should talk about the abortion,��� Dr. Katz said.

���I panicked,��� Ann said. ���I just don���t think I���m psychologically healthy enough to be a parent.���

���And Martin?���

���We���re getting a divorce.���

���How does that affect your job?���

���It���s a bit uncomfortable,��� Ann said. ���But it���s not like we aren���t professionals.���

Ann had been afraid for a moment that Martin would change the access codes, but that was silly. She was divorcing, not fired, and the wheels of academe turn slowly.

Maybe she could set things right, once and for all. She wasn���t sure what would happen to her, but maybe she could make things right for Daddy.

NOVEMBER 11, 1955

Ann sold her engagement ring and bought a car. Finding the house was easy; she���d lived there after Daddy died.

Grandmother was a tired-looking woman on the front porch with a black eye. ���Don���t remarry,��� Ann said.

���I beg your pardon?��� Grandmother said.

Ann���s timing must have been off, because the man who came to the front door wasn���t her step-grandfather.

���Remarry?��� he said. ���Who are you?���

���A friend,��� Ann said.

���Eileen ain���t got no friends,��� he said. ���Get off my porch.���

Grandmother looked scared, so she did. She headed down to the edge of the property.

That���s where Ann saw her. Herself. Whoever. If this whole time-travel thing became common, the linguistics people were going to have a problem. She didn���t know how this was possible, but she supposed time-travel was really Martin���s area. Although she suspected he���d be unsettled to meet himself, too.

���Fancy meeting you here, doppelganger,��� the other Ann said. ���Guess I didn���t quite get this one right.���

There were raised voices coming from the house. Grandmother screamed.

���If she loses the baby, we���re both done for,��� Ann said.

���We can take him,��� the other Ann said. ���The two of us? No problem.���

���What?���

The other Ann gave her a scornful look. ���You���re not scared of him, are you? The things father did to us, he did to father first. He deserves to die.��� She beckoned. ���Come on. We���ll get it over with.���

���You think I came here to kill him?���

���You didn���t?��� the other Ann said. ���Why did you come?���

NOVEMBER 11, 1955

Ann hated her doppelganger.

Ann shouldn���t hate her doppelganger. She made her. She was her: the Ann she wanted to be, the Ann she created by coming back to kill Grandfather. She thought she���d love her, but no, seeing her, she was so full of hate and envy her throat was full and she couldn���t breathe.

If she was going to kill for her, shouldn���t she love her?

���Apparently,��� her doppelganger said, sitting on the ground, ���Grandmother has no taste. Her next husband was a bastard, too.���

Damn. Ann had never thought of that. ���Well,��� she said, ���we can���t have a long line of us coming back in time to kill her husbands, can we?

Doppelganger Ann laughed a little. ���No. Maybe if we called Child Protective Services������

���I don���t think they have Child Protective Services yet.���

���The police?���

���For an unborn child?��� Which meant that they couldn���t just cut to the chase and kill Grandmother, unfortunately.

���What are we going to do, then?���

���I can���t not kill Grandfather,��� Ann said, sitting on the ground next to her. ���You���ll cease to exist if I don���t.���

���I don���t want you to kill anyone,��� the doppelganger said.

���We���re all born of original sin,��� Ann said. ���Except you. You were born of my sin.���

Somehow Ann didn���t think that was what her doppelganger wanted to hear. ���There���s more than just cause and effect going on here,��� the doppelganger said. ���Ethos anthropos daimon. Character is fate. Maybe if we changed Grandmother somehow.���

Apparently, they���d taken similar coursework in college. ���Character is created by cause and effect,��� Ann said.

The doppelganger shook her head. ���No. I have no control over the things that happened to me, but I can control how I react to them. That���s character.���

���You may have free will,��� Ann said, ���but not me. I am a product of causal determinism.���

���Don���t be such a fatalist.���

���You know,��� Ann said, ���we can argue free will all day, but right now, I have a child molester to kill. What say we continue this philosophical discussion later, over wine and cheese?���

���But this impacts whether what you do makes any difference!���

���Either way,��� Ann said, ���I���m performing a service to society, and I suggest you not interfere.���

���But he hasn���t done anything yet!���

���How do you know?��� Ann stood.

Her doppelganger stood, too. ���I can���t let you do this.���

���I���ll say it again: stay out of my way.���

At least her doppelganger seemed to have the wit to be scared. She stood aside, and Ann went back into the house. Grandmother was weeping at the foot of the stairs. Grandmother started when she saw her, but Ann put a finger over her lips and mouthed, ���Gun.���

Grandmother looked at Ann like she was her savior, and pointed at the back door. There was a shotgun next to it. Ann picked it up and started up the stairs, moving as quietly as she could.

He was lying on the bed, looking at the ceiling. He saw her peering around the corner. ���What the hell do you want?��� he asked. ���How did you���?���

She pointed the shotgun at him. ���I know what you are. I know what you���re going to do to Eileen���s child.���

He sat up and stared, looking terrified.

���It happened to you, too, didn���t it?���

���I don���t know what you���re talking about.���

���Wrong answer,��� she said, and pulled the trigger. It went straight through his heart, which was probably an easier death than he deserved, but in a sense he was a victim, too. What happened to her happened to him. But what happened to her happened because of him, because of what he did, because of what happened to him.

Stop the cycle. I want to get off.

NOVEMBER 11, 1955

Grandmother looked at her so strangely when she came in the front door, but otherwise she took a second Ann surprisingly well. ���I���m not her,? Ann said.

Grandmother looked up the stairs, then raised an eyebrow at Ann.

She probably only had a moment. ���Listen to me,��� Ann said. ���No matter how nice he seems, don���t marry the investigating officer.���

���How will I support my child if I don���t remarry?���

���Can you move back in with your parents?���

���I wouldn���t raise a child in my father���s house,��� she said.

Oh.

There was a gunshot upstairs.

���Don���t touch the gun,��� Ann said. ���It���ll have her fingerprints on it. Say it was a strange woman, say you think your husband was having an affair with her, they���ll believe you.��� After all, it worked the first time.

���Who are you?��� she said.

���We���re your granddaughter,��� Ann said. Grandmother seemed to take that better than Ann expected.

The other Ann came barreling down the stairs. ���Time to go, doppelganger.��� She looked at Grandmother. ���Don���t touch the gun. Call the police.���

Grandmother nodded.

���Don���t forget what I told you to tell them,��� Ann said. ���They���ll never believe the truth.���

���I don���t think I believe the truth,��� she said.

NOVEMBER 11, 1955

They ducked under a bridge. ���Well, this sucks,��� the other Ann said.

���What?���

���I was hoping that I would cease to exist at this point,��� she said. ���I guess it doesn���t work that way.���

Ann heard a car come to a stop on the bridge over them, and ducked under a bush into the mud. She heard the other Ann make a disgusted noise, and the car doors opened, followed by the sound of footsteps.

���Come out with your hands up,��� a voice said. ���This is the police. You���re under arrest for the murder of Charles O���Connell.���

The other Ann started to laugh.

JANUARY 19, 1956

Grandmother brought a date to the trial, a good-looking older guy who appeared to have money. Ann didn���t like the way he kept his hand on her back. Possessive. Like he owned her. On the other hand, there were only two Anns running around so far, which might be a good sign.

The other Ann pled guilty and suggested the death penalty. The judge looked disturbed by that and sentenced her to life in prison.

Ann found herself thinking of Martin. She supposed that it didn���t matter what she did now. Unless, of course, she wanted to steal her father from her grandmother and raise him herself. She still didn���t think she���d make a great parent, although she figured she couldn���t do that much worse than grandmother. But she���d had her chance, and she���d aborted it. So she bought herself a big bottle of vodka, and found herself a nice snowdrift to drink it in.

JANUARY 4, 2014

The crane lifted the sealed concrete container out of the hole in the ground. Martin lay down in the snow next to the hole and reached inside. Ann stood next to him, her hand resting on her pregnant belly.

Martin pulled out a grimy Tyvek envelope. ���Got it!��� he said.

Ann threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.

Want another short story? There’s one here.

Broad Universe Rapid-Fire Reading

Are you going to WorldCon in Glasgow? You can SEE ME there!

August 11, 2024 at 4pmBroad Universe Rapid Fire Reading – Castle 2

Meet the Broads of Broad Universe! The authors of Broad Universe will drop you into their fictional universes with short readings from multiple authors and works. Within the session you will hear a variety of writers in a variety of speculative fiction subgenres, like a variety box of chocolate! Broad Universe is an international organization dedicated to promoting women and traditionally marginalized genders in Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror.

Prospective Participants: D. H. Timpko, E. C. Ambrose, Jo Miles, Katherine Villyard, Kathryn Sullivan, Randee Dawn, Cynthia Villyard

The Interview with the Vampire TV Series

OH MY $DEITY I AM OBSESSED.

So, I’m a book fan–not a “True Fan,” as I read the first three and stopped–but I read and loved the first three books very much. (I recently read Tale of the Body Thief as well and enjoyed it!) But it’s as someone who read these books at an impressionable age that I come to the series.

Pros:

There is no subtext, only text. BRING ON THE GAY!I love the changes to the time period and ethnicity of the vampires. As I said in my vampire post, BRING ON THE SYMPATHETIC BLACK VAMPIRES. There were racist cartoons in the post-Civil-War south depicting Black men as vampires, and I feel that the best way to defang (pun intended) that narrative is to make them the heroes. It has a very Anne Rice “feel.”

Cons:

Basically, I don’t agree with some of the character choices. They gave a lot of Lestat’s character notes to Louis to make Lestat more antagonistic, for example. I mean. Lestat is the antagonist of Interview with the Vampire. Armand is the antagonist of The Vampire Lestat. And they’re doing a lot of “memory is a monster” unreliable narrator fun. But there are some Lestat would never moments.Sometimes I’m uncertain about internal consistency, but also “memory is a monster” and they are approaching Rashomon levels of different narratives here.

In short, I might set my alarm for 3am Sunday to watch the finale, and am waiting anxiously for season 3!

As you were.

La Divinia Commedia

This story originally appeared in ChiZine, October 2011, and was reprinted in Broad Spectrum:  The 2012 Broad Universe Fiction Sampler (October 30, 2012, and in Love Stories.

INFERNO

Last time this happened, I was Orpheus.

Ethan was lost, pale, gone in a haze of Zoloft and Lithium and anorexia, and he assured me he was in hell, and I missed him so much that the rocks and trees wept. And when neither of us could bear it any more, I descended into the underworld and went to the King. I sang such a song of grief that I even moved the King of the Underworld to tears, and he said I could bring my Eurydice back to the light of day if only I didn’t turn back and look upon him. As I walked through the fluorescent halls and the smell of bleach and urine I knew this was hell, and I couldn’t bear the thought of my beloved locked away from the sun like this forever. So I led the way singing, and the janitors and nurses wept and cleared a path for us as we walked down the hall.

As I opened the front door, I turned. Ethan had a tic and couldn’t stop moving his left arm. He threw his right arm over his eyes and screamed that my hair was on fire. Maybe I should lay off the henna. And then he was gone, vanished back into the underworld like smoke, and I was alone.

Apparently, being Orpheus doesn’t work.

I don’t imagine you would want to be my Eurydice anyway, my darling. I think you think of yourself more as a Lancelot, all shining armor and devotion to your lady fair. But there are no stories of Lancelot in the underworld, at least not that I know of. Lancelot was from the wrong part of the world for Dante’s attention.

Perhaps I should be Inanna instead. I like that. Inanna is sexy. It fits in a way, you and I have a lot more spark than Ethan and I ever did.

So I come and join you in the underworld, my love. I don’t see how this has happened again, and this time, since I am not Orpheus, they won’t let me in as a visitor. So I come in the only way I can. At the first gate, they take my purse. At the second, they take my jewelry. At the third, they take my shoes. By the seventh gate, I’m wearing a simple shift, like an inmate. The rituals of the dead are ancient and cannot be questioned.

Your eyes when you see me are worth it. Before I know it, you’re in my arms again, at last. You’re warm and lucid, with hot lips and roaming hands. You’re like the sun. You warm all the parts of me that are cold, clear to the bone, and you make me feel like the Queen of Heaven. I’m looking out of the corner of my eye for a relatively private place to take you when dull, bored men in white tell us we aren’t allowed to kiss and separate us.

The doctor is a woman with cold, dark eyes; she calls me words like “sick” and “codependent.” I expect this. Inanna is a corpse in the underworld for three days.

I would suffer to get you back, but in those three days your eyes are cold, lifeless, dark. We are corpses together, my love, locked away from the sun. Inanna and Damuzi, together in hell. It’s not the Christian hell; it’s cold and dark, full of the dead and the smell of industrial cleaner and the metallic tang of what passes for our food, and we all rot together.

After three days, I smell. Not as badly as I would if I were truly a corpse, but my hair is stringy and sweaty and my eyes are sunken. When I lay my hand on your shoulder and say, “I did it for you,” you turn.

“This isn’t your story!” you say. Your voice is so loud, your face so red, you turn so quickly that I think for a moment that you might strike me, and in that moment I decide that Doctor Ereshkigal is right. I shouldn’t be here.

“You’re right,” I say to you, and tell the Doctor, “Keep him.” I turn on my heel and check myself out, feeling like I have condemned you to hell in my place, and think that I may never love again.

PURGATORIO

The world has gone grey, like a monastery.

“I just have some issues I need to work on,” you tell me. You’ve lost weight, your color is bad and your eyes are haunted. You avoid looking me in the eye, like you’re afraid I’ll see through you, see into your heart.

I don’t feel like Inanna any more. I don’t feel sexy. I’m tired and my heart aches from seeing you suffer. I feel like Mary in the Pieta, only Mary was lucky enough to hold what was left of her beloved son and weep over him. But you’re not my son. You’re my lover, despite the way you’re avoiding touching me.

In lieu of hugging you, I say, “I know, sweetheart.”

“I just, I didn’t get this way overnight, and I’m not going to get better overnight. I’m a work in progress.” Your voice breaks, like you might burst into tears at any moment.

I want to cry. I want to wrap you up in a blanket and feed you soup. “I baked you cookies,” I say.

“I don’t deserve cookies,” you say.

I want to grab you and shake you for being such a fucking drama queen. Shake you until your teeth rattle. But it’s no use; this is your story, and forgive me, darling, but you’re not the storyteller I am. One note, like plainsong. Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem.

You’re neither a monk nor an ascetic. I shove the bag of cookies into your hands and brush your hair out of your eyes.

You shudder away from my touch and almost drop the cookies. “I’m not allowed to eat sweets. I have to eat complex carbohydrates, like brown rice.” You hand the bag of cookies back.

I grit my teeth and force my voice into patience. “You’re not going to tell me what’s wrong?”

You shake your head, a bit too vigorously. It’s a little frightening in your fragile state. You look like you might snap in half. “I can’t. I want to, it would be such a relief, but I can’t. I just��� I need to work on some issues.”

“Okay,” I say. “I love you. Feel better.”

And then you start to cry. Dona nobis pacem.

PARADISO

I don’t have a happy ending for you. I suppose this is still your story, and you’ll have to make your own happy ending.

But I have a story, too. I am Persephone, back from the dead. My mother and I go to the botanical gardens and admire the roses together, and I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her so happy.
There are butterflies, and greenhouses full of orchids and cacti, and so many flowers. I reach up and run my fingers over the roses, petals like velvet. Soft, yielding. Sensuous. It’s been too long since I’ve taken a lover, but I’ve shed old Mary’s robes in favor of a gauzy dress and sandals.

Unlike Persephone, I don’t intend to go back to you in the underworld. If you want me, you’re going to have to come out of the underworld yourself and get me. Not like Hades with his dark chariot, like Dante. Like someone who doesn’t plan to go back. I don’t care how. Hell, you be Inanna for a change. Damuzi was the Sumerian Persephone, after all.

I don’t care what story you pick. You’re the author of your own story, after all. Just pick one.

When I see you coming out of the tunnel you’re blinking, like you haven’t seen the sun in a long time. “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all.”

My mother stiffens at the sight of you, and this odd speech of yours makes her shiver. But this is a story I know.

I hand you a peach. “We should go walking at the beach.”

You look at the peach for a while, like it’s going to bite you. Finally, you bite it, and, like Persephone in reverse, I feel it trap you in the here and now. We go to the beach, where you take off your shoes and roll up your jeans. I take off my sandals. The sand is hot. The water is salty cool and stings a little where my sandal rubbed my foot wrong. We talk about what it would be like if there really were mermaids, if we could hear them singing, each to each, and agree that they would not sing to us. With each step, you become more solid and real. With each bite of peach, you become less Hades and more J. Alfred Prufrock.

I’d like to say we live happily ever after, but this isn’t that kind of story, is it?

Want another short story? There’s one here.

So Hey, Katherine, How Do You Lay Out Your Books?

For my eBooks (I have one for sale and a slew of mailing list extras), I use Draft2Digital���s converter��� but might end up using Sigil. I used to do webdev, a million years ago, and am comfortable in HTML and CSS. But I have yet to play with that. I mean, D2D produces lovely ebooks, but I might get custom chapter headings if I self-pub my novel…

For my print books? Scribus.

So, as you may know, I���ve long been a FOSS (Free and Open Source Software) booster. As such, I was happy to download Scribus and flail around in it.

I have to say that, well. I���ve long had a love/hate relationship with Scribus. I mean, I love it because it���s FOSS, it���s free as in beer and I can use it to turn out lovely books. But I���d be lying if I said there wasn���t a learning curve, and that I haven’t gotten very frustrated with Scribus from time to time–once to the point of vowing to pay for layout next time. My frustration is mostly the lack of wysiwyg/italic import kind of thing, although also I use it infrequently enough that I’m sometimes driven to a search engine to use basic functions. But I think I’m getting used to it? (True facts: I downloaded someone’s template and used that.)

It’s a sort of sweat equity: In exchange for not spending $22.99 a month for the best-known paid competitor, or buying a book layout program for $150-$250, I download free programs and flail around in a search engine. ���� I mean, I’m an IT person so it’s kind of fun for me, and I valorize my frustration and remember it more fondly than I should?

Would I recommend Scribus?

Are you in IT? Yes.Are you DEAD BROKE? Yes.Are you a DIY sort? Yes.Are you the sort of person who fantasizes about throwing your computer off the roof with a trebuchet whenever you run into a problem? NO.

As you were.

Thoughts on Writing Werewolves

Oh hey! It���s a magical creature post where I���m not going to ask you to think about religion! I mean, you can if you want to, as the medieval European werewolf typically put on a wolf-skin belt, or applied a special salve to their body, or went through a Satanic rite, and could be cured by conversion to Christianity or calling them by their Christian name, but these are less common modern tropes. But I have yet to see a book about the werewolf witch trials!

Typically, a werewolf is either a person who was bitten by a werewolf and became infected with lycanthropy, although there are other examples (such as Catherine Lundoff���s menopausal werewolves). Every full moon, they turn into a wolf, and then wake up naked in some strange place. They are often (but not always) horrified to discover that they���ve killed in the night. (The menopausal werewolves are the town���s protectors, and aren���t violent.) How a person becomes a werewolf and how violent they are when in wolf form are probably related. Are there ways to keep a werewolf from being as violent, like the Wolfsbane potion in Harry Potter? Can your werewolf lock themselves in their basement every full moon to avoid harming anyone?

Werewolves in modern fiction are often metaphors for something else: menopause, alcoholism, painful chronic illness, etc. You might already have this in mind if you���re thinking about writing a werewolf. Or is being a werewolf a positive thing, by which one acquires a found family? Is it both?

In addition to thinking of how werewolves are created, you should probably think about how they can be destroyed. Are they vulnerable to silver? Do they have supernaturally enhanced healing?

If there are other magical beings in your universe���vampires, witches, ghosts, etc.���can they become werewolves? What happens if a werewolf bites a vampire, or a witch? Can a werewolf become a vampire, spellcaster, or ghost? Can a werewolf bite a ghost, or do the teeth go right through?

What about ���werewolves��� of other cultures, like the Jewish alukah, a sort of vampire/werewolf creature?

Does the rest of the world know about werewolves? Are there werewolf-hunters? Are werewolf-hunters the good guys or the bad guys?

Recommended reading:

Writing Older Women and Menopausal Werewolves

Underworld

This story was originally published in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination and reprinted in Love Stories. (Also this graphic is adapted from the original publisher’s art.)

Tucking his computer science textbook and his Book of Shadows into his backpack, Dion dropped the bag onto the floor at the foot of his bed, and launched World of Warcraft. He selected his realm: Earthen Ring. He was number eighty in the queue. Expected wait time: twenty minutes. Stupid server. He glanced over at the wilted plant on the window sill and waved his wand. It perked up.

His mother wandered into the room, wearing a gold lam�� evening dress and hose without shoes. He hid his wand behind his back, but made no attempt to hide the glass of wine on the desk, next to the computer. As long as he didn���t get shit-faced, she had no problem with it.

���Honey, have you seen my rhinestone earrings?��� She walked over to his dresser, opened the jewelry box, and looked inside, but Dion knew it didn���t have any rhinestones in it. Just some pentagrams and crystals. ���Be careful, baby,��� his mother said, picking up the pentagram. ���You don���t want to attract the wrong kind of attention.���

Blah blah people will think you���re crazy blah. Like there were no Wiccans in college. ���You left them on the bathroom sink, so I put them in the medicine chest,��� he said. ���I didn���t want them to fall down the drain and get lost.���

She dropped the pentagram back into the jewelry box. ���Where would I be without my little man?��� She walked over and kissed him on the cheek. Then she left, fancy dress rustling as she headed out the door.

Dion groaned. He was nineteen-years-old and six-foot-one; he was hardly his mother���s little man. ���You���re welcome!��� He could hear her chuckling in the other room. He glanced down at his computer console again. His position in the queue was now seventy-seven. ���I���m not going to have to come rescue you again, am I?���

���Oh, hell no,��� his mother said, appearing in the doorway. Her makeup was impeccable, her dress was elegant, her rhinestones sparkled, and she was pinning a corsage to her chest. ���I used to date him back when you were a baby. Mr. Kataibates is pure class. You should see what he drives! He has a gorgeous silver������

���I don���t care what he drives. I care that he treats my Mama right.���

���I���ll be fine, baby. Like my mama always said, it���s as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it is a poor man.��� She winked at him. ���Don���t wait up, now.���

Dion groaned again and threw a Darth Maul beanie baby at her. He heard the front door close, and pulled out his wand. He murmured a spell and his position in the queue went from seventy-four to two. He wasn���t the best wizard in the world, but computers were easy. He was also pretty good with plants and shapeshifting, which was why he played a druid. They were good at plants and shapeshifting, too.

He wondered again what his father was like ��� he���d clearly gotten his magical abilities from him, not his mother. But Mom wasn���t talking.

He was awakened by Sir Mix-A-Lot announcing that he liked big butts and he could not lie. For a moment he thought it was just a crazy dream about rappers in his bedroom, but then he realized it was his cell phone. Rolling over, he groped for his phone in the dark, knocking it off the nightstand and onto the floor. He scrambled and answered, ���Hello?��� and was surprised by how scratchy and incoherent his voice sounded, even to him.

���Baby, I���m so sorry to call you so late.��� His mother. ���I���m so sorry, but I need you to come pick me up right away.���

Dion sat up. ���Mom?��� There was a sliver of light from the streetlight coming in between the bedroom curtains forming a line of visibility over to his computer. He threw a book at the desk to jiggle the mouse, and the screen lit up.

���I���m in the ladies room in the lobby of the Four Seasons hotel, and I���m afraid to come out. I���ll explain when you get here. Oh, shit, I think he���s coming.���

She hung up.

With a sigh, Dion scrambled out of bed by the light of the computer screen. Part of him thought that he should just leave his mother there ��� she kept getting into these messes, and it wasn���t fair of her to expect her son to get her out all the time. He turned on the bedroom light and hissed at the brightness hitting his eyes, then grabbed his jeans and the first t-shirt he could find ��� the one that read ���you are dumb��� in binary ��� and pulled them on. He put on his socks and sneakers, then crossed the room for his jewelry box and his pentagram.

Then he went into his mother���s room and opened her Bible, which was where she kept her ���mad money,��� and grabbed three hundred dollars in case he needed to bail her out or something. He grabbed his wand, wallet, and cell phone off his nightstand and stuffed them into his back pockets. There was a mirror over his dresser, and he scowled at his reflection. He looked like a gangly teenager whose mother woke him up for a ride at���

The clock said 4 in the morning.

He swore and stormed out to his car, a cherry red 1984 Chevy Caprice. It was older than he was, but it had some serious juice. He hoped he wouldn���t have to kick some old man ass. His mother tended to like rich pricks with expensive lawyers. He wondered if his father was a rich prick with an expensive lawyer. A rich wizard prick with an expensive lawyer. He snarled.

When he arrived at the Four Seasons hotel, there was a chill in the air but he had his irritation to keep him warm. Especially when the doorman ��� a thin, pimply white guy in an ill-fitting suit ��� watched him like a hawk, and the women leaving clutched their purses closer as he walked by. Please. He knew for a fact that black people had been to the Four Seasons before. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and figured his shirt said it all. The lobby was all marble and fancy wood and rugs and people in expensive clothes with a lot of jewelry. He walked over to the door marked Ladies and was about to knock when a gorgeous, regal Greek woman came out. She was maybe forty, and had dark curly hair piled up on her head and big, gorgeous, intense brown eyes. She wore understated makeup, a little royal blue dress, and pearls. She had a hair comb with peacock feathers on it. She was totally hot, and probably had no use for a skinny teenaged gamer geek. She turned back towards the door and said, ���I believe your son is here.��� Maybe she was a friend of his Mom���s.

Dion���s mother peeked around the woman, then rushed out and grabbed him by the arm. ���Let���s go.���

���See you later, Semele,��� said the woman in blue.

���Not if I see you first,��� Dion���s mom muttered. On second thought, maybe she wasn���t a friend of his Mom���s.

As they were headed out the door, Dion asked his mother, ���Who was that?���

���Mrs. Kataibates,��� his mother whispered.

���Mama!��� He stopped and stared at her. He looked back at the woman in blue, who crossed her arms and smirked at him in a way that made him grab his mother���s arm and hurry her towards the door.

���I didn���t know he was married,��� his mother said.

Bullshit. How long had she known this guy? He was nineteen years old, and she used to date Kataibates when he was a baby. Either Kataibates was a really good liar, or his Mom��� He didn���t like either train of thought, but he liked the latter less.

There was a Greek man dressed entirely in black ��� black turtleneck, black jeans, black leather jacket ��� waiting next to Dion���s car. There was something about him, a supernatural quality, something more frightening than just Greek mafia. ���I���m afraid you���ll have to come with me, Mel.���

Dion���s mother cowered behind him. Dion pulled out his wand and pointed it at the man. ���Leave her alone!��� A silvery glow came out of the wand and headed towards the man, but he seemed to have a protective shield around him. Well. That, and hexes weren���t really his forte.

The man laughed. ���Little boy, do you have any idea who I am?���

Dion shook his head.

���The name is Thanatos,��� the man said. He pulled something out of his pocket and everything went dark.

Dion woke up cold with a damp back and the doorman leaning over him. ���Welcome back, kid.��� The ground smelled like motor oil.

Dion sat up. ���Mama?���

���Gone,��� the doorman said. He handed Dion one of his mother���s earrings and the corsage. Up close, Dion could tell the doorman���s suit wasn���t particularly well made. Well, he supposed it was a uniform of sorts.

���Did you call the police?��� Dion asked.

The doorman laughed, but there was no humor in it. ���No, I value my life. That guy���s Greek mafia, and those guys are untouchable. Olympians. Sorry, kid.���

Dion scrambled to his feet. ���Which way did they go?���

���Forget it. Your mother���s in a shallow grave right about now. Go home.��� He looked at Dion���s car and said, ���I���ll call you a cab.���

Dion looked over at his car and started to swear. That dick Thanatos had slashed his tires.

He grabbed the doorman���s arm. ���Which way did they go?���

The doorman shook his head, pulled his arm free, and walked away. Dion flipped him the bird behind his back. His mother might be a��� a��� the other woman, but she loved him, and he loved her.

He tucked the earring into his pocket and hung the corsage like a pendulum. ���Which way did they go?���

The corsage pulled to the right.

The doorman whistled. He turned, and the doorman was waving him over to a cab. He ran and climbed into the back seat. The cab looked clean, but it smelled like coffee and salami.

���Where to?��� the cab driver asked. He was an old man in a fisherman���s sweater with flashing pale-blue eyes.

���That way,��� Dion said, pointing in the direction the corsage pointed.

The old man gave him and the corsage pendulum an appraising look. ���It���s extra if I cross the river.���

Dion realized that no one was reacting to him practicing magic. He didn���t know if that was good or bad. Maybe the cab driver was ���the wrong kind of attention.��� Thanatos sure as hell was. Either way, it was too late to worry about it now.

They followed the corsage pendulum across the river, and through scary, half-deserted streets with boarded up windows and shambling bums who threw empty bottles at the cab as it passed. They finally found themselves in an abandoned warehouse. Dion got out of the cab.

���Wait for me.���

���It���ll cost extra,��� the man said. ���In advance.���

Dion nodded and handed the man a hundred dollar bill, making sure he saw that he had more where that came from. He opened the warehouse door. It was dark and dirty and smelled musty. There were concrete stairs leading down, and voices. At the bottom of the stairs, a dog growled. Dion wished he���d remembered the beef jerky he had in his backpack for when he didn���t have time for lunch, because he wasn���t any good with dogs. But the corsage insisted his mother was down there, so he pulled out his wand and decided to play Warcraft druid. ���Root!��� he said, and vines rose up and tied up the dog, who was understandably confused by the whole thing. Since that worked, he decided to try to become a leopard. His beard stubble became kitty whiskers, and he dropped to all fours. He would have thought it would hurt, but instead he felt more athletic. And really hairy. Light became brighter, colors dimmer, edges less distinct. The dog whimpered. Dion thought he smelled something nasty ��� the dog, gross! No wonder cats hated dogs.

So freaking cool! He couldn���t believe it worked! He changed back and did an insulting little touchdown dance. The dog lunged at him, vines gone, teeth towards his face, snarling and pulling at the end of its chain. Dion leapt back, and almost fell, but caught himself just in time.

He crossed over a footbridge ��� well, more of a concrete plank over a gutter ��� and up another flight of concrete stairs. His mother was there, lying on the floor, her pretty dress covered with blood and dirt and her face bruised and swollen. He thought she was dead at first, but then she let out a tiny little sob, and he knew she���d seen him. She didn���t move, though, not even when Thanatos kicked her.

Dion swallowed the hints of bile that welled up in his mouth ��� a prelude to vomiting, which would reduce his intimidation factor, such as it was ��� clenched his fists and sized up the other people in the room.

Aside from Thanatos, there was a man and a young, tall, willowy, sad-eyed brunette. The man had long, silky black hair, almost prettier than the woman���s, and was wearing a silk suit and a diamond ring. He was younger than Mrs. Kataibates, but���

���Are you Kataibates?��� Dion asked the man.

The man in the silk suit laughed a mirthless bark of a laugh. ���Ordinarily I���d be flattered, but since I���ve just learned that my brother-in-law has once again failed to keep it in his pants������ He shook his head. ���You should go now. I have many guests, and most of them are not permitted to leave.���

���What the hell?��� Thanatos said, starting towards Dion.

���Wait!��� the tall brunette said, grabbing Thanatos��� arm. ���You can���t kill him.���

���Why not?���

���Because,��� the brunette said, ���he���s Kataibates��� kid.���

Oh, shit. His father was a rich wizard prick. A rich Greek mafia wizard prick, who probably had an army of expensive lawyers. And an angry wife. Dion resisted the urge to swear. He looked over at his mother, but she didn���t move or look at him.

Thanatos looked over at the man in the silk suit. ���Is this true, Polydektes?���

The man in the silk suit raised an eyebrow at Thanatos. The coldness of his stare made Dion shiver, and it wasn���t even directed at him.

Thanatos blinked. ���Mister Polydektes. Sir.���

Mr. Polydektes appeared unmollified.

���And don���t think for a moment that Kataibates doesn���t know it,��� the brunette continued. ���He���s been paying child support for years ��� under the table, of course, so his wife wouldn���t find out.���

Dion thought of the hundred dollar bills in his pocket and winced. No one seemed to notice.

���Well, she found out,��� Polydektes said. ���And I���m not going to just let the bitch go. I owe it to my sister to look out for her interests, and if this chick has no respect for the marital vows, well, that���s her funeral.���

���Your sister can take care of herself, honey,��� the brunette said.

���It���s a matter of loyalty.���

The woman rolled her eyes, and Polydektes pulled her closer and gave her a peck on the cheek. It was her turn to look unmollified.

���They made my sister cry,��� Polydektes said, his voice surprisingly soft.

Dion considered that Mrs. Kataibates hadn���t been crying when he saw her, but said nothing.

���Maybe,��� Thanatos said, ���if it was supposed to be all hush-hush, he shouldn���t have taken her to the Four Seasons.���

���I���m not leaving without my mother,��� Dion said. ���So you���re going to have to either kill me or hand her over.���

Polydektes rolled his eyes. ���Oh, go away, kid. You���re bothering the grown-ups.���

���I���ll tell you what,��� Dion said. ���If I can kick his ass��� ��� he pointed at Thanatos ��� ���I get to walk out of here with my mom. Deal?���

Polydektes laughed, but it wasn���t a cheerful sound. ���It���s up to you, Persephone.���

The brunette chewed her lip a little. Dion handed her the corsage with a deep bow.

���Deal,��� she said. She pulled a black ribbon out of her hair and used it to tie the corsage to her wrist. ���Why don���t you bring me flowers any more?���

Polydektes leaned over and whispered something in Persephone���s ear that made her smile.

Dion gave Thanatos a long, appraising look. Thanatos smirked back at him. He clearly didn���t have the magical chops to fight this guy with spells, but Thanatos hurt his mother.

He threw himself onto Thanatos in a flying tackle, punching wildly and shrieking in rage. Thanatos was clearly not expecting that, and was pulling his punches. Apparently he didn���t want to hurt Kataibates��� son.

Dion didn���t pull his punches. He kept hitting until his hands were covered with blood, and finally Thanatos turned on him, his eyes icy. Dion felt his limbs grow cold and numb.

���Root!��� Dion said, and vines sprouted up out of the earth and twined around Thanatos. Vines, with thick, lush bunches of grapes covering Thanatos��� shoulders and eyes. Thanatos blinked and looked around, and Dion felt his limbs tingle with the blood rushing back to them. He turned into a leopard, and lunged for Thanatos��� throat. Blood mingled with the sweet taste of grapes in his mouth, rich and intoxicating. He shook Thanatos out like a dishrag, then tossed him aside and pounced again. He tore at Thanatos��� limbs and chest, vaguely aware of screams.

���Stop,��� Polydektes said.

Dion ignored him, planting a paw on Thanatos��� chest and gnawing a limb off. And then Persephone was there, placing a hand on his chest. He was going to growl at her, but he was distracted by her sad eyes. They were deep and dark, like the earth.

She reached up a hand and stroked his head, and he leaned into her touch. ���It���s all right. Everything will be all right.���

���Damn,��� Polydektes said, and shook his head. ���You really are my brother-in-law���s kid. You got his temper, that���s for sure.���

Dion ran over to his mother, turning back into a human. He picked her up, and she weakly wrapped her arms around his neck, like a child. ���We���ll be going now.���

Thanatos whimpered, and Polydektes leaned over and casually pressed Thanatos��� arm back into its socket, like he was made of clay. Then he looked up at Dion, his eyes unreadable. ���That would be wise, yes.���

Dion took a step backwards, then turned and carried his mother as fast as he could. He didn���t look to see if anyone was following him.

When they got to the dog, Dion said, ���I just kicked Thanatos��� ass. You don���t want to fuck with me, dog. In the name of Hecate, down.��� The dog dropped onto his stomach, growling, but he let them by. They got into the taxi, his mother on his lap, and handed the driver another hundred. It was covered with blood, and he didn���t know whether it was Thanatos��� blood or his mother���s. The driver raised an eyebrow and started the car.

Dion asked his mother, ���He���s my dad?���

His mother���s voice was a whisper. ���He told me he was divorced. I believed him.���

Dion wasn���t sure he believed her, but it didn���t matter. She was his mother. He had her back.

Dion looked up from his computer science textbook ��� stateless firewalls ��� as his mother swept into the room. She was wearing a white lace blouse and a flowered skirt. She pirouetted. ���What do you think?���

His heart sank. ���You have a date?���

���Yes, with the nice man who owns the bookstore on the corner,��� she said. ���I don���t expect to be out too late.���

���Okay,��� he said, because there wasn���t anything else to say. She left. He tried to finish his reading, but he was distracted. Who knew what kind of asshole the bookstore guy was? Who knew what other rich assholes his mother might get involved with?

It occurred to him that he apparently had an in with a very rich, very powerful, very dangerous asshole. One who could be an insurance policy against anyone else doing his mother wrong.

So he Googled up Kataibates. There was a phone number for Kataibates Enterprises, which he dialed.

���Kataibates Enterprises,��� a perky receptionist said. He could almost hear her smacking gum in the background, and wondered if she was his age.

���Yes, I���d like to speak to Mr. Kataibates.���

���May I ask who���s calling?��� she asked.

���His son.���

Her voice took on a suspicious tone. ���Which one?���

���The illegitimate one.���

���Which one?��� the receptionist asked, her tone dry.

���Dion,��� he said.

���I���ll��� tell him you���re on the line.��� She���d heard of him? Really?

There was a pause, and then an older man picked up. ���This is Kataibates.��� He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded uncertain, almost vulnerable. ���Dion?���

���You and I need to talk,��� Dion said, ���about protection for my mother.���

Want another short story? There’s one here.

Thoughts on Writing Ghosts

I���m sorry, but you probably know the drill by now. Like the vampire post and the witch post, I���m going to ask you to consider religion��� or at the very least, the afterlife. A ghost���at least, the kind I���m talking about���is the spirit of someone who���s died. This implies that there is something to life beyond the body and brain chemistry. In other words, spiritual stuff is even more important for ghosts, in my opinion.

Will you use the afterlife of a specific religion or belief system, or have that depend on the belief system of the individual who dies, or make up one of your own? What typically happens to people in your story when they die? Do they wander the earth looking for a decent coffee, or do they move on to some kind of afterlife? If they move on to an afterlife, why didn���t this spirit go? If there isn���t an afterlife, why aren���t we flooded with generations upon generations of ghosts? Are we, or do they fade over time? What causes them to fade?

Can a ghost be trapped in an object or a place? Ghosts in Gail Carriger���s Parasol Protectorate series are tethered to their bodies and fall apart along with their bodies��� but only manifest if they contain an excess of ���spirit.��� Ghosts in other books seem to be immortal���because they���re already dead.

How do ghosts feel about the living? Are they seeking revenge for wrongs done to them? Are they malevolent and envious of the living? Are they basically the person they were when they were alive, but incorporeal? If they have a choice about whether they go to the afterlife, reincarnate, etc., why haven���t they made that choice? Are they only here to complete a specific task before moving on?

How do ghosts interact with the physical world? Can they be seen by everyone, or only certain people? Do they have a choice in whether they���re seen? Ghosts can usually walk through walls; why don���t they sink through the floor? Can they interact with items like cups, furniture, etc.? Can they sit in chairs?

Do ghosts have any special abilities? That might sound like an odd question, but Sims 4 ghosts have abilities or quirks based on how they died: ghosts who died by fire can start fires when angry, ghosts who drowned leave puddles behind them, ghosts who froze to death can sap warmth from the living, etc. Can they levitate objects or even people, like in Beetlejuice? Do they eat or drink or shower (Sims 4 ghosts do)?

What needs does a ghost have? Do they get lonely?

If you have other magical creatures in your story���witches and wizards, vampires, werewolves, etc.���can they become ghosts? Why or why not?