Strange couple of weeks. Haven't had any issues with my memory in a while--the last symptom of my illness and by far the most disturbing. The doctors cleared me to get back to life, though with lots and lots of cautions. And the Universe...promptly gifted me with jury duty. A whole blessed week of jury duty.
This, I need?
Haven't yet converted that ordeal into fiction, sorry. But, hey, it's spring! Incredibly vibrant, cheering, blooming-and-blossoming-and-burgeoning all over SPRING. End of the loquat season, beginning of mulberry. Yummy spring, bright and warm, and it feels so wonderful that (gasp!) I had to reach for my keyboard and celebrate.
Hmm. Maybe I'm not quite back to normal, if that was the first impulse? -G- Can't complain too strenuously, though I'm not yet certain where this particular fruit-inspired story is going. But you'll see what I mean...
Ivan watched sidelong as, just outside his window, the nymph tipped back her head, exposing the long column of her sunbrowned throat, and sank small white teeth into the sunset-hued fruit she had just plucked from his tree.
His tree. Seed planted with his own two hands, in the rich soil of his land, planted to grrow where he could see. And still! Birds and wasps he expected--thiefs of nature who yet gave back as much as they stole--but this was no bird to pay in song for the fruit she ate.
Not...exactly.
Eyes flashing, he rose, headed for the door. But a mirror gave him back his appearance, reminding him he was not appropriately attired. Changing his guise took no effort, only a spark of will. A man of this age, this place and time. A man to charm this unwinged thief.
The mirror told him he now wore greying hair, shaggy if not unkempt; his reflection looked at him from earth-brown eyes. Neat pressed denim pants and a shirt of similar weight showed shoulders broader than his own form had, a lightly muscled chest, a stomach softened with age though not quite fat. Older than the nymph--the woman, he corrected himself. A father figure, perhaps.
Or perhaps she, too, was older than she looked. He paused in the doorway, neither indoors nor out, and stared. Bright sunlight picked out silver strands within the russet hair, and faint pale lines radiating outward from her eyes. When he spoke, she turned at the first sound of his voice, her lips shining with fruit juice, cheeks coral with emotion, spring-green eyes wide.
He met her gaze and he felt--
Something.
"Excuse me?"
Caught in the act, Sadie could only wince. It's not as if you don't know better, she reminded herself, and slowly turned to face the (presumed) owner of the tree she'd been robbing. Harvesting. Over-ripe fruits fermented at her feet, proof enough he had no use for the things. So was it really stealing?
The cops would say so, if asked. She could only hope the tree's owner would be satisfied with scolding her and sending her away.
"Excuse me, please?" the voice came again, and Sadie paused in her glacial motion, caught by the rich tones--and the accent. Like something out of an opera. Russian? Yummy as fresh-picked loquats, she giggled, and the smile stayed on her juice-sticky lips when, at last, she faced him.
Oh, yum-yum-yum! Loam-brown eyes in a sun-weathered face, brows raised quizzically. A thatch of greying hair flopping to the collar of a shirt that framed broad shoulders. A strong but not too strong chin. And those lips--
Sadie blushed as she realized what she was thinking. Blame it on the perfect day; spring always made her frisky. And there'd been the delightful feeling of naughtiness as she crossed the sidewalk, venturing near the house, the allure of those golden-sunset fruits hanging so temptingly, their taste...
"Excuse me, please," it wasn't a question now, the voice firm though still melodic, "I asked you, what are you doing to my tree."
To the tree? That's nothing, tovarisch, she thought, swallowing laughter and nearly choking. Ask me what I want to do to you! Better he didn't; the way she was feeling, she might tell him. Which would open up a whole new can of...fruit.
"Loquats," she managed, holding out her hands, a cluster of ripe yellow-orange fruits balanced on one palm, the fruit she'd just bitten into when he caught her in the other. Her gaze followed his as he stared down, and seeing the clear juice welling from creamy flesh, she sighed. Licked her lips.
"They are...you find them good to eat?"
A good sign. The folks who asked that didn't usually call the cops. (And you know you need a new hobby, she scolded herself, when you've racked up enough past encounters to judge that! Right? Right.) The standard loquats-for-dummies lecture rose to her lips, but she didn't speak it. Instead, she plucked a perfectly ripe fruit from the cluster and held it out to him.
His brow furrowed: a forehead-centric frown. "Show me."
She looked at him, this homeowner who, so far, hadn't really objected to her trespassing. He stood barefoot on the slate steps, in jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves folded back, and made no motion either toward her or away. Cell phone in his pocket, so if he'd wanted to dial 911...but instead he simply stood, waiting. Watching her as much as she watched him.
Okay. Her purse lay still where she'd dropped it, by the sidewalk, but she had a small pocketknife on her keychain, used that to slit the fruit in half. "You can't eat the seeds. Poisonous. Pretty, though." Two large tiger's-eye ovals flew as she flicked the knife. "And you'll probably want to pull the membrane. Some gourmets blanch and peel the fruits, at least for cooking, but fresh," the blossom-end cut away, she extended the fruit to the man, "well, here."
He took one half from her, delicately. "Show me."
Sadie watched his eyes as he bit into the creamy flesh, but saw nothing. No flash of surprise or of pleasure, no ecstatic slow closing, not even the suspicious narrowing of a man who thinks a trick's being played on him. He bit down, chewed, swallowed, but showed no reaction at all.
It worried her. But the sun's rays warmed the fruit-half still in her hand, releasing its unique bouquet, and she remembered his request. Demand. Show me, he'd said, and so she would. Feeling a trickle of juice making its sticky way toward the hollow of her palm, she decided to truly give him a show.
Step one: put the knife away. That was harder than it should have been, even after she wiped the blade clean; her hands were shaking, just slightly. What was it about this man? Something. One thing at a time. The blade snicked home at last, and she stifled a relieved sigh. Step two: Um, next? Oh, right; she needed both hands free. So all the fruit, except for that one still-leaking half, she laid by his feet.
Noting their oddly squared appearance in passing, and the old-ivory sheen of his toenails.
Rising, she took a sudden step back, out of his shadow. Shivering. She panted, tasting copper, wondering. Fear--like a storm--had swept over her, through her, but surely there was no reason to be afraid. There was only an attractive older man standing on his front stoop, asking, quite reasonably, why she was picking fruits from his tree.
An attractive older man willing to listen, to try, to learn. And he'd asked her to show him...
Ivan shifted his weight back on his heels, adjusted his newly broadened shoulders to let the sunlight pass unimpeded. She'd flinched from the touch of his shadow, sudden fear darkening those light green eyes. A moment he had not chosen, would have side-stepped had he been able to, but he hadn't expected her--yet--to kneel at his feet.
Laying his own fruits down in offering. Brazen, this woman!
And no sooner had he thought it than a new light was in her eyes, mischief dancing in green like the legends of his home that led wanderers a merry and dangerous way. Could she be more than she seemed? But, no, she was human, salt sweat and strong emotion and the rich red blood beneath the skin. Human, mortal, thief.
Her mouth would taste so sweet.
No, that's not all there is. That's not even all I've written today---but it's all I'm going to post right now. In part because I've already gone over wordcount, but also because there are three separate and distinct paths I can see for this story. And I'm feeling greedy enough that I want them all! Were I to post the next bit, that only works with one path, I'd feel obligated to keep traveling it.
But, hey, if you have any preferences...
The happy hermit,
pxj
Friday, May 2, 2008
Friday Flash: Pick of the Season
Friday, April 4, 2008
Flash Fiction Friday: Pixie
Hi, folks.
Yep, it's the hermit, posting. Asking for help, actually. (Hail from a clear sky; two blue moons in a single month; kind words from a mother-in-law...) The worst part about being sick for so long, for me, is that it gives me permission to do nothing. But I'm not all that sick anymore, really, and now--
I NEED SOMEONE TO KICK MY A*S!
More specifically, I need someone to remind me that I don't get to call myself a writer unless I write. That unfinished drafts are useless as unfletched arrows. That...
Blecch. Surely you get the point. It's a Flash Fiction Friday, so here's a tidbit. From (you guessed it!) a story I haven't finished. Nearly, almost, it's only missing a few little things...
Rev up those feet, won'tcha?
pxj
Anna blinked, absurdly conscious of the small breeze the motion stirred. The weight of her eyelids, their passage, tiny muscles in concert. The brief cessation of sight. Normally, of course, all of that would have gone unnoticed—but there was nothing normal about this.
Impossible not to tremble, but her hands were steady, holding onto her camera with just enough pressure, not tight enough to stress the plastic, but with no risk she’d drop the thing. It was her favorite digital, the one she called Pixie, the one she carried with her everywhere. A camera that ate batteries with voracious appetite, but that never failed her in the clutch, that never fogged or blurred, that fit all her old lenses and scopes and held thousands of images in its capacious expanded memory. The camera that never faltered nor falsified, never lied.
Pixie hadn’t lied to her this time, either; she’d only thought it had. Thought the image it had shown her too preposterous to be real.
But it was. He was. Not the least bit credible, but real just the same. Sitting at a café table just like any normal man, in a small Louisiana town no one beyond the county line had ever heard of, a mystery in human shape. With eyes that held her easily.
“Please,” his voice was cultured, soft and deep with only a hint of a drawl, “sit down.”
She sat. She didn’t think she could have stood much longer anyway, her legs shaking as badly as the rest of her. Except her hands.
“Will you have tea?”
Tea. She’d never understood how people could drink hot beverages once the temperature got above ninety, but just then, she felt chilled. Tea might help. Only, she’d have to let go of Pixie for that. And she might drop the cup, shaky as she was.
He hadn’t waited for a reply, pouring with an almost laughably serious expression, completely focused on the small task, setting the saucer properly before her. “Please.” Oh, that voice! It had a texture, that voice, like wet sand, soft and sharp all at once.
Fit match for the man.
Anna drew in a quivering breath, the scent of him—earth and oak, something sharply green, moisture and a hint of chalk—overwhelming in the close, still air. Louisiana humidity. Which writer was it that had likened it to an animal humping your leg? But he’d forgotten to mention the decadent perversion that rich air carried on its fetid breath, that made a woman want to turn and draw it up her body, see what fun she could have rolling around with it.
Darlin’, that feeling’s not from the air. Take another look at the man-rock sitting there.
The Primal Stone. That’s what she’d seen through her camera, a free-standing bone of the earth, dark as obsidian, strong as granite, rooted deep in the land and unwilling to be quarried free. Small sparks like sun on mica danced over an unremitting darkness shaped vaguely like a man. To her eyes, he wasn’t quite so daunting.
But so much sexier.
It wasn’t his looks, though she supposed he was handsome enough—black hair worn a little long, the way she liked it; dark eyes; strong features, bone structure clear beneath just enough flesh to keep him from looking raw; broad shoulders. She couldn’t see much else, with him sitting at a café table, but he had wonderful square hands, and his nails were clean.
It wasn’t his looks that stole her breath, but the sheer solid strength of him. She could feel it, sitting across the table, knew others could feel it as well. The way the waitress kept one eye on him, no matter where she was; the way no one came near enough to jostle him, though there was a crowd.
“What—who are you?”
“One of your picturesque natives.” Flash of white teeth: a smile. “Drink your tea.”
Heat washed across her cheeks as she obeyed.
No secrets in a small town. That was the maxim, long-ago learned and yet still a surprise. Anna hadn’t been back to this particular small town since a summer visit when she’d been twelve or so. Even then, it had felt stifling, her mother fluttering, a pair of spinsterly great-aunts forever telling her to mind her manners, a flock of cousins teasing, locals whose dialects and motives she hadn’t understood, and no real consciousness of time in the whole place. So unlike city life. She’d told her mother after that visit that she was never coming back, and she hadn’t, either, until now. This trip was an obligation, for the family; they’d just buried one of the great aunts, and she’d come for the funeral.
Though that wasn’t her only reason. Being a freelance photojournalist wasn’t the glamorous, financially secure life the movie-makers portrayed; she’d hustled a few assignments to pay her way, including one for the Chamber of Commerce. Small wonder people knew what she was doing, wandering with her cameras. And, usually, Anna wouldn’t have cared if it bothered them, if they thought she was playing safari in their home. Anyplace else, yes, but not here; this place had never been kind to her, so what matter if they thought she was cruel? It wasn’t like a few pictures would hurt anything; hell, some would even help! And she’d take them and be gone. She wasn’t interested in leaving good memories behind; all she wanted was to leave.
Or, all she had wanted. Now, there was a big solid chunk of mystery calmly sipping tea, watching her as she watched him.
She opened her mouth, and words fell out. “Picturesque. You are, you know. Uniquely picturesque.” Before she was through speaking, she worried she might have said too much. Flickering monster-movie images rose before her mind’s eye, vampires and werewolves coldly disposing of the mortals who had stumbled upon them. The sun shone down, almost too bright, but her skin bore a renewed chill. What was he, this man who looked like a monolith to her camera’s sight?
Whatever he was, he knew, she was sure of it. Coal-black eyes stilled as he looked at the camera, and sound faded from her world as she watched him look. He knew she’d seen. She thought again of his impossible image in her camera sight, wondered if he’d destroy the camera before or after he took her life. Horrible thought, that what might have been the best photos she’d ever taken wouldn’t be shared with the world.
“I-if you’re going to kill me, I’d really like to know why you look...like you look. First.”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound like a friendly landslide.
...
Monday, March 17, 2008
Story: Donny Boy
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yes, I've written something. This must be a good sign. A very brief seasonally appropiate work-safe m/m something. Enjoy. (The story and the holiday. Just, if you really do drink green beer, please don't tell me!)
pxj
Donny Boy
“Hey, Danny boy. You know why there’re no good men around?”
Donny kept his eyes on his work, pulling a Guinness with an artist’s attention to detail. Customers who couldn’t be bothered to get his name right shouldn’t expect any better than to be ignored. The woman in the green lipstick didn’t seem to need an answer anyway.
“It’s all the fault of that damned Irish saint.”
Not the wisest thing to say in an Irish bar, and particularly not on St. Patrick’s Day, but Donny wasn’t going to tell the woman so. She was sloppy drunk, half poured out of her perch on the bar stool, and would probably fall over if anyone took a swing at her.
He almost wished someone would, just so he could see it. Green lipstick! The saints wept. And a green-patterned dress about three sizes too small that made her look like a mildewing sausage. About the best that could be said of her appearance was that she seemed very much one of the crowd.
Donny thought there was little worse that could be said of a person. Except maybe that he was an Englishman. Grinning to himself (he didn’t really have any problem with the English, though it was sometimes fun to pretend so), he delivered drinks to a booth in the back and swiveled his way back to the bar, trying not to step in time to the ghastly version of whatever “traditional” tune the band was mangling at the moment. At least it wasn’t Paddy Murphy—again. Not yet sunset, and already he’d heard every interminable verse of “The Night Pat Murphy Died” five times! When once through was almost enough to make him wish he himself were dead.
At least the tips were good. St. Patrick’s Day was big business. The bar’s floorspace had been extended by a tent and temporary taps installed behind a board-and-sawhorse arrangement, but he’d claimed the permanent Guinness taps for himself. Even if that meant doing the odd bit of table service when others were busy. He hated fighting with the jury-rigged air-lines, and besides, the tent was louder. Though this year, some idiot had put the stage just beside the delivery door.
Which was open. Donny tried not to frown—it would only make his headache worse—tried not to curse, tried not to hear the bagpipes and bass fighting to establish a key.
Tried not to step on the man kneeling behind the bar.
By all the saints! That was a sight Donny hadn’t expected on this day of days. Though certainly no stranger to men on their knees, Donny was between companions and in no hurry to form any new attachments. The last one had left scars. But this man was lovely, more beautiful than handsome, all entreaty with his big brown eyes and soft red lips parting.
“Excuse me?” His voice! Oh, bards would have given their souls in trade for such a voice, rich as stout and deep, flavored with the lilt of home... “You! Hand me that bag afore the line blows. Drinking the green beer...”
Donny’s cheeks were hot as he fumbled for the stranger’s tools. “Sorry,” he mumbled, cursing himself. Great first impression he’d made. “That the central or the stout mix?” He could fill pitchers of the other while the man worked, get ahead of the crowd’s thirst and busy his hands so they wouldn’t reach out all on their own to stroke the shining nut-brown hair or trace the line of those shoulders...
The man’s smile flashed bright in the neon glow of bar signs. “Central, this one. I’ll be changing out t’other in a moment, but it’s up for now.”
“Thanks.” It was only his imagination, he knew, but Donny felt as if he stood near a fire, the man only inches away, gracefully bent toward the arrangement of valves and tubes and canisters that fed the taps.
Whoever he was, he was a good deal faster than the guys who usually serviced the bar. In only a few minutes, Donny felt an incandescent tapping on his right calf; looking down, he fell into deep brown wells, hearing only distantly the man’s words that the Guinness would be briefly offline.
And then he was standing, a bit shorter than Donny’s own six feet, slim enough to seem taller than he was. Neon barsigns sent light bouncing red and gold and green from the long brown hair, and the green shamrock lights strung all around made his skin almost impossibly pale. His jeans and dark tee looked almost like a costume on him, somehow—Man Celebrating St. Patrick’s Day—the body so wonderfully displayed it had to be intentional. No man wore jeans that cupped his ass like that unless he wanted it to be looked at.
Right?
Donny felt the stirring in his own jeans and thought desperately of cold. Screwing his eyes shut helped; his headache, but it seemed a decent trade. When he thought he was safe, he opened his eyes and smiled at the serviceman.
“Ken,” said the man with the appropriately stout-hued eyes, holding out a long-fingered hand.
Donny introduced himself, almost choking on his own name as his mind finally registered the design of Ken’s shirt. “Test your work?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” Ken swung lightly over the bar to sit beside the drunk still half-propped between stool and stein. Turning to her, he asked her to explain. “What did St. Patrick do that you think there are,” his voice made the words a quote, “no good men around?”
“St. Patrick banished all the snakes.” She nodded owlishly. “An’ where do you think they came? Here!”
“My lady, that might explain a number of bad men, but not a lack of good ones. I assure you, some such survive.” He leaned in close. “You must first seek if you would find.”
She blinked again, laboriously following his gaze toward the crowded tentspace, then slipped from her stool and lumbered off.
“Nicely done. Thanks. I was about ready to drown her, myself.” Donny slid the Guinness across the bar so accurately that the glass stopped an inch before Ken’s hand.
“ Not one to hear the good Father maligned?”
“Don’t much care. He was a Roman anyway. No, it’s that I’ve heard the whole pitch. After she gets that bit out she starts singing. ‘Trouser snakes nipping at my ankles’.”
“I don’t believe I know that song.”
“Neither does she.”
Ken’s laugh drew attention, and the music hiccupped as the crowd began a sort of osmotic movement toward the bar. “Oh, damn,” he muttered before sipping his stout, raising an eye and nodding his appreciation. “That’s why the separate line. You use a proper pub mix. Lovely.” He drank more deeply this time, and Donny watched the play of his throat, admiring.
“Hey, Kenneth!” The shout came from three directions, startling Donny until he realized the caller was onstage, his voice miked. “Ken-neth!”
“She wasn’t altogether wrong, you know. There’s a snake for sure, great legs or no.”
Donny grinned wide watching as Kenneth made his slow way to the stage. Good looks, great voice, humor, knew the difference between proper stout and swill, and shared his taste in men. Truly someone was looking out for him. If not for Ken himself, who’d seemed more than a bit reluctant as he turned from the bar. Or perhaps that was only wishful thinking; certainly, there was nothing shy or reserved about the way he stood before the mike!
“Can’t stay long, boys,” he heard Kenneth say from all around, “I’m working tonight. But if the crowd drinks enough, I might get to come back.” And as the band began a song, all the instruments miraculously in tune, Donny found himself suddenly busier than he could possibly be.
Everyone ordered Guinness, no doubt in honor of Ken’s, Kenneth’s, T-shirt. Or perhaps inspired by the delivery truck outside, just visible through the still-open door. Though in that case, wouldn’t someone have ordered Harp, or a Black and Tan? Well, no matter; Donny pulled pint after pitcher after pint, dancing behind the bar as the band he’d been cursing earlier suddenly proved that they could, in fact, play.
And then the crowd was shouting and clapping and carrying on, and Ken was there, smiling wide and bright, grabbing up his satchel. “I’ll be listening for the call,” he nodded, and was gone, leaving in his wake a scent of stout and salt and green and a chorus of sighs.
Donny’s first among them. Damn, but that was one lovely man.
***
The Guinness flowed like water, ales and lagers and whiskey fell into open mouths like rain, bands followed one after another up onto the stage. Donny lost count of the number of times he heard the same few songs. Some of the groups could play their instruments, others could play the crowd, one or two even managed to do both at once, but none caught his attention for more than a song or two.
Until he heard that deep, rich voice with its bite of iron rise above an off-key chorus of some neo-trad piece. “Hey,” it called, “you’re not Irish!”
Donny let his hand slip from the tap, leaving golden foam to drip into a half-filled glass, and raced to the door. He made it just in time to see a young man leap from the stage, cordless mike in hand. Heart in his mouth, visions of riots dancing in his mind, he watched, breathless, as Kenneth reached the other man and the two of them nodded—not at each other, but toward the stage.
“Oh… You’re not Irish, you can’t be Irish, you don’t sing Danny Boy...”
A stunt. Damn him. Impressively staged, though, and wonderful harmonies. Heart still pounding, Donny went back to work, dropping a bar cloth to sop up the worst of the spills. Ken shouldn’t have to get his knees wet.
Though that mental image did nothing to slow the race of his pulse.
The band finished out its set, and Donny cocked an ear toward the crowd. It wasn’t his imagination, he really could track the singer’s progress by the sound: high-pitched squees and low rumbled invitations, any number of admiring whispered curses, soft sighs… Who was the man? And did he do it on purpose? He’d slipped in easily enough that Donny hadn’t noticed, it was the voice—he’d laughed, and suddenly all the world was his stage.
Odd he wasn’t playing, then. Irish musician on St. Patrick’s Day, surely he could have had his choice of gigs. But instead he was making air-mix deliveries. Very strange. Maybe I’ll ask.
“Got that call.”
Donny’d expected it, but the voice still surprised him. He nodded without turning, hating the flush he could feel spreading down his neck. He was too old to have schoolgirl crushes—and the wrong gender besides. When he felt less like he was on fire, he glanced over his shoulder. Under his arm. Finally turned, to gasp as Ken’s hands grasped his hips to keep him from falling as he jumped back.
“Sorry. Just wanted to see how long it would take.” This close, the singer’s eyes were flecked, earth-brown and iron-dark. His breath smelled of malt (how else, on this day of days?) but also of grass. And his body was a furnace, radiating heat.
Donny tried to speak, but his voice was gone. Licking lips gone dry, he managed to croak: “...take...?”
Ken blinked, and his eyes when he opened them again seemed somehow less hot. More sane. “Never mind. It’s just that I hate this damned green-tinted-everything travesty of a day. No need to take it out on you.” Ken smiled, but it was a smile devoid of humor or warmth, and Donny shivered as he was freed.
“Let me see to the lines and I’ll get out of your way.”
What the hell just happened? He went out like a light! Still beautiful, but…quieter…now. Oh. His voice was as wonderful as ever, but pitched so that only Donny would hear. Off stage. Probably not a bad thing.
Though Donny wasn’t sure just why he thought that. “Ah. Um. Ken. Going to sing more tonight?”
“No, I don’t think so.” The voice echoed hollowly from somewhere beneath the bar. “Why?”
“Your leprechaun seems to have gone off-shift. Thought I might offer to take his place.”
Donny held his breath. If he had to, he’d make himself a good deal more plain—he could still feel the touch of those hands on his hips, yearned to feel that touch elsewhere, and that odd chill, too, had reached him, making him think that Ken maybe shouldn’t be alone on this St. Patrick’s night. Let the basses and bagpipes fight it out without him.
Ken twisted somehow, coming up from his knees gracefully enough to steal Donny’s breath. “My leprechaun—? Ah.” He grinned. “That’s not all he does, you know...”
And Donny laughed, hearing the question beneath those lilting words. Deliberately campy, he fluttered the bar cloth in one hand. “Well, darlin’, I should hope not! What a waste of a good shillelagh!”
Kenneth raised a pint, toasting the words and the bargain just made.
-end-
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Ketchup, please?
Since it seems I’ve got some words to eat. -G- Turns out what I thought was recovery was only a brief respite—and when I pushed myself, I got worse. Pretty nearly instantly. Dramatic as all, but hardly entertaining. Sigh. February now, no longer really the new year, but I have a resolution. Everyone listening? Here it is:
I am going to listen to the doctor. I am!
And this time, he says I’m on the road to recovery.
Let’s hope he’s right. So: Hello, all. What’d I miss? Come wave things under my window!
pxj
Friday, December 14, 2007
Wherefore the Werewolf?
Why are wolves the most common weres? Shifter stories are common across cultures and feature all sorts of alter-forms—bats, birds, bears, cats, foxes, even—stretching a point—cockroaches! But werewolves are far and away the most popular.
When was the last time you saw a real, live wolf? Sure, the romantic image of those noble wild creatures roaming free is, well, romantic. But the original stories were so popular in large part for their plausibility. That howling outside the ring of fire or the safety of walls could have been a predator on four feet...or on two...or maybe something other, some vanished friend or rumored ally, someone who chose not to bind him- or herself to society, someone who briefly slipped the community chains but might return...
With the explosion of daring choices made possible by e-, there are now more were-critters than ever before. (Ahem. Ferrets? You know who you are!) But wolves still outnumber the rest*.
Locally, I’d have a better chance of running into an armadillo, bat, coyote, deer... Whole alphabets of animals, but no wolves. Not in the city. There’s a rescue facility pretty close for those poor mad half-wolf things, but that’s certainly not running free! Just beyond our lights are hosts of creatures, worlds of mystery... Why aren’t more of us enchanted by the nearer shadows and what they might hold?
Okay, it’d be pretty hard to make an armadillo a figure of mystery and romance. (Particularly erotic romance! A wrinkly armored possum-kin-looking thing is just naturally made for comedy.) But surely there are some intriguing other choices available, given the vastness of the animal kingdom! And animals that wouldn’t seem out of place in a given area would tend to offer more scope than the modern wolf-skulking-in-shadows tale where the poor creatures are so indistinguishable from vampires the territories often overlap.
Nancy Collins had a really good idea with those coyotes, native to the territory as they are. But, again, they’re not the only native creature out there. Hmm. Anyone interested in some fresh-made regional weres?
pxj
*No, I haven’t counted. Feel free to, should statistics gladden your heart. I’d love to see the results!
Friday, November 23, 2007
Friday Flash: Graham's Coffin
Day after Thanksgiving, I figured I had to have a holiday-themed piece. So I checked, and...I do, but then again, I don’t. Here’s a thousand or so words from a piece I daren’t submit—it’s borderline horror, and I have strange luck when it comes to horror fic. While it sells, it never, never, NEVER appears in digital or print. Editors leave before contracts can be signed, venues fold, sites go dark...
It’s enough to make a sea lily superstitious!
Still, submitting isn’t the whole of writing, and I thought the 10,000 calorie dinner deserved to have some horror written about it. You’re probably full, so here’s just a taste of “Graham’s Coffin”
pxj
Pierre’s mind wandered, though his hands were busy freeing pomegranate jewels from their botanical wrapping. He thought as he worked of his love: of her slow soft smile, the curves she hid so often beneath fabric like a shroud, tender flesh in hues only Nature herself could paint. Ruby gleamed beneath his gaze, revealed only after his long effort. One perfect jewel he slipped between his teeth, firm careful bite releasing a sharp burst of pleasure so different from the everyday.
Fitting, for this was not just any day.
He’d plotted this so carefully. A myriad of foods lay waiting, soft blushing apricots approved and readied; walnuts all shelled, nutmeats holding their promises deep within their wrinkles; gold-skinned shallots, their shape oddly evocative of his love’s breasts, ready to be denuded by quick flicks of his blade.
Washing crimson from his hands, he checked the time.
A cup of tea, then; give the body time to lose its chill. He made tea properly; loose leaves, scalded-out pot, the works. Memories of her: “Wait! You just boiled that water, and you’re throwing it out?” But she’d changed her tune when she tasted the brew. Her first time, that. And theirs.
Pierre’s hands were steady as he sipped his tea, but he felt that they should shake. No man should be so happy and still calm. Shaking should be the least of it! Better, though, that his hands not quiver; his knives were sharp, and there was much yet to do.
The goose had been blanched and buttered two days before, resting since. He’d thought of her as he’d bathed the bird and trimmed it, slipped his hands beneath its skin. Would he ever be so close to her as this? And now it was time, time to see if he could free its promise—if it would become all it could be, in his hands.
He rinsed the cup, turned to the bird. To his tools and ingredients, his accomplices in this.
Ribs firm and distinct to his fingers? Yes: the celery was fresh and crisp. He chopped it, machine-gun sound an echo of his speeding heart. Brilliant green apples wept easily as he cut out their hearts with a twist, then made artistic shapes of what was left. Blood oranges lived up to their sanguine name when he quartered them, sweet-tart scented blood staining the air. The shallots yielded last, their flimsy wrappers falling away to reveal creamy flesh.
He bathed them all in Madiera, tossed them gently, let them slip through his fingers once—twice, again—all languorous, lingering. Tenderly, then, he spooned the filling into its destined home; no pie-coffin this, but a richer bed by far. A bouquet of lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley became a brush with which he painted shallot-butter over the body.
(Brief flash of him using such a bouquet to stroke the skin in the fold of her elbow, the crook of her knee, the nape of her neck. “Am I to be cooked, then?” she’d asked him. “No, just eaten,” he’d replied.)
The goose lay cushioned on a bed of herbs, a sacrifice waiting for the fire. Gently, he slid the pan home, glorying in the untender embrace of the oven’s heat. So his love’s body could sometimes be, hot as a furnace beneath the satin skin. Hot enough to cook on, and he’d gladly lie atop her until he was well done.
A nice line—he’d need to share it. Over their meal.
Recalled to the moment, he surveyed the wreck his kitchen had become. There were sides yet to prepare, but he needed room to work. He swept the counter clear of vegetable detritus, thinking all the while of the last time she’d been seated there. “Why aren’t you a chef? You’re good enough to be.”
“I don’t like to cook for strangers. My passion is in my dishes, you see.”
She’d looked him up and down and laughed, low, satisfied. “I do indeed. A man of taste.” It was the first time she’d opened herself to him. Tart and sweet and salty, a perfect taste. He’d nibbled as much as he’d licked, as had she. On the foods he offered, and on him. Late that night, on the two at once.
He scrubbed his hands clean of every speck of dirt, then gently washed tiny potatoes with their baby-pink skins—and, laughing, indulged himself in whimsy, and cut them into stars and crosses, imagining her giggles as he worked. Would she shed her layers for him, let him see her as she was?
Would she, could she, see him beneath his? Back to the cleaning. Counters. Vegetables. Himself. (Don’t forget behind the ears! She liked to nuzzle there. And other places, too...)
Tender baby spinach, washed and patted dry. He wondered if it was, perhaps, too much. But his love was a woman with no fear of calories, and he wanted to give her the full experience. And she had, once, said something about iron. So a few handfuls of spinach went toward the salad, a few more to sauté.
He made biscuits, to while away the time while the goose cooked, dividing his dough in two and setting one half aside. The other he mixed with fine-chopped herbs, the same ones he’d used in the goose, lemon verbena and thyme and flat-leafed parsley. Some of the remaining shallot butter, too, he stirred in. The goose was far enough along to have begun to shed its fat; he drew some off and rendered it, using that to grease his biscuit tin, and smiling at her prophesied reaction.
They do say that the smell of fresh-baked bread is an aphrodisiac. And never more so than to her!
Minutes before she was due to arrive, he put the finishing touches on his dishes, draining those things set to crisp, mixing his gravy, dressing the salad with which they’d begin. Opening a bottle of wine. His breath was shallow, nerves, excitement. His ears pricked for the sound of the door.
She came in, all smiles, eyes bright and eager. Moved into his arms with flattering haste. “You smell delicious,” she whispered, and kissed him.
Her mouth tasted of wheat and wine. At first.
...
Friday, November 16, 2007
Friday Flash: House of Cries
Friday Flash Fiction time. Not sure this needs any explanation, but in case you were wondering, The House of Pies (Houston, TX) used to be a notorious late-night pick-up joint for men seeking men. Still might be, for all I know; I haven't been there in years. And, yes, the pies were pretty good.
Story after the jump.
"House of Cries"
I am not gay. Let's just get that straight. Have a girlfriend and everything. Sure, the House of Pies caters to a swishy late-night crowd, but I go there for the food. Fact I'm there in the middle of the night with all the cruisers is just 'cause that's when I get cravings for sweets.
I'm not gay. Just hungry. And happy as a lark now, mouth full of berries. But then there's this commotion from over in one of the booths. A bunch of gays, all prettified and whatnot. Regulars; I see them here a lot. There's this one guy, dark hair and incredible blue eyes, really attractive--I mean, I guess women would like his looks, and fags. He's kind of on display, everyone else leaned in around him as he talks. Can't hear every word from here, but I catch enough. Blue Eyes is talking about what he did last night. Seems he got spanked.
Man, I knew they were sick!
But he can talk. "The bear pulled me over his leg and went to town. Slapped so fast the echoes crashed together, but I felt each and every one. I shouted and cursed and even cried a little, but he didn't react at all, just bam-bam-bam until he was done. Didn't matter how I struggled or kicked, he was a rock. When he finished..." His voice goes soft and I lean over my plate trying to hear. "--when he was done, he rolled me off his leg. And the second my hot ass hit the cold floor, I spurted. All over everything."
"What was it like? What did it feel like?" I don't know if that's one voice or more. Hell, it almost might have been me, because I really do want to ask. Not that I'm excited by the idea, but... No need to go down that road; I'm just listening to a story.
Blue Eyes is thinking, his eyes and his mouth all soft, post-orgasmic. "It was incredible. You know how it is when you're taking a really firm top, and he's slamming into you, and you feel all those muscles pressing down on your own, molding you..." His sigh calls echoes from his crew. "It was like that, sort of, only more. His body held me in place, all hot and solid like a lover, and when he spanked me...my whole body shook. Hell, you know there aren't any words! Describe cumming to a virgin."
Laughter and chatter meld into noise, clattering utensils and calls for the waiter obscuring what else might be said. But I've heard enough to wonder. Spanking. That's even weirder than two guys.
I order another piece of pie. Try not to think about what I've heard, wonder what that cute (to women, I mean) guy got out of it, being spanked. And questions spool in my head: were they naked? Was his cock rubbing between his stomach and the big man's thigh? It must have been Blue Eyes' first time, the way he talked. So how did he find this spanker? Was it for fun, had money changed hands, how do people go about setting up such a thing?
"Are you going back?"
"Three days," Blue Eyes sighs. "It's their rules."
"What?" "I don't get it." "Why?" "Spill!" I almost choke on my coffee myself, so I understand why his crew's gotten so loud. "Pax," he says, "let me get a refill and then I. Will. Tell. All." He could be an actor with that face, that voice. Girls would go mad over him.
Not just girls.
My plate's empty, but I'm not going anywhere. When the waiter comes by, I accept a refill I don't want, just so I can sit here. Wait. Listen.
"It's a very...disciplined...set-up," he says, and there's something in his voice in that one word that makes my skin crawl. "Lots of ritual. Once you step through that door, you're committed. And once you've left, you don't get in again until they say. The door-keeper told me the rules, and one of them is that you don't so much as knock until the appointed time. And if you forfeit your invitation, you're out. No second chances."
"Invitation?" the chorus comes.
That intimate low laugh again. "Invitation," he confirms, "and, oh!, very mysterious it was. A card with an address and the offer. I almost didn't go--it's a dangerous world, you know--but there are details to be had if you know who to ask. And how."
"On your knees?"
"With your mouth full!"
My head's spinning. Think I ate too much, my stomach's in knots. And my bladder's shouting to be emptied. Time to get out of here; my girlfriend's probably wondering where I am. Or worse, she knows I'm here at "The House of Guys." I don't have the strength for another round of that argument. She knows I'm not gay!
They're leaving, Blue Eyes and his fans. I hear a high, squeaky voice: "What are we going to do tonight?" He answers, "Same thing we do every night." Everyone chuckles, even the waiter standing there. Together, they recite what's obviously some sort of slogan: "Try to take the world."
Flaming much? Disgusting!
But at least the story's done, so now I can go. I flag the waiter, mime signing an invisible check. He winks at me. Just what this night needed to be perfect--not. The bathroom's in back, but I can't brave it, not tonight; there's usually some perv waiting to proposition any man who goes for a piss. Sometimes I think that's funny, but not right now.
The waiter slides the check into place and sashays away. God, why do I come here at night? If only my girlfriend could bake. My head's killing me, shooting pains behind my eyes. I can hardly see. The pie's about to make a reappearance. Fumbling some cash out of my wallet, I push back my chair.
"Your receipt," the waiter coos, pressing it into my hand. It feels thick. Another "Call Me" card, no doubt. I can't deal with it now, can't do anything but run. Outside, it's cooler, dark, and the migraine fades. I duck back into the alley to pee. That and a burp makes me feel better. Enough that I realize I've still got that stupid paper in my hand.
Why do I look at it? Why the Hell don't I just drop it to the ground? Because...because I'm curious. It's a card, all right, but it doesn't say "Call Me." It says "Come to the House of Cries." And there's a time written on it.
An hour from now.
I really should go home. My girlfriend's waiting for me...
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Campaign to Save the Book...Thong?
Alternet recently included an article titled "Will Digital Books Replace Paper and Ink?"
While it was nice to see, the article itself wasn't nearly so interesting to me as the comments. Alternet readers are a diverse bunch, and commenters...well. It requires a fairly sensitive sarcasm meter and a love of the absurd--or a strong streak of intellectual masochism--to sort through the chaff of a particularly lively discussion.
Being rather passionately interested in knowing what people think of e-books, I (gasp!) braved the comment section. The expected intelligent remarks about e-reader cost and DRM cropped up, and the undeniable sensory factor, i.e., people like the way hardcopy books feel. (And smell. Giles, anyone?) As did the anticipated "when civilization collapses..." observation. Less expected, to me, were "but what will I do with all my bookmarks?" and a welcome rare query about library lending in a world of e-. (You know I had something to say about that!)
On the pro-electronic side, someone pointed out an advantage I blush to admit had never occurred to me: that a borrowed/circulating copy e-book, unlike its hardcopy equivalent, is always new. Free from underlines and coffee stains, without torn or dogeared pages, etc.
And one poster offered, following from a remark about library catalogues being largely digitized already:
The entire Library of Congress is estimated at 10 terabytes, which is $3000 worth of terabyte hard drives at Costco today.
Which makes me lust after much more storage than is currently practical in my life, because, oh! I want a whole digital library! How many terabytes would it take to download all of Fictionwise?
But I will admit the bookmark-lover had a point. I've begun to replace worn-out paperbacks with electronic copies (P.G. Hodgell most recently). And I intend to continue doing this. It might some day be possible for me to see the top of my desk, my dresser, the hall table! There's no way all my hardcopies could be replaced, but I imagine, in some dim distant future, culling the collection until it actually fits in my multitude of bookshelves.
And any spare bookmarks, book thongs, book "earrings," and the like? Maybe I'll pin them to my wall. Or donate them to a museum. Or hang them on a Solstice Tree. Hmm. Most innovative alternative uses for no-longer-needed page-markers?
I smell a contest...
pxj
Friday, November 9, 2007
Shall the Undead Rise?
Lady Aibell is closing its doors, so the psi-vamp chef Marc and his full-figured nibble are soon to be homeless once again.
Happy Friday!
***
{Sasha, a food writer for the daily paper, is at a party, on assignment.}
Tracking a waiter with a tray of divine-smelling hot mushrooms, Sasha made it to the far end of the hall, but when he disappeared into the kitchen, she had to admit defeat. At least temporarily. No other food was on offer in this part of the party, but something odd seemed to be happening. People tip-toed close to a knot of potted shrubbery, ducked through, then came away from there a few minutes later looking…enraptured. What on earth?
Excuse me while I check this out.
Sasha laughed at herself a little. Food writer, remember? When did you get the investigative reporter bug? But it was a puzzle, and she wanted to know. She wound her way very carefully around the edge of the crowd--a woman of her size quickly learned not to try to barge her way through a collection of people holding spillable things--and when she reached that plant-festooned knot, she went forward and found An angel.
A young man who might have stepped whole from a Renaissance painting: golden hair, pale wheat skin, eyes the color once reserved for Mary's cowl. The overhead lights, so bright elsewhere, seemed gentler here, caressing him. Haloing.
But hard on the heels of Sasha's first awed impression came another: Devil. They do say Lucifer was the handsomest. She blinked, looked at the blond, blinked again, and had to resist the urge to rub her eyes or curse aloud. Where the rest of the crowd looked the same from glimpse to glimpse, all polished and primped and display-model perfect, the blond changed. One moment, he was movie-star handsome, a golden boy in truth with his hair and his skin and his perfectly white teeth, eyes bluer than a summer sky and lips so deeply pink they might have been grown on a rose-bush in Heaven.
And the next, he was-- Oh, Hell and damnation. The man she'd seen at that food-show taping. The one who'd given her chills.
He smiled at her with those pink, pink lips; she looked away. From the corner of her eye, she could see him still, blond but wholly different, paler than the...mask? But no, that implied a cover and she could see through it. Veil? Cowl? Something unnatural, anyway. Horrible.
So, how, then? What? A spell? I don't believe in magic! Whatever the answer, she could see his other face so long as she didn't look straight at him, an oblique view offering the paler, uncharming face with eyes like frozen swamps, murky blue and capable of hiding anything. Swallowing her. God, I need to get out of here.
She backed away, not willing to show that man her back. Predictably, she knocked into someone. Unexpectedly, that someone didn't fall, but caught her easily. She knew the feel of those hands, even here, where he had no reason to be.
Marc.
For a moment, she was so relieved that her mind seemed to have stopped--he was there, her lovely, oddly dangerous lover, and he would protect her from the blond with the changing face. But that lasted only a moment before fury chased it away. "We talked about this. You following me." She turned her head to be able to see him and the blond both, one from each eye, shivering at the odd symmetry. But anger melted through fear, melded with it to become a cold ire like nothing she had ever known. Half surprised her breath didn't fog with the chill of her words, she went on. Softly, ever-so-seriously. "You promised you'd stop doing it!"
"I did."
"Then you lied." She wanted to shrug free of his grip, but that would mean admitting she felt his touch, the stroking caress that thrilled her even now. "Or broke your word."
"I. Did. Not."
She would have bruises, she knew, from the force of his sudden grasp, though he looked calm enough, his gaze direct, unflinching.
"Was this a test, then?" His accent thickened with every word. "My apologies for not understanding; I had not thought you that sort. If you would have me go, you need only speak the word. But," he loosed his hands, smoothed her sleeves as though trying to erase the wrinkled evidence of his touch, "there is one thing I would say to you, if you would hear it."
She could not speak, all her anger sidetracked somehow, drained away by his constant tiny caresses, by the waxing and wane of his voice. Even fear seemed muted, soothed. What did he want to say, want her to hear?
"I am not whichever man did such to you."
Ouch. "Sorry. Let's start over. Marc, hello, what a surprise. Not that it isn't always lovely to see you, but," she ground out the last words: "why are you here?"
"Not a test, then. You did not send the invitation. Merde. I am sorry, cher amie, I had thought the message from you. Someone called the restaurant." His gaze swept the room, seeking whomever had arranged this--and Sasha had an odd impression of more than eyes looking.
Her own gaze followed his when it locked; she was unsurprised to find he was staring at the potted greenery, but shocked to realize the blond was gone. Had he vanished in a puff of smoke?
If I did believe in magic... She wrapped her arm around Marc's waist, leaned into him, grateful for more than his warmth. If I did, but I don't, nor fairy tales, either. No fairy godperson sent him here. He did not appear to rescue me from the evil wizard, I am not some damsel locked in a tower, and falling into his arms is so not in the plan.
I'd crush him. There was no humor in the thought--there never was--but this time, it wasn't as certain as usual. She remembered the ease with which he'd caught her moments earlier. And that odd feel she'd had, once or twice, that he was hiding his strength. The way he'd pulled her onto his body, that night... Yeah, he's built well, but he's still just a man. And I'm two women, as far as size goes. Two and a half, maybe.
"You're perfect," he murmured.
She looked up to find him smiling down at her.
I don't believe in magic. Or mind-reading.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Happy Hallowe'en from the Mad e-Garretteer
Hey, you try living the life of an electronic hermit, see how sane you are! And tomorrow is NaNo's official start, so any sanity I may have had will soon be vanishing...
Picture a crazy sea lily, pulling up her roots and wandering in sea-tossed circles. That's me! Well, if you add a costume.
Hmm. Excerpts are traditional. Okay, after the jump. Moderately work-safe, but just in case. I do write erotic fiction, you know.
from "Come As You Aren't Party"--available only from the e-Garret
(Terry wanted a new guy, and she's into vamps. This Hallowe'en, she might just get what she asked for...)
The last clasp came loose; she shimmied, and satin slid noisily down her body to pool at her feet.
“Kings have died for such a sight as this.” His voice was deeper than ever, melted chocolate and burgundy. “Happily, I am sure.”
She shivered, only half hearing his words, feeling the air stir with his speech. Moonlight lent a completely superfluous air of mystery to the scene, his clothing dark and silvered, his movements by turns hid in shadow and outlined as he stalked toward her. Stalked. Yes, like…a hunting cat. Or, no, a wolf. Something. A predator.
“Delicious,” he murmured. At what? She shook her head, uncertain, and he laughed, low, soft, intimate sound. “Can you imagine what I see?”
She looked down. Eager-tipped breasts, check; gym-toned physique, still there; thong so as not to risk a panty line; thigh-highs, yes; heels hidden by the dress on the floor like some downmarket Venus’s seafoam. Not a model’s body, maybe, but a good one, healthy and fit, and she was glad he approved. So, yes, she could, she thought, imagine what he saw: what she saw in the mirror when she bothered to look. She shrugged.
“Please--” he groaned, stepped back a pace “--don’t do that. Not yet.”
She had no idea what he meant.
“I want to look at you,” he told her, breathing the words as he came near, “want simply to look awhile. You are a dish that must be savored.”
Oh, vamping again. “Savor quickly, will you? I’m cold.”
“You are anything but.” He circled her, slowly, looking; she tried not to shiver, to moan. To faint. There was something so incredibly kinky about this, her more nude than naked, him fully dressed. Not touching. Once, twice. She lost count. His pace was deliberate, as he walked around and around, his gaze steady, his murmurs...alluring. She wanted to lean toward him, like a plant to the sun, soaking in the music of his voice. The words didn’t matter, only the tone: Awe and wonder and yearning.
Yearning? Excuse me! Right here for the taking, you know. Some dim part of her remembered the rules of the game, rules she had set, but she wasn’t about to hold him to them if he wanted to touch!
He moved like a snake striking--lightning fast. One single, darting lick to her breast, and gone. Not far, just back to his circling; she hadn’t even seen him bend. She gasped, her hands clenching as she tried not to jump. Too fast for the pleasure she’d felt. Was feeling, still. Again? Yes, a second. Damn. Did I blink?
“Magnificent. The moonlight loves your skin, my beauty, almost as much as I.” He stood before her, smiling that closed-lipped smile, his eyes shining silver. “Thank you,” he whispered, and knelt.
Leather creaked, and silk whispered. But for that and the sound of her own breathing, she might have thought it a dream, a handsome stranger kneeling to her. Even with her in heels and standing, his head was even with her chest, and he took full advantage of the fact. No more snake-quick lickings; now he was slow and thorough, learning each curve full well. By the time he sucked her nipple into his mouth, she was gripping his shoulders to stay upright.
And when he held her breasts in those wonderful long-fingered hands of his, pressing them together so he could suckle both at once, she fell against him anyway. He sucked and teased and nibbled, rolled her flesh between his lips, flicked his tongue-tip across them until she’d have screamed if she’d had the breath. All she could do was whimper and hold on.
His hair brushed the back of her hand, like satin, another cool texture like his shirt, his skin. His pale, glowing-in-the-moonlight skin. His vampire-pale, vampire-cool skin. His sexy-as-hell skin, and that’s all that matters now—oh! His suckling had changed rhythm, faster now, hard, promise of things to come. “Please.”
Friday, October 26, 2007
What Makes a Classic?
A week to go before the semi-organized insanity known as NaNo I haven't yet reactivated my account, but it's on the agenda--yes, once again, the hermit shall be NaNo-ing.
Comes the question, then: writing what?
NaNo’s rules are few, but rules there are:
**the goal is to write 50K of a single novel begun no sooner than one second into the day of Nov 1.**
So I can't pick up one of my unfinished works, I have to start something new. Usually, I go for something completely unpublishable, just for the fun of it; last year, I wrote a male-sub transformational piece. No magic, no fantasy, no romance--that is, none of my standards--just a chance to explore an experience and a character that had happened to occur to me.
I had a blast. Which is the point to NaNo. If I could find a publisher interested, you can bet I'd carve out some time to polish that manuscript!--but even without that, the story was fun to write. And that's what NaNo is about.
This year, I've fallen far behind on my personal goals; illness has sidelined me too damned many times, and all the bits of life that get backed up when one is sick have stolen much of my writing time and energy. So I'd really like to get at least one more submittable-quality manuscript finished this year. Two would be good. (Do I hear three?)
But it's not necessarily going to happen during November. NaNo is for fun! Some years, I've gone into it with no idea for a story; other years, I've had characters and settings; once, even a sketchy sort of outline. This year, as I often do, I have a question to explore:
What makes a classic--and how long does that label remain?
Why is "The Cold Equations" so enduring, when "Eve and the Twenty-Three Adams" is already less a warning than an historical curiosity?* What makes Nedra Tyre's "Recipe for a Happy Marriage" and Donald Westlake’s "Nackles" so very popular and so frequently, deservedly, reprinted, while Susan Casper's "Under Her Skin" remains more or less a cult favorite?
Of the stories that have endured into our time, which shall be carried into the future? And why?
Picture if you will a far-future library, with a section of "Classic Literature circa 1950-2050" What books or stories might you see? What about "Classic (Genre)" instead of the dates? Pride and Prejudice is still popular now; shall it always continue to be? Poe, I've no doubt, makes it onto the first colony starships headed Outbound, as does Shakespeare, I think. Who else goes along for that ride?
Alice, probably. What about Harry? What makes a classic, and how long before that label expires?
Next month, that question shall obtain a narrower focus, at least to me. To wit: at some minutes past midnight, when my NaNo character takes her first pixel-dust-laden breath, what titles shall she see?
I can't wait to find out!
Happy NaNo-ing!
--
pxj
*If you don't know all about Eve, you must not spend enough time with me! I rant about that story regularly.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Talking about WIPs
On several of the loops where authors chat with one another and hope readers are listening, and on every loop I've found where the readers actually talk*, there's a phenomenon I'd never seen before venturing into e-:
Sharing excerpts, publicly!, of unfinished work. Not only the traditional "unedited" excerpts used as pre-release promo, but bits and pieces of things that haven't been fully written yet, let alone polished, subbed, and signed.
How soon is too soon to share WIPs** with the world?
I may not be the standard model of writer, but I'm the kind I know best; to me, a work in progress is just that. It's in progress, in flux, almost guaranteed to change! It's not ready to be shared. That doesn't mean I can't polish a few paragraphs into readability if I have some reason to, it's just...that excerpted section may not make the final cut. If there is a final cut. There may not be.
I write much, much more than I ever submit. Even assuming that everything I sub finds an eventual home (hasn't happened yet, but let's assume), that's
Do readers notice if this happens--if a WIP-excerpt never becomes anything more? Does it bother them? Do they ever feel let down, led on, betrayed? Does it seem like a tease? Cut to the chase: Would it keep them from buying the author's published work?
How do publishers feel about it? I assume that once I've signed a contract, I'm limited to the published-excerpt terms; before that, it's my own look-out. Great, yippee. But... How would a publisher react to a submission including an excerpt s/he'd seen on one or more loops? More or less favorably? What about a submission obviously related to that excerpt but not containing it?
And what happens later? I tend to write novella-length fiction, which means a fairly low word-limit for excerpts; it's tempting to use this apparent loop-hole
What's the protocol for WIP-excerpt sharing? Is there some primer for the practice, as there is for released works? What makes an author decide that yes, it's time to share--and which shared excerpts are best received? What would readers really like to see?
Is fiction like sausage, best enjoyed if you don't see the process, or more like "display cooking," where watching it happen is part of the fun?
Your humble sea-lily needs to know these things! She's got a character tied in a pretzel who's longing to show himself off a bit...
As always,
peace and x-rated joy
pxj
*And if you know any of those that accept erotic fiction, let me know! Please?
**Okay, so properly that's WsIP, but I don't know how to "say" that in my head, and I'm one of those readers who hears text. Besides, it looks funny!
Saturday, October 13, 2007
What's In a Name?
Would Chase be as sexy if he were called Run? A Midsummer Night's Dream is sexy as hell--what about June-eve Reverie?
Names might be more important in fiction even than reality; they have to convey so much to the (potential) reader...
An interesting title, they say, is among the factors that influence purchasing/reading decisions. Doesn't that make it marketing, rather than writing? --she says, hoping to off-load the task to someone else.--But, no; as with children, it's the creator's responsibility.
I hate naming stories, usually go through half a dozen versions of a title before I pick one. My recent AMP release began life as "A Phone Romance"--yeah, groan away!--before I settled on Reach Out and Touch Someone.
Not fond of naming characters, either. (Or pets, and any kid of mine would be "you" for the first half of his or her life, I'm sure.) Names are too important to be taken lightly. And in fiction, I feel pressured to find a name that will say something to the reader, as well as to me. I often try three or four names before I find one that fits.
Except for Reach's hero; his name, I had from the instant before I started to write.
His last name, that is. When an editor once referred to him by his first name, I honestly thought she had me confused with another of her writers! Bill? Bill who? Oh, you mean Muir!
For the final version, I cut the first name entirely in favor of an initial, just to make sure no one else could do this. (Though I still don't understand how she did, when the first name appeared exactly twice in the submitted draft!) The heroine latches onto the last name in an instant, because it means something. To her, and to me. And maybe to the reader, depending.
Muir. Pronounced just like it looks--which means that if you're a Scot, it's a syllable and a half something in the neighborhood of "myewer," and if you're a Californian, it's Meer. After John Muir, who's a local (and national) hero, often called the father of the national park service, and for whom Muir Woods is named.
Why is that my fictional hero's name? Because the man's a redwood walking. No, this isn't a paranormal, I just mean that he's huge and stable and large enough to climb and...and I should shut up now before I start squirming in my very public coffeehouse seat. Besides, he's Jackie's toy, not mine.
Muir the redwood.
But that's not all. I have a fondness for obscure jokes--as folks on my not-a-newsletter list the e-Garret can tell you--and there's another reason why this yoga practitioner hero has the name he has: it's because Muir studies yoga.
There's a relatively new trend in yoga teachings called "tantra," "New Tantrics," or "yoga for lovers," where the point is to use yoga techniques for sexual connection and pleasure, interpersonal connection as opposed to purely universal. Happily for me, it so happens that one of the pioneering couples of tantra share his name.
Muir. The redwood who walks like a man, bends like a pretzel, and makes love with his whole being.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Self-P(r)imping Season!
Yes, folks, even hermits sometimes feel the need to preen. Physically and virtually. What with new releases and a change of season, this seemed like the time for such things. So the blog's had its make-over, and I'm typing in a mud masque. The keyboard may never be the same.
Outside my attic window, the trees are changing their wardrobe, too--a host of lovely dramatic fiery shades--and my feline companion (not the one pictured above)is doing her coat-of-shifting-colors thing. And me? Well, beyond the temporary rather Vulcan face-coloring, I've pulled on the promo-ing suit.
Shame it isn't a better fit! Still, it's bright and shiny, and it goes quite well with pearls. I've entered a cover art contest this month, and I'm having an author day on the 13th. New releases are my favorite form of promo; accordingly, I queried a publisher just today. And I've done more posting these past few weeks, excerpts and announcements and general chat, than in a hundred normal life-in-the-e-garret days.
It feels like I should be decked out in full bling. How do other authors cope? I try to picture them happily self-promo-whoring (grills flashing and fingers flying and everything), but it's a painful idea to me. Easier to imagine writ(h)ing satin-sheeted first-draft work and bon-bon fueled fantasies...
Though, okay, I admit it: that's not what you'd see if you looked at me. Not this week, at least. I've emerged from my attic to take advantage of the fall weather, you see, going trolling for inspiration at the bonfires, enjoying the harvest fairs and season's-end frolicking. Just as soon as I do one more bit of promo, or two, or three--and when this masque is finished torturing me.
But I'll be back by the 13th! No doubt with the latest fall fashions in condoms to talk about.
What? Don't we deserve some safe bling?
Sunday, September 30, 2007
In the Market For a Paper Cut?
October 1, 2007--I'm in print! Or one of my stories is, at least. My very first romantic caning story, "A New Understanding," is in the Palmprint anthology Sixteen of the Best.
There's a whole long and involved story behind how this particular piece of fiction ended up within these pages; the antho's a compilation of prize winners from Palmprint's annual summer fiction contest, but observant readers of the afterward may notice that my story does not appear in the list of contest winners. Okay, maybe it's not all that involved a story: I didn't win. The editor liked the piece a lot, though, sent me a note explaining that if she'd had another spot, I'd have taken it--and when they decided on a print compilation, she invented that one more opening. Plus one for herself, for a total of seventeen stories, despite the title.
Bonuses to grow on, perhaps, as with birthday spankings? Or canings, maybe.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
E-BOOK PROMOTIONS--EEK!
Reach Out and Touch Someone is available. Yea, yippee!
Time to promote that fact, for which I must venture forth from my nice safe garret—Sob.
It’s a well-ridden dilemma, this particular horned beast on which I’m currently impaled. (Not in the good way.) Frequently mounted or not, that thing’s nowhere close to tamed. E-book sales have hurdles enough that promotion’s even more necessary than with, say, small-press print. I know this; if I want anyone to know the story’s available, I have to tell them so.
So, fine, I’ve come down from my e-garret to promote. As briefly and painlessly as I possibly can, after which I shall retreat to cat and keyboard and caffeinated fantasies. For now, at least, I’m out in the virtual world, ready to speak my piece.
...Now what?
AS SEEN EVERYWHERE ELSE
I don’t belong to nearly as many chat loops as some people—hermits not being known for chatting, you understand—but even reading only my relatively few lists, the repetition of posts fairly quickly makes me grind my teeth. And I’ve seen enough complaints by more vocal posters to know that I’m not alone. It’s gotten to the point that these days if I see anything labeled “X-Posted” I skip past it, certain I’ve seen it before. And at that, I’m grateful for the poster’s courtesy! Seeing the same excerpt in several places on the same day doesn’t ring that “magic number” advertisers talk about for acquiring mindshare, at least not in my mind—it only annoys me.
So, what’s an author to do?
REPETITION = BAD but MINDSHARE = GOOD
Like many readers, I’m very author-centered—tell me an author I like has a new release and, resources permitting, I’ll buy it. All it requires is that (A) I recognize the name, and (B) you tell me where/when/how to purchase the thing. For authors I haven’t read yet, or those relatively few not yet automatically sorted into yes or no, occasional postings of different excerpts help. But in those cases where I haven’t made up my mind, repetition only serves to dissuade me.
Where’s the line between announcement and annoyance? Sure and certain, I don’t know—even the market researchers who spend their working days on the problem can’t seem to pinpoint it—but I know when it’s been crossed. And I hate the thought of inspiring that same feeling in readers that too-profligate promoters spark in me. But now I’m promoting my newest release, which means that I have to put on the marketing cap, itchy though it may be.
MONDAY MALAISE
I’ve been checking the rules for the various loops to which I belong (on which I lurk), and many of them allow promotions only on one day a week. The same day, too, for an astonishing number of them: Monday. Which is, of course, why the same posts show up in so many different places at the same time: it’s the only time they’re allowed!
Does this seem short-sighted to anyone else? Monday, the most hated day of the week. The start of the drudge-trudge workaday weariness. And you want to clog up the loops with promotions on that of all days?
Still, it’s not my job to criticize; I can barely run a blog, much less a chat loop. And in fairness, not all group owners set their rules that way. It just happens that several of those to which I belong do. Which leaves me with, for this new release, three excerpts I can post to many more than three groups and only the one day on which I’m allowed to post them with all the attendant promotional text.
Hmm.
I suppose I could divvy them up, posting excerpt #1 to groups A and B, #2 to C and D, etc. then switch for the next week—but if I do them one or two lists at a time, it’ll take forever and not reach many people, and if I cross-post them, I’ll get ulcers from the guilt and the fear of annoying people who might otherwise decide to read the thing. There’s always option #3, doing nothing, but then the readers won’t know the story’s out there. And wouldn’t that be a shame?
BRAND-NAME AUTHORS
Non-eremitic folks have a solution I really can’t match: they show off their personalities rather than their books. Posting daily to say hi, sending good wishes, writing essays, sharing pictures, just generally being friendly and accessible. Planting their name in people’s minds. It looks absolutely exhausting to me, but it works for them.
Might it for me? Well, I’m pretending not to be a hermit just now, so I thought I’d give this a try; wrote myself a new bio and posted it upon joining another loop:
Species: human; sub-species author.
Gender: female.
Allergies: limelight.
Distinguishing marks: bad puns, twisted humor, tendency to lapse into erotica and/or science.
Habitat: electronic garret. Occasional sightings in the blogosphere. Rumored to have been spotted at publisher chats and loops, too infrequently for verification.
Lung-chin's Guide to Impossible Beings says :
Tracked by the mysterious letter-string "pxj" (postulated to be either the creature's initials or an acronym suffering low self-esteem), this perpetrator of strange humor and disseminator of stranger information may be a hoax, though there would seem little point in that. More likely, "pxj" is, like the sea lily, inclined to retreat at any cost. Reproduction appears to follow no particular schedule, but new creations, i.e. books, arrive frequently enough to dispel any thoughts of this being's extinction.
Tacked on a .sig line with a buy-link and (one hopes) interesting tag for Reach above the usual blessing, and, feeling quite pleased with myself, began planning further posts in a similar line.
Until the reply came back:
“Are you published?”
So, okay; I’m not enough of a brand name yet to do name-only appearances. Sigh. Other options?
$$$ WELL SPENT?
Writers with better finances than mine hire promoters, but the companies with approaches I find acceptable are all out of my price range, and I refuse to pay someone to annoy me by cross-posting to every group in cyberland. The few a la carte services I both like and can afford don’t seem to be the ones that influence readers, at least according to the sketchy research currently available. Some people swear by bookmarks and magnets and pens, others recommend candy or keychains, still others offer only books; some people get fantastic results with, say, purchasing banner space on site X, while others see not a blip in sales... I’d consider a pay-for-results deal, but at present, when it comes to e-book advertising, there’s no guarantee.
This time, I’m putting my money into prizes. Which means that I’ll have to run some contests, through the e-Garret and during scheduled chats or author days. Will this translate into higher sales? And if it does, was it the allure of gift certificates that sent people off to Fictionwise or...did they really like me?
AND THE ANSWER IS...
What, you expect me to know? Darlin’s, I haven’t a clue! But I do have a plan. Sort of.
I like Romance Excerpts Only, think it’s a great idea. But not every potential reader belongs. Mondays and whenever else promos are allowed, I will be trying the sorted-posts approach, all the while trying not to overdo. There’s always the blogosphere with all its links, and web-rings, and the rest of the “passive promotion” options, but new releases are time-sensitive, so I’ll try some more active things as well: Contests and author days and live chats and maybe even a virtual or RL signing.
(Lions and tigers and bears! No, wait—those don’t bother me.)
All of this sounds like entirely too much work, but then, action isn’t really a hermit’s stock in trade. I miss the days of transoms, you know? A scribe could just toss a manuscript over one and go on about her anonymous day. Of course, she probably didn’t make enough money to buy new paper and ink. Or pixels and bandwidth, I suppose. And more even than the money, I’d really like Reach to be read! Which means that, somehow, I have to get the word out that the story’s out there.
Accent on the somehow. Cue the Buffy soundtrack, folks, and join in on the chorus:
Where do we go from here?
I don’t know about you, but I’m headed back to my garret. Just for a few minutes. Really. Maybe an hour or two. But I’ll come back! Have to—there’s no coffee in the place right now. Besides, I have to go schedule an author day.
peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The Deas Wouldn’t Touch This With A Ten-Foot Pole
I have a new release this week, can’t think about anything else, I admit it. Well, unless you count a rather remarkably muscled bit of “inspiration” just across the coffeeshop right now... Sorry, where was I? Oh, yes, the new book, released just this week at Aspen Mountain Press. Reach is a strange sort of story to pitch—naturally, considering who wrote the thing—and the publisher seized on one small detail for much of the marketing: the business my heroine and her partner run.
Jackie and Carrie-Anne are “business facilitators,” which seems to mean that they’ll do whatever clients need in order to get their businesses up and running or to keep them that way. They call the business Deas ex Machina, and the outgoing message on the voice mail (when the system works!) informs clients that “the goddesses” are, no doubt, out answering someone else’s prayers.
If you’ve ever had to wade through the paperwork to incorporate, change a name, or clear the title to an estate, you’ll understand why my imagination generated that particular niche. I wouldn’t be too surprised, though, to learn that similar services exist. In a world where alibi services are now available in several countries...
Though my business goddesses are fictional, I felt the need, seeing this, to wince on their behalf. Jackie and Carrie-Anne would be appalled should a client ask them for something like this. Professionally intrigued (how on Earth would you advertise that service?), salivating over the fees, amused—but appalled, really!
I should know, I made them up.
...Ow! Jackie, control that walking tree of yours!
pxj
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Reach for What You Want!
Madeleine l’Engle said
“I frequently write about myself because that’s how I discover who I am…”
I can honestly say that I am not the heroine of this particular book. But writing her story...yes, I suppose I did learn something about myself. I am not Jackie—among other things, she’s far more driven than I—but her story is one I really, really, really wanted to share with the world. Enough to overcome my usual reluctance to venture forth from my garret; enough to make me do whatever I had to, to see it published properly. Which is a story I shall not be sharing, thanks very much. Enough to say
I wanted it. So I reached. And at last—
Here it is. Within your virtual grasp.
You have no idea how it feels to be able to say that!
As always, peace and x-rated joy,
pxj
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Loaning Across the Digital Divide?
One of the loops I belong to is talking about libraries right now—specifically, libraries and electronic books. I feel qualified to comment (not that any lack would stop me when I’m in the mood to speak) since I spend a fair amount of time in libraries. In fact, I’m posting this from one! And here’s my considered opinion:
My local public library system is actively hostile to e-books.
Sound paranoid? Well, I might be, but in this case, I’m also correct.
The Austin library system does offer NetLibrary, but most of the Austin eContent catalog is the same list of titles that you can get directly from Project Gutenberg. The others are literary analyses and small-press literary works, largely poetry and non-fiction with the odd regional story scattered here and there.
Okay, I know, that doesn’t sound too bad; Project Gutenberg includes a great many readable texts, and some people like poetry about chaparrals and high winds on lonesome plains. But even if you find an e-book you’d like to read from that sadly lacking list, the default option is online-only. You can check a book out and download it, assuming the library has the appropriate license for downloading, only if you have an account. That’s free to card holders, but it’s a separate step—even if you have an account with the library’s electronic portal. (Why can’t I just use that?) Downloading the PDF may also require activating a separate instance of Adobe Reader, but after that, you can read the thing. Until your borrow-term expires, or you finish it. You must also check the text back in, which involves more steps than a physical return would, and there doesn’t seem to be any way to renew without checking it in and back out again, or at least, not one I’ve found.
Oh, and it’s Adobe Reader only, no other formats, with the initial download only to a computer, though you can then transfer to a PDA or whatever. Ack! All that, for things I can either get elsewhere and own for no charge and with less work, or don’t want in the first place?
I know, some of you are muttering about evil and stupidity. Maybe they just didn’t think things through? But I’m not finished yet. It’s not just that the e-book section looks like it was populated by someone trying to discourage readers from trying e-. It’s more than that.
I don’t know if any of you’ve ever heard of Mark Y. Herring. Certainly it’s not a household name! I wouldn’t have known it myself except for a poster I saw in the library. (The Northwest branch of the Austin Public Library system, the first and only time I was ever in that particular branch!) The poster was headed
10 REASONS WHY THE INTERNET IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR A LIBRARY
And it’s apparently based on one or more articles he’s written. A quick search turned up this one. I was so annoyed by the poster-version that I actually wrote down the high-points from that numbered list; the article isn’t identically phrased, but covers the same points, so in either version, # 6 and #10 raised my blood pressure a few points—
6. Hey, Bud, What About E-books?!
Reading on any e-reader is a chore. The technology will doubtless improve but it's still more than a generation away.
10. The Internet is Ubiquitous but Books Are Portable.
Try curling up by the fire with a laptop, or stopping by the woods on a snowy evening with a handheld. The future may bring this, but for now the vast majority of readers-- even online readers--want books.
Yes, folks, this is the message my local library system disseminates. In their catalog, in their sponsored talks, on their bulletin boards and lectures, and on their walls, they’ve chosen their message: e-books aren’t books, to them.
Hostile, like I said. And this in Austin, which is trying to become the most wireless wired city in the US! Maybe I’ll ask them to order something I know is only available in e- But then, I’d have librarians actively hostile toward me. And you know what they say about librarians...
pxj
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