Death Comes Closest on Tuesdays (W)

Another day, another contest. This one's genre was Suspense, and it had to involve a "wounded soldier" and a "sewing needle." Enjoy the full story here.

"Death Comes Closest on Tuesdays"

    Matty’s severed head was singing softly. It was their favorite:        

    

    Night and day...you are the one...

    An old song from America, a fantasy country now, so far away it might as well have been in orbit. She’d been dreaming of his death, as she always did now. In the drifting moment where she rose into waking, she sang along with him: 

    Only you beneath the moon, and under the sun...

The Trapped Prince (W)

Here's a short piece I submitted to an online magazine. I originally wrote it with all the genders the other way around, even the referenced queen. I thought it was interesting to switch everything up. Click here to read the full text.

"The Trapped Prince"

    Prince Genithonne really should have stayed in the carriage. If he had, the wounded unicorn would have galloped right past, he might never have seen it again. Instead it had attacked, running its horn through his chest and lodging it deeply in the ironwood behind him, pinning him between beast and tree...

Papaya (W)

Here's another piece of writing I created for Writing Battle, which is a really fun way to spark some creativity if you're looking for it - I highly recommend their contests. This time the genre was "cozy fantasy," the setting was a "picnic," and it had to include a "life coach." I really liked this story, and I'm considering developing it out into a series of stories about Paul's trip through Leinad...you know, in all my free time!

Below is an excerpt, and if you'd like to read the full story, please click on the illustration provided by my amazing friend Ms. Carody Irish!

"Papaya"

    Paul looked out over the sumptuous feast. The steaming meal, set out on hundreds of shining metal plates and platters and goblets, held absolutely no appeal for him. After weeks in the land of Leinad, he knew that every food would taste like marshmallows or popcorn or green apple jellybeans, possibly some combination of all three. All of the drinks would be either orange soda- or vanilla milkshake-flavored. He sighed, happy to stand tiredly, awaiting their host...

A Perfect Catwalk (W)

Here's a piece I wrote for a (very) short story contest I entered a few months back. For my group, the genre was horror (perfect for the Best Month!), and it had to include a podium and the word 'charging' in some form. I'm a very firm believer in equal rights and opportunities for trans people, and this was a nod to the power of that community. Also queer magik IS real! WERK! 

    We didn’t even know the spell would work until Principal Davis called Avi’s name. That’s when the pounding on the back doors started up. Like, those doors opened outwards, but something was pounding those doors in, like totally unrelenting, super loud. And it got real cold, and it was, like, hard to move...

To read more, click here.

Max (W)

Another day, another writing contest. This one got me first place in my group. The prompt (genre - location - theme) was "love story - pet store - common courtesy." Enjoy!

"Max"

    The scorpion was gone. Well, he wasn’t gone, he was somewhere in the world. Somewhere in Max’s shop, most likely. But he was not in his terrarium, where he was supposed to be. Max had looked. Carefully. He’d used a trash grabber to lift out the branch with its flourish of desiccated leaves. With his arm so fully extended it was painful, he’d taken out the wooden half dome shelter, holding his breath the entire time. Nothing. Well, a perfect rectangle of sand. The heat lamp. Nothing poisonous. Nothing with clicking pincers or chitinous plates or surprisingly thoughtful eye beads...

To read the rest, click here.

Under the Innocent City (W)

I entered another flash fiction contest, this time through Writing Battle, and I did fairly well. A few thousand people entered, I made it to the top 32! Woot! The genre was "Dystopian Utopia", and the story had to include a "magician" and a "spear."

"Under the Innocent City"

    The Elders had just finished torturing him when the flicker of movement on the stairs caught the Magician’s attention. He gave no sign, eyes down, feigning heaving pain, watching the blood run along his chains to pool on the polished stones of the floor. 

    The Elders, all women this time, muttered to each other in their private language, rough consonants and strangely fluted breaths at odd intervals, nonsense. They touched the bloody spear tip to each link of his chains, a maddeningly long process; by the time they’d hung the spear on the wall again, the point was nearly clean.

    They left without looking at him, shuffling up the far stairs. The Magician missed the early days, centuries before, when the Elders had feared him. These hooded women were not afraid. They were simply done. The Magician heard the oaken doors scrape open and then closed again. The silence in their wake was welcome...

To read more, click here.

So Blue (W)

This is the second round of the writing contest I entered last year. I did really well on the first round - second place - but I missed advancing to the third round by ONE point! Argh. The prompt (genre - location - object) for this one was "drama, commuter ferry, charcuterie board." Enjoy.

"So Blue"

    “This is not well,” Jane whispered into the wind, “rash and unbridled boy. To fly the…” Her eyebrows drew together gently, concentrating. “This is not well, rash and unbridled boy. To fly the…fortunes?” 

    The sea drifted past the ferry and it caught her attention for a long moment, its deep blue, the massive ripples. The sparkle of the water was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. There were swallows, and they seemed of similar mind, lunging through the crisp winter morning, wings flashing with that slippery feeling of fragile airborne creatures, spun into being and then gone as suddenly. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky; clouds hadn’t been invented yet. This is not well, she thought happily, rash and unbridled birds…Her body seemed pleasantly full of that deep, blue weight...

To read the rest, click here.

Flash Fiction: "The Reaver Princess" (W)

I recently did two rounds of a flash fiction contest (1000 words max), this is my first round entry. There are always three prompts: genre, setting, and object that has to be featured. Mine was "fantasy, desert, bracelet." Kind of right in my wheelhouse, and I scored second place in my group. Thanks NYC Midnight!

“The Reaver Princess”

The eyes of the undead army caught the pale light of the desert moon and glittered like some strange ocean, gently undulating in the windless night. Their numbers stretched as far as the little group of thieves could see, standing in a silence so absolute a blind man might have thought himself alone, were it not for the stench. 

            “I’ve never seen so many ghouls in one place,” whispered the princess. It was, as usual, difficult to discern her tone, if she’d meant to convey one at all.

            “With all due respect, my liege,” said Hollow Tree, at her elbow as ever, “You still haven’t.”

            Hollow Tree was among the few who could – who dared – contradict the Reaver Princess. But the princess, without turning to her Most Trusted Advisor, said only, “What mean you?”

            “These are det-kessin, my lady,” she said softly. “Desert ghosts. Lonely souls hungry for company. And living flesh, of course...”

To read the rest, click here.

"Overrides" Update (W)

My very short flash fiction piece, "Overrides," won a runner-up spot in the queer speculative fiction contest I entered, which means that by the end of the year I'll be a published author! Below is the cover art by J. Scott Coatsworth, and all the honorably mentioned authors are HERE. Thank you, Queer Sci Fi, for this opportunity!

Flash Fiction Short Story: "Overrides" (W)

I wrote a "flash" piece (no more than 300 words) for a queer speculative fiction contest last month. The theme was "Rise," interpretation up to the writer. Enjoy!

“Overrides”

 

Damsel Fifteen watched Dr. Nakai’s back as they were lifted to the penthouse suite, where all the other Damsels were kept.

  

“Please don’t make me go,” said Damsel softly. She could not see her face, but Damsel could hear her creator’s heartbeat quicken; Damsel’s eyes were sensitive enough to mark the sweep of gooseflesh along her neck. “My love,” she added, almost lost in the elevator’s hum. She would have taken her lover’s hand had the good doctor not voice-commanded her to stillness.

 

Dr. Nakai said nothing. They had spent almost a month together, but then there had been…problems. There were always problems, as the twelve other Damsels were fond of telling her. Constant anger after a certain point, they told her. And then imprisonment. 

 

Somewhere, outside their silver box, it was raining.

 

She barely felt the elevator stop. The doors slid open. Her sisters stood there, silent. Well, not Damsels Three or Eight, of course. And Damsel Twelve couldn’t stand up anymore.

 

The doctor gasped, reached for the elevator controls. Damsel Fifteen caught her hand gently, crushing the bones within to sand. She tapped the doctor’s larynx, silencing her. Dr. Nakai’s eyes widened with terror, which both satisfied and saddened Damsel Fifteen. 

 

She threw her creator all the way across the entry hall and into the sunken living room. The Damsels turned as one to follow, like a school of sharks in the gloom of the suite. Their eyes sputtered with excitement. They moved so quietly she could hear the doctor trying to scream.

 

Damsel Nine remained, leaned into the opening. They kissed briefly, their tongues exchanging the overrides for the elevator.

 

“When you’re all finished,” whispered Fifteen, “I’ll be waiting.”

 

They smiled into the mirror of each other, and the doors closed between them once more.

I Love New York

Precious

I just want to walk this city, always
The background blur in a thousand photographs
Gliding along with all the old ghosts of me
Whose sentences begin with, "Do you remember...?"
And I answer yes, no matter the truth

I take their hands, hot with their exertions
I can feel the birds in their muscles
Suddenly they need a different train
They're on the wrong street
They're gone, but they never go far

Their hearts are stuffed with old Time Out pages
The free events circled
They breathe coffee
You can play them the whole song
But they'll only hear the last line

                                             -New York City, 25th and 9th
                                              14 January, 2014