It was an accident. An accident? It was the steady ground suddenly tilting into the steep sides of a gorge, and the shitty path and its shitty cracks turned into crumbling rock giving way under shittier shoes, the ones that were going to be thrown out and replaced with the new season because these had paid their dues and there was supposed to be just enough traction for a few more weeks of Weather, before Weather gave way to Heat.
It was an accident in that it happened, it was done, and they were asleep at the bottom of the gorge and it was too steep and too far to get them. Someone else would have to get them.
It had been a long night of extrajudicial murder for Batman; riding out the adrenaline just barely got Bruce Wayne back to his lair under the river.
Man, for someone completely uninvested in the DCEU, I had a lot of thoughts about Batman v Superman, so I… wrote about it. This features Batman and The Flash, Superman, Wonder Woman, and my exasperated long-suffering fave, Perry White.
Listen—one day you’re gonna find yourself out in the ocean,
in the world, and you’re gonna stop and feel the electric
heartbeat of the entire world in the water around you—
down here, no one is ever alone.
This spring, Strange Horizons put out a call for their summer special, Our Queer Planet. The excerpt comes from my poem chosen for the series, “A Mergirl Speaks of Travels,” which follows a queer scientist-explorer in a futuristic aquatic Earth.
I’m currently reading Rise of the Rocket Girls by Nathalia Holt, the #wlclub pick for May. I wrote this post for the #wlclub google group and decided to store it here as well because it’s about a thousand words on how to patronize female historical subjects and exploring how/why that may happen.
I was grown in a shallow dish with sides low enough that I could see photos of my baby girl self on every wall.
You should be reading Web Safe 2k16, a collection of deeply creative short stories (216 words max) remembering the old internet of the 80 and 90s, I suppose the minutes before facebook devoured us all.
What would you do with unlimited power?
Over at Open Letters Monthly, I’m thrilled to have a poem in their February 2016 issue.
I do love this poem a stupid lot; it came out of a collection I worked on about two years ago. A lot of the poems and prose poems were unsalvageable, but I’m still circulating some in hopes of getting them published. The poems riffed on mythology and women from my favorite stories (female characters from history, myths, and literature) and I’m glad that if any part of that collection sees the light of day, it’s this one. (Maybe the Mary Shelley one, too.)
The link above introduces the trans issue of The Offing, and the links below are some of the exceptional pieces published:
The girl in her nightdress the cold the girlin her cold across the cliffthe cliff’s nightdress causing coldthe cold of the nightdress the girl walkingalong the cliff the walk easing her cold across…
as its gusty living/moved but its only byforces forces/laws/magic chew/kissliving/result of a chain reaction result of a chainreaction/naught
A half-sunk ship offers its captain to the sea. The sea sneers at such gifts, but cannot resist. The lungs offer their resistance, but cannot last.
according to science we are all made ofstrings. this is a theory that i often teston myself. let’s see how many ties i can cut.
Isn’t it nice that dim-witted humans in search of elaborate rationalizations for their vilest, most violently sociopathic selves can always find an evolutionary psychologist unintelligent enough to back their play? Forget that practitioners of this field of study have an unfortunate habit of analyzing a relative millisecond or two of modern human behavior as if it’d been slowly evolving over hundreds of thousands of years. No, just suspend your disbelief, and evolutionary psychology can explain every anecdotal observation that’s ever tumbled through your thrashing gray matter!
My short story, “Drink, Kill, Contract,” appears in the anthology Dear Robot: An Anthology of Epistolary Science Fiction, edited by Kelly Ann Jacobson. You can purchase the anthology here and read more about the anthology below:
Dear Robot is an anthology of nineteen science fiction stories told in a variety of epistolary styles. Letters, scientific notes, manuals, and emails all tell different stories about the future. From a behavioral contract for interstellar exchange students to a transmission from an astronaut in space, these sometimes humorous, sometimes heartbreaking stories all use their structure to amplify their message-especially when that message is that a band of deadly robots are chipping away at the door.
Brought to you this week by Thanksgiving.
Please. Please. Is it Thanksgiving yet. Is it my holiday of family and friends and complete and utter sloth. Please. Am I at my parents’ house yet, watching old seasons of Great British Bake Off and the new season of Masterchef Junior. All I want for Thanksgivingmas is to be home already.
Perhaps another way to put it is that as a writer who isn’t rich enough to not have a job or antisocial enough to not want friends, you have to be a master thief. You have to steal every ounce of time you can. Scribble notes on receipts; revise when the boss turns his back. Grab every speck of time you can until you have enough for a book to bloom in. That might take a year or a decade, but the little stolen moments will eventually add up.
A really good read about shaping a story collection. Now halfway into my NaNoWriMo project, the Frankenstein’s-monstering of a project is starting to show itself, the bumps of writing this one thing every day building into the texture of each story I finish. It’s interesting, and I only wonder if that idea of texture will survive into the revision stages, or how it’ll translate into something else. Hmm!
What if climate change was as scary as the 1950s-era Soviet Union, or terrorists? What would that look like? Would we come up with something as ostentatious and awe-inspiring as the Apollo space program? Would we find ourselves fighting energy proxy wars in other countries — sneakily funding solar installations, sending renewable energy propaganda out over the airwaves, Voice of America style?
It’s a depressing and probably accurate theory presented here: that the only way to get funding for global warming would be by directing the DoD’s interests towards it and having them fund it. It’s depressing because sheer terror might be the only thing that could work in creating progressive climate policies.
Remember #IliadLive from this past summer? The Almeida Theatre spent another day performing Homer, this time recruiting a huge cast to perform the Odyssey. Almeida livetweet the performance and also made a Storify of viewers’ tweets throughout the day, highlighting the different performers and locations used throughout. STANLEY TUCCI READ ON A BOAT.
Listening to these amazing professional actors perform the Odyssey brought the work into a light that I haven’t seen in years. It’s easy to get lost in the Iliad because it’s such a character-driven story compared to the Odyssey—honestly, it’s amazingly character-driven compared to almost everything that’s survived from antiquity. The Odyssey, at least how I approach it, is just as important as the Iliad, but for totally different reasons; Odyssey is far more about the act of storytelling, the act of writing, the act of keeping track of plots and layers of presentation and the ten different things happening in any given moment. Odyssey is much more valuable for how it looks at the importance of telling stories. That’s all people do in the Odyssey: they do one thing, and tell five stories about it, to different audiences, in different times and places, and for different reasons. It’s wonderful. I could get used to these annual performances.
This is why I believe in intoxication — because it is true to say I believe in it, though I have given it up: drunk, none of us is any better than any other. When drunk we are not trying to be great. When drunk we are fine with the abject instead. I like the way that everyone turns for now toward the abject, as if it is a home.