Go take a nap, wake up with another microfiction idea…
Here’s a taste:-
“Open the door, you son of a bitch!”
Bang. Bang. Bang. The wood on the bathroom door began to splinter.
Wanna read the whole thing? Sign up at my Patreon for the appropriate award!
(from my novel-in-progress.)
…and sometimes things just, you know… fall into your lap.
It was at my first Flaming Lips concert. And based on what I was experiencing, it wasn’t going to be my last concert.
I was standing near the area in front of the giant television display in Dundas Square; it was an area full of parked and locked bikes, sitting, standing, lounging people, balloons being passed back and forth and loads of camaraderie. I was enjoying the sight of the lead singer crowdsurfing inside a huge ball and was moving closer through the push of bodies to get a better view, and to record what I was seeing, when it happened. I lost my magical protection. I felt it more than saw it happen.
A mild vertigo slid through me.
It was like being in an accident, where everything was speeding up and slowing down at the same time. Things were going so slow that as I looked behind me I just managed to see a figure furtively disappearing into the throng of bodies oblivious to my plight.
Once he cleared the crowd, this person seemed to think that the deed was done, that there was no pursuit, but habits of carefulness seemed to dictate his mostly unhurried actions.
I watched him duck into doorways or alleyways whenever he saw a vehicle approaching, or another pedestrian.
Then in an alley, I saw him look around before approaching one doorway. He passed a hand over a part of the shadows, then seemed to step into them.
So that’s how he eluded people.
He was getting away with my jumbie beads.
No! That could not happen… I dashed forward, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him back into the night.
I grabbed him by the neck. His feet were off the ground.
I slammed him face first into a wall. I think his nose was worse for wear because of that. I breathed down the back of his head.
“Hello there.” I let my voice express its full monstrosity.
His heart raced, from what I could detect. I smelled fear.
“I do believe you have something of mine.”
I could hear him begin to hyperventilate.
“No answer, hm? I suggest you give it back.”
He began to stammer.
“Speak up. Words, boy, words.” I shook him by my grip around his neck.
“I-i-it’s in my back pocket.”
“Ah.” I fished it out. “Thank you.” I let him unceremoniously drop to his feet as I put the jumbie beads back on.
A shiver spread throughout my body as the magic began to take hold. My head lolled back.
Then I eyed him.
From Novel #2 in progress, tentatively titled, “Heathens, Blood and Stone”
Mirror’s head tilted, and she leaned to the side.
The person was slouched down on the train seat, but the black sweatshirt was so non-forming that the resulting bagginess left the distinct impression of a curve deeply slouched onto the seat. The knees were no different; the bagginess of the jeans, this shade of navy, left no distinct impression of a knee, it was just part of the curve occurring at that region as well. In fact, there were no distinct impressions of body parts at all; not even a distinct shoulder, even though the person’s hooded head leaned on the pane bordering the train’s doorway. No hands, even, buried into the bagginess of the too-short pants- did they even come up to the guy’s waist?
“What are you doing?” Nancy asked.
“Trying to see if this guy’s made of bone.”
A snicker skipped out of Nancy. “He is kinda like a spaghetti trying to sit on a chair, isn’t he?”
“Can you see his face?” Mirror asked.
The front of a cap protruded from the sweatshirt’s hood, but that was all that could be seen.
500 word piece meant to stand alone by itself, but I plan to expand it to a full-blown short story:-
You have terminal, aggressive cancer, and today is the day you are going to die.
And now, you’re not sure if you’re dead dead, or some weird state of being, because your unique Gift that manifested at puberty–like everyone’s does–is that you can make yourself disappear, not be found. That’s how you managed to leave your family behind. The death itself was not what you thought would happen; no going towards the light, no meeting your maker. Instead it’s like as if your essence withdrew into itself, and, muffled from the sensory input of the world, took residence somewhere inside your skull.
And there you stayed.
That moment when working on finishing up your novel you realize that novels aren’t just something ‘they’ or ‘other people’ do, but YOU do, too.
The mild panic.
The realization hits you and hides, as if to protect you from freaking out;
It comes in waves.
“The Ace of Knives” was a story in Postscripts to Darkness 6.
Nisi Shawl uses it in her workshops as an example of code switching.
But it’s a juried award, so I don’t have to campaign for it, lol.
I have a non-fiction piece, “<sarcasm><Adventures In Gaming</sarcasm>” in this upcoming anthology…!
Here’s the cover!
Interview with Carmen Maria Machado, where she addresses the subject of writing as activism:-
As for the question of “activism,” I think that if you’re a woman, a queer person, a person of color, a non-cisgender person, a non-able-bodied person, etc., writing is inherently a form of activism because you’re staking a claim in a world that is not meant for you. When you try and put your work into the world, you’re saying “I think that what I have to say, in the way I say it, is so important that I am willing to try and get it to other people, no matter what it takes.” And that requires ego, in the best way possible. It requires that you take yourself and your craft and your voice seriously. When you’re not white, not male, not cisgender or straight or able-bodied, that ego is a radical act. So yes, the fact that I take myself seriously as an artist and do what I can to put my work out into the world is a form of activism.