My story “Body Language” is now up at OSC’s Intergalactic Medicine Show with an awesome cover illustration which you must now appreciate in all its glory.

And here’s a teaser of the story.

Saskia leaned into the darkness above the stage, only vaguely aware of the wood rail against her hips as she retied the left headstring on her marionette. On the stage below, the Snow Queen’s head eased into balance. The marionette telegraphed its stance back up the strings to the control in Saskia’s hands. She ran the Snow Queen across the set to check the repair, barely conscious of her own body on the bridge above the stage. It was almost like being immersed in a VR suit.

One of the techies called up. “Hey, Saskia? There’s a detective here for you.”

IGMS does charge $2.50 for access to the full issue, but that gets you a lot of fiction.

The teaser:

Beyond the Garden Close

Lena rocked back and forth, feet aching from standing so long, as if the metal floors were harder in the auditorium than anywhere else in the ship. The paper bib she wore rustled as she shifted. The waiting that the high-holy put the prospectives through made Lena nervous. Which was part of the point, of course and Lena tried not to let her nerves show. There were nine prospectives this quarter, standing in a cluster. Lena knew the other women, of course, but maintained the ship-standard illusion of privacy by ignoring them.

She wouldn’t be among the prospective child-bearer if Phoebe hadn’t wanted a babe so much.

All long-limbs and soft curves, Phoebe had the grace of a goddess, but she’d never be granted child-rights. She had the taint of celiac disease as a hand-me-down from some grand or other and that throwback meant her stock had to be culled from the tree. Even if she made it through the trials today, the high holies would never let her bear a child.

But Lena, now. Lena would pass for sure and certain, only problem was she didn’t want a child.

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Confused? He was driving back tonight from California, after driving there yesterday to drop off grapes.  He thought he’d make it back by 12:30ish tonight but also thought he might stop and sleep instead. So, I’m waiting up to see if he calls to tell me he’s pulled over for the night.

Meanwhile, to pass the time, I’ve completed a short story, made a peach and apple cobbler, and made vanilla ice cream.  I believe the first two are successful. The third is a little… crunchy.  If I think of it as snow cream then it’s fine.  Note: lowfat milk doesn’t cut it for icecream.

On the other hand, the cobbler really wanted it and… this will tell you a lot about me. I was too lazy to walk back to the store to buy ice cream.  It’s okay. I see the crazy there.

Did I mention I finished a short story?

Edited to add: 12:45. He is home safely. Night all!

Why is it cool that she looks like my grandmother?  Because she’s based on Grandma, even if the name isn’t the same. My grandmother, is still alive, well, and sharp as anything. She was born in 1905.

I got the story idea because we were sitting around talking about things she had seen and it is staggering.  She remembers World War I, for crying out loud, and the Titanic.  Anyway, when she turned 100, she said, “I figure the Good Lord put everyone on this earth for a reason. I just haven’t done my yet, so I better get busy.”

To celebrate, I’d like to share these recipe cards with you.  I made them for Grandma’s 101st birthday and they are some of my favorite things she makes.

Here’s a teaser of First Flight.

Eleanor Louise Jackson stood inside the plain steel box of the time machine. It was about the size of an outhouse, but without a bench or windows. She clutched her cane with one hand and her handbag with the other. It felt like the scan was taking far too long, but she was fairly certain that was her nerves talking.

Her corset made her ribs creak with every breath. She’d expected to hate wearing the thing, but there was a certain comfort from having something to support her back and give her a shape more like a woman than a sack of potatoes.

A gust of air puffed around her and the steel box was gone. She stood in a patch of tall grass under an October morning sky. The caravan of scientists, technicians and reporters had vanished from the field where they’d set up camp. Louise inhaled with wonder that the time machine had worked. Assuming that this was 1905, of course—the year of her birth and the bottom limit to her time-traveling range. Even with all the preparations for this trip, it baffled her sense of the order of things to be standing there.

So, go on, read about my Grandma.

Clearly, my time management involves the need for a TARDIS. And yet I don’t have one.

Blogging will be, shall we say, extremely light this week.

We here at SubPress are fans of elegant small collections such as Antiquities by John Crowley or The Devil in the Details by James P. Blaylock and Tim Powers. Our latest offering fits solidly in that mode. Scenting the Dark and Other Stories, the debut hardcover by Campbell Award-winner Mary Robinette Kowal packs a powerful 25,000 words into its roughly 100 pages. Do yourself a favor and check out one of our finest new short story writers — and novelist, as Mary just sold a pair to Tor (Congrats!)

I’m just delighted.

Here’s his announcement.

The anthology is free and you can go there now and read the stories, most of which are original but a few of which are reprints from Analog or Asimov’s. Contributors include Hugo and Nebula award winning authors. Each story focuses on one or two key ideas from astronomy and should have some educational value, but are hopefully first and foremost simply entertaining and good quality stories. The project was funded by the National Science Foundation as a public education and outreach effort, and I’d like to reach as many readers as possible so please spread the word!

My story, Jaiden’s Weaver, takes a look at life on a world with planetary rings.

Angela has been short-listed in the Best Fantasy: Short Story category for her story ‘Dresses, Three’, which was published in Shimmer magazine. She has had stories published in the US, UK, Canada and Australia but ‘Dresses, Three’ had a rather unusual genesis.

“Shimmer put together an art issue,” Angela says, “where they gathered five of their favourite artists and five of their favourite writers. They presented each writer with a piece of artwork and asked us to write a story about it. The piece I was given was by Chrissy Ellsworth and showed a woman looking over her shoulder, wearing a fabulous dress.

“The story I wrote is based on the old tale ‘Donkey Skin’ and in my version the three dresses are made of peacock feathers, butterfly wings and words.”

Claude Lalumière, “Three Friends”
Leah Bobet, “Six”
Marie Brennan, “Once a Goddess”
Ian McHugh, “Angel Dust”
Ann Leckie, “The Endangered Camp”
Mary Robinette Kowal, “At the Edge of Dying”
Saladin Ahmed, “Hooves and the Hovel of Abdel Jameela”
Tanith Lee, “The Pain of Glass” (a story of the Flat Earth)
Joanna Galbraith, “The Fish of Al-Kawthar’s Fountain”
Catherynne M. Valente, “The Secret History of Mirrors”
Forrest Aguirre, “Never nor Ever”
Gemma Files and Stephen J. Barringer, “each thing i show you is a piece of my death”
Kelly Barnhill, “Open the Door and the Light Pours Through”
Barbara Krasnoff, “Rosemary, That’s For Remembrance”
Steve Rasnic Tem, “When We Moved On”

Here’s a teaser:

Kahe peeked over the edge of the earthen trench as his tribe’s retreating warriors broke from the bamboo grove onto the lava field. The tribesmen showed every sign of panicked flight in front of the advancing Ouvallese. Spears and shields dropped to the ground as they tucked in their arms and ran.

And the Ouvallese, arrogant with their exotic horses and metal armor, believed what they saw and chased the warriors toward him. The timing on this would be close. Kahe gathered the spell in his mind and double-checked the garrote around his neck. His wife stood behind him, the ends resting lightly in her hands. “Do it.”

Emelia’s home is in a city where only children are allowed to draw graffiti on the crumbling walls. The old bricks and stones are covered in crude pictographs and stick figures, smoking chimney houses and bicycles with four wheels and two seats. Chalk is a penny a piece, any color to be had. A little old lady with gnarled fingers and crooked eyes sells the sticks out of cigar boxes on street corners, even in the rain.

The short form of my answer is that I initially sent the wrong file. After we had a good laugh (thank God) he suggested that when he ran the story on his site, that I might run the original version of it on mine.

So here’s what I accidentally sent in. The original flash fiction version of “Waiting for Rain,” written in an hour and a half in one of the Liberty Hall flash fiction contests.

Waiting for Rain – 1400 words

by Mary Robinette Kowal

In the other room, Bharat could hear his wife clucking happily over their oldest daughter’s wedding holos. He stared at the screen on his ancient quarto-core processor and held his head in his hands. The weather forecast said the next week was supposed to be sunny again.

That had been fine for Deepali’s wedding, but what was he going to do about his crops? Bharat pushed away from the desk and stared out the window. The land surrounding their house was dry, the spinach plants were beginning to bolt in the heat. The only plants that were doing remotely well were at the edges of the field where his land bordered Guatama’s. A sharp line of rain fell on his neighbor’s land.

Guatama had no trouble paying the ISRO, and gentle showers passed over his land twice daily. But the Indian Space Research Organization’s weather drones kept their seeded rain clouds firmly away from Bharat’s field.

The rustle of silk made him turn. Indra stood in the doorway, her sari draped gracefully around her, holding a holo. Deepali and her new husband seemed to dance in Indra’s palm to the faint wedding music. Tears shone on Indra’s cheeks. “This was the happiest day of my life.”

Bharat smiled. The wedding might have beggared them, but it was hard to deny Indra anything. “You said that when we got married and when your sister got married and when-”

“But I was so proud of our Deepali.” She came across the room; her hair was still as dark as when the matchmaker had introduced them. As Indra kissed him, he caught the scent of jasmine on her skin. “Thank you, my love.”

He cupped her cheek in his hand and kissed her forehead above her bhindi mark. Thank Vishnu that she did not know how deeply the wedding had put them in debt. “I have some work to finish. Maybe you can show me the rest of the holos, later?”

“Of course.” She looked out the window. “Don’t forget to turn the rain back on, now that the wedding has happened.”

Bharat forced a laugh. “I won’t.” He had spent the last of their money on the band that was still playing in the holo. He had wanted to use a DJ, but Indra and Deepali had looked at him with their large dark eyes and… and he had said yes, knowing that they could not afford it.

He had managed to juggle credit and lines of debit but it was not enough. The ISRO had denied his request for an extension after he failed to pay the last weather bill.

Indra fingered the collar of his khurta with her free hand. She looked up at him from under her long lashes. “Perhaps when you finish, we could do more than look at holos…?”

He was too tired to even think of it, but in this, as everything he did not want to disappoint his wife. “Then let me finish.”

After she left the room, he put on his shoes and went out to the fields. The dust swirled around his feet. The spinach would die if he could not water it. If he could not get a crop to market, they would slide even farther into debt. He did not remember this much time between natural rains when he was a boy, but that was before the Weather Wars.

The rain over Guatamo’s land dwindled away as the clouds rained themselves out. The drones stopped blowing the wind away from his home, as they controlled the clouds position, and Bharat inhaled the damp smell of the earth.

The land between Guatamo’s spinach plants gleamed with moisture. Bharat narrowed his eyes in thought. That rain was all unused. Back when he was a boy, he had helped his father set out clay basins during monsoon season so they would have water through the dry months. The basins were still in the barn, along with the yoke that his father had used to bring water from the village well. Perhaps Bharat could put the basins between Guatamo’s rows and use some of it for his own.

He crossed the field to Guatamo’s house to ask him. He found Guatamo relaxing in the courtyard of the house with a cup of chai cooling beside him. Stubble dotted his cheeks and his belly bulged under his khurta. He grunted when he saw Bharat.

“Come in, come in, my friend!” Staggering to his feet, Guatamo kissed Bharat on either cheek in greeting and began fussing about how long it had been since they had visited.

By the time Guatamo poured Bharat a cup of chai and offered him a chair, Bharat had realized that there was no way to ask about the rain without admitting that his family was bankrupt.

“To what do I owe to the honor of your visit?” Guatamo’s face split in a grin, showing his blackened teeth.

Bharat hesitated. Indra would be mortified. “I only wished to thank you again for letting us have the elephants wait in your driveway before the wedding.”

“Oh, it was nothing, my friend. I am happy to share your good fortune.”

Bharat thanked him and let the conversation drift to the World Cricket Tournament. It would cost Guatamo nothing; surely he would not begrudge a few drops of his evening rain.

#

Bharat slipped out of bed, as he had every night for the past two weeks, to collect the extra rain from Guatamo’s land.

Indra rolled over and looked up at him. “Where are you going?”

“For a walk.” He had not lied to her since they got married. “I can not sleep in this heat.”

“Why don’t you ask the ISRO to lower the temperature? We haven’t had it set this high since I was a little girl.”

“The plants need it.” He hurried out of the room, before she forced more lies from him.

The spinach looked better than it had in weeks. The dark green leaves stood up out of the ground in crisp rows. He walked across the field, under the light of the moon, to start hauling the rows of basins back his fields. It would take him several hours of exhausting labor, but it was well worth it.

His shoes squished into the wet earth of Guatamo’s field and he stooped to pick up the first barrel. The clay basin was cool with rain.

A flashlight beam suddenly blinded him. “Bharat!” Indra gasped. “What are you doing?”

Bharat closed his eyes. No. He straightened, turned to his wife. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I-I thought you were cheating on me.”

“Forgive me.” He stared at the ground, feeling as if his soul were drying out with shame. “I did not want to lie to you.”

She waved the flashlight, making each basin pop out of the darkness. “But you get out of bed, night after night…Why?”

Bharat could hear the betrayal in her voice. “I spent all of our money on Deepali’s wedding. I couldn’t pay the weather bills.” He stepped forward, his hands pressed together in supplication. “I’m sorry. Our crops were dying.”

She covered her face with her hand and turned the flash light off. “Why didn’t you just tell me that we couldn’t afford to spend so much?”

Bharat stared at the ground helplessly. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“And you think this is better? To become a liar and a thief?” She bent over and turned the closest basin over, dumping the rainwater on the ground. “We have to pay him back.”

“We can’t! I can’t even pay our bills.”

“Then we will sell my saris and my jewels, but we will not be thieves.” She turned the next basin over, and the water sloshed against her sari.

Bharat thought of the yoke and buckets in the barn. “I will bring water from the old village well-the same number of basins that I took away.”

Indra straightened before tipping over the next basin. “It’s two kilos from here.”

“My father did it. I will not be less of a man than he was.” He stepped past the basins and cupped her cheek in his hand. “And I can’t disappoint you.”

“There are two yokes.” She kissed his palm. “I will carry the water with you.”

Bharat smiled and tipped over the last basin.

END

I like this version quite a bit, actually, but the science in it fails utterly. There’s no way for Bharat to be able to water all of his crops in the manner that I described. It would take something like two weeks of constant work for a single man to do one pass.  I tried to fix it, but instead of the “working together we can save the family farm” ending which I have here, I ended up with “working together we’ll still lose the family farm.”  Bummer.  Which lead me to changing crops, expanding the family relationship and eventually to the version that Subterranean published.

Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz

Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

There’s also an interview with me by Alethea Kontis. She saw me start the story back in 2005 — yes, sometimes it takes that long for a story to find the right home — and you can learn the answer to questions such as, “Whom do you admire most?

Subterranean will be bringing out a chapbook collection of my short stories in June of 2009 called “Scenting the Dark.” Given how gorgeous their other books are, I’m tremendously excited by this.

Here’s a teaser:

A liveried manservant waited by the front stairs of Fairbairn Hall as if he expected to take the reins of a horse. Ginger stopped her roadster next to him, shaking her head. These Brits had such queer, old-fashioned ideas.

She hopped out of her car, tossing her cloche on the front seat. With any luck, the hat had controlled the worst of the damage to her hair on the drive up from London.

The front door of the manor house flung open. In a flurry of crepe chiffon, Lucy Rhodes hurried down the stairs. “Ginger, darling! Thank heavens you’ve come.” Even in the daylight, circles of fear rippled through her aura.

The teaser:

The afternoon sun angled across the scarred wood counter despite the bamboo shade Elise had lowered. She grimaced and picked up the steel chef’s knife, trying to keep the reflection in the blade angled away so it wouldn’t trigger a hallucination.

In one of the Better Homes and Gardens her mother had sent her from the States, Elise had seen an advertisement for carbon fiber knives. They were a beautiful matte black, without reflections. She had been trying to remember to ask Raj about ordering a set for the last week, but he was never home while she was thinking about it.

There was a time before the car accident, when she was still smart.

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Many, many thanks to the very kind folks who read the draft of this and offered feedback. You guys rock.

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First person to correctly identify the commonality gets an unpublished short story direct to their inbox.

Edited to add: Through a joint effort, Mike F and Nathaniel Payne correctly identified the names as coming from subway stops. I often write on the train. I’ve sent them both a copy of “Home Safety” which is a spin on Hansel and Gretel.

Here’s the teaser on mine.

Lifting the stopper from the vial to his nose, Penn inhaled slowly. Against the neutral backdrop of his ship’s cleanroom, he picked out aromas of quince, elderberry, and bright Martian soil that hinted of blood, with undercurrents of cinnamon and Zeta Epsilon’s fragrantly sweet longgrass. He sighed, blowing the scents out again. The perfume was still out of balance.

For a story I’m working on, I need an online generator that will allow me to check off mental illness symptoms and return potential diagnosis. Like a choose-your-own disorder. Has anyone seen anything like that?

Carol shot herself because of her back ochos.

“Arciela said Carol was never going to get them sharp enough,” said Margaret at the wake, scooping macaroni onto a plate and handing it to one of the beginners. God knew who invited beginners. “She said Carol’s pivot was too shallow. No shoes in the world can fix a pivot like that,” she said.

It was a terrible thing that happened with Carol, but her ochos really weren’t going to get any better; that much we all knew.

For one week only, the following Apex Book Company titles are on sale for $10.00:

Unwelcome Bodies
The Next Fix
HebrewPunk
Aegri Somnia
Gratia Placenti
Orgy of Souls
Mama’s Boy and Other Dark Tales
Beauty & Dynamite

Make Alexander Hamilton proud. Spend ten bucks and buy a book!

Now, I do have to warn you, just in case you don’t know, that Gratia Placenti is horror. This is not safe for parents — and by that I mean my parents. But the rest of you, have at it. Here’s the teaser from my story, “Tomorrow and Tomorrow.”

The moment Tuyet walked into the Dagenais’s compartment, she knew something was different. The usual pack of dogs swarmed around her, distracting her, before she figured out that the compartment smelled different. Not bad–not like the times they had left everything piled in the sink for her as if they were having a contest to see who could goad the other into doing the dishes. Nor the time they’d fired the dog walker and didn’t bother to walk the hoard of dogs that Hélène kept. But they paid her to come once a week to wipe their counters, load the dishwasher and tidy the compartment. So she’d kept her head down, asked herself what Kant would have done, then said screw the philosophy and wiped up the dog shit and urine.

Kant would not have done that.

My first post also includes this:

I’m also terribly excited because the day before the Iceland call, I got an email from The First Line telling me that they want to publish my short story “The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland.” This is my second short story sale, and I’m starting to feel like a real writer.

Funny thing, that.

Now, the totally ridiculous thing is that I write on my Palm.  But what did I do the moment I had the file? Put it on my Palm so I could look at it.  Such a geek, me.

Here’s the opening bit as a teaser. I’ll let you know when the story is up.

Mundari Vineyard 2045, Nashik (India), Shiraz
Black cherry, plum, and currant flavors mingle with aromas of sweet tobacco and sage in this dependable offering from India.

The sun peeking through the grapevines felt hotter on Bharat Mundari’s neck than twenty-four degrees. Another perfect day. Bharat scowled and worked his way down the row of vines, thinning the grapes so the remaining Shiraz crop would become fuller and riper.

Not that there was a point in having healthy vines when he couldn’t pay his weather bill. Without rain, the grapevines would weaken under the stress, and stressed grapes made poor wine. No one bought flawed wine.

Just to keep things in balance though, I should tell you that the night I got home from the Campbells, I had a rejection note waiting in my inbox. Doesn’t matter. My life is very, very good right now.

He went through my revision of “American Changeling” and let me know what he found dull, unbelievable, or didn’t get. And which bits he thought were cool.

Score!

Granted, it was not a particularly detailed response, but it was his first critique and I’m pleased as Punch that he did it. Even better, he liked the ending and told me why. I am a very happy aunt right now.

It’s in a password protected post, but it’s the usual password. Don’t know what that is? Drop me a line and I’ll tell ya.

And here’s the teaser.

In the lee of the Bægisa farm house, Guðrun watched the wind blowing through the horses’ manes without feeling the harsh cold herself. Faxi had huddled in among them, her gray mane dancing like a shroud on the breeze. All the horses stood with their backs to the wind and Hákon’s horse looked like she belonged here.

Her fiancé took one of her mittened hands in his and squeezed. “I have to go.”

She leaned against him. “Must you really? The sun has barely moved.”

He pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. His breath was warm in her ear. “If I could stay with you forever, I would, but I need to be back to conduct services tomorrow and I don’t want to ask Faxi to cross Dark River after the sun sets.”

This is a fun little steampunk parable whose apparent moral lesson (pride comes before the fall) is somewhat subverted by the cold, calculated nature of Chickadee’s schemes.

What’s interesting to me is that I thought about putting an actual moral at the end, but decided not to because it defused the story. I asked some early readers what moral they would put and they all said, “Well clearly it’s [x].” Except [x] was different for every one of them.

So, now I’m curious. What do you think the moral of the story is?

When my eyes fluttered open, a shock coursed through me that rivaled the strongest cup of Java. I found my head cradled on the lap of my manager, Mr. Purvis, duckwrangler508. Keith.

“You?”

He regarded me with tender eyes. “Did you never guess?”

“Guess? How should I guess when I know you only as kpurvis@coffee.mult.or.us.net?” I sat up, shaking with barely suppressed emotion. Simple spyware would have sufficed; how dare he trifle with my feelings in this manner! “Am I to be fired now?”

“It’s not like that.” He laughed out loud and I shivered. How often had I wondered what duckwrangler508′s “lol” sounded like? “I was too embarrassed to ask you out.”

This was the reason his eyes followed me everywhere, that he came so frequently to the internet café, that I received so many memos? With a rising sense of violation, I pushed myself to my feet, suddenly conscious of the unnecessary hours he had spent in the internet café, scrutinizing me and gauging my reaction to his advances. My indiscreet blushes must have pleased the coward.

I turned my back and picked up a mug with shaking fingers.

“Sophia?”

“Miss Vanhese, please, Mr. Purvis. I am your employee and I hardly think further intimacy is appropriate.”

Had he argued his case at that moment would I have relented? Perhaps. But the door to the internet café opened and a wave of customers came rushing in, braying with laughter. In the edge of my vision, I saw him deflate and walk away.

Pushing my feelings to the side, I forced myself to concentrate on my customers and their endless pleas for coffee. The hour passed in a daze; each order from a customer was a welcome distraction from the anguish assailing my heart.

My laptop chimed.

I saw a new email in my box marked urgent. duckwrangler508 – RE: plz

How could I face him? I deleted it unopened and, lest I be tempted, emptied my trash folder, consigning him to a random memory.

The bell above the café door rang as the last customer left with his steaming cup of Maui Moka, light on the chocolate. In that precious moment of quiet, I recognized that my earlier anger had not been directed at my Ducky, but at myself for the deceitful role I had played. Why had I pretended to more knowledge than I possessed?

I surrendered to a bout of frenzied weeping. How I longed to seek him out, but even should he accept my apology, our differing stations must keep us apart. Did not the district employee handbook frown upon fraternization such as this? To pursue a relationship with my manager would surely raise questions about my character.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, I gathered my sensibility and prepared for the next invasion of customers. The bell rang. In the unexpected silence that followed, I heard the sound of the door’s lock clicking into place.

Turning, I saw Mr. Purvis standing at the door, with his back to me. He turned the sign to “Closed.” In his hands, he held a slip of paper; it was pink.

A thousand tortured thoughts flew through my mind as I waited in the vacant chatroom. Where was my beloved duckwrangler508? What if my reply had been lost in cyberspace? What if the address were wrong and he waited elsewhere, convinced I had spurned his attentions? What if a customer wanted coffee before he arrived? What if Mr. Purvis noticed that I was not working?

Before my fears could spiral beyond control, a familiar handle entered the room.

duckwrangler508

I smiled to see him there and blushed as I realized he had arranged for a private room.

“hi” appeared upon my screen in deep blue Times New Roman. Bold, of course, suggesting classic masculinity and yet, the font itself gave the impression of subtle restraint.

I hesitated; no girlish exuberance of pink or purple would do. I pulled on a forest green Garamond, then in a coquettish whim, added italic for a feminine slant.

“hi,” I typed back.

duckwrangler508> were u waiting long?

exitreal297> no I jst got here

duckwrangler508> thnx 4 meetn me

exitreal297> happy 2 ive enjoyed yr emails

duckwrangler508> im glad

The immediacy of real time paralyzed me with sudden awkwardness. Gone was the leisure to review each sentence, to consider and ponder possible misinterpretations. What could I say to express my raptures of delight?

exitreal297> cool

I hit enter and instantly wished I could call the letters back, even as they appeared on the screen. I hoped he would not think me too forward.

duckwrangler508> my name is Keith

His name! My hand rose unbidden to press against my chest as if in an effort to keep my heart within.

A new line appeared. duckwrangler508> can i ask yrs plz?

Yes, yes, a thousand times yes! My fingers shook upon the keys and I accidentally hit the caps lock key. Thankfully I caught my error and backspaced, before sending, “Sophia.”

duckwrangler508> Sophia thts a pretty name

exitreal297> thnx

duckwrangler508> yr msgs hv meant a grt deal 2 me

exitreal297> rlly?

duckwrangler508> yeah

exitreal297> u dont need much, do u

duckwrangler508> just u

How tempting it was to read deeper meaning into those five simple letters.

duckwrangler508> r u set up 4 vc chat?

Voice Chat? I swallowed nervously. Things were going so fast and yet I had little time before the lunchtime rush of customers arrived. To hear Ducky’s voice meant more to me than I could say, but did I dare risk it? I glanced at my manager. He was staring at me, as if daring me to step outside the lines.

Why had I not waited until I was at home before responding? Oh, the woe, the heartache, the sharp pangs of remorse I suffered as I stared at his invitation.

I dropped my eyes, and stared at the cursor blinking accusingly on the screen.

exitreal297> sorry

duckwrangler508> 2 bd

At the same moment, I heard, “Too bad.” As I frantically reached for the volume control, I realized the voice came from across the café.

My manager stood and faced me. “You have a lovely voice.”

Beyond him, I could see his computer screen with a chat room glowing upon it–the same chat room I had shared with my beloved Ducky. There could be but one answer.

A rushing grew in my ears louder than the hissing steam of a latte, the room swam with black specks like Indonesia Toraja Sulawesi grounds spilled upon the floor and I swooned from my seat.

Stay tuned for tomorrow’s exciting installment.

How could I meet duckwrangler508@blatzoid.net for a chat in real time with my manager sitting in the café with me? And yet–how could I deny my longing to be with duckwrangler508?

It had begun innocently enough. I subscribed to the newsgroup for a new inventory system, which my manager had installed on our system, and dutifully skimmed each digest I received. Several times, I saw duckwrangler508 answer the questions of others, and each time he helped them with kindness, consideration and humor. I admired his gentle graces from afar, too shy to introduce myself. Then one day he posed a question no one could answer and by strange chance I had once experienced the exact problem he described–what was more, I knew how to resolve his dilemma.

But here, alas, is the point of my downfall. The solution was not mine. I had spent many hours on the phone with my tech support liaison struggling to resolve the error, though the final solution turned out to be a simple one. The details are not important here, but know that I presented the answer to duckwrangler508 as if it were my own. He responded with effusive thanks both on the group and in private correspondence. If only I had stopped there, but I did not. Emboldened by my success, the next time he posted a quandary, I took it to my tech support liaison and then presented duckwrangler508 with the solution given to me.

It seemed I now faced a beverage of my own making, a cup of instant coffee that threatened to destroy the grounds of our relationship. duckwrangler508 wanted to chat in real time. What was I to do if he asked me a question I could not answer? Should I set aside the mask of netspeak and reveal myself? Would he be repulsed that I was not a computer savant, but merely a barista?

And yet- he had been thinking of me. A flush of pleasure crept through my veins as I realized my last message had been unrelated to computer issues. Was it possible my dear Ducky–as I called him in my most private thoughts–felt towards me as I to him? Before conscious thought could dissuade me from my choice, I pressed the reply button, and let my fingers dance over the keyboard.

“duckwrangler508,” I wrote, “b 2 meet u anywhere u say. exitreal”

With my heart trembling in my chest, I sent my missive spinning through the Web. Had I sounded too eager? Should I have delayed replying so as not to appear as if I waited on him?

I left my laptop connected to the Web and tried to focus upon my work. I had not long to wait. It seemed my Ducky was as anxious as I was, for he replied instantly with an e-mail reading simply, “now? here?” and a link.

I glanced at Mr. Purvis, still engrossed in his work. All the customers had left the café in the mid-morning slump–surely Mr. Purvis would not begrudge me this small outing–and so, with a small shock at my own audacity, I wrote, “yes. c u there.”

I hit the send button and clicked upon the link Ducky had provided.

A new window opened and I waited through the agonizing second while the chat room loaded. The hourglass upon my screen let fall its sand with maddening slowness; each pixilated grain repeated the same vanishing descent so the pile at the bottom grew no larger while the top grew no smaller. How like the fruitless tasks that filled the hours of my life with meaningless purpose. Is it any wonder I was beguiled by the sense of worth I gained from my beloved Ducky?

The hourglass vanished and the chat room lay before me, empty.

Tune in tomorrow for Part III.

If I come up with an idea that will work well in that format, I might try it again. Meanwhile, I’m offering instead this very silly five-part serial.

Coffee Sensibility

A story in Five Parts

by Mary Robinette Kowal

The bell rang over the door to the internet café. Filled with regret, I closed Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility and lingered for one more moment in the 1800s. A customer pushed through the door, pulling my unwilling mind to the present. Ah, to have been born in a time of gentility rather than be surrounded by jittery professionals whom I could barely convince to savor their coffee.

I made the double lowfat-latte with Kenyan beans, enjoying the moment of isolation created by the hissing steam. The customer took no note of the perfect layer of foam atop her latte as she made her way to the bank of computers along the wall. No doubt she would surf the web, paying little heed to the intricacies of the Kenyan.

And yet, I must confess I felt some attraction for the Web and what it held. Ignoring the book I had been so eager to read, I turned to my laptop with a mix of apprehension and excitement and opened my e-mail. Would I find the very thing upon which my hopes depended, or would my longing be dashed as though a Grimac espresso machine thrown from the heights? I watched as mail downloaded with alacrity from the server to my inbox.

I deleted the endless spam, forwards and offers to transfer money from an offshore account, till at last I saw it. My heart beat faster, and my hand trembled so the mouse vibrated upon the screen. There, amidst a wasteland filled with vagaries of communication lay a single glorious epistle.

duckwrangler508@blatzoid.net had written back.

I eased the mouse over the subject line, caressing the letters, RE:?4u. I wanted to lengthen the anticipation that filled my bones with a throbbing like a thousand pounds of Guatemala Heuhetenango Organic beans being ground at once.

My reverie was broken as the door to the internet café swung open and my manager, Mr. Purvis, strode in. He was a tall, heavy-set man, florid in his complexion, whose gaze now fixed upon me like a double-shot of Jamaica Blue Mountain espresso. I minimized the window, embarrassed that he had nearly caught me with personal correspondence.

Flushing, I wiped down the counter as he crossed the café. Mr. Purvis donned a headset and logged onto a computer directly opposite me; he stared intensely at the screen but at any moment I feared he might look up.

I tidied for another minute until I could stand it no longer and opened the illicit window. With but a single click, the message blossomed upon my screen.

“hi exitreal297,” I read, shivering as I imagined his fingers upon the keys. “ive been thinking about yr last email. would lv 2 chat real time. what do u say? duckwrangler.”

Chat in real time? The screen dimmed, and the café spun like the burrs of a grinder. Did I dare?

The teaser:

The clockwork chickadee was not as pretty as the nightingale. But she did not mind. She pecked the floor when she was wound, looking for invisible bugs. And when she was not wound, she cocked her head and glared at the sparrow, whom she loathed with every tooth on every gear in her pressed-tin body.

The sparrow could fly.

The story is available in two flavors, written or read aloud. Clarkesworld is offering audio fiction now, and my story kicks that off.

They’ve got a comment thread, so do let them know what you think.

So, I pulled the phone out and started writing. I use the word loosely, you understand. Anyway, if you are interested in being part of my experiment, drop me a line with your cell number and I will periodically text you an installment in “The Case of the White Phoenix Feather.”

I have to warn you that these will be extremely sporadic installments and that all of them will end with a cliff-hanger. I’ll start sending them randomly, next week. You may get one a week, or one a day. I should also warn you that I’m writing with no idea of where this is going.

Here’s the first line.

Without preamble, Virginia leaned across the spotless white tablecloth and smiled. “When I said the ninjas were no match for us, I meant it. Lou will be back with the White Phoenix Feather before the dessert course. Now quit gaping and finish your soup.”

Edited to add: This will be a short story, not a novel. I’m not that crazy.

It’s in a password protected post, but it’s the usual password. Don’t know what that is? Drop me a line and I’ll tell ya.

And here’s the teaser.

Half-consciously, Kim put a hand up to cover her new nose ring. She knew it pissed her parents off no end that she could tolerate cold iron and they couldn’t, not like there was that much iron in a nose ring.

It still made her break out sometimes, but didn’t burn her like it did them. “Kimberly Anne Smith,” Mom’s voice caught her in the foyer as surely as if she’d been called by her true name. “I’ve been worried sick. Do you know what time it is?”

“11:49.” Kim dropped her hand and turned to face Mom, her Doc Martens making a satisfactory clomping sound on the hardwood floor. “I’m here. Home before midnight. No one with me.” Sometimes she thought about bringing friends home to show them what her parents really looked like after their glamour dropped.

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The story is, in turn, playful and charming, well thought out and deliberate, and Kowal appears to have written her own version of an O Henry story.

It works.

O’Henry was really my first love in the world of short stories. Sure, I’d read others and enjoyed them. Really, my first love should have been Ray Bradbury, but I think O’Henry captured me because his stories were deceptively simple. There were no elements of wonder, like Martians or rocket ships, just people living ordinary lives. And then, with one turn of phrase, he could change the entire meaning of everything you’ve read. When people want to write twist endings, what they really want is to write an O. Henry story.

Take a moment and go read “The Skylight Room.”

1. Your account has been suspended.

2. An IM from Neil Clarke asking if I’d like to sell him “Clockwork Chickadee.”

So, while I’m on the phone with technical support, I’m also having a conversation with Neil about the story. See, the funny thing is, that I didn’t submit “Chickadee” to Clarkesworld. I sent it to Fantasy Magazine. Yeah… A week or so back, I had a conversation with Cat Rambo, editor, about how she liked the story but had reservations about anything clockwork, because she’s expecting a deluge of them due to the Shimmer Clockwork Junglebook issue. But she liked the story, so she showed it to Sean Wallace, who then showed it to Neil and they decided to move the story to that venue.

This is, I think, the most roundabout way that I’ve ever seen a story of mine take, but I couldn’t be more delighted. It’s due out in June.

Mary Robinette Kowal’s “Evil Robot Monkey” is an affecting snapshot in the life of a chimp with an implant in his head that increases his intelligence. Unfortunately for him, that lands him in the “hellish limbo” of being “too smart to be with other chimps, but too much of an animal to be with humans.” He becomes the subject of ridicule of children in what is presumably a school where he spends his time behind a pottery wheel. The interesting premise is delicately overlaid with emotion by having a single human show the chimp some compassion, resulting in a quick-and-dirty sf short story that is both charming and memorable.

One of the many perennial arguments in the science fiction blogosphere centers on the health of the short fiction market, so we turned the Mind Meld microphone to people in the field and asked them:

Q: Nobody questions the relevance of genre short fiction, but there is some debate about the health of the market itself. From your perspective, is the short fiction market in trouble? If not, why the debate? If so, what is the cause?

I’m one of the writers they asked to pontificate.

AnthologyBuilder invites you to take a chance on an unfamiliar author. We will discount the cost of your anthology by $1.00 if it includes at least one story written by this month’s featured authors.

That’s right. $1.00 off any anthology that includes a story by one of our featured authors. The discount will be calculated on the payment confirmation screen, right after you’ve entered in your shipping information.

Featured Authors for April 2008
Tobias S. Buckell
Eric Flint
Eugie Foster
Dave Freer
Jim C. Hines
Mary Robinette Kowal
Irene Radford
Cat Rambo
Steven Utley

The literary world is full of energetic new voices. Why not listen to some of them?

Mary Robinette Kowal is better than you.

No, she doesn’t think this. And she’ll kill me for making such a statement. But I stand by the assertion.

She’s the female equivalent of MacGuyver, able to build anything from a paper clip and the remains of a crappy late 90s horror chapbook.

A word of fair warning if you click through. It’s all lies.

Mary Robinette Kowal’s “Evil Robot Monkey,” the shortest piece in this anthology, is a smart tale about monkeys with implants and a cautionary tale of how intelligence can sometimes be very lonely.

My first three sales were to The First Line so I have a very soft spot for them. The magazine has a simple premise. The first line of a story is so important, but if you asked Mark Twain to write a story starting with, “Call me Ishmael,” you would not get Moby Dick. Every story in an issue of the First Line has the same opening line and the stories differ wildly.

So, when the editors contacted me and said that they’d like to use my story, “The Shocking Affair of the Dutch Steamship Friesland,” in their anthology The Best of the First Line I was thrilled. My contributor copy just arrived in the mail. It’s a handsome thing. I’ve just started reading the stories and so far they are good across a wide spectrum of styles.

It’s in a password protected post, but it’s the usual password. Don’t know what that is? Drop me a line and I’ll tell ya.

And here’s the teaser.

The clockwork chickadee was not as pretty as the nightingale. But she did not mind. She pecked the floor when she was wound, looking for invisible bugs. And when she was not wound, she cocked her head and glared at the sparrow, whom she loathed with every tooth on every gear in her pressed-tin body.

The sparrow could fly.

He took no pains to conceal his contempt for those who could not. When his mechanism spun him around and around overhead, he twittered — not even a proper song — to call attention to his flight. Chickadee kept her head down when she could so as not to give him the satisfaction of her notice. It was clear to her that any bird could fly if only they were attached to a string like him. The flight, of which he was so proud, was not even an integral part of his clockwork. A wind-up engine hanging from the chandelier spun him in circles while he merely flapped his wings. Chickadee could do as much. And so she thought until she hatched an idea to show that Sparrow was not so very special.

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