Flash Fiction: My Flame and Collectors

Once again, it’s been a while since I posted some flash fiction! Here are two more pieces written for the Monday Flash Fics Facebook Group. “My Flame” is one of those stories that dropped into my head the moment I looked at the picture. It’s a little creepy, which happens a lot when I write short-form–probably because I don’t have to go back and explain anything. Just serve up a slice of story and let you all decide for yourselves how it happened. The second piece, “Collectors,” returns to the world of Reminders. I like this one a lot and wouldn’t mind continuing this series or eventually writing a longer story set in the same world. One where I actually go back and explain things. 😉 Continue reading

Teaser Tuesday: Uncommon Ground

Uncommon Ground releases in TWO DAYS! (I’m a little excited.) I’ve already seen a couple advance reviews and they’re making me wish I’d written aliens in New York well before now. 😉

Because the World this story is a part of is new, I won’t have sale links until release day. Until then, how about a sneak peak at the first chapter? Continue reading

Five Years!

WordPress just informed me that my blog is five years old today! In honour of my blog’s fifth birthday, I thought I’d share five of my favourite posts.

Ramble: The Weed

This is one of my earliest posts, and one I reread on occasion because it reminds me of the fact that sometimes, it’s the little that make life special.

May 6, 2012

I try to spend at least an hour a day in the garden. It’s good for my daughter and it’s good for me.  I’m sure it’s good for the garden too.  As soon as the spring sun peeps from behind the last winter cloud, I don my sturdy boots and stiff new gloves and set to work pulling out all those weeds I was able to ignore when snow or leaves covered the ground.

When I lived in Texas, I battled with more than weeds. The previous year’s vegetable patch often continued to enjoy success in the form of tomato and cucumber seedlings popping up in the most unexpected places—usually the middle of the lawn. Often, I mused that if we went away for a month, we would return to find a tangle of cucumber vines covering the lawn, robust tomato plants poking up between. Sometimes, instead of plucking them out, I just mowed them down, curious to see if they would shoot back up by the end of the week.  They did.

Continue reading

Celebrating Two Years of Chaos Station

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Chaos Station released two years ago today! Because I miss these guys, I decided to recreate them in The Sims 4 and play out the lives they couldn’t have in the 24th century. No war, no space-faring or military careers, nothing to get in the way of their happiness.  I wasn’t at all surprised by how much fun I had replaying Felix and Zed’s love story. What amazed me was how much like the guys my Sims turned out to be. Sure, I designed them and gave them all the right personality traits. But when left to their own devices, they did things that Felix and Zed probably would have done. It was awesome to watch. Continue reading

Counting Stars

At the end of my holiday novella, Counting Fence Posts, Henry invites Marc back to his parents’ place for Christmas. Actually, it’s less invitation, more assumption, but Marc doesn’t object, and after two days of haunting the lobby of a crowded hotel outside Albany, they’re finally on their way back to Boston. Continue reading

Love Wins Anthology

Because love should always win. ❤

It’s been a tough week for me, and I know I’m not alone in this. Fortunately, I received a little nugget of light today that lifted my spirits. I know the LGBT+ community is facing a tough four years, but now that I’ve had time to mourn and process what happened on Tuesday, I’ve gotten to the point where I just want to turn up the gay.

love-winsAnd what better way to start than by announcing the release date for Dreamspinner Press’s Love Wins Anthology! The collection of short stories with positive and uplifting endings will be released December 12th, and all proceeds will be donated to LGBT organizations in Central Florida.

I’m so happy that I could do something positive and meaningful to show my support for the victims of the Pulse shooting and offer a helping hand to those in desperate need of it. I fear the…

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Flash Fiction: Kissing Cherries and The Song

 

Here are couple more of my contributions to the Monday Flash Fics group on Facebook. These stories and more can be read on my flash fiction Tumblr.

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Kissing Cherries

“Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow…”

Again, I faltered. It was the word congealed. Generally, I enjoyed the fun Shakespeare had with words, but every time I hit this line, I imagined that fuzz you got on your teeth in the morning if you forgot to brush the night before.

“You’re thinking about teeth again, aren’t you?” Ray said.

“I can’t help it! The high Taurus snow part is perfect. I’m thinking white, there. Glacial white. Fresh as a mountain whatever.” I tapped the script. “And then he goes and ruins it with the crow reference.”

“It’s a comparison. It means Helena’s hands are very, very white.”

“Seriously, if you tried a line like that at Becker’s, you’d find six dudes asleep at your feet and one frothing at the mouth.”

“Frothing?”

“Because he’d be insane.”

Grinning, Ray bent toward the floor and tapped at the phone he’d laid there. “Congealed. Take shape, coalesce, especially to form a satisfying whole.” He glanced up. “How does Google’s interpretation work for you?”

I rolled the concept around in my mind a little, disregarding fuzzy teeth and trying for coalescence. A satisfying whole. My gaze strayed toward the floor and I found myself distracted by Ray’s feet. They were pale, as far as feet went. And kinda delicate for a guy’s feet. His toes were long and straight and his nails were clean. The sparse hair across the top and on his big toe stood out darkly, making me think of the crow’s wing comparison. A little smile tugged at one corner of my mouth.

“What?” Ray’s tone bordered on suspicious.

“You always take your shoes off when you come over.”

One shoulder hitched up slightly. “Is it a problem?”

“No, it’s…” I glanced up to find him regarding me with a coded expression. As if my response would decide his response. I’d never seen that look before. I hesitated to call it vulnerable, because Ray didn’t do vulnerable. He wasn’t shy, or reticent. He spoke his mind, and meant it.

“I like it,” I continued. A tiny crease winked into existence between his brows. Otherwise, he didn’t shift one way or the other. He was still waiting. Askingwhy without asking. “It means you’re comfortable here.”

His smile happened then, as sudden and unexpected as sunlight peeking over a mountain top. “Cool.” He wriggled his toes. “Your place is much quieter than mine.” He glanced down at his script, but I could see the color creeping up out of his shirt collar. “What to try again?”

“Hmm?”

Ray tapped the script. “From kissing cherries.” His blush spread a little higher.

I leaned in close. “Nah, I think I’d rather kiss you.”

Line Break

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The Song

Clouds continued to break over the western horizon, giving way to a sky of blue tinged with gold. Every breath of wind was warmer than the last. Soon the sun would warm Karen’s back—but it would not ease the prescient poke that held her spine stiff, her chin high.

It will rain again tomorrow. Sylvia’s whisper floated somewhere between her ears, a tickle against her mind. And even if it doesn’t, I’ll be fine.

What if it doesn’t rain the day after tomorrow? Karen answered. What if it doesn’t rain the day after that?

They’d talked about Sylvia extending her roots into the ocean, but only as a way to pass the time. Both knew the salt water would kill her. Even now, with her roots bound into the shape of the boat that carried them, she risked herself. Instead, she dangled tendrils from her boughs, seeking moisture from the air. Now they stirred in the warming breeze.

Karen turned away from the prow of the small vessel and leaned into the trunk of her tree. She wrapped her arms around the scratchy bark and pressed her cheek into a space above the window, a patch that might have been worn smooth by years of similar embraces.

“I’m afraid,” she murmured.

In answer, Sylvia began to hum. The music pulsed deep within her trunk, beginning in the chamber where she’d carried Karen’s seed, nurturing it until she birthed a spindly-legged child.

The water beneath her hull stirred into a light chop. Overhead, a flock of birds wheeled down out of the parting clouds, their black feathers glistening in the sunlight. The wind strengthened, freshened. A capricious gust reached inside the boat and plucked a paper shape from the floor, tossing it overboard. One by one, Karen’s workings lined up behind the boat like chicks following their mother.

Karen’s throat moved as the song caught her. Her first hum sounded cracked and broken. Then her voice rose above the beat of wavelets bumping the hull, entwined with Sylvia’s deep and resonant murmur, sweetened, rose, and called to the birds circling overhead.

No song could bring land where there was none, or call clouds back together against the sun. But she would continue to sing for Sylvia, because Sylvia sang for her. It was the least she could do—and the most, perhaps—for her mother and her home. For the tree who would sacrifice all she was to save her daughter.

Sylvia might be nothing but an empty shell when they found land. But Karen already carried a new seed inside her. As soon as her feet touched soil, she would send her toes down deep and spread her arms up high. Face pointed toward the sky, she would sing this very song until her face stiffened and her mouth disappeared beneath ridges of crusty bark. Then she would nurture her seed, grow it until she was ready to birth a wobbly new child.

Shading her eyes, Karen looked toward the western horizon. She saw nothing. She turned back to her tree and sang a new verse, one where she birthed more than one seed and taught the song to daughters and sisters and aunts and nieces. Where she became a forest, her song so loud, even the birds carried it.

Overhead, the birds cawed, and in that shrill cry, Karen heard hope.