Bite-Sized Pieces
Below are a few fragments -- appetizers if you will -- of longer pieces that have appeared in previous publications, or just ones I've been hoarding until the right venue comes along.
Next Episode At my book's website (nextepisode.ca) you'll find multiple excerpts from chapters. Get to know the team!
Spark Originally published in Lorelei Signal e-zine, Jan-Mar issue, 2012.
I don’t have long – I can feel it. Ten years is too many to hope for. One year? Surely more than that.
‘Long’ is relative, I suppose. But I know I’m looking back at more than I can look forward to. What’s more worrying is that some days I can’t seem to care.
I can feel it, though, in the dull weight of my limbs and the aching of my joints. I can feel myself slowing. Mind, body, reaction, emotion – all of it sloughing off, dragging behind me like tangled, tired iron chain.
My colleagues haven’t noticed. They think I’ll live forever. I remember once smiling at the thought, proud and reckless. The day they realize I won’t, the day I see pity in their eyes, is the day I’m done. I’d find a way. I’d rather be dust than be crippled, crushed beneath this slow press.
Two years? More than that, maybe. I push the thought to the back of my mind as I squint against the blazing sun. The rookies are always surprised when I can walk in daylight. It makes me uncomfortable, and frankly on a day like today I would’ve preferred to stay indoors, but duty calls.
The day is young enough the heat has yet to reach its full potential, but already I can taste the humidity, feel it under my skin. The precinct is no relief. It’s bright and stifling even at this hour. The ancient fans perched on filing cabinets don’t do much except add to the noise and disturb piles of paper.
Sounds like a nice day chasing wrong-doers is just what somebody needs... read the rest here.
Genre-alizations Originally appeared online in Word: Canada's Magazine for Readers + Writers, September 2006.
As so often happens, the epiphany came while I was standing in a very long line.
On a hot day last summer, I was one of a hundreds of people waiting to get into Toronto's Comic, Science Fiction, Horror, Anime and Gaming Expo. A tourist family turned a corner, gaped at us, asked what the line was for, then hustled their children away. I realized it that it was a real-life illustration of the genre writers' dilemma. Call it the flee the strange people response.
It's the costumes. It's always the costumes.
That day in Toronto, costumes were everywhere: faux fur and foam rubber as far as the eye could see. Star Wars next to Sailor Moon beside Goth zombies and Trekkers. The writers' predicament isn't quite as conspicuous. Whether we call our field science fiction or fantasy, sf/f, speculative fiction or any of the other labels that have emerged in recent years, it's a tough market. There are several reasons for this, and they tangle together into formidable stumbling blocks for writers, particularly for those just beginning their careers.
The first barrier is the widespread public belief that the field is made up entirely of socially inept outcasts. Movies, comedy and teen culture have so consistently associated the mental images of 'freaks and geeks' and the sf/f world that the stereotype is accepted as truth. This persists despite the global success of the Lord of the Rings movies and the resurgence of comic book heroes that is gradually eroding the border between fantasy and mainstream cultures. Introducing oneself as an sf/f writer is still generally received with about as much enthusiasm as an infectious disease...
I'm pleased to report that I wouldn't write this same article now... to read the full original, click here.
Nature Red Originally appeared in Dark Recesses e-zine, January 2006.
“This will hurt a little.”
Under the bright light, a row of teeth gleamed. The needle slid easily between them.
“Try not to move, and it’ll all be over soon. The last one freaked out, flailed all over the place like a, I don’t know, an epileptic octopus. She caught me just here, look, broke the skin and everything. That was not a good day, let me tell you. But you’re quiet enough. Hardly a peep out of you, is there? Just a little mouse. The last one shrieked like a banshee, thought she’d wake the dead. Isn’t that what a banshee does? Or is it warn the dead? Not the dead, but the people who are going to be dead. Doesn’t matter. Obviously it didn’t work.”
The needle was set aside. A scalpel flashed silver as it moved through the fluorescent glare. The woman in the chair whimpered when she saw it.
“Oh, you were doing so well.” The disappointment was audible. “I told you it’d be over soon. You know, I can put up with a lot – and let me tell you, I do – but I can’t stand that little sound, that little scared puppy sound. I had a puppy once when I was a kid, made that exact sound.” A sigh moved the air. “Let’s not talk about that.
“I don’t suppose you read poetry?”
Don't worry, the police are on the way... but will they do any good? To read the rest, click here.
Happy Hour (written in 2005, but appeared here in 2012; with grateful but somewhat apologetic thanks to my English teacher friends around the world)
"I mean, take Dracula, for example," Vicki said.
"Oh, God…"
"Not again."
"Do we have to?"
"I'm serious!" Vicki protested.
"So're we!" Dennis retorted. "You always use Dracula as an example. It doesn't work for everything, you know."
“I know, but it does seem applicable to many of the conversations we have here. That's not my fault. I didn't even start this topic – Gary's the one who brought it up."
"Ha! Brought it up." Lisa giggled into her beer.
Adam rolled his eyes. "Let's not get into that again. There's no way my innocent mind can compete with all of you in
the double entendre game."
"You won last time," Gary recalled.
"That's right. And now I'm spent."
Amid the jeers, Vicki sighed. "Could we get back on topic, please?"
"But of course, Madam Van Helsing. All I'd said was –" Gary began.
"Please," Jan said, "we all know what you said. We're not deaf. A little drunk maybe, but not deaf."
"A little drunk!" Lisa cried happily, raising her beer. Everyone echoed her words, the glasses scraping together.
"Anyway," Jan went on, "we always end up talking about the same thing. Sex."
"Sex!" Lisa cried, raising her glass again, but Gary lowered her arm back to the table. She frowned fuzzily at him.
"You guys always have the most interesting conversations," said a voice from above. "Can I take some of these glasses for you?"
For tipsy hijinks and the ongoing saga of literature versus linguistic theory, read the rest here...
Next Episode At my book's website (nextepisode.ca) you'll find multiple excerpts from chapters. Get to know the team!
Spark Originally published in Lorelei Signal e-zine, Jan-Mar issue, 2012.
I don’t have long – I can feel it. Ten years is too many to hope for. One year? Surely more than that.
‘Long’ is relative, I suppose. But I know I’m looking back at more than I can look forward to. What’s more worrying is that some days I can’t seem to care.
I can feel it, though, in the dull weight of my limbs and the aching of my joints. I can feel myself slowing. Mind, body, reaction, emotion – all of it sloughing off, dragging behind me like tangled, tired iron chain.
My colleagues haven’t noticed. They think I’ll live forever. I remember once smiling at the thought, proud and reckless. The day they realize I won’t, the day I see pity in their eyes, is the day I’m done. I’d find a way. I’d rather be dust than be crippled, crushed beneath this slow press.
Two years? More than that, maybe. I push the thought to the back of my mind as I squint against the blazing sun. The rookies are always surprised when I can walk in daylight. It makes me uncomfortable, and frankly on a day like today I would’ve preferred to stay indoors, but duty calls.
The day is young enough the heat has yet to reach its full potential, but already I can taste the humidity, feel it under my skin. The precinct is no relief. It’s bright and stifling even at this hour. The ancient fans perched on filing cabinets don’t do much except add to the noise and disturb piles of paper.
Sounds like a nice day chasing wrong-doers is just what somebody needs... read the rest here.
Genre-alizations Originally appeared online in Word: Canada's Magazine for Readers + Writers, September 2006.
As so often happens, the epiphany came while I was standing in a very long line.
On a hot day last summer, I was one of a hundreds of people waiting to get into Toronto's Comic, Science Fiction, Horror, Anime and Gaming Expo. A tourist family turned a corner, gaped at us, asked what the line was for, then hustled their children away. I realized it that it was a real-life illustration of the genre writers' dilemma. Call it the flee the strange people response.
It's the costumes. It's always the costumes.
That day in Toronto, costumes were everywhere: faux fur and foam rubber as far as the eye could see. Star Wars next to Sailor Moon beside Goth zombies and Trekkers. The writers' predicament isn't quite as conspicuous. Whether we call our field science fiction or fantasy, sf/f, speculative fiction or any of the other labels that have emerged in recent years, it's a tough market. There are several reasons for this, and they tangle together into formidable stumbling blocks for writers, particularly for those just beginning their careers.
The first barrier is the widespread public belief that the field is made up entirely of socially inept outcasts. Movies, comedy and teen culture have so consistently associated the mental images of 'freaks and geeks' and the sf/f world that the stereotype is accepted as truth. This persists despite the global success of the Lord of the Rings movies and the resurgence of comic book heroes that is gradually eroding the border between fantasy and mainstream cultures. Introducing oneself as an sf/f writer is still generally received with about as much enthusiasm as an infectious disease...
I'm pleased to report that I wouldn't write this same article now... to read the full original, click here.
Nature Red Originally appeared in Dark Recesses e-zine, January 2006.
“This will hurt a little.”
Under the bright light, a row of teeth gleamed. The needle slid easily between them.
“Try not to move, and it’ll all be over soon. The last one freaked out, flailed all over the place like a, I don’t know, an epileptic octopus. She caught me just here, look, broke the skin and everything. That was not a good day, let me tell you. But you’re quiet enough. Hardly a peep out of you, is there? Just a little mouse. The last one shrieked like a banshee, thought she’d wake the dead. Isn’t that what a banshee does? Or is it warn the dead? Not the dead, but the people who are going to be dead. Doesn’t matter. Obviously it didn’t work.”
The needle was set aside. A scalpel flashed silver as it moved through the fluorescent glare. The woman in the chair whimpered when she saw it.
“Oh, you were doing so well.” The disappointment was audible. “I told you it’d be over soon. You know, I can put up with a lot – and let me tell you, I do – but I can’t stand that little sound, that little scared puppy sound. I had a puppy once when I was a kid, made that exact sound.” A sigh moved the air. “Let’s not talk about that.
“I don’t suppose you read poetry?”
Don't worry, the police are on the way... but will they do any good? To read the rest, click here.
Happy Hour (written in 2005, but appeared here in 2012; with grateful but somewhat apologetic thanks to my English teacher friends around the world)
"I mean, take Dracula, for example," Vicki said.
"Oh, God…"
"Not again."
"Do we have to?"
"I'm serious!" Vicki protested.
"So're we!" Dennis retorted. "You always use Dracula as an example. It doesn't work for everything, you know."
“I know, but it does seem applicable to many of the conversations we have here. That's not my fault. I didn't even start this topic – Gary's the one who brought it up."
"Ha! Brought it up." Lisa giggled into her beer.
Adam rolled his eyes. "Let's not get into that again. There's no way my innocent mind can compete with all of you in
the double entendre game."
"You won last time," Gary recalled.
"That's right. And now I'm spent."
Amid the jeers, Vicki sighed. "Could we get back on topic, please?"
"But of course, Madam Van Helsing. All I'd said was –" Gary began.
"Please," Jan said, "we all know what you said. We're not deaf. A little drunk maybe, but not deaf."
"A little drunk!" Lisa cried happily, raising her beer. Everyone echoed her words, the glasses scraping together.
"Anyway," Jan went on, "we always end up talking about the same thing. Sex."
"Sex!" Lisa cried, raising her glass again, but Gary lowered her arm back to the table. She frowned fuzzily at him.
"You guys always have the most interesting conversations," said a voice from above. "Can I take some of these glasses for you?"
For tipsy hijinks and the ongoing saga of literature versus linguistic theory, read the rest here...
