LGBT Sci-Fi – Andrew Q. Gordon

Expression: Telepaths Rising by Colin D. Vaughn ~ Blog Tour & Excerpt

Colin D. Vaughn has stopped by the Land of Make Believe for a quick chat plus a giveaway to celebrate his new release, Expression: Telepaths Rising. Welcome, Colin!

Exclusive Interview

AQG: Would you visit the future or the past?

CDV: As a writer of science fiction I know I’m probably supposed to pick the future, but I think I would visit the past. Specifically, I’d probably go to the Roman Empire during the Pax Romana. I’ve always had a strong interest in the time period and even studied Classics in high school.

This interest is reflected in my book by the questions that try to wrestle with. What does it mean to be a citizen? What’s good government? What’s it like to live in a world where you feel like anything is possible?

Also, classism and elitism are important themes to my story. What social stratum would a telepathic segment of the population occupy? While it’s easy to imagine them as an elite, and they are to a significant extent in the first book, I also wanted to show an Earth where that’s not universal, accepted or enduring. Even having a significant advantage over others is not necessarily enough to keep one from being relegated to an oppressed class.

Tying that back to history and the Roman Empire, it’s informed my writing with respect to issues of class. It’s allowed me to complicate things in a way that I find more interesting.

AQG: Complicate things how?

CDV: Well, I’d read recently that archaeological finds has changed the way some historians think of slavery and class in the Roman Empire. There seems to be evidence that movement was a lot more fluid and complex than previously believed. A person of that era might reasonably aspire to a full citizenship no matter how “low” their origins. They might have dreamed (however realistically) of a citizenship rooted not in race or pedigree but in the adoption of a way of life. Or, in a darker way, what would society be like in a place where one slave could own another slave?

For me, as a Black American, that’s a far more interesting view of society and oppression than the American experience which was far more rigid. In other words, for my story, if telepaths are oppressed somewhere, how might that look if it wasn’t a formal, legalized system – less America or South Africa and more Roman. What if it was a system based on the vagaries of individual treatment and local mores? And how might individuals act in a world where anything goes and anything is possible, for good or ill?

Colin D. Vaughn has a new queer multi-racial sci fi book out: “Expression: Telepaths Rising.” And there’s a giveaway!

It’s the year 2113. Telepaths are real. They’re exalted. Feared. Hunters. Hunted. Kingmakers and slaves. With his expression, Ken is catapulted into the ranks of a tiny elite. With immense telepathic potential, he will have to learn how to use his powers and whom to trust. And quickly. Because there are enemies, both within and without, and they’re not going to wait.

Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN

Giveaway

Colin is giving away a $20 Amazon gift card with this tour:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47158/?

Excerpt

Tarrington placed his datapad on the table. “This begins the psychic assessment of Kenneth Jared Kawashima. Nigel Tarrington, Authorized Facilitator of the Ministry of Citizen Services and Mauricio Vargas, an Authorized MCS Liaison from the Ministry of Psychic Affairs, presiding. Also in attendance are the subject’s father, Takahiro Kawashima; mother, Claire Alma Reed; and sister of minor age, Stephanie Fusako Kawashima.”

Tarrington turned to me: “Kenneth, pursuant to the Telepath Registration Act, as a suspected telepath you are required to undergo psychic assessment. You may not decline, delay or obstruct this hearing in any way. You may, however, have the presence of counsel at this proceeding. If you do not have one available to attend within 24 hours, one will be provided to you by the Ministry. Please touch the datapad and state whether you request or waive counsel.”

All of this was rather pro forma – I was surrounded by my family and it wasn’t as if a lawyer could stop or save me from this process. Not that I wanted it to stop. I touched the pad. “I waive counsel.”

The datapad chirped: “Identity confirmed. Waiver of counsel acknowledged.”

Tarrington turned to my parents. “Please touch the datapad to confirm that you have no objection to this proceeding, its recordation, or your son’s waiver of counsel.”

My parents touched the pad and it chirped: “Identities confirmed. Acknowledgements confirmed.”

Tarrington smiled, “Well, now that all that fussy business is complete. I will turn things over to Mr. Vargas.”

Vargas smiled at me, and then, clear as a bell in my head, I heard him sing a jaunty tune: I am the very model of a modern major general. I am the very model of a modern major general.

I laughed and asked him, “So you’re a general, eh?”

He smiled: No, more like a lowly foot soldier, little brother. Ask me a question. In your head – look into my eyes and say the words of your question one at a time. Remember, don’t speak.

I looked him straight in the eyes and thought: Where. Are. You. From?

Honduras. Suddenly I could see a wide stretch of forest, leading to deeply forested mountains, their tops veiled in low-lying clouds. Though I knew I was still crouched on the floor of our living room, I cool also feel moist spongy earth under my feet, a cool breeze across my cheek. This is my home. Well, actually, my hometown is the metropolis of Gracias a Dios, but the rainforests on the outskirts are what I think of as “home.”

For a moment, I almost felt like it was my home, too. I, who had only ever left Tennessee for our family’s annual trip to the Japan Territory, almost ached to return and hike those forests. Gracias a Dios. Thank you.

It wasn’t until Vargas smiled and said aloud: “My pleasure” that I realized that I had spoken to him mind-to-mind again, but in a natural, almost instinctual, way.

Was this what it meant to be a telepath? This incredible sharing, this intimacy? I felt as if Vargas – no, Mauricio– was some long-lost friend. Could he sense the same about me? I was just about to ask him for more when Tarrington clapped his hands once and said, “I take it that it was a success? He’s a true expressive?” I came to and looked around. My family was just staring at me. At me and Mauricio.

Mauricio nodded, then reached and touched the datapad: “Confirmed that subject’s telepathic gene has expressed, as verified through the receipt and transmission of audio, visual and tactile stimuli between subject and myself.”

Tarrington said: “Excellent! Now, Ken… I may call you ‘Ken,’ yes? . . . You understand that you will be more fully and properly assessed by the Psych Ministry at a later point?” I nodded. He then continued, “However, for myMinistry’s purposes an initial, somewhat rough assessment is necessary. Mr. Vargas will perform this. I am sorry for any discomfort.”

Mauricio then said aloud: “Ken, I will now force myself onto you” – at my sister’s gasp, he addressed everyone and continued – “in a very safe and controlled way, I assure you all. Though unpleasant, I will not harm Ken, I promise you.” Then turning to me: “Ken, what you must do is push me away. Pretend there’s a door that you’re trying to push closed. Or pretend there’s a pot on a heating unit bubbling over that you need to slam a lid onto. Or think of it however you think right – trust your instincts. OK, here goes.”

Then, before I could even begin to ponder what Mauricio was getting at, I saw his green light brighten and felt him touch me as he did before, but somehow both heavier and louder than before. Where before I felt like I was sharing with Mauricio, walking in his shoes, I now felt like he was walking on me. Instead of beautiful forests, I saw a man wielding a leather strap. The man – Father! – started hitting me over and over with the strap, shouting. It hurt! God, had this really happened to Mauricio? Or was this all part of the test? I couldn’t imagine my own gentle father or mother (however strict) ever acting so. But – ow! – the bastard kept hitting me! And I felt so angry, that he was hitting me, that he might possibly once have beaten my friend this way. I jumped up and yanked the strap from him. I then pushed him and lashed the strap across his face. He started to back away and I lunged after him hitting him again and again with the strap…”

Author Bio

Colin is a Midwesterner by birth who lives in Washington, D.C. with his husband. Lawyer by day and aspiring writer by night (and lunch break). Since discovering Asimov and Tolkien as a child, he’s had a lifelong love of science-fiction and fantasy. And he has enjoyed the explosion of wonderful stories featuring fellow LGBT and people of color.

But the more he read, the more he realized that he had his own tales he wanted to tell. And themes he wanted to explore – power and temptation, social progress, the fall of civilizations, ways to love, futurism, beloved community, and many more.

He very much hopes you enjoy his story!

Where to Find Colin

| Facebook | Amazon |

A Fine Mess by Angel Martinez ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

Please Welcome the amazingly talented Angel Martinez to the Land of Make Believe. This is a real treat. If you’ve never read an Angel Martinez book, you REALLY need to start. A Fine Mess is part of a series so you might want to start at the beginning, but enjoy this guess post to see what you’re missing.

GUEST POST:

Heckle Numerous is an imp who once belonged to a powerful prince of Hell. Now a free imp, he’s finally been learning to read—at a much faster pace than a human would, but it still takes time. A short Heckle fic, by reader request:

Location: Aboard the Brimstone

Time: Directly after The Hunt for Red Fluffy

Sometimes, to practice making the letters sit still, Heckle read books for small human kids. They had short sentences and lots of…space, what Captain Shax called white space on each page. Also, there were pictures, though he was careful only to tell certain people about how he loved the pictures. Some were better than others, but the colors were always bright and cheerful.

He understood by now the thing humans did in stories, where animals stood in for people, especially when the storyteller was making a point. There was a word for that, one he didn’t always remember. It wasn’t narrative distance that the captain sometimes talked about—Heckle had looked up the term and wasn’t sure Captain Shax was using it right. Animorphing? No, that was something else.

Sometimes in the stories, the animals wore clothes, which was cute in, say, Jemima Puddleduck, but in this story’s pictures it just looked silly. They’d painted the cat with a white ruff, not of fur, but the kind that humans wore centuries ago made of starched linen. The rat was wearing a suit that didn’t have any believable way to deal with his tail—Heckle knew firsthand what the human artist had drawn wouldn’t work.

“It’s just pretend,” he reminded himself, going back to the page with the final confrontation and blowing out a slow breath, his hooves kicking against the crate he perched on.

“You all right there, little bit?” Mac called over from where he was working on the next project, whatever it was.

Always something, though. Mac could never sit still for long and his brain was always spinning around the next improvement, the next necessary build. This was a box? A frame for something? Heckle wasn’t sure yet.

“Yeah…it’s…” Heckle shook his head. “Humans are weird sometimes.”

“Humans are weird most of the time.” Mac looked up from bending a piece of metal with his bare hands. “Except Corny. He’s a sensible person.”

“‘Preciate that, Mac,” Corny called over from where he was brushing Rosa.

Heckle nodded, trying to think of a way to explain why the story irritated him. “This Little Red Hen—you know the story, right?” He knew Mac would hear every word even if he’d gone back to work and he waited until Mac nodded. “I get why she’d be angry. She had to do all the work and take care of her kids. Um, chicks. But then she finally has this nice bread and she’s just mean about it.”

Mac frowned, tightening a bolt. “You wanted her to share the bread?”

“Well…no. Maybe if the others had been busy doing something for everybody else too. Like if they all had jobs on the farm. But they didn’t do anything.” Heckle turned the reader over in his hands, trying again. “She shouldn’t have to share. It’s her bread. But if that was me? I’d just have the bread with the kids. I wouldn’t wave it around and make sure everyone knew they weren’t getting any. Even if they were lazy.”

“That’s because—” Mac stopped to lift another beam into place, one as thick around as Heckle’s waist. “You have a kind heart unlike so many characters in human fables.”

“Oh, it’s one of those. I see.”

Fluffy padded over to rest her head on the crate next to Heckle and he pointed out the cat in the ruff to her. “That’s ridiculous, isn’t it? You’d never wear that, would you?”

She turned her head and let out a disgusted sneeze-growl before she flowed up onto the crate and curled around Heckle.

“That’s what I thought.”

“Give it here, sweetheart.” Mac held his hand out for the reader. “Some fables aren’t as bad. Let’s find you a better one.”

He tapped on the screen delicately, his fingers too large for Heckle’s settings, and finally handed the reader back.

The screen showed a cover page with a border of beautiful flowers and the title, The Lion and the Mouse.

Snuggled back against Fluffy, his heart full to the very top with the knowledge that Mac knew him better than he did himself sometimes and that he cared so much even in the little things, like story selections. Warm, understood, loved—Heckle held the screen out so Fluffy could see too and began to read to her.

A Fine Mess - Angel Martinez - Brimstone

Angel Martinez has a new queer space opera comedy out, book seven in her Brimstone series: “A Fine Mess.” And there’s a giveaway!

Beware the demon prince who’s sick and tired of running.

Federico Duomo is dead, to begin with. But this is only the first bit of Shax’s problems resolved. Powerful crime lords and an obscenely wealthy oligarch are still determined to destroy him and his crew, and Fluffy’s original owner may be coming after the Brimstone now, too. It would be splendid to be able to take on one thing at a time.

Adding to the external conflicts, life on board the Brimstone has only grown increasingly stranger. Shax has no idea what to do with the seven partly human children that Heckle rescued from slavers. Heckle himself has grown short-tempered, even with Mac. Someone from Julian’s past catches up to them on Barbary. It’s enough to put a demon off his cinnamon buns.

Shax isn’t panicking, though. In fact he’s had it up to his handsome royal nose with the people he loves having to live in constant fear. The fox has turned at bay and the Brimstone’s enemies are in for a shock. The demon prince of thieves is coming for them.

About the Series:

Due to circumstances completely within his control, Shax, the Demon Prince of Thieves, has fled, er, emigrated from Earth to seek his fortunes out in the galaxy. Who said Science Fiction always has to be serious?

Giveaway

Angel is giving away a $25 Mischief Corner Books Gift Card with this tour. Enter via Rafflecopter:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47134/?

Excerpt

“Captain Cream Puff, Glkix is on the line for you.” Ms. Ivana kept her voice to a throaty purr, probably in deference to the early hour.

While Shax had been expecting the call, he would’ve preferred at least one more cup of coffee beforehand. “Thank you, my dear. Put her through to my comm, please.”

He arranged himself in his desk chair to appear calm and unaffected, coffee mug in one hand for any necessary sardonic or thoughtful sipping. A brief flicker through the relays, and Glkix’s image hovered above the holo plate on his desk. Her blue-black hair swept up and pinned with obsidian, her gray-green face smooth and serene, his mother’s personal assistant was as elegant as ever. Few people would have picked up the tightness around her eyes, and only if they’d known her as long as Shax had. Not good news, then.

“Good morning, highness. Your royal mother sends greetings.”

“Thank you, Glkix. Please convey my filial greetings in return.” Shax’s nerves got the better of him. He sipped. “You have something for me?”

Incomprehensible data flowed across the screen as Glkix typed. “We were able to track her genetic material through registered bloodlines and make discreet inquiries regarding missing stock. Her lineage is well-documented and highly prized among certain demon lords, highness.”

Is this flattery or an explanation of methodology? Sometimes it’s so hard to tell. “Yes? Do you have an answer, or is this just an update on progress?”

Glkix cleared her throat, eyes glued to the data stream. “An answer, highness. Your hellcat belongs to Baphomet, Lord of Beasts.”

Hell’s shiny, pointy gates. Inside, Shax ran in little circles screaming. Outwardly, he sipped. “I see. Does he know I have her?”

“Abject apologies, highness. I’ve little data on that.” Glkix ducked in a strange sort of seated bow. “We know that Lord Baphomet was visiting a forested moon near Opal when the hellcat in question—”

“Fluffy.”

“Pardon, highness?”

Though he knew she’d never approved of his names for his pets, he persisted. “My hellcat’s name is Fluffy.”

Glkix cringed. “Er. Yes. When Fluffy was stolen from her pride.”

“Do we know by whom?”

“No, highness. Not yet.”

Shax drummed his fingers on his mug and forced himself not to sip. Control. Control. “And m’lord of beasts? Where is he now?”

“Hunting, highness. In his ship, Cornuta.” Glkix shook her head. “We are trying to redirect wherever possible, Prince Shax.”

“Understood.” All too well. “Thank you for the information. Mother can’t possibly be paying you enough.”

“I live to serve, highness.” She executed her seated bow again, and Shax cut the connection.

Carefully, he placed his mug on the desk. Pushed back his chair. Bent over his knees and screamed into his hands for a solid forty-five seconds.

Of course, he should have known better. Boots pounded down the corridor almost before he’d stopped, and his door whooshed open. Through his fingers, he spotted Ness in the doorway with his wings mantled in a fierce defensive position and his plasma pistol drawn. Julian, knives out, slid in under Ness’s wing and dove behind the trunk Shax had pulled from the closet earlier.

“Shax? Everything all right?” Ness ventured after a stunned and puzzled silence.

Julian vaulted the trunk to sit on its lid. “We thought something was murdering you.”

“No murders.” Shax sat up and forced himself to draw in a slow breath. “Not yet, at any rate.”

Instead of acknowledging him, Ness turned to Julian. “I don’t think it was an angry scream.”

“Right.” Julian nodded. “No prince-in-a-snit smoke. I’d say frustration, except there was definitely a squeaky note to it.”

“You’re both vastly entertaining and should consider taking this on the road.” Shax scowled at each in turn. “But this is serious.”

Ness flipped and reflipped his wings as he folded them before sitting on the bunk. “Perhaps you could enlighten us, love.”

“Fluffy…” Shax paused as the hellcat in question trotted through the open door to butt her head against him almost hard enough to knock him from his chair. “Yes, you’re a good girl. Who’s the best Fluffums? Ahem. Fluffy was stolen from Baphomet.”

“I’m gathering that’s not good.” Ness let her waving tail run through his hand, careful of the sickle blade on the end, his expression unreadable.

“ISE lists Lord Baphomet as a class IV demon lord. Not of the highest rank, so he’s able to leave Sol system,” Julian offered softly. “Unpredictable, motivations unclear; do not, under any circumstances, engage.”

“While Enforcement and I disagree on many things, that’s a frighteningly apt assessment.” Mug back in hand, Shax took a fortifying sip. “He may be hunting us and, I’ll be honest, this is definitely cause for alarm. Mum and Glkix have apparently been sending him off in various directions, but he will find us at some point.”

The crinkle in Ness’s forehead showed the first sign of real concern. “Is he family? Do you know him well?”

Shax waved a hand at the universe. “All demon lords are family in a sense. I don’t believe we’re directly related, mind you. And Mum would never allow association with the more, ah, nature-oriented demons. Mud and dust and sticks in your hair…”

“That’s a no, then,” Julian drawled. “This may sound absurd to you, our lovely prince, but could you contact him? Let him know what happened?”

A cold iron weight lodged in Shax’s stomach and the backs of his eyes burned as he choked out, “But he’ll want Fluffy back.”

Everyone lunged toward him with huffs and other distressed sounds, and he found himself surrounded by arms and wings, with a huge hellcat head in his lap.

“Shax. I’m so sorry,” Julian whispered. “Please don’t cry.”

“I most certainly am not.” Of course, a hot teardrop chose that moment to splash onto Julian’s hand.

Ness stroked his hair. “We know you love her. But she had a pride once, didn’t she? Maybe a family?”

“Of course.” Shax shook himself and swiped at his eyes. Part of him wanted to collapse against them and howl like a six-year-old demon, but he was the captain, and there was such a thing as dignity. “Of course. And better to inform him than to have him come after us in a rage. I’ll… send the message.”

About the Author

Angel Martinez is the pen name of a writer of several genres who writes both kinds of queer fiction – Science Fiction and Fantasy. (What? There are others?) Currently living part time in the hectic sprawl of northern Delaware, (and full time inside the author’s head) Angel has one husband, one son, at least one cat at any given time, a changing variety of other furred and scaled companions, a love of all things beautiful and a terrible addiction to the consumption of both knowledge and chocolate.

Where to Find the Author

The Stark Divide: by J. Scott Coatsworth ~ Blog Tour and Excerpt

[Andrew’s note: I read this when it first came out. If you haven’t had read it yourself, now is a good time to pick it up]

J. Scott Coatsworth has a new queer sci fi book out book one in the Ariadne Cycle: “The Stark Divide.” This is a re-release.

Some stories are epic.

The Earth is in a state of collapse, with wars breaking out over resources and an environment pushed to the edge by human greed.

Three living generation ships have been built with a combination of genetic mastery, artificial intelligence, technology, and raw materials harvested from the asteroid belt. This is the story of one of them—43 Ariadne, or Forever, as her inhabitants call her—a living world that carries the remaining hopes of humanity, and the three generations of scientists, engineers, and explorers working to colonize her.

From her humble beginnings as a seedling saved from disaster to the start of her journey across the void of space toward a new home for the human race, The Stark Divide tells the tales of the world, the people who made her, and the few who will become something altogether beyond human.

Humankind has just taken its first step toward the stars.

Get It On Amazon

Giveaway

Scott is giving away a $25 Amazon gift card with this tour, and a signed paperback trilogy of the Oberon Cycle (Skythane, Lander and Ithani) – two winners! Enter via Rafflecopter for a chance to win.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d47131/?

Excerpt

“Dressler, schematic,” Colin McAvery, ship’s captain and a third of the crew, called out to the ship-mind.

A three-dimensional image of the ship appeared above the smooth console. Her five living arms, reaching out from her central core, were lit with a golden glow, and the mechanical bits of instrumentation shone in red. In real life, she was almost two hundred meters from tip to tip.

Between those arms stretched her solar wings, a ghostly green film like the sails of the Flying Dutchman.

“You’re a pretty thing,” he said softly. He loved these ships, their delicate beauty as they floated through the starry void.

“Thank you, Captain.” The ship-mind sounded happy with the compliment—his imagination running wild. Minds didn’t have real emotions, though they sometimes approximated them.

He cross-checked the heading to be sure they remained on course to deliver their payload, the man-sized seed that was being dragged on a tether behind the ship. Humanity’s ticket to the stars at a time when life on Earth was getting rapidly worse.

All of space was spread out before him, seen through the clear expanse of plasform set into the ship’s living walls. His own face, trimmed blond hair, and deep brown eyes, stared back at him, superimposed over the vivid starscape.

At thirty, Colin was in the prime of his career. He was a starship captain, and yet sometimes he felt like little more than a bus driver. After this run… well, he’d have to see what other opportunities might be awaiting him. Maybe the doc was right, and this was the start of a whole new chapter for mankind. They might need a guy like him.

The walls of the bridge emitted a faint but healthy golden glow, providing light for his work at the curved mechanical console that filled half the room. He traced out the T-Line to their destination. “Dressler, we’re looking a little wobbly.” Colin frowned. Some irregularity in the course was common—the ship was constantly adjusting its trajectory—but she usually corrected it before he noticed.

“Affirmative, Captain.” The ship-mind’s miniature chosen likeness appeared above the touch board. She was all professional today, dressed in a standard AmSplor uniform, dark hair pulled back in a bun, and about a third life-sized.

The image was nothing more than a projection of the ship-mind, a fairy tale, but Colin appreciated the effort she took to humanize her appearance. Artificial mind or not, he always treated minds with respect.

“There’s a blockage in arm four. I’ve sent out a scout to correct it.”

The Dressler was well into slowdown now, her pre-arrival phase as she bled off her speed, and they expected to reach 43 Ariadne in another fifteen hours.

Pity no one had yet cracked the whole hyperspace thing. Colin chuckled. Asimov would be disappointed. “Dressler, show me Earth, please.”

A small blue dot appeared in the middle of his screen.

“Dressler, three dimensions, a bit larger, please.” The beautiful blue-green world spun before him in all its glory.

Appearances could be deceiving. Even with scrubbers working tirelessly night and day to clean the excess carbon dioxide from the air, the home world was still running dangerously warm.

He watched the image in front of him as the East Coast of the North American Union spun slowly into view. Florida was a sliver of its former self, and where New York City’s lights had once shone, there was now only blue. If it had been night, Fargo, the capital of the Northern States, would have outshone most of the other cities below. The floods that had wiped out many of the world’s coastal cities had also knocked down Earth’s population, which was only now reaching the levels it had seen in the early twenty-first century.

All those new souls had been born into a warm, arid world.

We did it to ourselves. Colin, who had known nothing besides the hot planet he called home, wondered what it had been like those many years before the Heat.

###

Anastasia Anatov leafed through her father, Dimitri’s, old paper journal. She liked to look through it once a day, to see his spidery handwriting and remember what he had been like. It was a bit old and dusty now, but it was one of her most cherished possessions.

She sighed and put it away in a storage nook in her lab.

She left the room and pulled herself gracefully along the runway, the central corridor of the ship, using the metal rungs embedded in the walls. She was much more comfortable in low or zero g than she was in Earth normal, where her tall, lanky form made her feel awkward around others. She was a loner at heart, and the emptiness of space appealed to her.

Her father had designed the Mission-class ships. It was something she rarely spoke of, but she was intensely proud of him. These ships were still imperfect, the combination of a hellishly complicated genetic code and after-the-fact fittings of mechanical parts, like the rungs she used now to move through the weightless environment.

Ana wondered if it hurt when someone drilled into the living tissue to install the mechanics, living quarters, and observation blisters that made the ship habitable. Her father had always maintained that the ship-minds felt no pain.

She wasn’t so sure. Men were often dismissive of the things they didn’t understand.

Either way, she was stuck on the small ship for the duration with two men, neither of whom were interested in her. The captain was gay, and Jackson was married.

Too bad the ship roster hadn’t included another woman or two.

She placed her hand on a hardened sensor callus next to the door valve and the ship obliged, recognizing her. The door spiraled open to show the viewport beyond.

She pulled herself into the room and floated before the wide expanse of transparent plasform, staring out at the seed being hauled behind them.

Nothing else mattered. Whatever she had to do to get this project launched, she would do it. She’d already made some morally questionable choices along the way—including looking the other way when a bundle of cash had changed hands at the Institute.

She was so close now, and she couldn’t let anything get in the way.

Earth was a lost cause. It was only a matter of time before the world imploded. Only the seeds could give mankind a fighting chance to go on.

From the viewport, there was little to see. The seed was a two-meter-long brown ovoid, made of a hard, dark organic material, scarred and pitted by the continual abrasion of the dust that escaped the great sails. So cold out there, but the seed was dormant, unfeeling.

The cold would keep it that way until the time came for its seedling stage.

She’d created three of the seeds with her funding. This one, bound for the asteroid 43 Ariadne, was the first. It was the next step in evolution beyond the Dressler and carried with it the hopes of all humankind.

It also represented ten years of her life and work.

Maybe, just maybe, we’re ready for the next step.

###

The crew’s third and final member, Jackson Hammond, hung upside down in the ship’s hold, grunting as he refit one of the feed pipes that carried the ship’s electronics through the bowels of this weird animal-mechanical hybrid. Although “up” and “down” were slight on a ship where the centrifugal force created a “gravity” only a fraction of what it was on Earth.

As the ship’s engineer, Jackson was responsible for keeping the mechanics functioning—a challenge in a living organism like the Dressler.

With cold, hard metal, one dealt with the occasional metal fatigue, poor workmanship, and at times just ass-backward reality. But the parts didn’t regularly grow or shrink, and it wasn’t always necessary to rejigger the ones that had fit perfectly just the day before. Even after ten years in these things, he still found it a little creepy to be riding inside the belly of the beast. It was too Jonah and the Whale for his taste.

Jackson rubbed the sweat away from his eyes with the back of his arm. As he shaved down the end of a pipe to make it fit more snugly against the small orifice in the ship’s wall, he touched the little silver cross that hung around his neck. It had been a present from his priest, Father Vincenzo, at his son Aaron’s First Communion in the Reformed Catholic Evangelical Church.

The boy was seven years old now, with a shock of red hair and green eyes like his dad, and his mother’s beautiful skin. He’d spent months preparing for his Communion Day, and Jackson remembered fondly the moment when his son had taken the Body and Blood of Christ for the first time, surprise registering on his little face at the strange taste of the wine.

Aaron’s Communion Day had been a high point for Jackson, just a week before his current mission. He was so proud of his two boys. Miss you guys. I’ll be home soon.

Lately he hadn’t been sleeping well, his dreams filled with a dark-haired, blue-eyed vixen. He was happily married. He shouldn’t be having such dreams.

Jackson shook his head. Being locked up in a tin can in space did strange things to a person sometimes. I should be home with Glory and the boys.

One way or another, this mission would be his last.

He’d been recruited as a teen.

###

At thirteen, Jackson had learned the basics of engineering doing black-tech work for the gangs that ran what was left of the Big Apple after the Rise—a warren of interconnected skyrises, linked mostly by boats and ropes and makeshift bridges.

Everything north of Twenty-Third was controlled by the Hex, a black-tech co-op that specialized in bootlegged dreamcasts, including modified versions that catered to some of the more questionable tastes of the North American States. South of Twenty-Third belonged to the Red Badge, a lawless group of technophiles involved in domestic espionage and wetware arts.

Jackson had grown up in the drowned city, abandoned by his mother and forced to rely on his own intelligence and instincts to survive in a rapidly changing world.

He’d found his way to the Red Badge and discovered a talent for ecosystem work, taking over and soon expanding one of the rooftop farms that supplied the drowned city with a subsistence diet. An illegal wetware upgrade let him tap directly into the systems he worked on, seeing the circuits and pathways in his head.

He increased the Badge’s food production fivefold and branched out beyond the nearly tasteless molds and edible fungi that thrived in the warm, humid environment.

It was on one of his rooftop “gardens” that his life had changed one warm summer evening.

He was underneath one of the condenser units that pulled water from the air for irrigation. All of eighteen years old, he was responsible for the food production for the entire Red Badge.

He’d run through the unit’s diagnostics app to no avail. Damned piece of shit couldn’t find a thing wrong.

In the end, it had come down to something purely physical—tightening down a pipe bolt where the condenser interfaced with the irrigation system.

Satisfied with the work, he stood, wiping the sweat off his bare chest, and glared into the setting sun out over the East River. It was more an inland sea now, but the old names still stuck.

There was a faint whirring behind him, and he spun around. A bug drone hovered about a foot away, glistening in the sun. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out to swat it down. Probably from the Hex.

It evaded his grasp, and he felt a sharp pain in his neck.

He went limp, and everything turned black as he tumbled into one of his garden beds.

He awoke in Fargo, recruited by AmSplor to serve in the space agency’s Frontier Station, his life changed irrevocably.

###

A strange sensation brought him back to the present.

His right hand was wet. Startled, he looked down. It was covered with blood.

Dressler, we have a problem, he said through his private affinity-link with the ship-mind.”

About the Author

Scott lives with his husband Mark in a yellow bungalow in Sacramento. He was indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine. He devoured her library, but as he grew up, he wondered where all the people like him were.

He decided that if there weren’t queer characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.

A Rainbow Award winning and runs Queer Sci Fi, QueeRomance Ink, Liminal Fiction, and Other Worlds Ink with Mark, sites that celebrate fiction reflecting queer reality, and is a full member member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA).

Where to Find the Author

New Release Blog Tour — A Fall in Autumn; by Michael G. Williams

Michael G. Williams has a new queer sci fi book out: A Fall in Autumn.

Cover for A Fall In Autumn by Michael G. Williams

WELCOME TO THE LAST OF THE GREAT FLYING CITIES

It’s 9172, YE (Year of the Empire), and the future has forgotten its past.

Soaring miles over the Earth, Autumn, the sole surviving flying city, is filled to the brim with the manifold forms of humankind: from Human Plus “floor models” to the oppressed and disfranchised underclasses doing their dirty work and every imaginable variation between.

Valerius Bakhoum is a washed-up private eye and street hustler scraping by in Autumn. Late on his rent, fetishized and reviled for his imperfect genetics, stuck in the quicksand of his own heritage, Valerius is trying desperately to wrap up his too-short life when a mythical relic of humanity’s fog-shrouded past walks in and hires him to do one last job. What starts out as Valerius just taking a stranger’s money quickly turns into the biggest and most dangerous mystery he’s ever tried to crack – and Valerius is running out of time to solve it.

Now Autumn’s abandoned history – and the monsters and heroes that adorn it – are emerging from the shadows to threaten the few remaining things Valerius holds dear. Can the burned-out detective navigate the labyrinth of lies and maze of blind faith around him to save the City of Autumn from its greatest myth and deadliest threat?

A Fall in Autumn Buy Links

Falstaff Books | Amazon US | Amazon UK | Amazon CAN | Goodreads

Giveaway

Michael is giving away an eBook copy of “Perishables,” book one of The Withrow Chronicles, with this post:

Everybody hates their Homeowner’s Association, and nobody likes a zombie apocalypse. Put the two together, and Withrow Surrett is having a truly craptastic night.

Enter via Rafflecopter:

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Direct Link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/b60e8d4765/?

Excerpt

I figured out a long time ago the biggest freak int he whole show gets two things: spat on and space. I could handle one if it got me the other.

The future has forgotten its past.

This excerpt comes from the second chapter of the book. To set this up, I’ll note that Valerius is a private eye in the far future. In his time, androids are referred to as “golems” and they’re considered to be sort of living saints: they embody the best of a former age, and they tend to wrap themselves in mystery in a way Valerius finds at least a little off-putting.

Valerius has awakened bruised and battered after getting beaten up by his last client. Alejandro – who is a golem – found him after and helped get him on his feet. Valerius then returned home, passed out, and had to hide from his landlady the next morning because he’s perpetually late on his rent.

I let out my breath and sat up, pulled on trousers, and stretched to the sound of a hundred popping joints. Whatever kept the landlady at bay was good enough, even if that meant hiding and holding my breath. I cared far less about paying her rent than where I would get food or smokes—oh wait, I’d quit smoking—or a cup of coffee.

Coffee, I thought. The memory of the stuff was almost enough to wake me. I ran out of Buenos Dias Blend the day before, and I didn’t have a penny to spend on more. I inspected a bottle of Old Indefatigable on top of the filing cabinet. Whiskey in a coffee cup wouldn’t be anything new, and neither would whiskey first thing in the morning, but something about whiskey from a coffee cup first thing in the morning seemed unacceptably perverse.

I lifted the bottle and put my hand on the stopper, but there was a second knock, one much quieter and more reserved. It sounded an awful lot like a customer’s knock: the sort of knock that said they were sorry for bothering me but sorrier for having a problem in the first place, and still not as sorry as they would be to pay. I put the bottle back on the file stand and nudged the button to unlock the door.

Alejandro opened it and stepped inside as quietly as a cat in a bassinet, then closed it behind him with a click the baby would have slept through. Normally, the hinges squeaked and the door took jiggling to get closed. I’d always heard a golem’s senses were way beyond ours, but I had no idea. I blinked and set down my coffee mug, still empty of whiskey or coffee or anything, and nodded. “Well.” I tried not to look surprised. I probably failed. “Okay.”

Whereas it had been dark and dramatic a few days ago, Alejandro’s skin was now an off-white with hints of gray where an egg’s shell might have shades of beige or tan. His hair changed to a deep reddish purple. I had assumed golems were fixed in their appearance, and in that moment, it occurred to me to wonder why I ever assumed that in the first place. No reason they can’t swap things around like any Plus.

Taking in his choices of colors, my mind kicked around words like “eggplant” and “burgundy” before deciding they fell short. The golem’s hair was pulled back and tied into a neat ponytail. It hung so that it hit the middle of his back exactly between where his shoulder blades would have been if he were a living man. He stood maybe two meters tall, maybe taller, easily several centimeters taller than I am, so I had to look up a little to meet his eyes. It had a sobering effect: he seemed instantly superior in the social hierarchy.

I reminded myself everything about a golem is literally by design. If he was tall enough to make most people look up to him, it could only be a deliberate choice, almost certainly meant to convey authority—one I found, ironically, a little off-putting.

Alejandro had good cheekbones, a pair of pale and expressive lips, eyebrows that jutted at a barely noticeable obtuse angle over his eyes, and a prominent Adam’s apple. I thought that was an unusual touch of mimicry for something otherwise obviously constructed. Why bother with the laryngeal prominence if anyone could tell he was made of some kind of cellulose and bioplas? The various design choices taken together suggested ambivalence: maybe a team expressing in their work some internal conflict about how human he should or shouldn’t be, or maybe a Doc Frankenstein somewhere who was never quite at peace with the idea of his or her creation.

My initial over-analysis of his design and execution bothered me in the way I was always bothered by my detective’s reflex of seeing motives behind every detail. But, I also knew a part of what bothered me about him was what bothered me about the idea of golems in general: no one knows who made them or where they came from. All anybody knows is they’re ancient. Sometimes they’re very kind, and sometimes they’re assholes, and sometimes they’re just sort of there, dissociated and distant in a way some people read as snobbery, and regardless of what they’re like socially, absolutely none of them will admit their origins. They’ve been asked plenty of times, of course, and the urban legend goes that once in a while one of them will open up enough to say she or he doesn’t know whence they came. I never liked that answer. It’s the sort of non-answer politicians give when they want to make you feel like they answered your question. It’s a deflection. I hate people who play that sort of game.

The fact Alejandro was drop-dead gorgeous—as walking, talking kewpie dolls go—didn’t help me get over my prejudices. If anything, it made me wary. The most dangerous thing in the world is a good marketing campaign, and he looked like a doozy.

“I hope you don’t mind I’m here.” He murmured it with a small smile that seemed genuinely apologetic rather than the cocky sort of ironic I would have expected from some biological Casanova. “I was concerned about you.”

I arched an eyebrow. Neither of us moved. I stood between the cabinets and my desk, Alejandro right inside the door, maybe five meters away. A little sunlight slid down the slats in the still-closed blinds in my window, and I still stood barefoot in dingy denim trousers and no shirt. “You figured out who I am.” I pointed a thumb at the handset on my desk. “You could have called.” I picked the cup back up.

Perverse or no, I was going to fill it with whiskey.

Partly I love this scene because it’s the moment Alejandro becomes Valerius’ client, which is the engine driving the rest of the book. But partly I love this scene because it’s sort of the last gasp of the old Valerius, before he hears Alejandro’s story, before everything changes for him. It’s the last time we see a version of Valerius that truly believes he’s all washed up and wrung out. He doesn’t think there’s any reason left to try – at anything, really – and that nihilism is eating him alive. I realized as I wrote the book that Valerius hated himself for all sorts of reasons before Alejandro came along, and though this isn’t a romance, it’s certainly a deep and meaningful relationship that develops into a lifeline for Valerius, a way to imagine a future for himself. (And, for various reasons, that’s strongly bittersweet.)

Valerius can be a jerk to people, and meeting Alejandro doesn’t “fix” him, but it does shift his perspective. It creates an opportunity for Valerius to re-learn a little more empathy, and to step back from the edge of the abyss of his own problems and get some perspective on them. Any detective story is ultimately about someone who feels empathy for others, because that’s their secret to figuring out the mystery. But at this point in his life, Valerius’ empathy has kind of dried up. The only way to learn empathy – or to re-learn it – is often to receive it from others, and that happens for Valerius in this book at exactly the time when he needs it most. This story becomes a way for Valerius to feel like he can still make a difference in the world, still have purpose, no matter what else he has weighing on him or how much time he might or might not have left.

What are you working on now, and when can we expect it?

I’ve just signed a deal for 4 more books in the world of A Fall in Autumn and will be writing the sequel over the summer. I can’t wait! I expect the second book, to be titled New Life in Autumn, will be out a year from now.

Later this year I have several other works, already finished and coming out from Falstaff Books:

Nobody Gets Out Alive will be coming out sometime soon, probably over the summer. It’s the fifth and final(-ish) book of The Withrow Chronicles, my suburban vampire series about a guy who became a vampire in the 1940’s and has declared himself the boss of all of North Carolina’s blood-drinkers. The series is a ridiculously fun sequence of genre mashups – vampires and zombies, vampires and superheroes, vampires and spy thrillers, vampires and war, vampires and their witch frienemies – telling a story that gets increasingly complex as Withrow slowly but surely learns the world of the supernatural is much bigger than he thought.

I also have the four-novella San Francisco urban fantasy series, SERVANT/SOVEREIGN. It starts with Through the Doors of Oblivion, and it’s about some of the most evocative moments in San Francisco’s history – such as the 1906 earthquake and fire – and witches and demons and time travel and real estate scams. I’m just exceptionally proud of it, and I get to really focus on the features of San Francisco I most adore, which are not necessarily the parts of the city they try to highlight for tourists. I don’t know exactly when that one is due out, either, but it’s made it through the content edits and the copyeditor and it’s now with the proofreader, so it’s getting close!

And, last but not least, I’ve reached the rights-reversion point on a bunch of short stories I sold years ago so I’m possibly going to reclaim those rights and produce an anthology of short stories and nonfiction essays I’ve written for various venues. That’s a maybe, though. We’ll see.

Thank you so much for having me – I really appreciate your and your readers’ time and attention. I hope you enjoy A Fall in Autumn and I would love to hear from you about it!

Author Bio

Michael G. Williams writes wry horror, urban fantasy, and science fiction: stories of monsters, macabre humor, and subverted expectations. He is the author of three series for Falstaff Books: The Withrow Chronicles, including Perishables (2012 Laine Cunningham Award), Tooth & Nail, Deal with the Devil, Attempted Immortality, and Nobody Gets Out Alive; a new series in The Shadow Council Archives featuring one of San Francisco’s most beloved figures, SERVANT/SOVEREIGN; and the science fiction noir A Fall in Autumn. Michael also writes short stories and contributes to tabletop RPG development. Michael strives to present the humor and humanity at the heart of horror and mystery with stories of outcasts and loners finding their people.

Michael is also an avid podcaster, activist, reader, runner, and gaymer, and is a brother in St. Anthony Hall and Mu Beta Psi. He lives in Durham, NC, with his husband, two cats, two dogs, and more and better friends than he probably deserves.

Guest: J Scott Coatsworth

J. Scott Coatsworth has a new MM Sci Fi book out:

Sometimes the world needs saving twice.

In the sequel to the Rainbow-Award-winning Skythane, Xander and Jameson thought they’d fulfilled their destiny when they brought the worlds of Oberon and Titania back together, but their short-lived moment of triumph is over.

Reunification has thrown the world into chaos. A great storm ravaged Xander’s kingdom of Gaelan, leaving the winged skythane people struggling to survive. Their old enemy, Obercorp, is biding its time, waiting to strike. And to the north, a dangerous new adversary gathers strength, while an unexpected ally awaits them.

In the midst of it all, Xander’s ex Alix returns, and Xander and Jameson discover that their love for each other may have been drug-induced.

Are they truly destined for each other, or is what they feel concocted? And can they face an even greater challenge when their world needs them most?

The Oberon Cycle: Book Two

About the Oberon Cycle:

Xander is a skythane man whose wings have always been a liability on the lander-dominated half world of Oberon.

Jameson is a lander who has been sent to Oberon to find out why the supply of the psycho-amoratic drug pith has dropped off.

What neither knows is that they have a shared destiny that will change the two of them – and all of Oberon – forever.

Dreamspinner – eBook | Dreamspinner – Paperback

Giveaway

Scott is giving away a $25 Amazon gift certificate and three copies of his queer sci fi eBook “The Stark Divide.”

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Excerpt

Xander stared at the torrent of water pouring over the cavern entrance. Somewhere out there, Quince and the others were lost in the storm.

“What happened to everyone else?” Jameson shouted, putting his hand on Xander’s shoulder.

“I don’t know. Last I saw them was before the lightning strike.” How had things changed so quickly?

Jameson started toward the exit. “We have to look for them!”

Xander pulled him back.

Jameson’s eyes were wild.

He squeezed Jameson’s hands, trying to reassure him. “Hey, calm down. There’s nothing we can do right now.”

“We already lost Morgan.” Jameson’s eyes pleaded with him. “I can’t lose the rest of them.”

Xander shook his head. “It’s no use. We’ll never find them in this tempest. They’re seasoned veterans. They can take care of themselves. We’ll go looking after the storm passes.” The loss of Morgan weighed on him too, though he was less and less certain that Morgan had been a human boy at all.

Jameson looked doubtful.

Xander felt it too, but there really was nothing they could do. “Hey, it’s gonna be all right.” He pulled Jameson to him, enfolding the two of them with his wings. Jameson was soaked, but Xander didn’t care.

Jameson nodded against his chest. “You’re right. Gods, I know you’re right. I’m sorry. I thought we were done with all this.”

Xander held him out at arm’s length. “Gods, huh? We’re doing the plural thing now?”

Jameson gave him a half smile. “Trying it out? When in Rome….”

“How’s your hearing?”

Jameson cocked his head. “It’s better. But everything sounds muffled.”

Xander nodded. “I can tell.”

Jameson blushed. “Am I talking too loud?”

“Just a little.”

Jameson smiled sheepishly. “It’s weird. It feels like my ears are full of water.”

Xander kissed him gently. “It’ll pass.” He looked around the cavern at last, his eyes gradually adjusting to the dim blue light.

The place was a faeryland, filled with rows of golden stalactites and stalagmites, like the bulwarks of an eldritch castle. Each one was a miracle of minute detail, like candle wax dripped from above. The whole cavern was lit by a turquoise-blue glow.

Xander looked around for the source. It came from pools of water on either side of the cavern. The scintillating light shimmered along the walls, creating complex, ever-changing patterns.

“Look, Jameson… it’s beautiful.” They were both a muddy mess. “We’re stuck here until the storm blows itself out. Why don’t we get cleaned up and try to rest? Then we can figure out what to do next. We have a long flight to Gaelan.” He was still shivering from the rain.

“A bath sounds like heaven.” Jameson let Xander lead him to one of the glowing ponds.

“Do you think it’s safe to go in?” Xander asked, pulling off his boots and testing the water with his toes. It was warm.

Jameson looked queasy, but then he smiled. “They called them faery ponds. There’s a microscopic organism that makes the light. It’s harmless, but beautiful.” He grinned. “Romantic, even.”

Ah, that’s how you knew this place. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” he said, slowly and clearly, gesturing to indicate Jameson and the cavern. His own generational memories were still fleeting, occasional things.

Jameson’s smile fled. He shrugged. “Not me personally….”

“Shhh. I know.” If he closed his eyes and focused, he could see this place too, but he seemed to be able to block them out when they were inconvenient. “Too many memories.” Xander pointed at his head.

Jameson nodded. He looked relieved. He reached out and pulled Xander close, his hands warm on Xander’s waist.

Xander slipped his arms around Jameson and kissed him once, twice. He wrinkled his nose. “You’re filthy and you stink! So do I.” He held up his shirt as proof. It was covered in mud stains.

Jameson laughed. “We can fix that.”

He helped Jameson unlace the sides of his shirt, pulling it off to reveal the naked skin underneath. Jameson returned the favor, his hands lingering for a moment before withdrawing to pull down his own pants.

They shucked their wet and dirty clothes and descended into the water. It was surprisingly warm, silky and smooth around Xander’s waist.

The pool was about three meters across and sloped down to about a meter deep at the far end. There was a warm, gentle current drifting past Xander’s legs, and the stone beneath his feet had been worn smooth by water and time.

Xander washed the grime off his skin, and it drifted off into the water around him.

Jameson pulled him in deeper and gestured for him to lower his head.

Xander lay in Jameson’s arms, and warm water washed over him, carrying the mud and dirt out of his hair. Jameson massaged his scalp, pulling away the twigs and bits of gunk he’d accumulated on the mad run through the forest in the storm.

Xander’s desire threatened to overwhelm him at Jameson’s gentle touch. He dipped his face into the water and rinsed off. It was so fucking good to get clean.

He shook his head, splashing Jameson, who shot him an aggrieved look.

The look turned into a wicked grin, and Jameson splashed him back. Then they were going after each other and laughing, a fine mist of water flying through the air.

Damn, it’s good to hear you laugh again. Xander grabbed Jameson and kissed him, harder this time, and Jameson’s body responded. They fell back into the water, and Jameson was hard against him, his own need naked before Xander’s desire.

After all that had happened, Xander needed to feel human and alive again. He tugged Jameson back to the shallow part of the pool and pulled his skythane down on top of him, Jameson’s skin warm against his own.

He kissed Jameson’s neck and nibbled on his ear, eliciting a low moan.

Jameson wanted this as much as he did. He could tell.

For a long, slow, ecstatic hour, Xander forgot all about the storm.

Author Bio

Scott lives between the here and now and the what could be. Indoctrinated into fantasy and sci fi by his mother at the tender age of nine, he devoured her library. But as he grew up, he wondered where the people like him were.

He decided it was time to create the kinds of stories he couldn’t find at Waldenbooks. If there weren’t gay characters in his favorite genres, he would remake them to his own ends.

His friends say Scott’s brain works a little differently – he sees relationships between things that others miss, and gets more done in a day than most folks manage in a week. He seeks to transform traditional sci fi, fantasy, and contemporary worlds into something unexpected.

He runs Queer Sci Fi and QueeRomance Ink with his husband Mark, sites that bring queer people together to promote and celebrate fiction that reflects their own reality.

Author Website: https://www.jscottcoatsworth.com

Author Facebook (Personal): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworth

Author Facebook (Author Page): https://www.facebook.com/jscottcoatsworthauthor/

Author Twitter: https://www.twitter.com/jscoatsworth

Author Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8392709.J_Scott_Coatsworth

Author QueeRomance Ink: https://www.queeromanceink.com/mbm-book-author/j-scott-coatsworth/

Author Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/J.-Scott-Coatsworth/e/B011AFO4OQ

Flight Blog Tour: How To Write Contest-Winning Flash Fiction – by Aidee Ladnier

flight-full-cover

This is a first for the blog – a judge from a writing contest. Aides Ladnier is here today to talk about how to write contest-winning flash fiction. And she would know a thing or two about this as her story came in 3rd out of 117 stories in Queer Sci-fi’s 2015 flash fiction contest. So please welcome Aidee and then go find out more about the book. The proceeds go to support the Queer Sci-fi site and help give a voice to LGBTQA authors.

How to Write Contest Winning Flash Fiction; by Aidee Ladnier

aideeladnier To my great delight, one of the prizes for placing third in the QSF 2^nd Annual Flash Fiction Contest was a chance to judge the entries for the 3^rd Annual Flash Fiction Contest. It was tons of fun reading all the entries and took more time than I would have thought, since each of the stories were only 300 words.

Make no mistake—writing a 300-word piece of flash fiction is as much an art as writing a 300-page novel. When you have word restrictions, your writing tends to be more spare. Your concepts become visceral and simple, akin to basic necessities. I love the challenge of flash fiction. I’ve written stories ranging from 1500 words to 200. And I have to admit, it can be frustrating trying to fit a complex story idea into a tiny tale. But good flash fiction reaches right to the heart of the matter, succinctly and with a fist clutching at your throat. A lot of writers think that flash fiction is just a snippet or a scene. Sure, you can fit that into a small word count and it might be relevant. This is easy to do when you’re writing about characters that already exist in a longer piece. But really good flash fiction stands on its own as a whole story, complete in itself. All the elements of a longer novel are in flash fiction: genre, setting, characterization, dialogue, theme—it’s just compacted down into a bit-sized shock of prose.

So I’ve compiled a list of tips in case you’d like to write some of your own contest-winning flash fiction:

You need a rock solid beginning. A beginning has to establish a sympathetic character, setting, and conflict. This should all take place in the first paragraph or paragraphs.
Characters must be passionate about something. Often, my best stories present an object or idea that my character wants in the first few lines only to reveal later in the story what they truly, passionately need.
All stories short or long must have conflict. Something very real must stand in your character’s way. It is easiest to choose something concrete that the character has to face but existential crisis is also effective.
Your conflict should get worse.Just like in a novel, you have to raise the stakes in a flash fiction story. Due to the short nature of the form, raising the stakes in flash fiction can be encapsulated in just one sentence or one paragraph. Readers want characters to earn their ending.
In order to be memorable, include a reverse that takes your reader’s breath away. My flash fiction is often based on the same structure as a joke–Setup then Punchline. The beginning and middle of the story is the setup, but then a twist occurs, giving the ending a punch. The ending will show the reader that what they perceived in the first part was either erroneous or did not explain fully the environment of the story.

And most importantly—trust your audience. I took a class with Holly Lisle (a world-class flash fiction writer) who emphasized that in all good reading experiences, there is a bond between the reader and the writer. This is especially true of flash fiction. There are so few words in this type of fiction that it is essential to cut out every extraneous piece of narration, pare down characterization to the nub, and only hint at the theme of your story. You, the author, must know and trust your reader to remember the details from earlier in the story, realize what your story is saying, and understand the meaning behind the ending of the story.

So there you have it. You now have the tools to write a great story in just a few words. I hope you’ll enter it in the 4^th Annual Flash Fiction Contest!

Blurb:

front-cover A 300-word story should be easy, right? Many of our entrants say it’s the hardest thing they’ve ever written.

Queer Sci Fi’s Annual Flash Fiction Contest challenges authors to write a complete LGBTQ speculative fiction micro-story on a specific theme. “Flight” leaves much for the authors to interpret—winged creatures, flight and space vehicles, or fleeing from dire circumstances.

Some astonishing stories were submitted—from horrific, bloodcurdling pieces to sweet, contemplative ones—and all LGBTQ speculative fiction. The stories in this anthology include AI’s and angels, winged lions and wayward aliens. Smart, snappy slice of life pieces written for entertainment or for social commentary. Join us for brief and often surprising trips into 110 speculative fiction authors’ minds.

Publisher: Mischief Corner Books

Author: Various

Cover & Illustrations Artist: Mila May

Release Date: General release 9/21/16

Price: $4.99 eBook, $12.99 print b/w*, TBD print color*

*Book contains 5 illustrations inside.

Excerpt:

Smoke, by Zev de Valera

teaser5 He rubbed his temples and squinted at the soft light of his surroundings through the fans of his thick eyelashes. The last drink had been a mistake.

Was that a shaker he’d felt, or the onset of a hangover?

He clutched a silken pillow and waited.

Suddenly, he felt his home tremble; a few pieces of glass

and ceramic ware teetered and then fell to their demise.

Shit. This is the real thing.

With an effort, he hauled himself from his bed.

How many years had it been since the last one?

Sixty? Seventy?

The shaking ceased, and he looked around his small dwelling. A model unit when he’d purchased it. Now filled with the result of years of collecting: a gramophone, a first generation television set, a water clock. And much more. All of it all had sentimental value—as did the photos of the various men that sat atop or alongside the items in his collection. Some of these men had loved him. All of them had once owned him. Now he owned their memories. That was the bargain.

Another shake. Followed by several unnerving tilts. He willed his cherished possessions to remain in place and willed himself into sobriety and a more becoming appearance as he prepared himself for work.

What to wear?

He selected a red brocade tunic and pants. A classic look always worked best for the initial consultation.

A resounding thud.

He peered up into the small shaftway at the center of the ceiling.

A pop.

Then a small circle of light at the end of the shaft.

He sighed, folded his arms, and transformed into a cloud of red smoke.

Up and away to meet his new master.

Judge’s Choice — J. Scott Coatsworth

Buy Links Etc:

Publisher (info only, no buy link yet): https://www.pride-publishing.com/book/the-pill-bugs-of-time

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01L0R0JRK

Apple: Coming soon

ARe: https://www.allromanceebooks.com/product-flightqueerscifisthirdannualflashfictioncontest-2091592-341.html

Barnes & Noble: Coming soon

Kobo: https://store.kobobooks.com/en-us/ebook/flight-49

Smashwords: Coming soon

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/31686600-flight

Goodreads Series Page: https://www.goodreads.com/series/187509-qsf-flash-fiction

Author Bio:

In the first year of the Queer Sci Fi Flash Fiction contest, we received about 15 entries for the theme “Endings”. In the second year, it was 115 for “Discovery”.

This year, we had more than 170 entries from people around the world, and from all parts of the LGBTIQA rainbow. “Flight” represents 110 of those people and their stories.