it's a great life, if you don't weaken (matociquala) wrote,
it's a great life, if you don't weaken
matociquala

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It provides the author with an intriguing narrative and a satisfying climax, or it gets the hose.

Okay. I have here before me eight unfinished short stories, two unfinished novelettes, one unfinished novella, an unfinished novel, an unfinished novel rewrite, and another unfinished novel, and yet one more unfinished novel.

The goal is to have 1-5 of these finished by the end of the year, and #6 kicked into a proposal. #7 is on its own reconnaisance.

This tells me it's...

EIGHT SHORT STORIES:



"1796"

Mrs. John Adams looked to her sewing.



"On Safari in R'lyeh and Carcosa with Gun and Camera"

We wouldn't be having this problem if you'd flunked Algebra.



"Dark on Wednesdays"

The Tower beside the gold-glass ziggurat rose through a veil of transplanted tropical jungle plants, complete with richly scented orchids in concealed pots, to scrape a desert sky burned almost colorless by the Nevada sun.



"Orm the Beautiful"


Orm the Beautiful would never die. But neither would he live much longer. Dreaming on jewels, hearing their ancestor-song, he did not think that he would mind.



"Black is the Color"


Along the north bank of the River Clyde, the oblong cobbles were glazed with sunrise light. The thump of music from a barge-turned nightclub had ended hours earlier. There was left only silence and the morning chill.

And a white stallion's hunger.



"The Death of Terrestrial Radio"


The first word was meant to be spoken quietly, if it should ever be spoken at all. A dribble of signal. An echo. A ghost. A coded trickle, something some PC running SETI-at-home would pick out of the background noise, flag, and return silently, the machine's owner innocent of his role in making history.

What we
got was as subtle as a solid whack across the nose with a cricket bat. We couldn't believe it at first, but there it was, cluttering up our airwaves with static ghosts, our own voices--ham radio, broadcast television, coded signals from the Cold War--spoken back to us.

I was there.



"The Venom Cock"

Katie saw him first. The next-best thing to naked, in cutoff camouflage pants and high-top basketball sneakers and nothing else, except the thick black labyrinth of neo-tribal ink that covered his pale skin from collarbones to ankle-bones. He shone like piano keys, glossy-sleek with sweat in a sultry September afternoon.

(I'm writing this one special for Gordon and slushgod. I will get giant girl cooties all over them.)



"War Stories"

No shit, there I was.

Belly down in the pile of rubble that used to be 100 Constitution Plaza, rifle fire skipping over my head, and a broken piece of rock gouging into my groin just down and to the left of my body armor. My neck was trying to crawl up into my helmet like a turtle jamming itself into its shell.



TWO NOVELETTES AND A NOVELLA
 
"Paddareen"

The dead man sat in a wing-backed chair before a cold fireplace. His rooms were dark and still.

&

"Chatoyant"

"Chatoyant. Said of a mineral's luster: 'containing numerous hair-like inclusions aligned to produce 'catseye' figure in reflected light.'"

&

"Les Innocents"


On a fine May morning in 1903, Abigail Irene Garrett boarded an airship bound from New Amsterdam to Paris. It was an act of naked treason.



A NEW NOVEL

 
Undertow, my current problem child.


The morning after he killed Eugene Shapiro, André Deschênes woke early.



A NOVEL REVISION


All the Windwracked Stars gets a couple of paragraphs, because I am enamored of it.



He was born white, until she burned him.

But that wasn't what happened first. Not in the beginning.

In the beginning was the end of the world.

#


There was snow at the end of the world, and Kasimir was dying in it. His wings were broken, dragging from his shoulders like defeated banners, disordered white feathers hauling crimson streaks through the snow that would not stop falling. The wings were the worst pain, each step grinding bone-shards through savaged muscle and lacing his withers with acid ribbons.



A NEW NOVEL


Dust


At the sound of footsteps, Roger backed into the shadows of the portrait hall, wringing a rag of soft leather between his hands.



AND ANOTHER NEW NOVEL


Patience & Fortitude


There was a werewolf on the landing..





I warned you I would not give in! I won't be swayed!

Another hour yet, and then I'm yours, and all our debts are paid.
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