June 10th, 2010

Green Wind

The Internet is a Terrifying Wish Engine

And 24 hours later, I have an accordion.

rialian  and lyssabard , who are amazing, have granted me a rather fey accordion, black and silver and lovely, which appeared in their house some time ago without warning or reason (seriously) and clearly was sent by the fairies to make a New England writerlady happy.

Not only that, but there are at least eight avid accordion players on my island.

On my single tiny island.

Seven of them? Are an accordion orchestra. One of them? Has a number in her name like a crazy William Gibson heroine.

I feel the rub of destiny here, guys. I've emailed the Gibsonetta and hope that she will give me lessons.

Truly, one way or another, my island contains everything I need, if I just look hard enough.

This will teach me to confess my secret desires to the internet. It seems to me that, as in The Little Prince, the internet will give you what you ask for, if not always in the way you imagined. But you must be a reasonable monarch, and only ask for strange things--after all, the internet is a strange place.
prick

Good News, Everyone!

The Omikuji Anthology is now, at long last, available in a variety of e-formats.

It's on the Kindle, in straight downloadable PDF, and of course, the very beautiful trade paperback
.

When I get my next shipment of copies in, I'll be holding a contest, and stay tuned to see more thoughts on self-publishing in this space. (For those of you who are new here, the Omikuji Project is a crowdfunded art thing that I do--an original short story goes out to subscribers once a month, printed on archival paper and sealed with wax. This anthology is the first two years of stories in one volume, fully illustrated by members of the omikuji_project  community. You cannot read these stories anywhere else.)

For now, here's another sneak excerpt from one of the stories!

from The Consultant:

She walks into my life legs first, a long drink of water in the desert of my thirties. Her shoes are red; her eyes are green. She’s an Italian flag in occupied territory, and I fall for her like Paris. She mixes my metaphors like a martini and serves up my heart tartare. They all do. Every time.

They have to. It’s that kind of story.

The lady in question stands in the corner of my office, lighting the cigarette dictated by tradition with shaking hands.

“You gotta help me, mister,” she says. I’m a miss, but that doesn’t matter. In situations like this, you have to stick to the formula. She’s the damsel in distress, I see that right away. I’m her knight in shining armor, even if that armor is a size eight slingback in Antique Pearl.

“Tell me all your troubles,” I say, and pour her a whiskey, straight. She drinks it, leaves a frosty red lip-print on the glass.

And she takes a deep breath that makes her black dress shift just so. She tells me a man is after her because he wants her heart. He chases her through the dark, through the neon forest of rainy streets. Or she has this brother, see, with a withered arm he carries in a sling, crooked like a bird’s wing. She was supposed to protect him from their father but she just wasn’t strong enough. Or her stepmother can’t stand the sight of her and beats her every night for a dozen sins. Or she’s waited and waited for a child but nothing doing. Or she pricked her finger on a needle when she was sixteen and oh, the things she’s done to keep on pricking. Or she woke up and all her savings accounts were gone, the money turned worthless overnight.


Buy the anthology here!