Sale: “Call Center Blues” (Reprint) to Luna Station Quarterly

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The contract is signed, so I can announce that one of my recent sales was to Luna Station Quarterly. “Call Center Blues” was originally published by Daily Science Fiction, back in 2011, and Luna Station Quarterly is the first to reprint it. With their mission to “display the vast and varied talents of female speculative fiction writers”, I think they’re the best home for this story.

“Call Center Blues” will appear in the September 2016 issue of LSQ. I will post links once I have them, and I hope you’ll support the magazine by reading the story there, even if it isn’t your first time.

#Sfwapro

Why Are You Listening to Me? (Another poem by a white person you shouldn’t bother to read)

Why Are You Listening to Me?

Nothing I can say will carry the weight
Of dead and dying and broken and bloody and forgotten
Victims of a system that sees them not
And a public that sees them only for a moment
As a hashtag, as a name on a protest sign
As a mugshot thrown up by media who sells the image
Of a deserving victim, somehow, instead of father
Mother, soldier, sibling, student, angel child

Nothing I can say will lessen the weight
Of anxious tears spilling down the cheeks
Of yesterday’s mother or wife, bearing rushed witness
Desperate for her loss to be heard and felt
In 60 second clips, on the top of every hour
For a day, at most, until another mourner is queued up
An endless cycle of news and blood: wash, rinse, and repeat

Nothing I can say will cast off the weight
Of utter certainty that tomorrow’s headlines
Will be the same as yesterday’s and today’s
Where only the names are changed
And no one’s innocence is protected
And every death is justified

Nothing I can say will transform the weight
Carried by those whose black and brown bodies
Are burdened by the hundred million ways
They are judged, thwarted, held down, beaten, and murdered
For living in a world which centers my whiteness
Every time I open my mouth to speak

So don’t.
Don’t forget them.
Don’t settle for a mug shot.
Don’t limit their grief to a moment.
Don’t let the days and deaths all blend together.
Don’t listen first or most to those white voices you find familiar.
Find the words, screams, pain, and hurt of those affected, and let them speak to you, instead.

Listen to them.

New Collection/Fundraiser Update: An Excerpt from “The Night Hours”

Right now, my fundraiser is at $805 out of $1500, with a goal of publishing a collection of five stories (two reprints, and three originals). With every $300 reached, I officially add another work to the book, so right now, the two reprints are definitely going to be packaged together for everyone who contributed. At $900, I’ll add in a brand new story, “The Night Hours”.

The first two stories include my science fiction tendencies: a tale of robots fighting ghouls after the world has died, and another where the worst of Miskatonic’s dark knowledge finds new life online. “The Night Hours” is different: heavily influenced by pulp detective stories, it follows a Filipino man living in a creepy little coastal town, in Massachusetts, in the 1930s, whose girlfriend has gone missing. He’ll have to risk his life to save her… probably.

If he decides to. It sort of depends on the day.

It was about eleven o’clock at night, mid-October, and Epifanio was supposed to be washing dishes in the back of the steam-filled kitchen. He was wearing a dull (but mostly white) buttoned shirt, with his sleeves rolled up, and a stained apron that belonged to the joint. The shirt was his, along with the black pants and scuffed but comfortable black shoes, but resented that he was required to wear them, and grouched about it, often. He leaned against the doorway, not quite in the bar, and not quite in or out of the kitchen, either. It was a neutral space, that square foot of in-between, where he could claim to be doing other than what he was: watching Willie Green blow the roof off the place with his horn.

“Hey, Chinaman,” the bartender growled. “Stop ogling the skirts, and get back to work.”

Epifanio wasn’t Chinese, or ogling, but didn’t argue the point. Mickey, the barrel-shaped Irishman who ran the place, hired him because he couldn’t tell the “Orientals” apart. So there were some things Epifanio knew to be wrong but didn’t say. Truth is, there were a lot of things like that.

The kitchen was a square, squat, low-ceilinged room with no windows, but it had three entrances. The single maroon door, with the round porthole, Bob let swing shut behind him as he left the bar. The black double doors led into the restaurant, where round, red, lacquered tables and pretty girls in embroidered satin gave the impression that this was where traditional Chinese cuisine was happening. Except it was New England, and Epifanio had never seen that particular blend of tables, patterns, and ink-wash paintings in any kitchen he’d been in before. But he’d never been to China, so what did he know?

Mickey didn’t let colors mix in his dining room. Chances were pretty good that no one eating the roast duck and pan-fried rice knew it wasn’t authentic. Or maybe it was now, a new traditional, a true Innsmouth dining experience, the kind we’d all be getting used to soon enough.

That last door, a scratched steel slab, was all that stood between Epifanio and freedom at the end of the night. It was the service entrance, which Mickey like to call the “servants” entrance, because the staff wasn’t allowed in any other way. Oh, sometimes, one girl or another would get the privilege of walking in through the front door for a few weeks, but we knew the price they paid. All through the evening, the sound of loud voices and clanking silverware burst into the kitchen at regular intervals as the waitresses glided through to pick up their orders, and then back out into the fray. Later, the diners would fade away, and the bar would pick up their slack. On a good night the sound of jazz would leak through under the other door, making our last hour of clean up not quite so bad.

If we stayed late enough, sometimes old Chen dealt cards and we cooked dinner for ourselves, the way our mothers would have, then all of those other sounds faded away, and the only thing creeping in was the pernicious Innsmouth fog, that stuck its fat fingers under doors and slithered in on its belly. Not even the steel could keep it out.

I’m running out of time to pay off what I owe so I can register for Fall, so please, if you can contribute today. I can take contributions via PayPal here (Anything sent this way is still eligible for the same rewards, and I add it to the total at GoFundMe so everyone can see where we are). If you’d like, you can use the GoFundMe instead.

Sale: “One Echo Of An August Morning” to Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal

I hinted at this last week, but have signed the contract so it’s official: my story, “One Echo Of An August Morning” will appear in the Summer 2016 issue of Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal (coming out mid-July).

This will be their 3rd issue; you can read the first two for free online here. While I got lucky that one of their editors likes SF – and this story in particular is squarely on the edge of speculative/literature – most of the work they publish is what you’d hope to see in a “literary journal”, and I’m pleased to be in that company.

New Collection/Fundraiser Update: An Excerpt from “No Hand To Turn The Key”

No Hand to Turn the Key by Carrie Cuinn tells the tale of an alternate future where humanity has been wiped out by Mythos horrors leaving only automatons behind to defend what remains of Earth’s human legacy. The result is a touching tale of sacrifice and hope in the face of overwhelming odds.” – Alan Loewen

The second reprint story in the new collection originally appeared in Steampunk Cthulhu: Mythos Terror in the Age of Steam, out from Chaosium in 2014. It was actually one of the first Mythos stories I wrote, and is an example of what I like best when writing Lovecraft-inspired work: playing at the edges of what came before me, exploring the long-term effects of the Old Ones, with characters you wouldn’t expect.

Want to know a secret? It’s set on the UPenn campus (in my favorite building, Van Pelt-Dietrich Library Center) and mostly in my favorite place, the 6th floor. That’s home to the Kislak Center for Special Collections and Rare Books.

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I spent a hundreds of hours of my life here.

The story begins after all hope had been lost…

The University didn’t have many buildings to choose from. She’d spent time in the Downtown division, where troopers could sit in a 10th story windows and pick off intruders with ease, but having been promoted to defend a more delicate area, she was also forced to do more work. The tallest building on the quad was the New Library, so she headed up the large gray steps toward the wood-paneled doors long-gone construction units had rigged together when the original glass one was busted, decades before. Her heavy armor weighed on her as she moved herself up each worn piece of concrete but there wasn’t time to rest. There was barely time to wind.

Past a pair of dim-witted sentries and into the lift she’d held her back straight and her head high, but alone in the box she finally allowed herself to slump against the wall. Deftly undoing the multitude of fastenings on her coat, she slipped one hand inside and found her windup key – an ornate cog slowly untwisting against her otherwise plain chest. She gently moved her fingers across its intricately engraved surface, feeling the motion of the cog as it clicked down.

The lift slowed at a floor lower than the one she’d been aiming for, and suddenly her moment of privacy ended under the gaze of a male she didn’t know. His eyes widened, taking in the scene.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I can wait for the next one.” He dropped his gaze.

“No, of course not,” she replied. “Don’t waste the energy. This one is already going up.”

He nodded, entered the box, and turned to face the closing doors, still looking down at the floor.

She realized too late that she had left her hand inside her jacket, fingers idly fondling her chest.

I’m running out of time to pay off what I owe so I can register for Fall, so please, if you can contribute today. I can take contributions via PayPal here (Anything sent this way is still eligible for the same rewards, and I add it to the total at GoFundMe so everyone can see where we are). If you’d like, you can use the GoFundMe instead.