…Came back from Brittany, slowly digging my way out of emails and various stuff. The novel is now at 68K words; I’m taking a brief break to research a city my main character has to visit, and hopefully I’ll swing back into the spirit of things. (I think I’ve figured out why Brittany works out so well for me: nothing to do but write, since there’s no Internet. New Year’s resolution for 2010: cut down on the WWW addiction…)…
…t be on another planet. On the phone, your aunt’s voice is breezy, telling you not to worry–that she’ll find a visa and a plane ticket, that she knows someone who knows someone who can give her a hand with the formalities of the High Commission for Refugees. Behind her, you hear the dull thud of bombs falling like rain on a tin roof–the same sound that swells and roars within your dreams until you wake up in a room that feels deathly silent. Where…
…to calm him down. He’s slightly nauseous, as when he’s had too much rice wine to drink—and he wonders why they never get easier, these carryings….
…th of Mictlan’s Well, caught that glint in her eyes–and stopped, watching the stranger approach, a growing hollow in her stomach. Beneath her were the vibrations of the Well, like a calm, steady heartbeat running through the ground: the voice of the rails that coiled around the shaft of the Well, bearing their burden of copper and bronze ever downwards. Er. An Aztec steampunk story, I guess? Written with what was clearly an excess of inspiration,…
…veloped a rather… unorthodox method for testing people’s identities and credentials. The brief for Carbide Tipped Pens was to centre the story around a given science: I picked something I’m exceedingly familiar with, probabilities and applied mathematics. Expect… way too many probability distributions and goodness-of-fit tests, a mindship-human partnership, and funky things with memory encryption and advanced cyphers (also, the usual family/postco…
Quynh Ha had expected the Dust Queen to be… tall and large, filling the room with her mere presence. But the woman sitting before her was old and frail–breathing, it was clear, only with the help of the bots clinging to her throat; her skin as pale and translucent as the best jades; the skin of her hands bearing the peculiar tightness of too many rejuv treatments. A story set in the near future, dealing with the terraformation of Mars, the floodi…
…pending!). It occurred to me that this was a situation that could easily become fraught, given the depredations of the colonists, who had a tendency to get everything that caught their eyes (seriously. Read a history of colonial Indochina sometimes, and try not to smash something. The sheer arrogance and entitlement is nauseating), and part of this story is an attempt to go against the rosy-eyed cliché of a woman lifted from poverty by the power o…
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…and drink. The drink is herbs gathered from the surfaces of ponds, tears taken from the eyes of children, scales shed from old, wise dragons. To drink is to forget, for no soul can come back into the world remembering past lives, or the punishments meted out to it within the other Courts of Hell. No soul. Save one….
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