Fiction

The Final Evolution Excerpt

Over at Pat’s Fantasy Hotlist, you can read an entire chapter from the latest Avery Cates novel The Final Evolution:

Mutterficker!” Kaufman yowled, eyes going wide. “We canna let you go!” His voice had taken on a pitiable quality I didn’t like. “We fuckin’ sold ya, and took the yen already.”

Check it out and let me know what you think! And then buy many, many copies of the book.

Honorable Mention, “Best Horror of the Year V. 3”

Crimes by Moonlight, edited by Charlaine HarrisEdited by Ellen DatlowThe legendary Ellen Datlow released her list of Honorable Mentions for the third volume in her “Best Horror of the Year Volume 3” antho today, and golly, my story from Crimes by Moonlight is on it. I’ve had two other stories picked as HMs by Ellen in the past (The Defragmentation of Thomas Crane in “The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror 18th Edition”, and The Script in “The Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror 19th Edition”) so apparently I am in some sort of a an Honorable Mention groove. There are worse places to be.

This is great news, of course. I’ve made it one of those personal writing goals to get Ellen Datlow to either choose one of my stories for inclusion in one of her Best Of anthos, or to buy a story of mine. I have a lot of these little mini goals. I’ll either get them all or die trying. Probably literally, as I get all boozy and senile in my old age.

The Whirligig 3-9

The Whirligig!As y’all know, I’ve put out a gruesome, home-brewed perzine called The Inner Swine lo these many years. Why? No one knows, actually, but I continue to do so. Back in The Day, putting out a zine was a Thing People Did, believe it or not. There were many of us across the globe. Another zine was called The Whirligig, which was more of a literary zine instead of a zine where I just wrote about whatever was annoying me that day and called it art.

The Whirligig had some sass and published a couple of my stories. Then the original editor, Frank Marcopolos, sold the zine to another editor, who so far has put out one issue (and also published one of my stories!). Frank recently collected issues 3-9 of his old zine into an eBook and offered it up for sale:

http://frankmarcopolos.com/whirligig

If you’re looking for some seriously good fiction, including stories by Your Humble Author as well as Nick Mamatas, Khaled Hosseini, and many others, this is your ticket. Why not? Do it. Zuul commands it.

Literary Upstart and Moi

I Can Only DO It OnceIt’ll be THUNDERDOME!

Or, well, probably not. Those crazy kids what run The L Magazine run this thing called Literary Upstart, where authors submit works and, if chosen, read them live to a bunch of drunks and then a winner gets chosen. Because this sounded like exactly the sort of thing I do for fun (usually uninvited, just standing up on a barstool and starting to read from my tear- and beer-stained notebook), I submitted a story of mine (Rust on the Tongue) and I’ve been chosen to read at the May 17th event. THERE WILL BE NO PRISONERS TAKEN. I intend to win, even if it means performing the Daffy Duck Gasoline Trick that can only be performed once.

WHEN: 7pm, Monday, May 17

WHERE: The Slipper Room, 167 Orchard Street, New York, NY 10002-2214, (212) 253-7246

WHY: Because I’ll be there, soaking up free drinks.

Not sure of the rest of the details, but you don’t need no stinkin’ details, right? I’ll be there. Reading a literary gem. Be there or be square.

Free Fiction Related to Yesterday’s Post

I was thinking about the novel I referred to yesterday (the one whose plot is a bit too close to Avatar to really try and sell now, thanks, Cameron!). I figure, if I’m going to bury the damn thing anyway, might as well post some of it here. Why not? So here are the first ~8,000 words or so of The Only Time, by Your Humble Author. Love to hear your thoughts, private or public, on it.

THE ONLY TIME

by Jeff Somers


I. The Long Dark

1.

Hollith was hell.

2.

One thousand men and women died on Hollith every day, defending the Pump Stations and fighting for control of new territory on hot, wet Hollith. No one could say accurately how many Holls died every day, and very few people asked.

Hollith was a large planet second from its sun. There were few bodies of water to speak of. It appeared to be one huge land mass, covered almost completely by vegetation. The only non-vegetable life forms on Hollith were insects, microbes, and the creatures that everyone called, simply, The Holls. No one who hadn’t seen one could understand what they were like, or so it was said.

On video they appeared to ape-like, a grey-white in color, with rudimentary faces comprised of a jagged rip for a mouth and two small, dark eyes. They had fearsome claws and a thin, fleshy frame that sagged almost comically when they were viewed in captivity.

On Hollith, in the jungles that were their homes, the Holls were terror. Their entire bodies acted as sails as they leapt from tree to tree, flying short distances, like bats. In the endless rains of Hollith they blended into the night and were invisible. They clawed through bullet-proof vests with small difficulty and they screeched. Grown soldiers heard that sound in their sleep, and shivered involuntarily.

The Holls attacked in groups, which the soldiers called Tribes. From fifteen to thirty at once in an attack. If the Holls had the element of surprise, a similarly numbered human patrol usually suffered fifty-percent casualties, at the least. The Holls usually had surprise. There was no way to accurately track them: their body temperature did not vary noticeably from the atmosphere’s, and they rarely seemed to gather in numbers sufficient to track excretory gasses.

On Earth, many of these facts were at best little-known. The predominant theory as to why these nontechnological savages continued to offer stuff resistance to the human invasion was: sheer numbers, meaning there were simply too many Holls. The fact was, Military Intelligence could not accurately say how many Holls there were. They died at an incredible rate, and still they came on. They died and died and died —were slaughtered— and yet, after twenty years of war the human race held only three percent of Hollith, and that precariously. And the humans died and died and died —were slaughtered— and the Holls never spoke, never retreated, and never relented.

Hollith was hell.

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