A chance collaboration between myself and one of my favourite artists, the winner of multiple Sir Julius Vogel Awards, Emma Weakley, which I shall try to introduce as briefly as possible:
I released this a little while ago but what with one thing (repeated terrorism) and another (general election) and another (massive fire in my city), my job-that-pays-the-rent of “reading all the national newspapers” has been rather all-consuming and my time off has been filled with trying to forget all about it, so this post is late.
A while back I published an odd little short story called The Renaka Device, a post-Revolutionary fantasy story about propaganda and truth. I also have novel I’m currently editing which is, in the main, about the mutability of memory, gaslighting, and truth.
Since the latter isn’t ready yet, I ended up writing another short story set in the same post-Revolutionary fantasy land as The Renaka Device, about the different sizes of commitment, the expendability of the individual, and fanaticism, and how the latter can be picked up and used by whoever wants to, not just one position in the political spectrum.
Available on Amazon Kindle UK (and also on most other Amazon regional sites).
Twenty years after the Revolution, the journalist Shukach Istynyya is permitted to speak with the Revolutionary Republic’s number one enemy, in a once-in-a-lifetime interview. “It might be any man within the cell that I am brought to face, but the Party is honest, and the Party is just, and the man in the cell is called Lubach Zahradnik, and he is The Traitor.”
Future announcements regarding more short stories are on their way but have to been reined in for the time being! Thank you for reading.
Exclusively on Amazon Kindle, on every Amazon Kindle site (I will link to UK | US but trust me: every site), a short story rather unlike any of my others in content and in style, The Renaka Device is fairly strongly-influenced by Ray Bradbury, I think.
My name is Potsve Revolution Renaka.
I was born a month after the fall of the old order. In celebration, my parents named me Potsve Revolution.
I can’t say much more without spoiling the story for you; feel free to pick up your copy (UK | US); Text-to-speech is available on this book for anyone who has difficulty reading from screens or is simply too busy to read but can listen.
Currently I’m plugging away at another sci-fi short story, The Grandmother Virus (which is giving me a headache, I won’t lie); other short fiction of mine you can treat yourself to in the meantime includes: Hannah Matchmaker’s New Skates (a rollerderby fable), Vessel 151-B (classic sci-fic take on the Pygmalion story), and Saint Grimbald’s Men (bodyhorror bildungsroman. Possibly).
Stay tuned this November for regular updates on how awful it is trying to pull an entire manuscript out of your face in one sitting.
Regular readers are tired of me hectoring them to buy my books and fund my decadent lifestyle choices like “being able to afford to get to my job” and “paying the electricity bill”. Irregular readers are confused as to why I’m not shouting about Huel at this precise moment.
In the fullness of time I’m going to come back and beat you all over the head with the imminence of The Next Big One, explain how I have gone from a banana-hating, coffee-eschewing meat addicted sandwich-lover to a cold-brew-hefting, banana-craving, bread-avoiding pescatarian hipster scumbag (actually that one’s pretty straightforward: turns out testosterone changes your tastes and body chemistry. Also, willpower and working nightshift. Hoo boy do you need to be able to stomach a lot of coffee).
But for now I want to draw attention to m’colleague and global opposite, Wayne Ree. Pronounced “Ray”, because fuck you, and also because there’s an acute accent over the second e that my keyboard wants no part of.
Wayne, a founding member of the aptly-named Global Beards, is a versatile and imaginative writer who I feel just isn’t getting the love he deserves. The man has written Yellow Princess: Attack of the Dinosharks, but also quieter, more adult and introspective pieces in Tales from a Tiny Room, and partnered up with the explosively excellent Anna AB on the ferocious collection Prompt – snappy, dangerous short fiction. Also, he’s bought me whisky at least once so that pretty much makes him a Good People.
So you should buy his stories, because they’re varied and exciting and because, if you’re very lucky and flatter him enough, he may one day let you touch The Beard. Maybe.
Hello! I just got an email from my lovely editors at New Smut Project letting me know the anthology I’m featured in (as Melissa Snowdon) got a really nice review from Adriana Ravenlust at Of Sex and Love! And in fact got singled out for attention (okay, okay, she singles most of the stories out for attention because it’s a great anthology full of inventive fiction and such but let me have my moment).
Which I hope stands as further encouragement to, if you haven’t already, grab yourself a copy of Between the Shores and enjoy; and/or pick up Heart, Body, Soul which I didn’t write anything for but which does feature a story by a friend of mine.
A break from Inadvertent Design Week, which will continue with Productsu (shut up) and Origami Travel Clothing, to let you all know:
Between the Shores, an anthology in which my story Vine is featured (under the nom-de-smut “Melissa Snowdon”), and which is live on the Kindle Store, is also in the top 100 Books & eBooks for the tag “Bisexual”
Why not buy a copy, and help it to stay there? If you prefer your book in paper form, the publishers have put a discount code on the Createspace edition for you:
You can also tell your fans about a special Createspace discount code we’ve created: 5MQV88KN will take $2 off each book.
I’ll leave the final word on this with the publishers again:
Between the shores is an erotica anthology in which my short story Vine (under my nom de Naughty Stories, Melissa Snowdon) is featured, a long with a roaring collection of other BDSM erotica which, unlike 50 Shades of Grey, is heavy on consent. The negotiated kind, not the coerced kind.
For the technicalities I’m going to leave you with the publishers:
Between The Shores
- the Kindle store
Kindle stores outside the US (again, this list is incomplete—we should be available in all local stores!): Amazon UK, Amazon CA, Amazon DE, Amazon FR, Amazon AU
- All Romance Ebooks
Soon, Smashwords will distribute the ebook files to other retailers like Barnes and Noble, iTunes, Kobo, and Scribd. Be sure to check our Buy Page for the most up-to-date purchasing options!
Our Createspace paperback version will be released on our official publication date of March 23.
(Please note the current word and page count refer to placeholder files: the actual anthologies will be over 100,000 words each. Also, the file formats available on All Romance Ebooks will include .epub, .mobi, and .html as well as .pdf.)
Obviously this is terribly exciting and you should run, not walk, to preorder this magnificent thing.
Ping had never been to a roof-top bar before. She’d been meaning to, in the same way she’d been meaning to book a holiday somewhere and not just spend all her holiday time either sleeping or doing everything she had hadn’t time to while she was at work, but hadn’t got past the intention.
Then the money-off deal came up in her inbox like a sign from the universe, just as she’d started the four-day weekend, and when she emailed Mu he hadn’t immediately responded with sorry, but and instead said I think I can do it this time.
So she stood on a rooftop in Hoxton and wondered why she’d thought being two floors up would make the oppressive heat and chemical mugginess disappear, and thought, a little sadly, about how you get the picture of “roof-top bar” confused with “images of James Bond suaveness and elegance everywhere” and forget that all your friends are hipsters and the Queen of Hoxton is in Hoxton, and that hipsters like industrial earnestness and not beautiful glass sculptures.
Ping cradled an icy glass of Rekoderlig in her hands and tried to pretend to herself that it was a very cosmopolitan and sophisticated cocktail favoured by the fabulously wealthy, and that she was in Dubai, and that the Queen of Hoxton had installed an air-conditioning unit on the roof.
A woman with blonde hair in generous waves and plastic glasses frames with no glass in them approached Ping directly. With a sudden stab of panic Ping worried if she’d somehow stolen her spot, or her drink, or was about to be mistaken for someone else. She cast about vaguely for some sort of life-line, but no one met her eye.
“Are you Ping?” the woman asked, from about six feet away. She gestured at Ping with the neck of her own drink – a Corona – and accompanied the question with an irritated puff of air apparently intended to get her hair off her forehead.
As there were maybe three other people on the roof who weren’t white, and one of them was a man, and all of them were black, Ping thought this question was slightly unnecessary, but she nodded cautiously. Maybe she’d left something downstairs.
“Oh, your brother said could I tell you, he’s run into some friends downstairs,” the woman said, with a cartoonish, letterbox grimace, “and he’ll be up soon. Between you and me,” she said, shielding her mouth with the back of her hand as if she was imparting state secrets, “I don’t think it’s going to be ‘soon’.” She raised her eyebrows for a moment, and when Ping didn’t react, she added, “Also I don’t know why they’d want to stay down there anyhow, it’s dark and warm.”
The blonde woman held the top of her loose dress away from her skin to illustrate, pinching it between finger and thumb. She put her head on one side, and huffed out another puff of hair-dislodging air.
“Thanks,” Ping said, belatedly.
For a moment they both stood in silence. The blonde didn’t appear to be in a hurry to go anywhere – she just stared abstractedly past Ping’s head at the buildings to the West, into the beginnings of the setting sun, and Ping took the opportunity to examine her shoes, which were metallic orange sandals with little leather wing shapes cut out over the ankle bones. They looked dumb.
The blonde woman turned her attention back to Ping with an exaggerated little dancer’s jerk, the kind people did when they wanted to make it clear they were now giving you their full attention. Ping experimented in her head with the idea of telling this woman that she didn’t want her full attention, or even a sliver of it, but as usual what came out of her mouth was blindingly awkward small-talk as her fingers tightened on the condensation of the Rekoderlig glass, and the ice began to melt.
“So how do you know Mu?”
The blonde lifted a hank of her hair away from her nape and fanned underneath it, the Corona dangling against her back, gripped in the curl of two fingers. “I don’t. I know Leah –“ she rolled her eyes at something absent, “—who isn’t even here like she was meant to be, and Leah knows Stella and Gavin and I guess Stella and Gavin know your brother – Mu, was it? – God, excuse me, I’m not normally this gross, I just can’t deal with close heat at all.” She let go of her hair, spread one hand and the bottle in a gesture of exasperation, raised her face to heavens, and said, “Why didn’t I get ice?”
Ping thought, I’m not offering you mine just so you can turn it down.
“Anyway,” said the blonde, “I don’t really know anyone I’m here with and I was starting to get bored, literally all they were talking about was this stupid Flickr-scraping app—“
“Futographr,” Ping blurted.
“That’s the one,” she said, pointing her lower two fingers and her Corona at Ping, before taking a swig.
A man in a lumberjack shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and a colouring-book of tattoos on his forearms passed between them as if they weren’t having a conversation at all – which Ping felt they weren’t, not exactly – and by the time he’d squeezed on by to the bucket of ice and cans that was standing in for another bar, she could see Mu’s hair poking around the door to the roof.
The blonde wandered away.
Mu said, “Oh thank God you’re here, I’ve just been trapped downstairs listening to Iain’s blow-by-blow account of how spiritually enriching it is to go and stare at poor people in Laos.” He held his hand over his eyes and peered into the sun. “Hey,” he added, “this is nice, this was a good idea.”
Ping looked at the last fragments of melted ice in her drink and said, “Yeah. Feels like you’re not in London at all,” without a single molecule of sincerity.
“How was last night?” John asked, stepping back from the hot water-tap but leaving his mug beside it as if to guard the queue from interlopers.
Ping puffed upwards into her fringe to unstick it from her forehead, both hands on her coffee cup. “Warm,” she said. “Who thinks it’s a good idea to have a roof terrace with no shade?”
“Aw, c’mon,” John laughed, pushing his cup under the hot-water tap. “The whole point of a roof-terrace is to enjoy the three minutes of sun we get a year.”
Ping pinched her t-shirt away from her breast-bone as if she was airing out curtains, and said, “Sun, yes, sweat, no.”
John said, “I have this idea for a cold-tub on the roof of one of those pubs. You just climb in a bucket of ice cubs and sit in it for as long as you can take.”
“Now that,” Ping said, whispering past the back of her hand, “sounds like a recipe for all kinds of problems with your – you know.”
At work drinks she found herself standing by John, who elaborated on his ice tank idea and even threatened to demonstrate with a glass of ice-cubes. “At least a cold drink,” he amended, when Ping made a face. “Strawberry cider, right?”
Ping shook her head, surprised. “Corona.”
“You normally have strawberry cider,” John said, with a level of certainty Ping found somewhat irritating.
She lifted the hair off the nape of her neck and fanned impatiently at the skin below, trying to speed up the process of recovering from a day in a sweaty office with only one working desk fan.
“No I don’t,” she said. “That’s a children’s drink.”
Ping grimaced, her mouth wide like a letterbox, and John shrugged and collected up a few more orders on the way to the bar. The pub was air-conditioned, and dark, and almost everyone else from the department had stepped outside to enjoy the evening sun.
“Ping,” John called, from the bar, and she turned with a jerky little dancer’s turn to give him her attention. “Are you sure it was Corona you wanted?”
She rolled her eyes to the dusty ceiling, and mouthed a silent prayer for strength. “Yes.”
“Nice shoes,” said a fat woman on the escalator, as Ping flopped on the handrail. There was a whole crocodile of neon tourists blocking both sides of the moving stairs, and ignoring, loudly and Frenchly, the repeated passive-aggressive coughing, tutting, and tannoy announcements regarding standing on the right that were aimed at them.
“Thanks,” said Ping, looking down at the sandals with their cut-out wing silhouette in the orange metallic leather. “I got them on the internet.”
John went home to his flatmates, two of whom were cats, and slumped into the groove on the sofa specifically worn for him, a one-cushion gap away from the groove in the sofa specifically worn for Peter, who was half-asleep in front of Total Wipeout in the evening heat.
“It’s like Satan’s arsehole out there,” Peter mumbled, unsticking his arm from the faux-leather cushions to reach for the remote. His eyes widened. “Why am I watching this?”
“Why are you watching this?” John asked, holding his shirt away from his chest to stop it sticking.
“Girl in the pink leotard thing is quite fit,” Peter suggested, changing the channel.
John rolled his eyes, and sank back into the sofa. “You saw two seconds of red hair.”
“Sometimes that’s all you need,” Peter countered, putting his feet on top of John’s discarded bag. “You look weird.”
“Thanks,” John muttered, blowing hair off his forehead. “You look like you’re being slow-roasted in your own sweat.”
Peter levered himself slowly off the sofa, with accompanying winces and twitches as his skin let go the fabric. “Drink?”
“Corona,” John said, vaguely watching the ident on the TV screen. It was new, and featured a group of women with prosthetic legs engaged in some sort of dance with huge fluttering banners. Peter stopped in the doorway to the kitchen.
“Corona?” he repeated.
“Why would we have—“ Peter cut himself off, shrugged, and returned a moment later with a bottle of Heineken.
“You’re being unusually camp,” Bevis said, half-way through the next morning, when John was telling him about the latest deployment on the system and when it was due. “What’s that – that thing where you’re pretending to whisper to someone. Have you been watching Drag Race?”
John was momentarily bewildered by this; he searched the ceiling for some kind of cue as to what the hell Bevis was objecting to, and decided to ignore it altogether.
It wasn’t, after all, as if he’d done anything out of the ordinary.
Peter leaned over the bar and blew upwards into his own fringe. “Have you considered getting air-conditioning in here?”
The barmaid shrugged. “Chris has ‘considered’ it an unnecessary expense,” she said, bitterly, “because he doesn’t come in here unless he’s shitfaced himself. I’ll tell him the clientele are complaining, maybe that’ll do something.” She watched Peter hold his t-shirt away from his chest as if trying to keep it from contaminating his nipples, and said, “the usual?”
“Yeah.” Peter sighed. He wondered if there was somewhere online that did men’s sandals with wing cut-outs. He’d never had a pair of sandals before, but the weather was grim, and the idea of wearing flip-flops somehow didn’t appeal.
“Guinness, then,” the barmaid said.
“Corona,” Peter corrected, lifting his ponytail off the nap of his neck and fanning underneath.
“I thought you said the usual?”
“That is the usual,” Peter said.
For other short stories and novels look for me on Amazon.
After the fashion of Hannah Matchmaker’s New Skates, I’m letting this little story go on the Kindle for a pittance. At some point when I’ve amassed enough of these little stories I’ll put them together in a print collection, like I did with Tiny Fictions, so if you’re all about the dead tree format (and I don’t blame you, there is great satisfaction in being able to throw a book you don’t like across the room, and deleting something from your Kindle just isn’t the same!) don’t worry, it will eventually come to pass in a throwable, self-fillable format as well.
Unlike Hannah Matchmaker’s New Skates, this is also available as a PDF, without fussing about with Amazon’s interface (and profit margin); just pop me an email at [myname] at gmail dot com and ask about Paypal (it’ll be the same price as it’s listed on Amazon).
Unlike the roller derby story, this is very much not a sweet tale about overcoming the odds and learning to believe in yourself; instead it’s about the terrible consequences of repression, as expressed by body horror in a monastery. Or at least, I decided it was about the terrible consequences of repression: it’s actually about two monks who fall in love.
The Kindle edition is available from here ( .com instead of .co.uk if you’re not in the UK, obviously) , for a cover price of $0.99 USD or whatever that is in your local currency (in mine it usually works out at about 77p). For a sample of some of my fiction that you don’t have to pay for (besides the free previews on Lulu etc), there’s this.
And if you enjoyed the cover photograph, it is the work of one J. Reilly, and you can find more of her photography here.
Things I have done
- Reached a stage of procrastination so acute that I thought it was a good idea to start making Etsy Treasuries.
Things friends have done
- Written an unusual ghost story at my prompting: My Old Man’s Badge.
- Challenged himself to write 12 “Fast Fictions” in 12 days, with some quite well-known people prompting him for the stories.
Things strangers have done
- Made this great tutorial on how to make your own filigree masquerade mask. I think you’d need steadier hands than I have to make it work.
- On the theme of tutorials, this blog is full of useful beading tutorials.
- Created this beautiful costuming and tapestry blog which is full of very revealing and fascinating posts (illustrated with photographs, of course) for anyone interested in those crafts.
- Written a very charming round-up of English letters that ceased to be English letters as a result of French printing presses, or for other less amusingly xenophobic reasons.
- Made what a friend describes as “an in-browser tool for making up nonsense words to your phonetic requirements”.
- The British Library has made available online a truly staggering number of medieval European illuminated manuscripts.
- Made an entire kit for constructing a language from scratch!
That’s all for this year! Have a happy new year, everyone who observes the Gregorian calendar, and I hope 2013 is better.