Here we are, nearly at the end of the year that felt like it would never fucking finish. And yet, it manages to feel over all too soon as well.
Or maybe the latter’s just because I agreed to do far too many things before the calendar rolls over into January. This is also possible. :)
Nevertheless. Some housekeeping before the meat of the post:
I find myself not having put together a Year in Writing post for 2017 as yet, so I’m just going to roll that into the one for 2018 (which will be out early next year — hopefully in January, but I mean who really knows at this point…).
The eligibility post for Anathema will be going up on the magazine’s blog in January, rather than cross-posted here as I’ve done on occasion. Because the focus there over the next few days is getting Issue 6 out the door while it’s still actually, you know, December.
“Until There is Only Hunger” was reprinted in Lost Souls this year, but I’m only noting the two original stories I had out in 2018 for award eligibility.
And now, on to things published in 2018 and some excerpts! :D
Siva has been so long under the mountain, so long tracing tunnels ascending and descending, she can no longer tell where earth meets sky, nor what lies above and what below. Or if the world beyond the rock walls and chalcedony-ridden veins still exists.
Sometimes Siva thinks of Meghan. Sometimes of her parents. Sometimes the walls retreat a little. But not enough. Never enough.
She is drowning in stale air laced with her own exhalations.
And when she sleeps, she dreams memories of the outside world.
“In That Fire, All the Voices of Your Dead”
(November 2018, Nisaba Journal Issue 1; Short Story, 4,500 Words,)
They remove her chains just before they toss her from the back of the wagon. The dust of her impact followed shortly after by the thud of her bundled cloak.
“Good riddance, witch,” yells the guardswoman who threw her. The dust hasn’t even settled before the crack of a whip drives the horses on and the wagon turns to make the long ride back to the sheer walls of the capital city of Leogarth.
Atla rises, cracks her back, and gathers up her cloak. It won’t be much use until night; right now it’s just extra weight. But at least she’s got one, and her own clothes – though they’re still filthy from her stay in the Church of the Pure Light’s dungeons. Her skin sallow from so long without light, the glimpse of it shocking to her.
That they chose to exile her isn’t surprising. That the burned ghost from her cell came with her is.
A quieter year for stories from me, but things I’m proud to have out in the world, so it balances out. :)
There’s some work of mine already planned to come out in 2019, and a few more I’m either working on or waiting to get confirmation on/can’t announce yet. We’ll see what next year brings for those. But at this point it looks like a good year coming if you want to read new things from me. And hopefully it’s shaping up to be a good year likewise for all of you as well.
There’ll be more to come (on this and other fronts) in the next few days. Until then, may the end of 2018 find you and yours well!