Those who've followed this blog will remember that I got a couple of stories picked up by an outfit called Superversive Press in their "Planetary" anthology set. Unfortunately, Superversive Press folded before they could publish more than the first five of the set (and only one of my stories). The good news is, the anthologies… Continue reading The Planetary Books
http://www.declanfinn.com/2020/01/the-night-my-father-shot-werewolf-by.html?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=facebook When a boy is nine, his Dad is the most important person in his life, and he should be able to look to Dad to defeat the monsters that hunt in the dark. Sean Grady always knew his Dad would do whatever it took to keep the family safe: this is Sean’s story. Thanks… Continue reading On “The Night my Father Shot the Werewolf”
In which the manosphere and GQ are both wrong.
"One of the most important things that an author should know in order to write good and even great stories, readers and future writers, is that evil in fact exists."
Re-posted from the inimitable Sarah A. Hoyt: During the weekend, while doing my normal weekly cleaning (usually a running affair lasting 4 hours and starting at around 9 am, involving dusting, vacuuming and making wet-areas (kitchen and bathrooms) sanitary, yes a little easier now that I’ve been keeping things more … organized) I listened to… Continue reading Teach a Child — According To Hoyt
G. Scott Huggins on writing "real" religion in imaginary worlds.
Jonas had never been so far up in all his life. The sidewalks he was used to had no railings because it was only twenty centimetres to the street, not hectametres. He walked more carefully, one hand against the reassuring wall. The air was clearer up here, and the early morning light was almost blue after thousands of yellow and grey-green mornings below. He looked again at the address as a tungsten-yellow Phœnix Valkyrie roared past, freely sharing bullets with the DPD at close range. Jonas pulled his coat around himself, thanked the OneTrueGod for a day out of the factory, and prayed for Clara's safety.
Kriever didn’t like public trans, and insisted on driving his old Sting Ray everywhere. He glanced over to the passenger seat, where she sat with his coat still over her shoulders.
“Which way, doll?” he asked. The rain had eased up, for now...
“I didn't like the way you treated Sam just now,” she said when he reached her table.
“Sam was begging for it.” She was wearing something much too short, but Kriever was too busy to be impressed. “Put on a coat and take me uptown, doll,” he said.
The asthmatic death rattle of the air-scrubber was a comfortable sound, a beacon home in the crushing waves of the street. It had guided him home every night now for eight years to the same drafty building and the same putrid stairs, and the same motherless little girl at the top who made it all worthwhile. Clara was eleven and all that came with it. Her father would give his life to save hers.
“What's the word, Feng,” he asked the alien as it hovered back and forth, stirring this pot...mixing that...
“I just told the blue boy I ain't seen nothing,” he mumbled. “You eating tonight?”
We pushed our way through the shattered city. All around us were the signs of a race without hope, an entire nation devoid of both love and life. "Is this what they saw at Pompeii?" I wondered. Men and women both, dead before they died.
"Good reflexes," Hazard thought: "just the sort Sarge appreciated when the brain behind them could keep up."
He checked his Kruger in its holster. It felt good in his grip. 'No', he told himself. 'Not just yet. Not yet.'
A brilliant light threw their shadows against the far wall and vanished. The office and its contents were gone.