It’s hard to believe that yet another summer is nearly over. The leaves are turning yellow in my corner of the world, and the infamous low-lying areas experienced their first frost a few weeks ago. Where does the time go?
In my case, time flies when you’re screaming busy. I’ve been invited back for Part II of a superb speculative fiction anthology, Trumpland 2020: Divided We Stand, and am currently working on my entry.
Hel’s Fury, my submission for the first Trumpland collection, was extremely dark. It was kind of a worst case scenario, a hodgepodge of national news and the worst of my state’s own tendencies.
I’m happy to announce that my as-yet-untitled submission to 2020 will be much brighter. My goal is to highlight some of the good in Alaska and Alaskans, the spirit of community and resistance that I grew up with and still see occasionally in Alaska’s remote corners.
I’m also exploring Patreon as an avenue to get my short fiction in front of more readers and support myself while doing it. The first wave of September tier rewards are now live and I’m particularly excited about this month’s story, which digs into the origins of my cyborg OC Frank the Tank.
As some of you who’ve been with me the longest may know, Frank started out as a bit character in a piece of flash fiction.
“No drugs or nuclear weapons allowed inside,” read the sign next to the door of the nightclub.
Lucky glanced at the scowling doorman on the far side of the weapons-check kiosk and sighed. “You go ahead, Frank. This is going to take a while.”
“My chassis runs on nuclear fuel. Is that a problem?” Frank asked.
The doorman sized up the hulking figure in front of him and licked his lips nervously.
The cyborg’s shoulders were nearly as wide as the door he’d entered through, and at six-foot-four he was tall enough to have to stoop to enter some establishments. Bundles of armor-sheathed cables and wiring seemed to have replaced much of the figure’s muscle and tendon, and what wasn’t visibly synthetic was covered with molded armor plating. A tank, indeed.
For all the doorman could tell, little of the man’s original body remained. Asking him to remove his power armor was probably tantamount to denying him entry. On the other hand, they were still recovering from the last time an ultra-mod had gone berserk in the club.
“Got any drugs on you?” the doorman asked.
“Nope.” It wasn’t strictly a lie.
“Eh, go ahead.” What was the worst that could happen?
Frank went on to (somewhat unwillingly) make new friends, Lucky got his moment to shine, and the club was definitely not the same afterward. I’ve been wanting to add to Frank’s story for about two years but haven’t had the time or inspiration– until now.
I haven’t had nearly as much time as I would have liked to work on longer projects this summer, but that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on them. I’m working on several book-length stories, and I promise to keep everyone updated as they progress.
Thanks again for following my blog and sticking with me through all the ups and downs. You rock!
