I think of myself as genderqueer because I have a lifelong need to queer gender. To queer everything really but especially gender. I love queer as a verb. I love queering things.
You know another word for queer is "weird"? Which has the added benefit of referring to magic, the wyrd. So hey, if you're queer and you want to fuck with things while also altering space and time, you know, maybe try out being genderweird.
. . . sometimes the bot is prescient.
I’m also kinda miffed that this is one of the last posts from the old version of wyrd_ebooks, before I had to move it off botsin.space due to its script just . . . not playing nice that server’s oAuth. Oh well. At least I got a screenshot!
(Related: I need to find a better Markov chain generating script, too. The current one is a bit too random . . .)
So here’s a thing I’ve been meaning to do for, like. Literally a decade? Finish uploading the rest of the Wyrdverse side-stories. These have been previously available as a little published volume, but are now are available via the magic of HTML! So . . . enjoy.
For what it’s worth, “Blue Sky Mine” is still the thing I cite when people ask me the favourite thing I’ve ever written. Mostly for the last line, but also because Port Hedland sure is a place that exists, huh.
Anyway, next little thing I’ve been meaning to do: Scribble up a cover and start, finally, posting Bad Meme, a.k.a. the unpublished third Wyrdverse book. So . . . look out for that one, I guess!
In retrospect perhaps colouring this at the con could perhaps have been construed as passive aggressive???
Going through and cleaning up some CSS and gallery styles for my site and I was reminded of this sketch (originally posted here).
. . . I really should colour this and make in my site’s 404 image, hey.
The crowd is roaring when I step down from the stage. Crying, cheering. Demanding more. It’s been a while since I played, and never in front of such a big audience, and feeling all that energy—that worship—directed my way is . . . intoxicating. I want it. I want to bask in it, to sing my passions to the sky, to beat to the pulse of the crowd for eternity, because what god could ever ignore his people?
Well. This god, for one.
“You were pretty good.”
Sigmund greets me on the ground, arms going around my waist and lips pressing against my cheek. I grin, accepting the affection, sweeter and better than the cheering of a thousand audiences.
In Liesmith, a “wildly entertaining debut novel . . . guaranteed to resonate with fans of mythopoeic fantasy from the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and Neil Gaiman” (Library Journal), Alis Franklin introduced a band of charming, unforgettable heroes. Now they’re playing host to reincarnated Norse gods who are settling ancient grudges in the twenty-first century.
Forseti had been too young to fight at Rangarøkkr.
“This is an old gods’ war,” his grandfather had told him, watching Forseti with one single eye, the iris as pale and cold as an endless winter’s sky. “Today, we fight for the future.”
“My father’s future?” Forseti had asked.
“Aye,” said Odin, and the black beasts on his shoulders had rustled their feathers and clicked their beaks, and Forseti had believed it. Believed in Odin’s war, believed in his father’s sacrifice. Believed that, come the Ragnarøkkr, Baldr would return from Hel, bright and shining, and would rule over the Realms, and all would be as it should.
Forseti had believed this with all his heart. And so he had watched Grandfather and his einherjar march off to die, and had been content.
In Liesmith, a “wildly entertaining debut novel . . . guaranteed to resonate with fans of mythopoeic fantasy from the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and Neil Gaiman” (Library Journal), Alis Franklin introduced a band of charming, unforgettable heroes. Now they’re playing host to reincarnated Norse gods who are settling ancient grudges in the twenty-first century.
We’re barely out of the forest when we hear it.
“What is that?” Þrúðr catches it first, sitting up straighter on her horse, eyes squinting into the dawn.
“What’s what?” I say. In my arms, Sigmund’s head keeps dropping to my chest and jerking back. If I weren’t holding on to him, he’d have fallen off miles ago. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Shouting,” Þrúðr says. “In the distance. And . . . a horn?”
I tilt my head, trying to catch the sound. Jötnar don’t have great hearing but, even still, I think I can just about make out what Þrúðr means.
“It’s coming from Ásgarðr,” I say.
Þrúðr doesn’t respond, just spurs her exhausted horse onward.
“Shit,” I say. Then, to Sleipnir, “Well. Feel up to a bit of a race?”
Stupid question, I know. An instant later Þrúðr is eating dust, and I have my arms full of a suddenly very awake and very startled Sigmund.
Sleipnir isn’t a horse, but he’s still the fastest thing in all the Realms. We make it to the Wall in no time.
And just as quickly wish we hadn’t.
In Liesmith, a “wildly entertaining debut novel . . . guaranteed to resonate with fans of mythopoeic fantasy from the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and Neil Gaiman” (Library Journal), Alis Franklin introduced a band of charming, unforgettable heroes. Now they’re playing host to reincarnated Norse gods who are settling ancient grudges in the twenty-first century.
“How long till their arrival?”
Munin clicked its beak, hopping from foot to foot, exhaustion eating at its bones. Two days it’d been flying, ahead of the kids coming back from Sindri. It was a long trip, and Munin was about ready for a soft nest and a good nap, followed by a fresh corpse and a birdbath full of mead.
Forseti, however, wasn’t coughing up any of it.
“A day,” Munin said. “Maybe less.” It hopped backward again as Forseti paced. The kid didn’t look well. Sort of gaunt and pale. Haggard and washed out. And Munin would’ve sworn he was favoring a single eye.
Not to mention he was still holding Gungnir. Munin wondered if the kid even put it down to sleep.
In Liesmith, a “wildly entertaining debut novel . . . guaranteed to resonate with fans of mythopoeic fantasy from the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and Neil Gaiman” (Library Journal), Alis Franklin introduced a band of charming, unforgettable heroes. Now they’re playing host to reincarnated Norse gods who are settling ancient grudges in the twenty-first century.
Sigmund’s getting better at kissing, but he isn’t great at sex. That’s not a criticism. It’s an invitation to practice. Which I’m sure we’ll be doing a lot of at some point in the future. Hopefully soon in the future, when we get out of this miserable mountain.
I wait until Sigmund is long asleep before moving. It is nice, lying there, feeling the weight of his body and the coolness of his skin. The way he snuffles softly and nuzzles against the pillows when I stroke his forearm, his shoulder, his chest.
His neck.
My hand is clutching his throat before I realize I can’t move it.
(no!)
(“you owe me a debt, boy. now you will repay it”)
In Liesmith, a “wildly entertaining debut novel . . . guaranteed to resonate with fans of mythopoeic fantasy from the likes of J.R.R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and Neil Gaiman” (Library Journal), Alis Franklin introduced a band of charming, unforgettable heroes. Now they’re playing host to reincarnated Norse gods who are settling ancient grudges in the twenty-first century.
Elisabeth M
Alis