Hey, congrats to everyone on the list, particularly Ken Liu, who is just smoking up the awards lists lately. I am just tickled pink to be on the ballot.
If you’re checking my site out because you haven’t heard of me before, let me make sure you notice two parts of the site.
1) Here’s a list of all my fiction, with links to the online versions.
2) Here’s a list of the online classes I teach. Sign up by Feb 28 for a special deal.
Want access to a lively community of writers and readers, free writing classes, co-working sessions, special speakers, weekly writing games, random pictures and MORE for as little as $2? Check out Cat’s Patreon campaign.
"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
I had to go hunt for my proof copy of the book in order to be able to look up the art this time. Tod snagged all my extras in preparation for the reading this Friday, at the University Bookstore in Seattle, at 7 pm. I’ll be reading with three terrific writers: Alma Alexander, Corry L. Lee, and Roz Kaveny.
So! Here’s day three of the giveaway. Comment to win!
(left to right)
Image #1 goes with the story “Therapy Buddha,” which is about how much we project things onto objects and coincidences. It’s near future, another one of the eyed creatures, this one peering down, a little inquisitively, a little confusedly. It looks like part of an organic machine, like so many of Mark’s images.
Image #2 accompanies the story, “Close Your Eyes,” which originally appeared in Apex Digest. This is the one I have as a tattoo, from back before I moved to Seattle, given to me one night in a Durham tattoo parlor. I like it for its ability to be wing and eye and fish, all in one. Vicki used it with the Table of Contents as well.
Image #3 looks like a rocket ship and a Greek amphora at the same time, perhaps bubbling over with some sort of pine and summer scented wine. I selected it to go with “Peaches of Immortality” because it seemed to me it looked a little like the machine at the end of the story.
Image #4 is a detail of the larger image that goes with “The Mermaids Singing, Each to Each.” I’m glad Mark pulled it out like this for the jewelry, since it makes a lovely little piece. His work often has a tribal feel to it, and this looks like an orca to me.
Image #5 goes with “Legends of the Gone”. Sometimes Mark repeats images and this is a variant of one that I always see as a large flightless bird, standing looking at the viewer. (You may not see it. That’s okay.)
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Not sure if this is the very beginning, but it’s definitely in the first chapter.
The rub of metal around her wrists was what bothered Shyra the most. Not the standing with the others, chained on the back deck, exposed to wind and cold. Or the catcalls of the sailors, appraising each Dryad in terms of beauty and body. Or the pull of her home grove, dwindling with each mile of river the boat achieved. She wouldn’t die of that, at least until she rooted and became vulnerable. THe lack of food didn’t’ bother her either, as long as there was plenty of sunshine and water.
They all managed to send their hair down along the boat’s side, down to the water line to drink there. But when the captain was cranky, he would shout that they might tangle the paddlewheel and would order one of the boys to clear it.The boy would come with machete and apologies to hack away their hair. It didn’t hurt, any more than cutting his own hair would have hurt, but they pretended that it did, in order to use their reproachful cries to make him wince.
They had little enough to amuse them. The Dryads knew they were as good as dead. Dryads and Naiads captured and taken to Tabat never returned. If they wanted to escape, they all agreed in their whispered conversation, relying on the great engine’s noise to mask what they were saying, it would be best to get away before the boat reached the city.
She suspected that the Captain, if not all the crew, knew exactly what the Dryads chained there were plotting. They were not the first Dryads the Swan had carried. The railing was matted with fine, greenish root-hairs, layers upon layers of them in the spots where the boys were too lazy to scrub.
And all along the side of the boat, on the inside of the railing, were pictograms scratched by former prisoners. Some were easy to decipher: Six Flowers, Sun and Rain, Riverfern. Others were harder, lacking an established alphabet. A clamshell might be that, or some other concept, or food, or the sea, and coupled with what could have been a candle or eel or sprout, who was to know the precise name of the former prisoner, fate as unknown as Shyra’s, who had scratched that, in letters no more than a fingernail high, in the space beside the hasp to which Shyra had been secured for the duration of the journey?
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