Teaser from "Laurel Finch, Laurel Finch, Where Do You Wander?" (steampunk short story)

(Feeling good and energized after WorldCon, ready to finish up a piece that’s been floating around in my head for a while. Story elements include Hawaiian shirts, a retirement community called Friendly Village, an old love affair, a smart-alecky fortune teller, rabbits, and centaurs. Here’s the current beginning.)

Old fabric holds smells better than the kinds come about in the most recent decade. The new stuff is all chemicals, rubbing the roof of your mouth like steel wool if you sniff too hard, can bite like a spell’s sting. Older silks, cottons hold household odors: cedar or cinnamon, tumeric and garlic, perfumes you can no longer find like L’Origan or Quelques Fleurs, camphorated moth balls or talcum powder. Rarely, the whiff of a person, a smell lingering long after every scrap of their DNA has vanished.

Most often just the lilac assault left by a hasty dry-clean. But the other times make it worth it.

I pulled the green XL circle aside with my thumb and kept going widdershins, into the Ls. So far the Value Village’s rack had yielded only two possibilities: an XXL black with a subtle bamboo-patterned weave, cream-colored dragons curled and coiled like sunridden clouds and an XL crimson rayon whose flame-pattern suited it to throw-away magic, a protective cloak perfect for what I was after: a trip through hostile territory with no one to watch my back.

It was a pretty day outside, the last days before summer would slant to the other side of the clock and the days begin shrinking into the grey days of fall. A day for turning up the radio and blasting “Dani California” until the sound came up through your bones.

My shirt was umbrellas, parasols really, pinwheeled against cerulean sky and white cumulus clouds. Protection, and even though it was newer and untested, I trusted it to ward off anything, magic protective gloves, more supple than lead-lined canvas but surely at least that solid.

The spell struck up from a black background, red serpents, scales lined with scallops as blue as the sky outside. Slashing bites along the outside of my left hand, locking on, tails sticking straight out as they attached themselves.

I lurched sideways.

The floor crashed up into my face, thunked against my forehead in painful collision.

Then I was gone.

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(From the beginning of the novel I’m currently about halfway through)

It was Fish Day at Archie McPhee’s.

In another kind of store, Fish Day might have signaled a sale on salmon or fresh herring.
Here in the novelty store, against a backdrop of bins filled with rubber eyeballs and plastic beetles, it meant the appearance of the enormous Wheel of Fish.

The vast, obviously-handmade cardboard construction took up three square yards of space. The clerk kept knocking things off shelves as she maneuvered it among the aisles in order to let customers spin, leaving a trail of hula-shirted dashdboard dolls and a flock of pink plastic flamingoes scattered in her wake.

Each customer she managed to present it to spun, winning, in rapid succession, a rubber shark, a glow in the dark squid, and goldfish earrings.

Casey grinned, watching a teenager don the last item. This was what she loved about Archie McPhee. So wonderfully random.

Picking up a basket, she wandered the aisles, fingering band-aids printed with bacon, an action figure of ancient Greek philosopher Socrates, a golden mustache, an enormous plastic raven that squawked “Nevermore, Lenore” when you pressed a button. While she touched things, she sent her luck sense whispering out, tasting each object’s subtle flavor.

Enjoy this sample of Cat’s writing and want more of it on a weekly basis, along with insights into process, recipes, photos of Taco Cat, chances to ask Cat (or Taco) questions, discounts on and news of new classes, and more? Support her on Patreon.