2024 Award Eligibility & Year in Review

It’s that time of year again. No, not talking about Christmas (though, early Merry Christmas to those who celebrate). It’s award eligibility season!

In 2024, I published three short stories and will have one poem forthcoming in the tail end of the year:

  • “Blood and Desert Dreams” (short story) in Beneath Ceaseless Skies: Kahna’s blood is poison, fatal to anyone who touches just one drop. Raised in the household of the ambitious Lady Darya, Kahna is trained as an assassin, using her unique power to eliminate Lady Darya’s enemies. Kahna is more than willing to anything for Lady Darya, but as the weight of her crimes pile up, Kahna’s world—and mind—begin to fracture. Read online.
  • “The Last Fugu House of Shimonoseki” (short story) in F(r)iction: Ayami is Shimonoseki’s last fugu chef. In a world where virtual reality has taken over, real life experiences—from natural wonders to historical architecture to fine dining—have become obsolete. Now, on the closing day of Sushi Maekawa, Ayami must make her final meals of deadly pufferfish and figure out what is next for her life and career. Read online.
  • “House of Jade Lions” (short story) in Other: the 2024 speculative fiction anthology: A noble family is trapped in a nightmarish house by (maybe) the decorative jade lions hanging from the ceilings. In the House of Jade Lions, Eldest Sister dangles from the balcony, Mother kills Father every evening, and the narrator is shrinking into a doll. The narrator reflects on all that led them here, including Mother’s ambition and his own wish for the family to stay unchanging forever. Get the book.
  • “Cthulhu on the Shores of Osaka” (poem) in Invitation: A One-Shot Anthology of Speculative Fiction: This one’s not out yet, but TDotSpec is endeavouring to have the anthology out before end of the year. I will update the post with the link to the anthology as soon as it’s released. As for the contents… well, the title is self-explanatory. (EDIT: Invitation was released December 29, 2024. Get the book: Amazon.com, Amazon.ca)

Awards and How to Support

Some awards I am eligible for:

  • The Hugo Awards: Nominations will open in early 2025. To nominate, a person would need to purchase a membership to the World Science Fiction Society before January 31, 2025, or to have been a member during Glasgow Worldcon in 2024. After nominations close, voting will be open to all members of Seattle Worldcon in 2025. My short stories are eligible for the Best Short Story category, and my poem will be eligible for Best Poem—a special category in the 2025 Seattle Worldcon.
  • The Nebula Awards: Full, Associate, and Senior Members of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America (SFWA) can nominate and vote for the Nebula Awards. My short stories are eligible for the Short Story category.
  • The Aurora Awards: Award for the best Canadian science fiction and fantasy of the year. Members of the Canadian Science Fiction & Fantasy Association are allowed to nominate and vote. My short stories are eligible for the Best Short Story category, and my poem will be eligible for Best Poem/Song.

What you can do to support:

  • If you would like to participate in the Hugo Awards: Become a member of the World Science Fiction Society. You don’t need to attend Worldcon to be a member; basic membership grants you the right to nominate if purchased before end of January 2025, and the right to vote.
  • If you are a member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America: Nominate my short stories.
  • If you are Canadian: Become a member of the Canadian Science Fiction & Fantasy Association to nominate and vote. As a side note, membership gets you access to digital copies of the works on the shortlists, so think of it as getting an ultra-affordable ebook package.

2024 in Review

2024 has been a year of novelty and reconnection. I ventured into things I hadn’t done before, or resumed activities I’d let fall by the wayside. These include:

  • Ran a successful Kickstarter for my fantasy short story collection, All the Broken Blades
  • Started my newsletter.
  • Opened my Instagram account and resumed being active on Twitter / X
  • Reunited with my love for photography and photo-editing
  • Began updating this blog again regularly

It’s been an adventurous year. Next year, hopefully, will bring even bigger and better things. In the meantime, I will continue working on proofreading and book creation for All the Broken Blades.

“House of Jade Lions” available in Other: the 2024 speculative fiction anthology

My dark fantasy / horror short story “House of Jade Lions” is available in Other: the 2024 speculative fiction anthology from Bannister Press. The book is available on Amazon in print and as an ebook, and will be coming to other retailers soon. Visit the publisher’s page for more details.

Short and sane description: “House of Jade Lions” is about a noble family trapped inside a nightmarish house of death.

Long and strange description: “House of Jade Lions” is about a noble family trapped inside a nightmarish house of death by (maybe) the decorative jade lions hanging from the ceilings. Welcome to the abode where Eldest Sister dangles from the balcony, Mother kills Father every night, and the narrator is… shrinking? The narrator, now well on his way to becoming a doll (or at least doll-sized) reflects upon all that brought them here and who is responsible.

ALL THE BROKEN BLADES: Successful end to Kickstarter & next steps

On November 30, 2024, the Kickstarter campaign for All the Broken Blades (my debut short story collection) came to a successful conclusion with $2,176 (Canadian) raised, 155% of the initial funding goal. Words cannot express how ecstatic and thankful I am for all the support.

Special thanks to the following people:

  • Don Miasek and Justin Dill, for their tireless work in helping me promote this campaign
  • Julia Wang and Tao Wong, for lending their real life weaponry to the cause (swords for the promotional photo shoots)

And thank you to… every single one of you, my backers! This project could not be what it is without you.

Book Production and Next Steps

Project status:

  • I have already started reaching out to artists regarding cover illustration and design.
  • The stories have been compiled into a document for line-editing and proofreading.
  • Origami paper is stocked and ready for the production of origami cranes.

Now, for the complicated part: the campaign fell just shy of the audiobook stretch goal. However, I am still looking into options for audiobook production, through different ways of allocating funds, finding recording space, utilizing any late pledges that come in, and committing some of my own money. I cannot promise the audiobook is happening, but it’s not off the table. Stay tuned.

Late Pledges

For anyone who missed the campaign but would still like to support the creation of this book: late pledges are open for most reward tiers. They will remain open until I begin finalizing the book layout (at which point I will not be able to add further names to the acknowledgements, and therefore, will be closing to further pledges).

For those deciding between a late pledge and buying the book after release—the following rewards are only easily obtained from the Kickstarter campaign, and will not be available if you purchase the book later (unless you encounter me in-person at a book launch, convention, workshop, or critique group):

  • Book signed and personalized with a unique drawing
  • Bookmark featuring the cover art
  • Postcards featuring the promotional photos used in the campaign
  • Origami crane folded by me
  • Book bundled with two short fiction magazines (1 bundle left)

ALL THE BROKEN BLADES: Fantasy Anthology – Kickstarter & Story Previews

The Kickstarter for All the Broken Blades, my first short story collection, is LIVE! Funding ends November 30, 2024 at 6:01 p.m. EST.

All the Broken Blades is an anthology of epic fantasy and dark fairy tale retellings. It will feature a selection of thirteen stories published between 2018 and 2024, two poems, and one original never-before-published short story.

All details on the crowdfunding campaign are available on the Kickstarter site.

For a preview of each of the stories included in the anthology, see below.

 

Table of Contents:

Dress of Ash

Buried Phoenix. And Leaves

The Palace of the Silver Dragon

Glass Gardens

Fall from the Heavens

Blood and Desert Dreams

Little Inn on the Jianghu

My Mirror, My Opposite

The Girl with the Frozen Heart

Bride of the Blue Manor

The Laughing Knight and the King of Ink: A Tragicomedy in 2.5 Parts

The Mountains My Bones, the Rivers My Blood

Lace, Comb, Apple

The Lady of Butterflies

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Dress of Ash

Originally appeared in Seasons Between Us.

 

There is an Etossari tale about a girl who became a servant in her own house.

After her mother passed away, her father remarried. Her stepmother, a woman of high status but little wealth, banished the girl to the servants’ quarters, where she cooked meals, scrubbed floors, and lit kindling. The girl’s face became covered in soot, and she wore a dress of ash.

The story came from a book of translated Northerner legends Father had given me. Mother scoffed at it. “Why read boneskin tales? Our own legends are the ones that matter.”

She had a point. What use were Northerner stories to a Swordbearer of Keja?

Yet during that late summer sunset, as Kaya’s form disappeared into the trees, all I could think about was that girl in the dress of ash. Unlike her, no prince came for Kaya.

Kaya, my dearest sister. Whatever else, I loved you. I loved you.

#

I lost my father in a duel between a wooden sword and a sheath.

On a breezy spring day, I emerged from the training room of our residence at the capital to see him striding across the courtyard, a bag of tied cloth slung across his back. My mother, aunt, and cousin were not home. It was only me and the servants in the compound.

Even at eight years old, I understood.

I placed myself between Father and the front gates. “Where do you think you’re going?”

His face registered a brief surprise, then reverted to his usual carefree smile. “To the market, little flower. I was thinking of buying your mother a … fan.”

A lie. He’d sooner buy her a poisoned chalice.

“With that?” I eyed his bag.

He knelt so we’d be at eye level. “You got me, little flower. I’ll be going a little farther than the market. But I’ll be back soon.”

“You’re leaving us. You’re running away.” It hurt, saying those words, because they meant Mother was right about him. I’d heard their voices at night—Mother calling him useless, an unworthy Swordbearer.

“There is something I must do. I’d stay if I could.”

I pointed my wooden practice sword at him. “Then fight me. If you win, I’ll let you go.”

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Buried Phoenix. And Leaves

Originally appeared in Little Blue Marble.

 

I am the renewing flame, and you are the one I must burn.

I was taught this from the beginning, when my fire was only a spark, a bean-sized flicker on the end of a match. Father folded me in his arms and said, “Daughter, someday you will save the world.”

Save the world. Burn the world. Cut out the rot from the world with my love’s ashes as the dagger. All the same thing.

Love. Do I have the right to call you that?

When the day comes, when the moons kiss and the stars spin and the skies crackle like-lightning but not-lightning, I’ll close my hands around your throat and shake you until your sixty thousand quadrillion leaves scatter onto paved roads, onto twisting skyscrapers and satellite dishes yawning at the sky like giant hollowed clams. Your leaves will rain onto forests piling with refuse, onto thinning ice where the last northern bear scrabbles, claws digging into seawater, fur streaked silver in the midnight sun.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

The Palace of the Silver Dragon

Originally published in Strange Horizons.

 

Aliah stood on the cliff and listened to the song of the Silver Dragon. It combed reverberating notes through her skull, wrapped around her like a net of pearls pulling her closer to the waves. A deceptively simple melody, but that voice… it sang with the longing and depth and ancient promises of the sea.

Aliah stepped toward the cliff’s edge, toward the crashing waves which beat a weak percussion beneath the Silver Dragon’s song. She imagined the West Sea spraying across her face, imagined its salt on her tongue. But the sea lay far below, and what she tasted were only her tears. The last time she’d cried… When her mother left? When her brother hurled himself into these waves? Her tears hadn’t been for them—just herself, as they were now. Selfish, her father had called her. He was right. And he was probably burning to ash right now along with everything they owned. Aliah could still smell the smoke, still taste the fire.

The wind blew back her dark hair, which was gathered in a green ribbon once worn by her mother. The Silver Dragon’s song called to the abandoned, the broken. It had called to her brother, and though Aliah wasn’t broken, not the way he was, she didn’t hesitate to throw herself from the cliff.

Falling, arms outstretched, wash-softened hemp robes billowing, she must have looked like the subject of her mother’s masterpiece, Maiden Enchanted by the Silver Dragon. She just lacked the panicked father in the background, racing over too late to stop his daughter from jumping.

She hit the water. The impact rattled her bones, threatening to turn her into more jumbled pieces, more white foam upon the sea. Saltwater pooled inside her nose, sloshed around her mouth. At first sunlight stretched trembling fingers beneath the waves, but soon she sank below where the sun could reach. Her body shivered but her lungs burned, as if she and not her father were the one choking on smoke. Bubbles burst from her lips. The Silver Dragon’s song enfolded her, dragging her deeper.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Glass Gardens

Originally appeared in Cast of Wonders.

 

I was the eldest daughter, so I knew I was doomed.

The youngest marries the prince. The youngest saves the kingdom. The youngest is immortalized in song. I told myself I didn’t mind missing those things. I didn’t want princes, or kingdoms, or songs. I was happy being the wicked one.

If only I knew a single story—just one—where the wicked sister won.

#

The glass garden is my masterpiece, and there’s not a soul in the world I can show it to.

Bending close, I begin cutting feathers into the ugly duckling. He’s smoke-grey and minuscule and awkward, but in glass he’s beautiful. No, that’s not right; that’s the way they see things. He simply looks the way he’s supposed to. Unchanging. Captured in glass, this ugly duckling will never turn into a beautiful swan.

He’s the latest addition. Behind him looms the tower, where an old woman stands. Her hair is snowy white, her beauty faded like ink left in the sun. Beneath the tower a dashing young man rides a rearing stallion. I’d carved for two days non-stop to capture his expression of disbelief and anguish. By the end, my eyes were sore and my hands shaking from handling the delicate glass for so long. It never cut me, of course. I simply feared I’d crush it beneath my frustrated fingers.

It was worth it though. Every time I see the man’s expression, I laugh.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Fall from the Heavens

Originally appeared in On Spec.

 

He had the wings of a bat and the hands of a dead man. His skin stretched so tight that every bone was visible. Would it crack if I touched it? Awari wondered. What lay beneath couldn’t be much worse. He probably didn’t even bleed.

He turned, perhaps hearing the rocks she’d dislodged to alert him. His wings dragged across the ground like shadows grown tangible. His eyes were washed-up glass—sharp once, before time had worn them away.

Awari leapt onto the plateau and drew her knife. His face grew clearer, more gruesome. They hadn’t lied. This close, familiar features emerged from the aged parchment skin. It was him: the man, the Ascendant, the fallen god who’d destroyed her world. She expected all her rage to pour back in that moment. But all she felt was relief. Finally, finally she’d found him.

“You are Nazirel,” she said.

His mouth opened but no sound came out.

“I am Awari. You know why I’m here.”

He stared at her, expressionless. Her anger finally rose, a monster tossing beneath barely peaceful waves. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

It would be so effortless to hurl her knife, to nail it to his forehead, to avenge the world lost in the Third Cataclysm—her world. And yet… It’s too easy. It’s not enough. She shook with rage while Nazirel just stood there, motionless and impassive as the rock beneath their feet.

No. She’d waited five thousand years to do this, and she would do it right. She refused to kill a dumb and defenceless Nazirel. She’d make him remember, and repent, and plead. Then she’d laugh at him and batter him to the ground and stick her knives into him, over and over.

Awari pressed her knife close to his neck. Not touching, not yet, because then she wouldn’t be able to stop. “You’re coming with me,” she said. “And you’ll live, until you remember.”

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Blood and Desert Dreams

Originally appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

 

I cut myself on kitchen duty when I was five. Blood welled from my index finger and flowed over the lines of my palm, like a miniature reproduction of the Arashka Delta.

Nancea, the kitchen mistress, rushed over. “Let me take a look at that, Kahna. Moons, I’ve been telling Lady Darya not to assign you to kitchen duty yet. Here.”

She held a handkerchief to the wound. Crimson battled snowy white and won, my blood soaking through the cloth. A single smudge brushed over Nancea’s hand.

One heartbeat. Five heartbeats. Twenty heartbeats.

She fell backwards, her breathing stopped. She was my first kill–probably. I couldn’t remember any others.

I stood there, hands limp, the handkerchief falling to the ground. One of the serving boys rushed over to see what was wrong. As he knelt over Nancea’s prone form, his bare shin must’ve brushed against the bloody handkerchief. Because not long after, he too fell over dead.

At this point, the servants realized something was very, very wrong and dared not draw near. Someone, or maybe several someones, rushed off to find Lady Darya. I was left with two corpses, the scarlet-and-ivory handkerchief, and a bloody hand that barely hurt.

A sharp blade meant little pain. That was my first lesson.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Little Inn on the Jianghu

Originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

 

It starts in an inn.

It always starts in an inn. Or winds up there somehow.

It, I say. Better term: they, those jianghu heroes.

Another day on the job. Bustling around tables with an already soiled rag. Bringing rice and bean curd for those who can afford it. Proffering wine in delicate porcelain pitchers. Why did I buy those pitchers again? Probably ’cause all the other inns have them, no matter how much they cost or how often they break.

Some guests use the tiny porcelain cups. Some drink directly from the pitcher snout. Those you gotta watch out for, ’cause they anger quick and tend to know drunken fist.

I’m clearing away the rightmost table, balancing half a dozen plates on one arm, when the doors bang open.

Chaos stands in the doorway. You know the type. Long, unkempt hair. A chain of beads shaped ominously like miniature skulls swinging from his neck. Curved broadsword in a hand missing its smallest finger.

“Li Xilan!” he calls. “I’ve found you, you bastard!”

I don’t know who Li Xilan is and don’t stick around long enough to find out. I dive behind the counter, cradling my precious plates to my chest. They make a soupy mess down the front of my shirt. It’ll be a pain to wash, but replacing the plates would cost even more.

A crash sounds from the table by the left window. You know, the table with the scowling man in pine-green robes and a tiger-pelt vest; the sly-faced fellow who drank directly from the pitcher snout; and the woman with one side of her hair woven like a basket and the other side cascading like the world’s messiest waterfall.

I hear the hiss of swords being drawn. The whoosh of someone—probably the loudmouth hero by the door—leaping into the air with their qinggong. Blades clash, amidst shouts of “Where is my father?” and “Give me the scroll!”

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

My Mirror, My Opposite

Originally appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

 

The song begins like this: “Once there was a fishgirl who sacrificed her heart and life and voice for a prince, and her reward was a path to heaven.”

All those stories, about fishgirls yearning for legs… Are human storytellers really so arrogant, believing we are the only enviable ones?

Let’s clear up one thing: that night, the storm didn’t hurl me into the sea.

#

Ever since I was little, my feet itched. Not from sores or mosquito bites or whatever other people’s feet itch from. Merely from existing, from being mine. It was mild enough that few people noticed. I could walk. I learned to ride, like all princes did. I could even sit still during rhetoric lessons.

Once, when I was six, the itch grew unbearable before a state dinner. Nan told Father I was ill, and the dinner went ahead without me. Father ordered the whipmaster to beat me afterward. That was Father’s best quality: he never found me a whipping boy or any other sort of playmate, so I endured all the punishments myself.

The fishgirl in the song couldn’t gaze upon what she desired until she turned fifteen, but I’d been watching the sea for as long as I could remember. I’d sit on the sand and stretch my toes into the water, while Nan gripped both my arms to keep me from going further. When I did this, the itch went away. So each night before bed I asked for a bucket of seawater. I’d soak my feet in it until it soothed me enough to make sleep possible. The servants looked at me strangely, but my request was hardly burdensome.

Father hated the sea. A shame, really, when our palace lay so close to it. How easy it would be to paint my mother as his opposite, to say she loved the sea, that she walked down the sand with me, our hands intertwined and our sandals discarded. That she told me stories of the Sea King’s palace and his fishgirl daughters and the youngest, prettiest princess, who built a garden of sun-red flowers for the statue of a handsome boy. But in truth, the only stories I had were ones I dug out of the library myself. I never knew my mother. Official records said she took ill and died. Nan told me she’d fled, escaping Father’s clutches and returning to Sun Isle. Sometimes, after I made a particularly grave mistake, Father would lean over my whip-split body and whisper, “Do that again and I’ll kill you, like I killed your mother.” I didn’t know if I should have believed him. You never knew with Father, whether he was telling the truth or trying to scare you.

I wasn’t a demanding child. I wanted to be excused from state dinners. I wanted to avoid the whipmaster and Father, though not in that order. And sometimes, when I stood on tiptoes and peered through my bedroom window at the water, I wanted the sea to sweep past rock and sand and reach where I stood, to drown my world in blue and carry me away on its waves.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

The Girl with the Frozen Heart

Originally appeared in The Book Smugglers.

 

She was dying when the god of winter found her.

She stumbled through the snowdrift, one hand pressed to her chest. Blood dripped between her fingers, mingling with the heavy white snowflakes. She had snapped off the arrow’s shaft, but its tip remained embedded in her heart.

She managed three more steps. Three steps into wind and emptiness. Three steps from the bodies, Vilocet and Casenna alike. Then her legs finally collapsed and she fell forward, one more body in the snow. Her blood pooled around her, marking her grave, if only for a few hours—soon, the snow would bury every trace of her.

Then she heard his voice. A voice like snapping branches and tortured wind. A voice foreign to her, but one she had no trouble placing. She’d seen those wreaths on the doors of the Casenna villages, heard the songs they sang: folk songs, drinking ditties, but most of all, hymns that praised him and begged for his mercy.

“Why did you come this far,” the god of winter asked, “for someone who abandoned you?”

The girl drew a ragged breath. Coughed. “She was my mother.”

Her tears froze in the wind. She reached forward, clawing for something that was not there.

“Do you want to live?” the god of winter asked.

Yes. Yes.

But the girl was no fool. She knew the old tales of the god of winter. “I don’t need anything from you,” she gasped.

“But I want you to live.”

The truth. For in that moment the god of winter pitied her, this human who travelled so far searching for a mother who never loved her. His pity reined in the snowstorm, quieting the winds just a little.

He descended toward her on wings of ice. Cupped her face in his ancient hands and tried to breathe life back into her. But his breath was cold and only pushed her further into death. He tried to pluck the arrowhead from her chest and close the wound, but her skin shrivelled and blackened at his touch. He was the god of winter, destined to take life and not to give it back.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Bride of the Blue Manor

Originally appeared in Shattering the Glass Slipper.

 

I wanted to be a great ironthorn, like my ancestor Lady Naoma.

Eventually, this matters.

* * *

I stepped down from the carriage, dragging the hem of this ridiculous Alusian dress. My slippers hit the courtyard of the blue manor. Turning back to the carriage—painted with the crossed swords of House Wenri—I waved to my coachman. Then I hefted the suitcase containing my marriage papers and faced my new life.

Garlands festooned the courtyard. My husband stood by the doors, hair like sun-dappled wheat, skin like burnished bronze, eyes as blue as the stone of his manor. So different from anyone back in Kokien.

Those eyes widened when they saw me, as if he’d seen a ghost. Then, I thought he marvelled at my coal-dark hair, my birch-white skin. Now, I know his initial shock stemmed from something else.

I should have been the one gawking. My husband still possessed the smooth skin and careless beauty of a man in his twenties—when, in truth, I was his fourth wife, and he was nearing fifty.

But I’d heard the rumours. Father had permitted me to arm myself with knowledge. And in the end, I’d been the one to accept this marriage.

My husband’s features shifted back into pleasant neutrality. Extending a hand, he said, “Lady Asha, it is good to meet you at last.” Poisoned honey laced his voice, sweet and dangerous.

I took his hand. “Lord Regeus.”

Hidden beneath the bodice of my gown, the cold, hard weight of a knife pressed against my sternum. I was, after all, my father’s daughter.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

The Laughing Knight and the King of Ink: A Tragicomedy in 2.5 Parts

Original story

 

Epilogue

Lancelot sobbed into Arthur’s discarded cloak. The king’s blood smelled like blade metal, and the rips in the wool champed at Lancelot’s fingers like an enraged griffin.

“Get up,” Bedivere said. “Arthur’s death is tragic enough without you wiping your snot all over his clothes.”

“I… I…” Lancelot threw his head back and howled. “It’s all my fault! You were the one who threw Excalibur into the lake, but it was all because of me!”

Bedivere spoke with infinite patience and nonexistent mercy. “Yes, Lancelot. This is your fault.”

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

The Mountains My Bones, the Rivers My Blood

Originally appeared in Beneath Ceaseless Skies.

 

The God of Ash met the youngest Champion in a field of bloody flowers.

The glass asters were stained crimson that day, nestled against the bodies of the Pearl Guard. They should’ve been the palest blue, petals nearly transparent in full bloom.

The Champion turned, blood dripping from his blades to pool around his boots. He was young, so young, barely past his twentieth year. The God of Ash couldn’t decide which shone brighter: the cheery sun above or the young man’s blue eyes.

The man’s lips stretched into a smile. “Caenlux,” he said, his voice filled with wonder, “the God of Ash. Finally.”

The god wore his mortal guise: brown robe, folded fan, the unlined face of a young man. The guise of an artisan who also indulged in amateur scholarly pursuits. His appearance hadn’t fooled the boy, it seemed.

The God of Ash stepped onto the field, weaving around the bodies. “I am called Shun now. What quarrel do you have with my Pearl Guard?”

“None.” He spun his blades around, whipping off the blood. “I would’ve left them alone if you’d shown up sooner.”

Shun closed his eyes. He thought back to the Endless War, the gods he’d slain. He thought of Mika, her body melting away as he set her down in the Lieri River. He thought back to the guises he’d worn, human and beast. He wished to tell this foolish young warrior that he didn’t much like being the God of Ash at that moment, hence why he’d arrived so late. But this stranger wouldn’t care.

He expected an attack. None came.

When he opened his eyes, the boy was standing in the same spot, like a stubborn dream that refused to drift away. “My name is Armind,” he said. “I am a Champion of Kohanna, the Goddess of Clay. She wants me to deliver this message: surrender this world or perish.”

If only I could. “The mountains of this land are my bones, and the rivers my blood. So long as I exist, this world shall belong to no other.”

Armind’s eyes gleamed. He resembled a hawk ready to dive for prey. “That,” he said, “was the message from the Goddess of Clay. My message is this: I’ve waited too long to let you surrender without a fight.”

Before Shun could ask what he’d meant, Armind rushed at him in a blur of silvery blades. The God of Ash sighed and unfurled his fan.

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

Lace, Comb, Apple

Originally appeared in The Dark.

 

There was nothing here but swirling grey fog, and me. The laces around my waist were cinched so tight I could hardly breathe. A comb threaded through my hair, and in my hands I held an apple.

For the longest time I sat in the haze, listening to silence.

Then, footsteps. Your face swam into view, all golden hair and emerald eyes. You spoke:

“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,

Who is the fairest of them all?”

And because you were the first person I’d ever seen, I said, “You, my lady.”

~~~~~~~.~~~~~~~

The Lady of Butterflies

Originally appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

 

So here I was, First Sword of the Kejalin Empire, serving as a glorified playmate for this strange northern woman.

“Do you know, Lady Rikara,” she said one morning, “how caterpillars become butterflies?”

We strolled along the wooden walkway above the Oasis Pond. Koi fish flashed white-scarlet-gold beneath the late-summer sun.

“It’s not a simple matter of growing wings,” she said. “A curious man once poked open a chrysalis, and out spilled green and white liquid. The caterpillar’s tissues had melted, disintegrated—but from that broth eventually emerges a butterfly.” She stopped walking and turned to face me. “It’s enough to wonder, is it still the same creature? Everything about it has changed: its senses, its diet, its body. And yet…people say the butterfly still dreams of being a caterpillar.”

 

 

 

“Lace, Comb, Apple” – Spanish Translation and Interview

My short story “Lace, Comb, Apple”, originally published in The Dark, has been translated into Spanish by Voces de lo insólito. Huge thanks to Aitana Vega Casiano and Carla B. Estruch for the translation!

Alongside the translation, I also had the opportunity to conduct an interview. The Spanish version of the interview is available on the Voces de lo insólito Patreon. I have included the English version below:

 

What was the inspiration for Lace, Comb, Apple?

It was August 16, 2020. For a dream-like six months, I lived in a small town in rural Ontario. Back in Toronto—my once and future home—the Toronto Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers was hosting our annual one-shot anthology challenge: a day when writers are asked to complete a short story within 24 hours, to be compiled in a themed anthology.

The theme that year was Outsiders. My temporary absence from Toronto—my own status as an outsider, if you will—posed no challenge at all. The global pandemic had swept many in-person activities onto the shores of the internet. For the first time, our one-shot anthology had gone fully virtual.

And the theme? When I heard the word Outsiders, my thoughts immediately strayed to the mirror in Snow White. The world behind a mirror is, in some ways, another universe. Who was this mirror? Who were they to judge, regarding the fairest woman of the land? And if they were capable of passing judgement, surely they had other thoughts, emotions, desires. So how did they feel about being only a mirror, of having only a singular portal into the queen’s world?

In the end, I never published “Lace, Comb, Apple” in the Outsiders anthology. I wrote a second story that day (still within the 24-hour limit), called “The Last Leviathan,” which was included in Outsiders. For “Lace, Comb, Apple,” I decided to take a little more time with it, to polish it into its final form, which is the one that was published in The Dark.

 

Fairytales are originally dark, despite Disney’s efforts to convince us of the opposite. Are there any other classic stories that you would like to give a new twist?

I would like to give Sleeping Beauty another go. I tried to write a retelling a few years ago, but it grew into a novel-length monster sitting at the crossroads of three different genres—not at all the short story I set out to write. Perhaps I’ll try again from a different angle. Or perhaps I will finish the triple-genre novel.

Another thing I want to work on would be retellings of eastern legends, mythology, and folk tales—something outside of the classic western fairy tales (as much as I enjoy them!).

 

Nowadays, retellings are everywhere. Why do you feel classic fairy tales attract contemporary writers so much?

I think it’s the combination of the familiar with the strange. The shape of the original fairy tale is familiar to us, while the retelling adds in something different: a fresh perspective, a deeper or different exploration of a character, or even just bringing out little-known parts of the original fairy tale (e.g. some of the darker and more gruesome parts that are sanitized in adaptations).

 

Are you working on something right now? Are there any new stories coming out soon?

I am working on two fantasy novels: one is court drama meets revenge tale, and another is a coming-of-age story set in the same universe as two of my short stories (“The Lady of Butterflies” and “Dress of Ash”).

I still write short stories in between working on the novels. I don’t have any current announcements, but I hope to have something soon!

 

What have you been reading, watching, listening to recently? Something interesting to recommend to our readers?

I’ve been listening to a lot of audiobooks lately; they keep me company on my commute to work.

In terms of a recommendation: for anyone who enjoyed “Lace, Comb, Apple” and would like to read another Snow White retelling, I recommend Girls Made of Snow and Glass by Melissa Bashardoust. It is an engaging novel filled with both heartwarming moments and painful ones, centred around the strong bond between two women—and how that bond is challenged amidst tragedy.

Year in Review & Award Eligibility 2018

Nothing like good ol’ paper.
Alternate heading: I have 2 seconds before The Razor’s Edge falls over. 0.5 seconds before F&SF follows suit.

2018 was a dreamily wonderful year for me in terms of publication. So dreamy, in fact, that I’m apparently still asleep. Hence why I’m writing this now when everyone else has made their award eligibility posts a month ago.

But nominations are still open for the major SF/F awards. So I’ve listed my 2018 publications below, aided by attempts at pithy, funny summaries. Attempts, I say, because this might get long and not so pithy. If brevity is the soul of wit, then I have none of it. Sorry, Shakes.

Some of the awards I’m eligible for include:

  • The Hugo Awards: Nominations are open until March 16 at 11:59 Pacific Daylight Time. Nominating can be done by current Worldcon members, members of last year’s Worldcon, or members of next year’s Worldcon.
  • The Nebula Awards: Nominations are open until February 15 for Active and Associate members of SFWA (Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America).
  • The Aurora Awards: For the best Canadian SF/F of the year. Nominations are open from March 1 to May 21. Members of the
    Canadian Science Fiction & Fantasy Association are allowed to nominate and vote.
  • I’m also in my first year of eligibility for the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer. It is not technically a Hugo, but it follows the same nomination and voting process. Nominations are open until March 15 at 11:59 Pacific Daylight Time.

And here are the individual stories I’ve published this year, and what they are eligible for. Stories marked with a * are available to read for free.

Eligible for Best Short Story (Hugo Awards and Nebula Awards):

*“The Mooncakes of My Childhood” (330 words) in PodCastle. A short piece on the rock-hard, northern version of mooncakes, and how they could be weaponized.

“A Place Without Seasons” (1,370 words) in Factor Four Magazine. Sentient snowbunnies can stick around after winter rather than going the way of Frosty the Snowman… if you stick them in the freezer, of course.

*“Subtle Ways Each Time” (2,100 words) in Escape Pod. A man loses a woman, and decides time travel is the solution. He might be wrong.

“Final Flight of the PhoenixWing” (3,760 words) in The Razor’s Edge. Gundam, but with time dilation and an old lady protagonist.

*“Glass Heart Giant” (3,850 words) in Sanctuary. What if you were trapped inside someone’s literal heart? Written in a day.

Eligible for Best Novelette (Hugo Awards and Nebula Awards):

*“The Palace of the Silver Dragon” (7,820 words) in Strange Horizons. No one who hears the Silver Dragon’s song and jumps into the sea ever returns alive. Aliah knows this, as she takes the leap.

*“The Girl with the Frozen Heart” (8,300 words) in Awakenings from Book Smugglers Publishing. The story of a dying girl, a god who tries to save her, and a boy who falls in love with her.

“The Lady of Butterflies” (8,970 words) in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. A foreign girl with no memories appears in the Kejalin court, and the First Sword of the Empire is forced to be her caretaker.

All the above stories are also eligible for the Aurora Award for Best Short Fiction.

I’ve also published two poems, which are eligible for the Rhysling Award (nominations by members of the Science Fiction Poetry Association) and the Aurora Award for Best Poem or Song.

*“The Cosmos Chronicler” in Polar Borealis #6. Astronomy-inspired freeverse.

*“Death’s Knotted Circle” in Polar Borealis #8. Iambic pentametre published in 2018. About as gloomy as the title suggests.

Concluding Thoughts: I’m quite proud of the amount of stories I’ve published this year. Less proud of my inability to blog consistently, and to write my detailed thoughts about every story (as I’ve promised).

I’m still in the wide-eyed honeymoon phase of publishing, so I read reviews. They have been quite positive and even heartwarming (I am writing that down here, so that one day, buried beneath scathing reviews, I can look back and laugh at myself. That’s when I’ll know I’ll have become a “real writer”). “The Lady of Butterflies” and “The Palace of the Silver Dragon,” in particular, have garnered a number of positive reviews (which I, of course, retweeted gleefully). Those two happen to be my personal favourites as well. “The Lady of Butterflies” is more classic secondary-world fantasy, and I planned it out scene by scene, while “The Palace of the Silver Dragon” is darker and I myself took half the story to figure out the main character’s actual deal.

For anyone who read anything I published this year, I would love to hear your thoughts below, positive or negative.

Current Projects: I have two stories and a poem forthcoming in 2019. One will be in Clarkesworld, and the other two I cannot announce yet.

I am also slogging through the third act of a fantasy time travel novel set in the same world as “The Lady of Butterflies.” I’ve finally restarted development on a visual novel I wrote three years ago; I thought I was done the writing part, but apparently three-year-old prose is kinda yucky, who would’ve thought? I am still working on short stories, though more in terms of editing existing ones rather than writing new ones. For now, at least.

This was supposed to be an awards eligibility post. It seems to have veered off-track. Attempt #8923476 at being pithy. Result: not achieved.

“The Lady of Butterflies” in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

My contributor’s copy of F&SF. Underneath: letters holding… you guessed it, my old paper rejection letters before electronic submissions were a thing.

Today marks the release of the November/December 2018 issue of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. This is not particularly special, as F&SF has been going strong since 1949. But it is special to me, as my story “The Lady of Butterflies” is featured in this issue. Reviews are coming in, including this one from Tangent which gave “The Lady of Butterflies” a recommended rating.

(They say not to read reviews, but I’m still in the honeymoon period where any review delights me, good or bad.)

Everything you need to know about the issue, including how to buy it, can be found on F&SF‘s Editor’s Note. If you live in the US, you can find the issue in most Barnes & Noble stores. If you’re based outside the US, you can buy the issue from F&SF‘s website, or get a digital copy via Amazon or Weightless Books.

I’ve already waxed lyrical about what this means to me over on another post. In short, it’s my dream market. Back in high school, I mailed paper subs to F&SF, stuffing pricey International Reply Coupons into the envelopes.

About the most interesting part of the submission process was the long (but understandable) wait, during which I penned a bemused poem about response times. (Is there a more writerly way to vent frustration?) After 200+ days, I saw the acceptance while committing a minor student felony: checking my email during class.

The Story’s Inspiration: Malls, Butterflies, and Reusable Empires

It’s early January 2017. I walk through the poshest mall in Toronto; I have a seasonal job there, though the commute takes me an hour and a half. I write on the subway rides, and that winter I finish “The Palace of the Silver Dragon,” a story I’ll eventually sell to Strange Horizons.

In that mall corridor an image comes to me: a woman, her body disintegrating into butterflies. She mouths six words: “You think you can save me?”

Those words never make it into the story, but that’s not the point.

A few weeks later, I watch a video about how caterpillars become butterflies. I’ll leave the description to Morieth, the titular “Lady of Butterflies”:

“It’s not a simple matter of growing wings. A curious man once poked open a chrysalis, and out spilled green and white liquid. The caterpillar’s tissues had melted, disintegrated—but from that broth eventually emerges a butterfly.”

The plot begins to form. As it does, I realize the conflicts, atmosphere, and imagery of the story fit quite well with a pre-existing land I’ve built: the Empire of Keja, home to a powerful warrior class called the Swordbearers. I initially crafted this world for an incredibly complicated visual novel that is nowhere near completion, but realized it serves as the perfect setting for “The Lady of Butterflies.”

An image, a piece of science, a pre-built world. I guess this is what many writers would call combining different ideas. This is unusual for me, as most of my ideas come to me whole, plot-first, often with built-in ending.

What did you think about the issue, and the story? I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments or on Twitter!

Storming the EA podcasts!

You’ve heard of the EA podcasts–

Wait, you haven’t? Escape Artists (EA) is a publishing company that operates four fiction podcasts. They have a sizable audience, are an SFWA-qualified venue, and provide a great way to experience fiction amidst busy modern life (I tend to listen to them on the subway; if you follow me on Twitter, you’ve probably seen me give shout-outs to particular episodes I’ve enjoyed). Their podcasts are:

Alright, so you’re wondering why I’m posting about this now. Well, because…

I have not one, but two stories coming out with the EA podcasts!

  • “Subtle Ways Each Time” will be appearing in Escape Pod.
  • “The Mooncakes of My Childhood” will be appearing in PodCastle.

Escape Pod and PodCastle have top-notch narration, so I’m excited for the audio versions of these stories. The EA podcasts publish both originals and reprints; in this case, neither of these stories have been published before. When released, they will be available for free on their respective podcast websites, to both read and listen to (EA is donation-supported).

It is an honour for my stories to be selected. Hopefully I will be able to storm a couple more EA podcasts in the future, if they don’t slam their shutters on me quick enough.

“The Cosmos Chronicler” out now in Polar Borealis

Polar Borealis #6 available now! (Art by Jean-Pierre Normand)

My SFF poem “The Cosmos Chronicler” is out now in Polar Borealis #6 (April/May 2018 issue). This is, to sound all pretentious, my first piece of published creative writing. (Seriously, never even published in a school journal before.) Issue #6 is available as a free PDF download. And you can find all Polar Borealis issues here.

When I wrote it during undergrad, “The Cosmos Chronicler” started as a rhyming poem. My alma mater offered two astronomy classes for math-challenged art students: one about the sun and solar system, the other about galaxies and the universe. Being a big dreamer, a fantasy writer, and–most importantly–a full-time student who must consider how courses fit into her schedule, I chose the latter.

I discovered my poem actually aligned nicely with some images and concepts from astronomy. And to squeeze them in, I would not be able to keep the rhyme scheme. So I rewrote the poem as freeverse. I didn’t submit it anywhere though–back then I only submitted short stories. Though I’ve been writing poetry since forever, I only recently started submitting it. Thankfully, this poem found a home.

A cursory look through the Polar Borealis website will tell you that editor R. Graeme Cameron is very passionate about promoting new Canadian authors of science fiction and fantasy. If you like the magazine, the issue, or the stories or poems in the other issues, you can donate to Polar Borealis to contribute to future issues. Graeme explains it much better there than I can possibly do here.

Finally, before I end this too-long-for-a-short-poem blog post: I want to give a shout-out to Lena Ng, my friend, writing group buddy, and sparring-partner-in-vicious-critique. She has a story in the same issue, and I highly recommend it. It’s called “Kittens Crawling.” Sounds adorable, doesn’t it…?

 

I sold a story to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction

I sold a story to The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I celebrated by taking a picture of some issues on a mooncake box.

I wanted to write a proper blog post about this. A post stitched up in gold silk. A post arranged carefully as ikebana. But screw it, I need to stop fiddling with the announcement and just go ahead with celebrations. Because:

I sold a story to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

I repeat: I sold a story to The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction.

I sold a story to The Magazine—okay, I’ll stop now. Because even amateur writers know lists should come in three’s, and cutting off before the end isn’t such a bad idea. You’re supposed to leave ’em wanting more, right?

Back on track, back on track… I hardly need to say that The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction is special. It is the grande dame of the SF/F field. It has been—and continues to be—one of the most influential magazines around. It was the original publisher for stories like Daniel Keyes’s “Flowers for Algernon” and Stephen King’s The Gunslinger (extra special to me because The Dark Tower is one of my favourites series). And it is one of the few magazines that continues to publish in print, which means something to members of the Dead Tree Worshipper Society like myself.

I’ve dreamed of being published in it ever since I figured out I wrote fantasy. (That did take an embarrassingly long time—I was about to start high school. “Fantasy” wasn’t a genre my household–it was just part of the culture and stories). I made my first submission to Fantasy & Science Fiction in 2009, back when I was a teenager and submissions were snail mail. I wrangled with International Reply Coupons. I received rejections letters from John Joseph Adams (of Lightspeed fame—he was assistant editor of F&SF at the time); I still keep those letters. None of my stories made it up to Gordon Van Gelder, which—considering the state of my writing back then—was probably a blessing for both his sanity and mine.

I made four submissions in 2009 and 2010. Life blew up in my face soon after, and I did not make another submission until 2016. By then F&SF had a new editor in C.C. Finlay and an online submissions system. In total, I made eight submissions to F&SF before receiving an acceptance for my ninth one. I know I am not exceptional in this regard. Many authors—more experienced, prolific authors—have received many more rejections than I have.

But for any writers reading this right now: Please do not give up after three or four submissions. Please remember that, for all the big names and iconic stories F&SF has published, there is still room in its pages for new writers. At the time I submitted my story, I had no credentials whatsoever.

For any readers out there: I hope you will subscribe to F&SF (and here’s the digital option for those not part of the Dead Tree Worshipper Society). Not just because my story will be appearing there, and I darn well want you to read it! But because it is an important magazine, and within its pages you will find a great stories from both big names and new writers.

Oh, and my story? It is a fantasy novelette called “The Lady of Butterflies.” It’s set in a fantasy world that I’m currently writing a novel within—but that, as they say, is a tale for another day…