everything is okay, i promise

So there's a story I've been trying to tell for a while now. It happened in August, when everything was going wrong, when I was wandering home from a late-night jaunt to take care of some business. What it was is hardly important, except that I was dreading everything that was to come almost as much as I hated everything that had come before.

It doesn't matter. The point is, I took a wrong turn on the way home.

Maybe wrong isn't the word. It was a weird turn, and if I hadn't I would never have seen the woman sitting on the ground with her bike. I try to stop to help people when I think I might be able to, so I slowed down and gave her a concerned look. Before I could ask if everything was okay, though, she spoke.

"It's okay. Everything is okay. I promise."

I wished her a good night and kept going. I thought about it on the way home, but not a lot, because I had other things on my mind. Then I forgot, and was reminded again, and forgot again. And I realized that it's been a story for the New Year the whole time.

Sometimes you need someone to help you weather the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and sometimes, whether it's a warm night in a Seattle summer or a chilly New Year's Eve where the stars are burning bright, you can honestly promise the strangers passing by that everything is fine. Because she was more right about that than she probably realized: everything is okay. She was right then and she's right now. 

A toast, then, to strangers on the wayside, to old friends, and to everything finally being okay.

Happy 2016.


e and f, pt. 2

When E told me I should keep a journal of our adventures I told her it was a terrible idea, but it's actually kind of nice to get the thoughts out on paper. ("You're better at that sort of thing than me," she said. "You'll thank me for the suggestion later." How little she knows.) It was one of those "right after a storm" types of days, which gives you all the atmospheric benefits of rain without actually getting wet or impairing visibility. So after another hour or two of driving, we finally reached the trailhead. There's no one out this time of year, especially given the weather lately, so we could enjoy the moodiness uninterrupted.

We found an abandoned ranger station (or something like that) just as we were trying to find a campsite, so we decided we'd stop here. Apart from a basic "is it going to collapse while we're asleep" inspection we haven't really checked it out yet. E's getting dinner ready and I'm just relaxing. It's nice to not have to worry about anything. (Well, except for the bit where I inevitably find out I forgot to bring something important because Past Fiona is a dick, but that only happens when you're several days hike out. It's still only a few hours back to the car.)

E doesn't seem that interested in exploring, because the whole point of this was to get away from signs of humanity's continued existence, but I think after dinner I'm going to poke around. You never know what you might find.


e and f, pt. 1

At some point in September, Erin talked me into going backpacking on November 1st. "Come on, Fiona, it'll be fun!" "Sure, yeah, okay," I said, because hadn't I just been complaining about how I didn't get out of the city enough this summer? And I could always just tone it down on Halloween, right? And if I didn't, the inevitable hangover and self-loathing was Future Fiona's problem.

Except Future Fiona is me now. When I invent a time machine I'm going back to give Past Fiona a piece of my mind.

At least I remembered to pack in advance. I mean, I didn't change out of my costume or set an alarm to wake up before Erin busted into my room at 6 am and told me we were half an hour late, so I was hustled into the car without breakfast, a shower, or a chance to change into something that wasn't absurd. I was still a little drunk, and all I wanted in the world was to sleep for another hour or twenty. The worst part is I know Erin was drinking more than was wise last night, too, but she's one of those people who "doesn't get hangovers." She's worse than Past Fiona most days.

Today was just driving, and even though Past Fiona promised to drive part of the way, I spent most of the first half of the trip asleep in the backseat, and when we'd eaten and I volunteered to drive, E just told me she didn't mind. Which is fine by me. I hate driving in storms.

Did I mention the storm? It's been nothing but howling wind and driving rain since we left Seattle. We even got some snow on SR 20, which I wasn't expecting. When I mentioned that maybe driving across a winding mountain pass in a snowstorm was a bad idea, Erin just said, "You worry too much, F. It's going to be fine."

We're staying at some lodge in one of those themed towns in the mountains. E insisted on keeping the window open so we can hear the river, which is in flood, and the roar is keeping me awake. She's out like a light, of course.

I'm sure tomorrow will be better. It's like they always say: it's not an adventure if it doesn't have a terrible start. Maybe that was Past Fiona's plan all along.



I wrote this one a while ago but never shared it, for some reason. It's called Blank.


it had to be swamps

Another fantasy short story. This one's been done for a few months but I was sitting on it in case the urge came upon me to submit it to magazines. It did not.

It's called "It Had to be Swamps."


editorial freedom

The Gawker scandal going around (I won't link it here; it's vile) inspired me to start a new story. It's not finished yet, but I'm really pleased with the opening paragraph, so sharing it here.

In the endless war for clicks, there are three factions. There’s the corporate-owned propaganda machines, of course, who don’t have to try to push the shit they’re selling—every device that’s ever been anywhere near a corporation has a backdoor installed. You can avoid corporate news if you don't mind being a weird recluse. Then there’s the endlessly anodyne content mills with more algorithms than real people on staff. And finally, there’s the real journalists. You know the sort: cutthroat, nothing is sacred, burn-your-life-to-the-ground types. The last true independents. If you so much as smile at a corporate employee, you’re a valid target. You don’t want to cross them, but if you need to learn someone's secrets, that’s where you turn. They stockpile secrets like weapons. 


kindness couldn't save them

Another new cyberpunk story for you. This one's called "Kindness Couldn't Save Them." (The title is from here.)


that fucking guy

So there's this kid I know whose name in my cell phone is just "that fucking guy." I've known him for years, always stop in to see him whenever I'm passing through Chicago, and I don't actually remember what his real name is. I guess "kid" isn't a very accurate word anymore, either, but since I don't know his name that's what I call him to his face. We've both put a few miles on our shoes since we first met, young, dumb, and restless.

I've started doing this thing where, every time I see him, I imagine we're living in a story I'm writing. It's different every time. Sometimes he gets to be the author insert character, and sometimes I play that role myself. I don't know if he knows--probably not. That's why I have him in my phone as "that fucking guy," really. Together, him unknowing and me unwilling, we act out my fictions. I've tried not to, really. But I just slip into some new character, and then it's not me making the decisions anymore, but whatever skin I've slipped into.

So, the last time I saw him, this winter, I realized he doesn't know my name, either. It's been years. And now I wonder if it's the same with him, if every time we meet it's not just this elaborate dance of pretending to be someone else, each of so deep in the lie we don't dare to stop and question this false reality we've created.



Another cyberpunk story! I started this one while Boston was getting the worst winter ever, and, of course, finished it on a beautiful spring day. It's called "Whiteout."


the man with no heaven

I've written another short story. It's a completely new fantasy world that I felt compelled to create. It's called The Man with No Heaven.



A few years back we had a rat problem. Someone had left a bag of rice at ground level and one of them found it, so for the next several months they prowled the house for any available foodstuffs. My housemates and I were never very clean at the best of times, so even if we took efforts to lock our food away, they could always find crumbs.

So we set traps. We stomped and shouted. We tried various forms of bait. We proudly counted kills, thought of new places to set the traps. We tried new tricks. We looked things up online. And, quietly, we wondered if we'd have to move out, or hire an exterminator. Neither sounded appealing.

The internet told us that the key trick was to make sure there was nowhere the rats could get in, and in an old house like ours, with a basement that floods whenever it rains and too many windows, that seemed an impossible task. "You'll never kill them all," the internet promised. "If you've seen one, you've already got a whole colony." "You are fucked."

The quick and easy solution was always poison, but the internet warned us against that, too. They die slowly with poison. They wander off to their hiding places and die in the walls, and then you'll have the rotting corpse to deal with, until the flies pick it clean. So we tried to think of other solutions: can we borrow a cat? Can we try one of those anti-rat noisemaker devices that studies show don't actually work that well?

Another corpse for the pile: the trap worked, but it had killed a few before, so the rat got out and crawled across the room and died in a puddle of blood on the floor where I usually sit. Cleaning the blood off hardwood floors is harder than you'd think, and by the time I was done the room stank of rubbing alcohol.

I couldn't invite people over, and with every rat sighting I came to dread being home more and more. The rats were all I could think about. I'd check the traps, not so I could reset them, but so I could have the satisfaction of seeing that we'd killed another of them.

We never did find out why they disappeared. Maybe their food sources finally dried up. Maybe the neighbor's cat finally got them. I doubt we killed them all, though. It doesn't work like that.


four minutes, thirty-three seconds

I wrote another story. This one sort of follows after "Cadence." It's called "Four Minutes, Thirty-Three Seconds."



It's not like I learned that cyberpunk is a thing recently, or anything, but I'd never really written it before (except for a few stories on here that probably count, though I never really thought of them that way). I don't know why. It's pretty much made for me: an entire genre dedicated to ennui, social isolation, mistrust of technology and surveillance, and depersonalization. If that doesn't handily sum up my obsessions, I'm not sure what does.

The point is I wrote another story. This one is called Cadence.



I wrote another story. It's reminiscent of some things I've put on here about surveillance and the future, I guess. It's called "Erased," and it's here.



I wrote this one to submit to an anthology. It was apparently rejected, and I subsequently forgot to put it online to share. I quite liked it! Same fantasy universe as before. It's called "Balance."


bonne année ennui

It snowed last night while we were out. It was still snowing when I trudged back home, alone and more sober than I would have liked, and it kept snowing until the morning, when my sister dragged me out of bed at nine o'clock and took me to the little diner half a mile from the house.

Nobody was out, so the city still looked clean and new--a rare gift on New Year's Day. We were the only customers in the diner and the waitress told me we were the first ones she'd had all day, which was probably for the best. "I didn't even drink that much," I said, mostly for the benefit of my sister. "Why do I feel so gross?"

"Probably because you haven't showered all year."

"And because you woke me up at nine on New Year's Day. Why are we here?"

She didn't answer. Instead she stirred her coffee and asked, "Do you remember when we came here with a vegetarian who didn't know linguica was a sausage dish?"


"Good times."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"All right. You remember that guy who was always talking about the distinction between literature and stories that aren't proper literature, or whatever?"


"It doesn't have to mean anything to be beautiful. I see you, okay? Now it's your turn. Look. See." She pointed out the window with her spoon, dripping coffee on my napkin. "I wanted you to see something beautiful before we fuck it all up again."

"It still sounds like you're trying to impart meaning."

"That's what humans are for, dear sister," she said. "We see a series of coincidences happen on an arbitrary date and we say 'oh, that must mean something.' Meaning is a fiction we create. You're the writer. You should know that."

It's never that simple, of course, but she was probably right. More or less.