It was like any other morning: coffee, traffic, and dragons waiting in my office. Melvin, our CFO, a black-and silver dragon and fiercely proud of it.
He burst into my office, steam pouring out of his nostrils, “Did you see the reports?”
“Traffic or financials?”
“Traffic,”
“Online or road?”
“Online, pleeeaaassseee let me finish!!!”
I loved baiting him. He was excitable, and excitable dragons are dangerous.
“Okay, online reports. DragonLaire is under fire for trafficking of the dragon-born.”
I signaled for him to go on.
“Lucia, our biggest competitor is under fire for trafficking!”
“Trafficking of dragon-born is not illegal. I know, I failed that task.” The one thing I ever wanted was to protect the Dragon-born, especially after the death of my platonic soulmate. And I had failed. Which I just mentioned.
“Court of public opinion is what pays, Lucia. FireForge uses ethically-sourced dragon-born labor to produce magic. And if this trend continues, we would be the ONLY mainstream producer of magic in this solar system.”
I leaped to my feet and spilled my coffee. This was supposed to have been a huge victory. For me and the company. But the trafficking would be ramped up, the underground market just scored an even bigger victory.
“Ready the chopper Melvin. I need to see the Draco Coven. I need more magic than we can produce.”
“How will we pay for it? They don’t accept government-backed currencies!”
“I will pay for this. I failed to stop them once, I can’t lose a second time!”
Melvin chuckled to himself, tiny sparks emanating from his nostrils, “Are you sure you are not Loser Clan dragon-affiliated? You hoard losses like dragons hoard gold.”
She fell face first into her ex boyfriend’s wedding cake.
The snickering started and Isabelle wondered how long it would take her to fulfil her favorite Eddie Izzard sketch, “Death by cake it shall be!”
Hands grabbed at her, but her mouth was too full of cake to protest. Also, it was delicious. Chocolate mint with almonds. Derek’s favorite.
He was still painfully beautiful. And now even more so, with his ridiculous ascot and his curls slicked back into a facsimile of submission. In another life, that would have been her in a wedding dress, and not the woman with blue eyes shining with tears, and a mouth twisted with silent rage. Isabelle couldn’t blame tiny blond bride; she too would have been furious if she was tiny bride’s size 5 shoes.
Isabelle felt huge and cumbersome as she waddled out of the huge cake and jumped off the table. It used to be a massive sprawling castle but now it was in ruins. Like a real castle! She thought to herself. She felt something stab her breast, and sure enough, it was the tiny cutout of the groom.
“Not the first time I’ve been there.” He spoke through his teeth. She hated that about him, trying to inject humor when he was upset. He was rarely ever funny, though. “There are easier ways to get cake, you know!”
Tiny bride was in tears. Now she knew exactly who Isabelle was. And Derek was making jokes about her breasts. The guests guffawed. The two women were polar opposites, Derek’s bride was slender and dwarfed by the towering cake, her gentle curves exaggerated by the white mermaid-cut dress. Isabelle stood nearly a whole foot taller than the cake, her skin darker than the chocolate inside, and her slim fitting pants and sturdy work shirt that was open at the throat.
The cake squelched in her practical work shoes as she dragged her sorry ass under the table, conscious of the leering stares, and removed a small device and held it aloft while searching tiny bride’s eyes for understanding.
“I didn’t know who the target was. But someone planted this, Derek. Someone knows how much you love chocolate- “she choked at the insinuation “- and marzipan. Someone wants you dead. You and your wife will have to come with me.”
Derek’s face went red. His eyes opened wide and his hands trembled before he tightened them into fists. Ahhhh, she thought, true emotion. And all it took was ruining his wedding reception.
“What does marzipan have to do with anything?”
“I told you Derek, when I was studying to be a detective. I TOLD you that commercial grade explosives smell like marzipan. I was tracking the phone that was supposed to set it off. That’s how come I ended up on the roof of the country house. I was supposed to scope it out, but I slipped on the roof and fell through, right into your cake!”
“Oh my God! Yes! Are you hurt?” He started to poke at her to see if anything was broken, adding to her seemingly unending shame.
Tiny blond finally opened her mouth to shriek, “YOU! You are his Isabelle? This bi-!” Her comments were interrupted by a slap across her face. The slapper was Derek’s mother.
“NONE OF US LIKED YOU AS MUCH AS WE LIKED HER! WE WANTED HIM TO MARRY THAT BITCH THAT SAVED YOUR GODDAMNED HUSBAND’S LIFE!”
Unfortunately, the floor didn’t open up to swallow Isabelle. The mutual parting when she graduated from the police academy was not as seamless as she had thought it was. But that was three years ago. Isabelle did not notice the sirens until it was turned off.
Bomb squad ran up to her and took the device from her hand and started deconstructing the cake. Tiny blond was as devastated and as embarrassed as Isabelle looked. She noted the CSU and rest of the Bomb Squad run into the reception hall. And her Captain strode into the hall, eyes and mouth widening with recognition.
“Izzy… wasn’t it HERE you two were going to get married?” Captain Tactless asked.
And no lightning bolt from heaven struck her down. Who said God was merciful? “Well, now that I have made it weird, I’m going to make my exit!” and ran out of the hall, leaving wedding cake shoe prints on the beautiful marble flooring.
The pounding increased. That blasted door. I tripped over a body in the living room, regained my balance, and threw open the door.
“How drunk were you last night?” I hated it when Tom questioned me.
I snarled my reply at him, “Well, I still have my pants on, so not that drunk?”
“Those aren’t your pants.” His mouth was held in a tight line.
“Spoils of war. Not yuh business.” I folded my arms tightly.
He peeked into the living room and saw the mess. His shoulders slumped.
“It doesn’t look like his pants either, so where did you get it?”
I marched up to Tom with my hands on my hips, chest out and finger in his face. “We not bullin no more! Is not yuh business who pants ah have on! Or who man lyin in meh livin room!”
The lump on the carpet yawned and sat up. In the bacchanal, I didn’t see who it was. But lawd, I was glad it was my favorite bartender.
“Ranjiv! Wha yuh doin’ here bai?” I felt my lips crack as they smiled.
Ranjiv blinked against the morning light and gave me a lazy half-grin, “You izza mad ‘oman! You still have on dat pants?”
I couldn’t remember where or how I got said pants. But pride wouldn’t let me show my ignorance.
I jutted out my chin, “Why not?”
Tom took over the conversation, “You know the name Tinsley Leavensworth? Those are her pants. The most likes on a photo on Instagram – and the only one in existence. And right now, that is the only part of her that we can find, besides a pool of her blood in Da Club.”
I was dumbfounded. Da Club was for those of us on the scene. There was no reason Tinsley should be there. Aaaand how did I get her pants. More importantly, where were mine?
“Also you need to come to the station with me.”
“For what? You know I would have nothing to do with this!”I snarled at him.
“Well, CSI needs to do something that every man on the planet has done already.”
You stagger to the bar and ask for Marie. Marie isn’t there, her daughter was attacked. You are understandably horrified. The bartender asks if he could take a message. No, you reply, but you could take his number. He grins. You ask for your usual Jack and coke. You are neither a regular, nor is Jack and coke your usual, but he doesn’t know that. He pours a double and puts his finger to his lips. You smile at each other.
The music sinks itself into your pores and deep into your organs. The lights are dim, and fractured – like stars dancing on the floor. So, you dance with them. And all eyes are on you, watching you sway and gyrate to the beat. Your whole body is one with the music. A woman, clad in black leather, pumps her fist in the air. She is egging you on. You don’t mind. You pull your new sister close and the two of you, arm in arm, jump around to the music. No easy feat for two women in heels. You order a bottle of vodka, but your new sister is gone by the time you get back to the dance floor. And glasses are cumbersome, so you drink directly from the bottle. The music gets faster, and louder and eventually you stumble. The same bartender pulls you to the side and takes the bottle. He pours you black coffee “on the house”. He calls for a taxi. He asks how you know Marie, and you lie about knowing her from school. A man approaches the bar and says that he was called for a drunk patron?
That’s me! You shout, and fall directly to his arms. The bouncer comes to help you to the taxi, but you tell him if he touches you, he better be willing to make your breakfast. You stand straight, wrap an arm around the taxi driver’s shoulder and you can smell his cologne mingled with the geera pork that he had two hours ago. His hair is freshly combed and his face is clean shaven. His shirt is clean and neatly tucked. His jeans are on a respectable position on his waist. He is the type of man you would take home. But not tonight. You hear your stomach growl and know you must eat soon.
The driver says to you that he is not parked too far, come. You hold tightly and let him lead you. He pulls you into an alleyway. You murmur that you feel wrong and you need a doctor. He says to you that this is a shortcut. His lips tighten and his hands dig deeper into your flesh. You beg him to slow down. You see that this alleyway is a dead-end. You beg him to stop.
He shoves you to the wall. He slaps you and you sink to your knees. He unzips his jeans calling you a dirty whore. You cry and tell him you are sorry. You beg for him to stop; he slaps you again. You can taste blood.
You reach out for him, and grab him where it hurts. Your talons extend, but you are careful not to hurt him. And you can, because you swapped out the vodka for water. This asshole who hurt Marie’s daughter needs to pay. You drop your glamour, draw yourself to your full height and let your real smell assault his nose.
“Give us a kiss love!” You repeat his words to him. The same words he used on Marie’s daughter when she was late getting home from her study group. He tries to run, but your talons have a more than loving grip on his testicles. Your stomach rumbles again. That’s right! You were hungry. So, you eat.
You clean yourself up and animate in full glamour at the bedside of a young woman. Her mother is sleeping next to her. Both faces swollen by tears. Both bodies electrified by nightmares. This is good. You will only have to speak once to tell them that they have been avenged.
I’m about to start a new chapter in my writing journey: becoming a mentor! The application period for Rogue Mentor begins in less than a week on Friday, April 22 —and I’m nervous (and excited) about it. As a first-time mentor, I turned to my Pitch Wars mentor Ren Hutchings to ask “HOW THO?”
Now, I have a special treat to share—this blog’s inaugural interview! Ren graciously answered my burning questions about mentee selection, staying true to the mentee’s vision, and the hardest part of all: letting go. We both got a little emotional over this passing of the torch as I declared her a “grandmentor.”
Ren was a skilled, compassionate, and dedicated mentor for me and my heart book, and is now a dear forever friend. But she is also a professional editor and an amazing writer in her own right. Ren’s debut science fiction novel, Under Fortunate Stars
My hope is that this list eventually becomes unwieldy and unnecessary as more and more MFA programs come to accept students based on the quality and craft of their writing alone, no matter how speculative or “genre” it may be.
Update: I appeared on episode 365 of WIRED’s Geek’s Guide to the Galaxy podcast to talk about the reception of speculative fiction at MFA programs, along with Chandler Klang Smith (Columbia MFA grad, creative writing teacher at Sackett Street Writers Workshop, Catapult, and Sarah Lawrence College, and author of The Sky is Yours) and John Kessel, (co-founder and director of the North Carolina State University MFA and author of The Moon and the Other).
Fair warning: I am a big year-in-reviewer. I love December’s energy of reflection and processing. I spend time each holiday season curating a playlist to commemorate the past twelve months and I am an absolute sucker for retrospective journaling and blogging. New Year’s is probably my favorite holiday. It’s a whole thing.
As part of that reflection, I try to identify my biggest takeaways from the year. There is usually a noticeable “growth edge,” a theme that unites my experience of my latest trip around the sun, whether conscious or otherwise.
2021 is no different on that front, even though it was a very different year for me in other ways. In fact, in 2021, even though I rarely left my home (thank you, panini year 2) I lived almost entirely out of my comfort zone. Between Pitch Wars, querying, my debut book release, and signing with an agent, I…
Every other Sunday at 3pm ET, I gather with Keir Alekseii and others to participate in book club. The first one was horrible because I sometimes would not hear other participants and began speaking so I ended up talking over other people (cringe!) but I got a headset and tried to be more aware of the sound. I won’t say it’s a problem that has been resolved, but it is currently being worked on!
I also started tiktok because I get self-conscious about doing video and speaking concisely, so I started making videos there. I am learning so much from tiktok! From costume designers who impart meaning into mere stitches to some brilliant analysis of popular culture. It is forcing me to consume media in a more meaningful way. Now I appreciate a lot of media for its escapism, but if you want to produce any kind of art, you should be able to analyze your own actions. And sometimes you still end up doing something for the aesthetic.
Subscribe to book club! shorturl.at/wOSX0
And join me on tiktok! shorturl.at/zQWY0
And tell me in the comments what you have been up to! Share your socials!
I finished my manuscript! Well, 2020 has been a shitshow for pretty much all of us. The only people having a good year might be bleach and sanitizer companies.
Anyhow. I started writing this manuscript because of some undisclosed problems with a previous manuscript and mentor. The PTSD from that made me reluctant to edit to resubmit to another editor/publishing house and I channeled that into this new manuscript. At the time, the children were in school and then *Corona VARRUUSS*
Now I had two boys under the age of five running around with a disrupted life schedule. Yes, life is hard for all of us, and no one TOLD me to have children and it’s all my fault for that apparently. How dare I complain etc.
So, I tried to write. I wrote when they were asleep (which was not much) I wrote when my husband wasn’t working (he is a programmer, what is this ‘not working’ you speak of?) and I wrote during prompt sessions (not on my novel, per se, but heeey! Writing!). I got frustrated with the process and decided that I was going to do it no matter what.
I started with a single character in mind, and then wove and entire story around it. I had a plot that I tried to make work, and then decided to use the plot I created as more of a guide to prevent me from getting lost as opposed to sticking to it and damn the creative flow. I had a hard time figuring out my antagonist, which is weird because I love to plot from the antag’s POV before properly figuring out how the protagonist would respond.
Because that is what happens in real life. Protags often end up REACTING to an antagonist’s actions. But this way helped me to discover things about all of my characters. All of whom revealed themselves as opposed to me KNOWING who they were from the beginning. Truth is, we often THINK we are one way or would react one way and end up surprising ourselves. I loved that about writing this book!
I have nothing against plotters, they are just not me. And I have to find my own process, so do you, fellow writer. I found out that I actually do a really good zero-draft. I made my notes prior to writing, mostly world-building, and then just write. Alexa Donne has a pretty good video on it here: https://bit.ly/3hULsOj
The members of our little discord group started getting together for writing sprints. We use the Pomodoro method and timer to pace ourselves and use the rest times to chat and get bathroom breaks. We also use that time to do social media work. The timer I use when I am by myself is https://pomofocus.io/.
Lastly, I want to thank some folks. Firstly, Candi Writes on Facebook. She wrote poetry as a teen and was the first writer I knew personally. I thought that she was utterly amazing and wanted to be amazing too (12-yo logic, alyuh!). I want to thank my husband for believing in me and creating a space for me every day so that I can indulge in my passion. I want to thank Keir Alekseii (also on Twitter and Instagram) for her encouragement and feedback. There are lots more people, like Makistar who shared everything I wrote. Margaret Toussaint who has been a pillar of emotional support. I probably could have done this without you, but thank you for not letting me find out for sure!
And last but not least. Those two boys running around and slowing down my writing time? I do this for YOU.
The book has been resting in my mind and on the PC for some time. I will probably give it a week before I go look it over and do a self-edit. After that is fresh eyes in the form of an actual editor. Then we will explore our publishing options! Are you not excited?
Until then, tell me in the comments, what are you writing? What are you reading? What are your productivity techniques? Do you want me doing more prompts? Do you want to know more about my writing friends? (They are awesome! You should meet them!) Happy reading/writing, everyone!!!
I felt my face explode as the asphalt rushed towards me. For a moment I was stunned, and when the fog cleared Shanice, my bestie stooped next to me with her foot under my head. And she was in tears. Nobody makes Shanice cry, nobody.
She hauled my wobbly ass up and then handed me a mirror. The skin of the jaw was darkening and soon I would look like Shrek’s long-lost sister.
“I have never seen Karen that upset!” her bottom lip quivered, and tears threatened to fall. “What the hell has gotten into her?”
I considered my options. If I didn’t tell her, she would report the assault and get Karen off my back for a bit and harass my soul to make sure that the charges stuck. Which would mess up my plan. Deep exhale, time to come clean.
“She accused me of stealing her clients.”
Her mouth gaped and her eyes widened. “Did you?”
I smirked through the pain, “of course I did!” My knee throbbed. I was getting too old for this.
That was a stab to her heart. She knew my business ethics and this seeming heel turn was too much for her. She also knew me as a Miss Go-Along-To-Get-Along, forgetting that my Daddy was King of Long Rope for Magga Goat. She led me to her car where she punched in That Bar’s address. Yay, drinkies.
“No, seriously.”
“I did. She came from the Shaw group. Where Tani’s clients defected en masse? Leaving her indebted with her mother’s end-of-life care?”
“Of course, I remember!” She slammed her hand on the steering wheel, “she was my sista too! I loved her like my own blood!”
I had made Shanice cry, no wait. Karen did, I just loosened a few extra tears.
I worked my jaw side-to-side, “You were the moon twins” I said with no trace of bitterness. “You got your first period at a sleepover in my house, the audacity!”
She chuckled with the tears flowing down her face, “Baby didn’t get hers until a whole year and change later!”
I made a face; I was mad as heck back then. But I had to get Shanice back on track.
“Well, Tani’s clients didn’t just leave. She was blacklisted because of Karen. She lied and stole Tani’s clients. And then, faced with financial burdens, she killed herself so that her children could live off of the insurance money. As far as I’m concerned, Karen killed Tani.” I let out a huge sigh of relief.
“Widdyfork?” Shanice almost-cuss was so cute. She was too sweet to actually curse. But she was still confused.
“So, I’m stealing her clients back. Not that hard, since I’m actually good at what I do. And Karen isn’t. But the money is going towards Joni and Jevon’s trust fund.”
“Oh em Gee! That’s great! I was putting aside some money for them too, but now I feel less guilty about not doing more!”
“IT COULD NEVER BE A GOOD THING! JONI AND JEVON WILL NEVER SEE THEIR MOTHER AGAIN! WE WILL NEVER EAT HER DUMPLING AND SMOKE HERRING AGAIN! TNOTHING WILL EVER BRING TANI BA-A-ACK!”
The tears wracked my body. I felt like I had lost the best part of my soul when Tani died. We often joked that Tani was my soulmate, but I married Mikhail because he had boy parts. Tani, Shanice and I were three peas in a pod. Pain was my only reality.
She patted my hand until I was calm. “So, what’s the endgame?”
My face twisted into a painful smirk, “I’m going to end her fucking bloodline.”
The chill of the air made him pull his arms tighter around himself. The television became muted as the porch door closed and he pulled me close. The crickets had their conversations while I stood wordlessly in his arms. I rested my cheek against the softness of his t-shirt and watched the paint peeling off the wooden railings. He nuzzled my head and I thought I heard my name. I turned to him. Just then, his fleshy lips collided with mine. I froze. His lips flickered as if to kiss me, but he did not move. I was paralyzed, except for my own lips that parted – still in contact with his lips. His arms tightened around my waist, as I felt my own traitorous hands hiked across the hard landscape of his chest and wrapped themselves around his neck. This served to pull him closer to me, and I felt his own lips part. My knees shook, but he held me tightly – I didn’t fall. The wind blew, icy and hard, sending wet leaves scampering across the yard. Tiny ice shards blew into the uncovered porch and I felt the cat rub against me. His legs parted, his tongue gently danced in my mouth, and I let him lead. The flavor of mauby, bitter and sweet, was on his breath. All I wanted was his mouth, my hands slid to his cheeks, covered with soft curly hair. I pulled away to breathe, and I saw, as if for the first time, how proud his nose was and the curl of his lashes. I bit my lip again, and then glided my hands down the sharp cheekbones to touch his kiss-bruised lips. His beautiful lips, still parted, in invitation, I leaned forward and licked his lips. My own tongue found its way back to his mouth and he pulled me even closer as the bougainvillea lashed against the porch, shaking its pink leaves onto us. With weak legs and shaky breath, I looked up at him, and he led me inside the house as the rain started to fall with more authority on the galvanize roof.
Credit: David Barr Kirtley 
Thalia Ishvari 