On the Buffyverse’s weirdly shallow definition
I recognize that I’m roughly **checks watch** 25 years late with this ice-cold take, but I’ve got a bone(r) to pick with the whole Angel’s soul thing.
Continue reading “What is Happiness?”Author: eskaftun
Postcards: Transformations II
The giant seabirds of the Arctic are truly phenomenal. Early in our study, we woke to a thump that shook the whole boat. When we got on deck, instead of an eagle or an albatross, or even a walrus, we found a stunned, nearly naked man. He wouldn’t tell us how he came to be on our boat; he just demanded fish (we gave him a can of tuna) and hit on Bella for a while. Then he said “ciao” and leaped off the stern. We all gasped, thinking of the icy water below. But feathers sprouted from the man’s arms and torso and he soared, disappearing into the white of the sky.
That’s just one of the magnificent new species we’ve catalogued.
Wish you were here!
Dr. Pauline Frost, Ornithologist
We followed a new Sphinx legend to a northern land—found it, but it’s quite mad. It grinned with this manic set of un-catlike teeth. It asked Pete to solve a riddle, but we weren’t clear on the stakes—this Sphinx wasn’t guarding anything, and we weren’t questing. The riddle was nonsense, stuff about slithy toves and manxome foes, so of course Pete got it “wrong.” Can there even be a right answer to utter rubbish? The Sphinx bared her human again, and took her prize—Pete’s right hand. She rubbed it greedily against her left paw, muttering “14 more suckers to go.” On the plus side, Pete has a cat’s paw now and it’s pretty darn cute.
See you soon!
Alice
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.
A Non-Enthusiast’s Guide to Team Bonding
Or: How I learned to stop worrying and give high-fives
I once quit a job because of high-fives.
Continue reading “A Non-Enthusiast’s Guide to Team Bonding”Postcards: Of Air & Ice
As surfers, we recognized the ice for what it was right away: a frozen wave. Deep within, two shapes resolved. One looked like a fur-clad man, tumbling. The other was a fearsome shape, giant and toothy, the largest shark we’d ever seen. I rubbed my eyes to clear the hallucination. The ice played tricks, we’d been told.
But Chad, transfixed, put his bare hand to the ice wall… and stuck. I laughed, at first: “Why not lick it, like a flagpole?” But before the heat of his hand could melt him free, the ice reeled him in. His hand disappeared into the wave, then his arm, and then his screaming face. The ice took him.
Inside that wave, the two figures of my hallucination remained. Only now the massive shark was nearer its prey. And the prey wore Chad’s red hiking jacket.
Love,
Your favorite surfer (at least now!)
The rapture came, I think. It wasn’t what we thought. We all ascended—I was shocked! As we rose, we… changed, and not into angels. No halos, no wings, except this one chick who turned into a penguin. Another guy pudged out into this, like, turquoise teddy bear? Several resembled sea creatures. Me? My head became a dang jester hat. Yeah, worst of all of them. When the wind shifted, we fell back to earth. Now I’m all deflated and stuck out here. Is this hell? IDK. Anyway, if you’re still ambulatory please come help.
Love,
Joe
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.
Story alert: “Eat Cosmic Jello”
“So what if she was indeterminate alien goo inside? That would only matter if she got cut open.”
This is one of the most personal stories I’ve ever written, about grief and family, with a side of shapeshifting, reincarnating alien. It is, to date, my favorite published story.
You can read it in the inaugural issue of Heartlines Spec! I’m chuffed as hell that the editors chose me to help launch their journal—and made my story such a cute illustration.
Want more stories? The full list is here.
Postcards: Three complaints & a love letter
I’m writing about the recently installed Leprechaun Crossing. Yes, it has reduced the number of wee corpses local residents have to scrape off the tarmac, but it comes at a cost. The water’s gone green in the houses within 500 meters of the crossing. Food goes moldy in the refrigerators. Garden gnomes are found in compromising positions. And there’s been a sharp uptick in green turds. From time to time a golden coin is found, perhaps left in recompense for this mischief. But when we take those coins to the pub they turn to dust.
Please consider moving the Leprechaun Crossing to a less populated area.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Murphy
This has gone too far. I humored you saying you were a wizard and your school letter was coming. I took you to the theme park and paid for a plastic wand you pretended was made of unicorn hair and gnome toenails (or whatever), but I thought you understood you weren’t taking any magic train to school—just the same orange bus. You waved your plastic wand at me and said some fake-Latin gibberish, and I was rolling my eyes when my whole head rolled backward and I saw my own feathery(!) butt.
You turned me into an owl? Not cool. Put me back.
Yours,
Dad
p.s. You are SO not going to magic school.
I wonder if you’ve found a person I lost. It’s been a while. A few decades, perhaps. In my defense, I thought the person would find her own way home. I didn’t account for the short in the compass in her left breast. How could I have predicted she’d attempt to feed a lost baby person? That wasn’t in her programming.
Please respond quickly, and I don’t want to hear you only keep found persons for 90 days or somesuch, nor do I care to quibble about the personhood of robots. I do not expect to be judged about the length of time elapsed. Not all experiments succeed and let’s just say that time travel devices short out easier than boob compasses.
Best,
Mr. William Meier
They used to say the earth had seven seas, all of them our domain. But they are all connected so why haven’t I found you in my millennium of searching? Alas, I must resort to the old way, using part of my precious one day on land to dry my hands, write these words to you, and stuff them into a bottle to toss into the waves. When waves return. It is peaceful now, the sky awash in blood. What a day! I only wish they were yours, these thousand pulsating eggs I’ve lain upon this unsuspecting shore.
With ineffable madness,
Your Eternal Monster Queen
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.
Postcards: Wish wisely
It’s so cliché to go out for groceries and…
So I’m walking to the store and I kick a Pepsi can, and it goes “Hey!” I pick it up and this genie puffs out and says “Thanks, bro. You get one wish.” One? Cheap-ass genie. But okay. So I wish for riches, jewels & stuff. The genie fucks off, and I trash the Pepsi can and go shopping. I pick up some cereal; it turns to jewels. Ice cream; jewels. Oh, shit, I think. I heard about this Midas shit before. I go back to the trash & look inside all the empties until people point and stare. No luck, except all the freaking trash turns to priceless bejeweled artifacts. So…
Hug your ma and stay human. I’ll miss you!
Love,
Daddy
You’ll be the most popular woman in Dublin, they said. Never really wanted that, but they also said my wee ones’d never want again. So I let them dress me in up in giant fluffy sleeves that are forever in the way yet fail to cover the twins? Really?
Statuification starts at the feet, so when the bloody sleeve falls down again my hands have already brassified. I can only glare, and of course then my face sticks like “Really?” And the worst part: while my own children and theirs knew who I was, these newer ones don’t—so their grubby fingers polish the very tits that fed their ancestors. Really?
With eternal irritation,
Molly
My mild-mannered alter-ego was on vacation when a giant started attacking London. Stomping through the Thames, kicking bridges, climbing Big Ben like King Kong. Really boring stuff, honestly. Still, a job’s a job.
I couldn’t believe my luck, finding a whole row of phone booths in this age of mobile phones. But while I was changing into my superhero costume, the giant decided to play dominos, and I found myself in a tipped-over phone booth with the door stuck shut! No problem, right? I should be able to burst out of here easy using my super strength.
Well, it didn’t work, okay? Send help.
A not-so-super hero
Want your very own postcard story? You can buy one here.
Wondering WTF this is? Start here.
Profile: Spilt Milk Nannies
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Peter (6) wants to be a paleontologist. Rudy (8) dreams of being a soccer player or architect. Charlotte (11) is thinking about being a chef/baker, or a singer. The answer can change as kids grow into adults and face pressure to get a “real” job. Their mom, Meghan Squires (42) wanted to be a hairdresser, but became an auditor. Lynn Noordam (46) “wanted to be a ballet dancer, and then a teacher, and then a writer.” She is now a nurse practitioner, and loves it. Her son Malcolm (9) wants to be an inventor, while Anneka (13) lists veterinarian, Broadway star, or activist. Margarita Rodriguez (23) always knew she wanted to work with children, and that’s exactly what she’s doing now.
Read more here.
The Big Idea: Living Forever
I talk about death on John Scalzi’s blog, Whatever
In today’s Big Idea, author Emily C. Skaftun is thinking about death… for starters. With a book title like Living Forever & Other Terrible Ideas, perhaps this is not entirely surprising.
EMILY C. SKAFTUN:
Death! There is no bigger idea.
The theme that emerged as I was putting together my favorite stories to create my first collection—and no one is more surprised than I that a theme emerged at all!—is something like:
Death. Maybe it’s not the worst thing that could happen?
Or: Be sure to read the fine print about your life after death.
To keep reading, head over to Whatever, where this piece was originally published.
My Favorite Bit: Living Forever
I talk about shrugging on Mary Robinette Kowal’s My Favorite Bit
Everybody shrugs.
They also poop, but that’s a different story. (I did once pitch the idea of a picture book called “Every Monster Poops” to an artist friend as a collaboration, but we never got past cracking ourselves up brainstorming what zombie poop would look like… but I digress).
My favorite thing about writing nonhuman characters is the challenge and opportunity of imagining how they inhabit their alien bodies.
To keep reading, head over to My Favorite Bit, where this piece was originally published.