Lili Saintcrow

Radioactive word maven. A crow for a fetch; I'm your huckleberry.

Moss, Miranda, Bactine

When we last spoke, dear Readers, I had decided to visit Miranda. It’s kind of hard to keep a straight face when you’re cleaning off a statue’s tatas, but I managed.

Miranda: THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: *peeling moss from well-formed breasts* Miranda, someone’s shooting at Phil and Willard.
Miranda: JUST WILLARD.
Me: …okay. *brushing away dirt and polishing her shoulders* And Joe.
Miranda: YES, WILLARD AND JOE. THANK YOU, DEAR.
Me: And putting moss on you. *pointing at the dead campfire* And building fires.
Miranda: I BELIEVE HE THOUGHT I MUST BE COLD.
Me: *gathering all my patience* Miranda, he shot at me too. This isn’t good for the backyard community.
Miranda: NO, I SUPPOSE IT ISN’T.

That’s the thing about having an oracle in your backyard. They’re sometimes a little frustrating to talk to. At least there were no more crossbow bolts winging by. So I gathered my patience again.

Me: *brushing off her skirt* Miranda? Do you happen to know who this person is?
Miranda: OH YES, DEAR. IT’S LOUIS.
Me: *finally feeling like we’re getting somewhere* Lewis?
Miranda: NO, LOUIS. SPELLED FRENCH, PRONOUNCED OTHERWISE.
Me: How did you know I spelled…oh, never mind. Look, so where can I find this Louis-pronounced-otherwise? I really need to explain some things to him.
Miranda: I CAN INTRODUCE YOU, IF YOU’D LIKE. HE CAMPS HERE AT NIGHT, OFTEN.
Me: Good Lord. Okay. When?
Miranda: COME BY TOMORROW MORNING.
Me: *remembering weather report* It’ll be raining.
Miranda: NOT WHEN YOU COME BY. ALSO, YOU’RE OUT OF BACTINE.
Me: You mean I’m going to need it?
Miranda: *nods, smiling gently*
Me: Oh, fuck.
Miranda: LANGUAGE, DEAR.

As usual, she was right. (Don’t ask. It had to do with a frightened cat, Odd Trundles, and leftover spaghetti. I SAID DON’T ASK.) Not about the language, but about the…well, anyway, the next morning I checked the iron-clouded sky, sighed, poured more coffee, and sallied forth.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Imagination Doesn’t Hobble

So yesterday, not ten seconds into my morning run, Miss B thought she heard another dog, lunged, took out my knees, and sent me to the ground in a singularly un-graceful fashion. I was bleeding so badly I had to take her home, deck myself with sticking plasters, and head out the door again (alone, for which she did not forgive me for hours) to run six and a half kilometers. Then, in the middle of the run, my nose started to bleed and my email notification dinged for some not-quite-pleasant news.

In short, it was a Monday.

Today, aching in various places, I essayed interval training, and took B along. I mean, what was the worst that could happen? I was a little smarter than yesterday, because I put her in her harness, which she hates. She hates it, you see, because she can’t pull while she’s in it; the marvels of modern design mean its collection of straps and buckles redirects her attention to the human holding her leash. Or the human with the leash knotted about her waist.

This is, in Miss B’s estimable opinion, Not How Things Should Roll.

Anyway, she’s sacked out in the hallway, sleeping the sleep of a very tired (and hence, well-behaved) dog while Odd Trundles, upset because my bedroom door is closed and he can’t trundle in to sleep on my bed (long story, suffice to say I grew tired of washing my coverlet daily) is groaning and grousing. Eventually he will settle on the SUPER EXPENSIVE, soft as a cloud, FANCY-PANTS DOG BED in my office, the one with the WASHABLE MICROFIBER COVER.

Truly, the life of Trundles is a harsh one.

I can’t yoga to stretch all the stiffness out, since my palms are shredded and my knees look like I knelt on frozen peas until the skin broke. I know, first-world problems. Some days I grouse like Trundles.

Tomorrow is yet another interval training session, because clearly my capacity for punishment is wide and deep as the seas.

But for right now, my imagination doesn’t limp or hobble. I can write the scene where the all-girl traveling group in the zombie apocalypse administers sweet bloody revenge to a Certain Character. Oh, and I should probably do my regular enshillening of my book wares at some point today. Marketing waits not for the slow, nor for those who loathe it.

Trundles has settled on the FANCY DOG BED and is beaming grouchy sleep-beams at the back of my office chair. I’m glad I painted it with nap repellant earlier, and further glad I have another tankard of coffee to get me through the first half of Tuesday.

Over and out.

Gnome Protection Program

So last week I told you about finding poor Willard facedown, and the mystery of the plastic crossbow bolts. I wasn’t quite worried, per se–the things were hardly more than slivers–but what if the Mad Shooter escalated? Besides, Willard is made of concrete. It takes some extraordinary event to topple him, much less throw him a few feet in any direction. And poor Phil was all but vibrating in place.

I couldn’t turn around fast enough to see who shot at us. So I headed across the yard, after rigging up a little shelter for Phil and Willard–the tiny table isn’t ideal, but it’ll keep slings and arrows off them.

Or so I hoped.

Anyway, I got to the back corner near the shed, and I began to be a little alarmed until I heard a faint hiss and a low, conspiratorial “OVER HERE.”

Me: Uh, I’ll tell the Princess to trim the green, since it’s her–
Emphysema Joe: NO! DON’T DO THAT! THIS IS THE GPP!
Me: …
Emphysema Joe: THE GNOME PROTECTION PROGRAM. SOMEONE’S TRYNA PICK US OFF AT NIGHT. I ONLY GOT A GLIMPSE OF HIM, BUT HE’S SCARY.
Me: So you saw what happened to Willard? Phil’s shaking, he’s so upset.
Emphysema Joe: DAMN RIGHT I SAW, AND I AIN’T TALKIN EITHER. I’M HIDING. SO, YOU KNOW, NICE TO SEE YA AND I’D LOVE TO CHAT, BUT…

PING!

I ducked, Joe almost shrieked, and I whirled to try and find the source of the noise and the tiny crossbow bolt. The quarrel was carved from cedar–not the best choice, but it told me we were dealing with someone used to roughing it and living off the land.

So to speak.

Me: *loudly addressing the yard* This is NOT proper behavior, whoever you are.
Emphysema Joe: DON’T PISS HIM OFF, FOR GOD’S SAKE. LOOK, JUST…JUST GO INSIDE. IF YOU SEE THOSE CRAZY-ASS AUSSIES, TELL THEM IT’S NOT SAFE YET.
Me: Wait, Fred and George–
Emphysema Joe: THERE’S A REASON THEY AIN’T AT HOME, LADY.
Me: Oh, for God’s sake. What does Wendy say about this?
Emphysema Joe: SHE HAS HER HANDS FULL. THAT BANE GUY GOT HEATSTROKE AND KEEPS ESCAPING HER. CALLS HER “NURSE ARKHAM.”

He meant tiny!Batman, who has a host of medical problems. Look, ninja-fighting crime makes for a lot of head trauma, that’s all I’m saying. I decided it wasn’t likely the mad shooter was going to hit me–he had pretty poor aim, it seemed–but I should probably stay on the move. The last thing I needed was something in my eye.

Me: Okay. Look, stay under cover. I’m going to go talk to Miranda.
Emphysema Joe: ABOUT DAMN TIME. AND IF ANYONE ASKS, I DON’T KNOW YOU, YOU DON’T KNOW ME. FUCKING MILITARY-INDUSTRIAL COMPLEX HAS ME MARKED, MAN.

I was not going to stay and argue with him. (That’s Phil’s job.) So I set off again, glancing nervously at the roof. It seemed like a good guess at the shooter’s location. I made it to Miranda’s corner without tripping, and found another sign of something amiss–the remains of a tiny campfire, and someone had, um, decided Miranda’s state of dress wasn’t to their liking. And had taken it upon themselves to remedy her, ah, draperies.

Me: Oh. Oh dear.
Miranda: *calmly enough* MY DEAR, WE NEED TO TALK.
Me: I…I guess we do.
Miranda: CAN YOU GET THE MOSS OFF MY NIPPLES?

To be continued…

Harmonic Edge

Today’s Thursday, the day each week when my Patreon subscribers get goodies! Chapter 45 of Roadtrip Z is now up. A tender moment, and then, ZOMBIES.

…this pleases me perhaps more than it should.

Someone in the neighborhood is running some sort of machinery, and it has a harmonic precisely calculated to set my teeth on edge, with bonus driving the dogs to distraction. I’m trying to drown out both noises with Beethoven sonatas, to little avail. Maybe I should just get some booze and start drinking to dull the pain.

Yesterday was a good day, 2k on Season 3 of Roadtrip Z falling out of my head. (Some of it involved teenagers discussing syphilis.) I’m hoping for more of the same, though I have to shift to a character I don’t much like. I have very strong tea and yapping dogs, and though there is some sunshine, the rainclouds are still strong.

Maybe I’ll have this character get bitten, but I kind of want him to be like Humperdinck–he lives. I want him to have a long life, alone with his cowardice.

I am a cruel and vengeful writer-god. We all knew that.

Anyway, if I get some good wordcount on that, it’s time to start splitting to another project. Past time, I think I might have recovered (mostly) from the latest set of hurdles in a difficult publishing process. Soon I’ll have to start final revisions on Steelflower at Sea, too.

Things are pretty good today. I’m going back to my tea.

RELEASE DAY: Cotton Crossing

Roadtrip Z

That’s right, my friends, the re-edited, shiny Season 1 of Roadtrip Z, my Patreon serial, is now available!

Cotton Crossing was a dead end, but not for Ginny Mills. She’s just marking time, getting experience in the county library system, before moving back to a decent urban environment. Then the phones stop working.

Lee Quartine knows there’s no way the pretty girl at the library will even look at him. Especially since he can’t open his mouth. He knows he’s a hick, but when the power starts going out and the woods are full of strange creatures, it’s good to have someone around who can build a fire. And kill.

Ginny, Lee, and their small band of survivors can’t stay put, and moving is dangerous. The infected are shambling in the hills and the concrete canyons of cities.

It’s gonna be a long trip…

Season 1: Cotton Crossing is now available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, or direct!

We’re now deep in Season 2. Subscribe here to read, chapter by chapter, as the serial is written.

Rain, Dogs, Run

Rain! We only had misting and a damp-down yesterday, but I woke up this morning to tapping fingers on the roof, tree branches weighed down with welcome water…and dogs unwilling to go down the deck stairs because they’re forgotten what that water falling from the sky is. Odd Trundles, simpleton that he is, finally bowed to the inevitable pressure in his bladder, but Miss B had thoughts of finding a drier and more congenial spot to unload.

Like, inside.

I put a quick stop to that and almost had to chase her down the damn steps. She finally bowed to the inevitable, but not before giving me a filthy look. She still hasn’t completely forgiven me, but there’s a 5km run in her immediate future, so that will go a considerable way toward ameliorating her fury. (Read: She’ll smell so many interesting things she won’t even remember I made her pee outside in the RAIN.)

You guys are aching to hear about the tiny plastic crossbow, I’M SURE, but that story’s going to have to wait until Friday. (I know, I’m evil.) The squirrels were in a frenzy to bury all sorts of things last week; they could probably sense the rain coming. So, being distracted, they didn’t care so much about the dogs being in the yard. I think they’ve figured out Trundles won’t ever catch one, and if they come out in pairs Miss B wants to herd them instead of catching them. *eyeroll* Suffice to say there have been Hijinks, but I don’t know how many times I can retell “Miss B almost, ALMOST caught the squirrel” before you lot get bored. So I’m going to ration the stories, and only bring you the best ones.

Not that the wielder of the plastic crossbow is a squirrel. Oh no. That would be too easy, wouldn’t it. Besides, if those arboreal fuckers figured out projectile weapons (other than pinecones) I’m afraid humanity’s place on the food chain would slip a bit.

ANYWAY. I have practiced my French and my Korean this morning–Duolingo finally has a Korean program, and the Drops app is pretty spiffy for learning Hangul and basics–and absorbed some caffeine, so it’s time to get out and run in the rain. At least I’ll be able to breathe, without both snot and sputum being full of smoke particles. (I’ll spare you the description of just what color one’s snot is after breathing forest fire ash for a while. You’re welcome.)

They’re even saying there might be thunderstorms later. Which delights me, but will not delight Miss B at all. Fortunately she can hide under my desk, and probably will. The only drawback to that is her possible state of dampness after we get out for a quick 5km.

But oh well, if it makes her feel better, wet shins are a small price to pay.

Over and out.

Under Fire

Me: What on earth–
Phil: DON’T ASK.
Willard: *grooooooan*
Me: Does this have anything to do with the little plastic crossbow–
Phil: I SAID DON’T ASK.
Me: But–
Phil: I’M JUST GONNA SAY, THERE’S SOMEONE GONNA GET HURT.
Me: *picks Willard up, gingerly* Oh dear. Are you hurt, sweetheart?
Willard: *mumbles incoherently*
Phil: *pops pebble in Willard’s mouth* YOU NEVER CALL ME SWEETHEART.
Me: You’re not helpless.
Phil: DAMN STRAIGHT. STAY INSIDE FOR A WHILE, OKAY?
Me: You know I can’t.
*whooshing sound*
Phil: WOMAN, GET INSIDE.
Me: *eyeing the tiny plastic crossbow bolt buried in beauty bark at Willard’s feet* This is…exotic. And you’re sexist.
Phil: *vanishes*
*a long yodel floats from the roof*
Willard: *moans around pebble*
Me: *trying to look everywhere at once* Oh, hell.

TO BE CONTINUED…