I fantasize about killing wild boars.

I do.* 

I fantasize about killing wild boars with my bare hands. 

Realizing that this is probably not something that most people fantasize about, I feel the need to elaborate.  First of all, you should know two things.  One, a sounder of wild boars have taken up residence on the land where I do the majority of my horseback riding, and, two, I enjoy reading fantasy novels. 

I tend to be dramatic.  If I see a tarp or a trash bag while I’m out on the trail, I immediately think, “dead body.”  I imagine mountain lions will chase after me in the woods like they did Pa in Little House in the Big Woods.  One time, a mannequin in the barn scared the living Hell out of me, because I thought it was a dead body and that the ranch owners were mobsters of some sort who would kill me if I told anyone about it.  See what I mean by dramatic. 

Knowing this about me, it isn’t that hard to believe that I tend to think about worst case scenarios and such as I’m riding horses on the trail.  Leading up to hunting season, I imagine either getting shot, or having my horse shot out from under me by drunk hunters.  I often imagine being tossed from my horse and breaking a leg or arm with no cell reception in the middle of nowhere. 

Horses hate wild boars.  Wild boars are dangerous. Even though I follow Gibb’s rule #9 when I’m out on the ranch, it isn’t lost on me that a knife wielded by little old me is not going to do much but annoy a two hundred pound wild boar sow that is protecting her young. 

The best fantasy characters are taken down by wild boars.  Remember Robert Baratheon and the poor hunting dog from The Once and Future King?

That is why I have to fantasize about killing the damn things with my bare hands.  If I didn’t, I’d be too scared to do my job.  I like my job.

*I did not kill the wild boar pictured, but it is one of the big ones (six and a half feet long/300 lbs.) I used to encounter on the trail.

This commercial cutes me out.

‘nuff said.

PSA: What a fever blister Really feels like…

I spent the last week suffering with a fever blister (also known as a cold sore).  I’ll be the first to admit that I tend toward the dramatic. In this instance, when I say suffer, that is exactly what I mean.  From what I can tell, people who have never had a fever blister/cold sore have no idea what the hell they are talking about when they talk about fever blisters.  I’ve suffered with fever blisters off and on since I was a child, and over the years, I’ve often noticed that I tend to only receive sympathy from those people who have also suffered with fever blisters.  Obviously, this is because those who have never suffered from the scourge of the lip can even begin to imagine what the small, skin lesion or rash actually feels like.

I didn’t actually notice this as a problem until a few years ago when the makers of Abreva (the over-the-counter cold sore remedy) ran a commercial depicting people suffering with fever blisters.  It was absolutely, ridiculously inaccurate.  First of all, it downplayed the affliction, and then at the end showed a lady wearing a turtleneck shirt actually pulling the collar up and over her lips.  OMG.  If you knew what a fever blister actually felt like, you would realize that a person suffering from one would NEVER actually do that.  It would be entirely too painful.

Fever blisters are like the devil’s spawn taking up residence on your lip.  Unfortunately, they are never described adequately.  I have read many descriptions of Herpes labialis outbreaks, and most are similar in nature to the following description:

An outbreak usually involves:

• Skin lesions or rash around the lips, mouth, and gums

• Small blisters (vesicles) filled with clear yellowish fluid

  • Blisters on a raised, red, painful skin area

  • Blisters that form, break, and ooze

  • Yellow crusts that slough to reveal pink, healing skin

  • Several smaller blisters that merge to form a larger blister

Notice how, while that sounds nasty (and it pretty much is, I won’t lie to you), they fail to mention just how painful such outbreaks actually feel.  My description would include a vise grip, a forest fire, and poison ivy oil applied liberally to the lip at once.  I have drawn a picture*.  I wanted everyone in the world to know once and for all just how entirely, excruciatingly painful fever blisters are.

Luckily, I have made it past the vise/fire/poison stage of my infection, and am well on the way to having a normal lip again.  I am all kinds of excited about this development. 

One last thing I would like non-sufferers to realize… Not only are fever blisters the single most painful affliction to ones lip, they also tend to develop during times of stress.  It’s like your stress is playing itself out on your face.  You don’t even get to suffer in silence, because everyone around you knows just how stressed the fuck out you are… well, they do now. 

Hopefully, I have enlightened the masses. 

I have at least made myself feel better.

Love,

Kate

*You wouldn’t believe how proud I am of this illustration, nor how much time I spent making it.

Pickled sausages?! WHAT?!!!

I have been eating pickled sausages since I was a wee lass.  Apparently, they are a mostly Southern treat and are very popular with the beer drinking male crowd.  My dad says that he can remember eating them when he was a boy while sitting at the tavern with his dad.  I have never experienced them in any kind of bar or tavern, but my dad would buy them now and again as a treat. We all loved them.

If there was a jar of hot pickled sausages in the house, we would all try to eat as many as we could when no one was looking because we all wanted to eat every single sausage in the jar. Every now and again, you would get a jar of these delightful, spicy treats as say a Christmas or birthday present.  Those were the best.  You didn’t have to share them with anyone.  I always tended to hoard them and stretch one jar out for a month or so…

This year my little sister and I both put them on our Christmas list.  (I must admit, I only put them on my list because I saw that she had an entry for “those sausages in a jar that I loved when I was little” on her list, and I knew that she wouldn’t share if she got her own jar.)  As I walked in the door yesterday after work, my mom said, “They DISCONTINUED those sausages you guys want!” I didn’t really believe her, because, lets face it, who believes their parents when they say they found something out online. 

Lo! They Have been discontinued.  I couldn’t believe it… I haven’t been that disappointed since… (I can’t actually think of anything comparable.  I was going to say since I found out about Santa, but that doesn’t really work, because… I wasn’t really that disappointed.) Anyway, I spent the evening trying to figure out a similar product, but the closest thing I could find (which I found at The Pickled Store) were going to cost me 40 dollars and there was no guarantee that I would even like them as well as I had the sausages I’d had as a child.  

I decided to take matters into my own hands.  I searched for recipes.

Success! (Hopefully.) I found a recipe called, “Dugan! Get Your Grimy Hands off Those Pickled Sausages!” and I enlisted my mother’s help to make the damn things myself.* (Also, who wouldn’t want to make this recipe.  I want all my recipes to be written by this lady.  She’s hilarious.)  We are finished with the first part of the process, and are just waiting until the sausages are pickled enough to eat.  I am SOOO excited.  I love these things.

I will report back with a verdict.  I am sure that all three of you readers will wait with baited breath for said report. 

Just you wait… just you wait… (I have to wait, too.)

*The above picture is what the sausages looked like when we finished.  They are currently chilling out in the ‘fridge until they have soaked up all the brine-y deliciousness.  You do not understand how excited I am.

Happy #JESUSWEEN!!

May all your nuns be sexy, and candy be un-poisoned.

…until they could die and join all the other carcasses strewn across the wasteland of my soul.

I am in the mood to write an angst-filled depressing blog entry.  My current level of depression could be described as above average, and I am not quite sure exactly why this above average level of depression descended upon me.

I am fairly certain that said depression started settling in around me like a fog fairly early this morning when handed the schedule, and realizing that, no, last months cut in hours wasn’t something that was just going to go away despite having spoken sternly to the powers-that-be and hoping, futilely, that they would change their minds about having cut my hours and magically give them back to me.   They did not give my hours back to me.  Realizing this, I told myself that I did not care, and that it would be fine, and that I would get along just fine without said hours.  This is all well and good, and worked for a couple of hours.  Until… Until I realized just how incredibly pissed off I was about it. 

And then… Omg… and then, I got more angry about it when I thought more about it.  I should never think more about things.  First of all, only two of us regular employees (there are four of us) at my work (a work I used to love, but the love has been decreasing ever so steadily for the last three months or so…) saw a cut in our hours.  A cut, I might add, that was never mentioned before or after the schedule was passed out.  The schedule was passed out and we were just left to our own devices to figure out that, “Hey, I’m not scheduled to be here tomorrow.  That must be a mistake,” wasn’t actually a mistake.  It was planned.  And thought about… and plotted even.  This, in and of itself, is irksome.  It made me furious.  After realizing that my fury would not affect the state of my hours… I tried ignoring it…

… that worked for awhile.  Until this week.  This week… Remember how I mentioned that only two of us saw a cut in hours?  Well… lets talk about those two particular individuals.  You have me.  I am a great worker.  I show up on time.  I do my job efficiently.  I am willing to learn.  I take initiative.  I get things the fuck done.  Then, there is the other one.  He is the opposite of me.  I usually ignore that he gets away with doing absofreakinglutely nothing every single day of his existence.  It pisses me off.  I had gotten to a place in which I was able to ignore it (because again, I have spoken sternly about him to no avail), until This week.  He was late every single day this week by at least 20 minutes.  Tuesday, he came to work an hour and a freaking half late!!!  ONE AND A HALF HOURS!!! That is unacceptable.  As a worker, he is the opposite of me.

I started thinking about this today.  The depression that had been coalescing around my head like a fog creeping up over a pond on a crisp autumn morning thickened.  I bypassed the anger stage.  And then… and then… He had the audacity to tell us that there “are just a lot of things going on in his life right now, and that he was going to talk to the powers-that-be about it tomorrow.” OMFG. Does he not think that there are not a lot of things going on in my life?  Or my co-workers?  I don’t know who the hell he thinks he is, but just because I don’t make a big deal out of my issues and cry and whine to the bosses, doesn’t mean I don’t have any issues.  EVERYONE HAS FUCKING ISSUES.  And if he talks to the powers-that-be tomorrow, and they give him his fucking hours back, I am going to be so fucking mad.  I may go absolutely bat-shit crazy on them. 

I know that the world is not fair, but this isn’t even funny at all anymore.  It’s the worlds least funny cosmic joke of which I have ever been a part. 

I feel ridiculous.  And sad.  And outraged.  And helpless.  And pathetic. 

The worst part I suppose is that I don’t know what to do about it.  I don’t know what it is that I’m supposed to be doing, and it’s even worse when I think about what I thought my life would be like when I was still in college.  What I thought my life would be like way back before all of my hopes and dreams got crushed and I turned into this hopeless, apathetic lump who refuses to do anything because anytime I actively try to do anything important it gets slapped down right back into my face. 

I am writing this because I have no idea what else to do.  I am sure there is no possible way that this can help anything, except I have this sliver of hope that getting it out into the wild will make me feel better.  I haven’t figured out why I get all the crappy breaks.  I must have used up all my luck in my first twenty years… because these last six have pretty much made me want to cry. 

I apologize for the angst.  I will try again tomorrow.  Maybe I will even attempt upbeat.  But, tonight, all you are going to get is downtrodden and sad. 

Lovely.

If wishes were horses...

...mine would fly me away.

It's chilly in here...

I did not think I had it in me anymore to make my mother livid. Apparently, I am still quite good at it. We're going on 24 hours and she has not spoken to me. Not one single word. On a scale of one to livid, she is off the chart.

In case you were wondering...

Sent from my iPod, Astronaut.

#manlyoatmeal

“Dad, I hate oatmeal! Why do we have to eat it every morning?”

The young boy whined the same complaint to his father as he sat down at the table before school every morning.  Every morning, his father  calmly replied, “Because it will make you manly.  Don’t you want to be manly, like me?” Usually, the boy sulked into his chair and methodically ate the lumpy mass sitting at the bottom of his beautifully hand-crafted antique cereal bowl.  

Today before sitting at his place at the table, he looked at his father and said, “Why will it make me manly?” As he slid into his seat, he mumbled, “Did you put nails in it? Or dragon tails? Or witches brew?” Then, as his father looked on thoughtfully, the boy poked at the lump with his spoon.  “I don’t see anything manly about it,” he said before shoveling it into his mouth.

The boy took a few more bites in silence when his dad put down his spoon with a thunk.  “Jake,” he asked.  “Can I tell you a secret?”
“It doesn’t matter what you say, I still won’t like the stupid oatmeal.  I hate oatmeal.” Jake shoveled a heaping spoonful of the vile sludge into his mouth and immediately his face scrunched up as if he had just eaten a spoonful of battery acid.  Before his father could respond, Jake heaved himself out of his chair, grabbed his backpack from the back of the chair, and made a mad dash for the door.

“Jake!” called his father mournfully as the door slammed shut. “You’ll thank me some day,” mumbled Jake’s dad under his breath to no one in particular.

*****

The next morning, Jake flew down the stairs and came to an abrupt halt in front of the kitchen table.  “Oatmeal again? I hate oatmeal,” said Jake.  “I HATE OATMEAL!” Jake glanced at his father who looked dourly back at his son without saying a word.  Jake deliberately pulled out his chair and slid into it.  He took up his spoon, examined the lumpy substance in the old ceramic bowl, glanced at his father once more, and took a bite.  

Throughout the whole performance, Jake’s father said nothing.  He watched intently as Jake forced down a couple more bites.  The older man took a deep breath and said, “Your grandfather made that bowl when he was a young man before he ever had any children. I ate oatmeal from it every day of my childhood.  Magic oatmeal.”
Jake looked at his father, looked at his oatmeal, looked back at his father, and didn’t say a word.  He shoveled another spoonful of lumpy oatmeal into his mouth.

His father continued, “A fortune teller came to your grandfather’s shop one day.  She knew things about him that no one should have known.  She never told him his fortune, but she left a small book bound in gold sitting on the counter after she bought a few of his wares. The book contained instructions.  Special instructions.  Your grandfather set all of this in motion.”

Jake poked the remnants of oatmeal in his bowl and asked, “What do you mean?”

Jake’s father rubbed his temples and continued, “The magic oatmeal, if eaten everyday from the magical bowl, will turn you into a mighty warrior. It will make you manly.”

“I don’t understand what that can possibly mean.  You really believe this?  Dad, I’m twelve.  Why would I believe that this oatmeal or this bowl is magic? There’s no such thing.  The oatmeal isn’t magical, I’m not a warrior, and I’m not stupid either.” Jake scraped the bottom of the very old bowl with his very un-magical spoon.  He forced himself to take one last bite, stood up, and grabbed his backpack from the back of his chair.  Then, deliberately, he turned to his father and said, “I’ll never eat oatmeal again. Not magic oatmeal.  Not regular oatmeal.  Not any oatmeal.  You can’t force me.  I don’t even want to know why you think it is magical, so don’t tell me.”

Jake walked calmly to the door and as he paused before opening it, his father said, “It’s magical because there are cat’s bones ground up in it. Cat’s bones, bird feathers, and a few dog toes for good measure. The fortune teller’s book left specific instructions on the mixture.  You’ve been eating it since you were a child.” As the old man said those words, he looked beaten.  He put his head in his hands, and watched as his only son walked through the door.

After taking a few steps, Jake looked back toward the door.  He examined it for a moment, then retched the oatmeal he had finished eating only moments before into the bushes lining the sidewalk.

*****

“Who wants to volunteer for show-and-tell this morning?” asked Jake’s teacher, Miss Wilder.  Jake quickly raised his hand. “Jake, please, give it your best shot.”

Jake rose from his desk, and walked morosely to the front of the room.  He stood there looking for a moment then said, “My father has been making me eat cat bones, dog toes, and bird feathers for breakfast since I was old enough to hold a spoon.  He grinds them up, and puts them in my oatmeal, and makes me eat it every morning.” The students looked at Jake in bewilderment.

“Jake, please, don’t be telling tales,” said Miss Wilder.

Jake looked at her in astonishment and said, “It’s all true.  Dad told me this morning.  I barfed the oatmeal into the bushes. He thinks he’s some sort of wizard or something.  I HATE him.” Jake stood sullenly in front of his classmates and astonished teacher.

Miss Wilder stood from her desk, walked to Jake, and steered him toward the door.  “Class, please, work quietly on your homework while I’m gone.  I will be back in just a moment,” said the young teacher as she walked Jake outside into the hallway before asking,  “Jake, are you absolutely positive that your father... did this?”

“Yes,” answered Jake quietly, “I don’t want to be a warrior.”

“Will you tell this to Mrs. Willows, the counselor?  I can’t help you if you won’t talk to her,” said Miss Wilder.  Jake nodded and the pair walked quickly down the hall.

*****

That same afternoon, two police officers walked up an unassuming sidewalk a few blocks from an ordinary school.  “I can’t believe anyone would do this to a child,” said the taller of the two. 

“At this point, I can believe anything,” said the shorter of the two policemen as he stopped short in front of the door.  He reached out and knocked on the door. 

“I’m coming!” yelled a male voice from inside the house.  After a couple of minutes, the door swung open.  “Can I help you, officers?  Is my son okay?” asked Jake’s father worriedly. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Roberts, but we’ll need you to come with us down to the station.  We have a few questions to ask you.”

As promised to @ghostofstandys

 

...

My drawings are good for a minute. Then they turn into unfinished suck holes.

Images from my very own Dust Bowl

I walked outside this evening, just before dark.  It looked as if maybe, just maybe, it might rain this evening.  I have my fingers crossed.  If it did, it would be the first time in a month.  If it doesn’t reach the triple digits tomorrow, it will be one of the handful of times since it’s rained.  Everything is burning up.  Turning brown.  The grass crackles when you step on it.  I live on a small farm.  In order to keep our garden green, we have to water it for hours every single day.  If we missed a day, we would have zero chance at harvesting a single vegetable. 

It’s getting scary.  In the back of my mind, I worry the water will run out.  Or that by some fluke accident, the crispy grass will catch fire.  Or that one of the animals will overheat.  Any number of scary situations cross my mind every day.  I have an overactive imagination, but my mind doesn’t have far to go in this situation.  The ground is parched.

I worry that the dust bowl will happen all over again.  I only have an inkling as to what it was like, but from what I’ve experienced so far it must have been a living hell.  I just hope it rains before it comes to that.

This is one of our pastures.  The whole pasture should be as green as the stripes.  They get water from our sewer’s lateral lines.  The rest of the pasture is crispy.

This little marigold grew from seed on it’s own.  It’s the one plant in our yard that is thriving.  We think it must be getting some water from the pipe that is behind it.  Every other flower shows some kind of sun damage or is drooping and near death.  This flower is defiant. 

You might remember that I love small town newspapers…

I got a hold of a copy of my favorite paper today.  If you act quickly, you might experience the best that rural life has to offer.

I will only make two comments:

1) Apparently, zucchini races are exactly what they sound like.  People build cars from zucchini and race them down a track.  Seriously.

2) I read aloud that you could stick around for the musical styling's of “Def Heifer” and it elicited a snort from a co-worker who recently moved here from St. Louis.  She only said, “I cannot believe I live here.” 

I don’t make these things up.  I promise.

Words

Faceless Angel

I wanted everyone to see this before I ruined it with a face. I'm no good at drawing faces. No good whatsoever.

Review: Riding Lessons by Sara Gruen

 

Sara Gruen wrote the novel Water for Elephants which I enjoyed and reviewed a few months ago.  I thought I’d give a second of her books a chance and purchased this book on a whim, (It’s a habit I’m trying to break since I don’t always read the books I buy.*) and then read on a whim as I tried to come to terms with my feelings for Mira Grant’s Deadline.  I’ve always been a fan of novels that feature horses or horse people or horse people and horses or any mix of horses and people really. 

Riding Lessons is the story of a middle-aged woman who ran away from her equestrian past after a tragic accident.  We meet her on the day that she learns the man she ran away with is cheating on her and wants a divorce.  To make matters worse, her teenage daughter is flunking out of school, and being a major league trouble maker.  As is her history, when faced with major issues in her life our heroine flees… back home to the life she fled in the first place.

This story is filled with broken people, broken lives, and broken horses, but it is also filled with hope.  Gruen tells a tale of healing, but before her characters can heal, she first has to break them down.  She isn’t afraid to make life happen to her characters.  I respect that.  By the time the story ends, you are rooting for the characters, and hoping for their sake (and yours, since by this time you have an emotional attachment to the characters), that everything will finally turn out okay.  Because really isn’t that all that anyone can ever truly hope for in life? 

I liked this book.  It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting at the time, but it was exactly the book I needed to read at the time that I read it.  It reminded me a lot of The Horse Whisperer (the book, not the movie).  I read that book at least three times as a teenager.  Sara Gruen knows how to tell a story.  I appreciate a good story.

*In case you were wondering… In the time it took for me to write this review, I found out that Riding Lessons is the first in a series.  I also found out that the second book is out, and is called Flying Changes.  I also bought that book… on a whim.  I can’t go wrong with it, right?  This habit will be the death of me.  I won’t have to go to rehab for a gambling/drinking/drug problem.  It' will be because I can’t stop buying books. 

This is not a book review of Deadline by Mira Grant

 

Happy #july4!!!

Seems I have a little video of the explosions I watched last night in celebration of #july4. I must admit, I was going to splice in the first couple of minutes of the Katy Perry boobFirework video. You know, make these explode from her chest. Alas, I had not the time to do that. So… in your heads, please imagine these fireworks are coming out of Katy Perry’s boobs. It will make me happy, and you will have celebrated #july4 in the very best way ever.

 

Why I love small town newspapers...

I'm pretty sure these speak for themselves, but I'll give just a bit of commentary. I imagine that Miss Mabel sat between her tomato plant and her phone just waiting for the moment her first tomato ripened, so she could call the paper and be declared the winner. Also note, Miss Mabel and her ripe tomato made it on the front page of the newspaper albeit below the fold, but still... The front page.

The second picture speaks for itself. Yes, that is a current news item. I do not make these things up.

Addendum to the fireworks entry:

The kids next to us kept up a rambunctious commentary throughout the show. It went something like this:

"POW!"

"POW!"

"BOOM SHAKA LAKA!" 

"POW!"

"Big one!"

"I TOLD you it'd be a big one!"

"POW!"

"That sounded like a GUN!"

"NO! It sounded like a BOMB!"

"BANG!"

"POW!"

"POW!"

Sent from my iPod, Astronaut.

Fireworks and lightning bugs

Just got home from the first firework display of the season. I caught lightning bugs while we waited for the fireworks to start. I felt like a five year-old again.

Writers are crazy…

… crazy, badass. 

I’ve recently had a particular blog post by a particular writer boggling my mind.  Specifically, this line is causing the problem inside my head:

“On an average work night, I write between 2,000 and 4,000 words, along with assorted edits, emails, and the rest.”

How?  How is this possible?  I don’t understand.  My mind is boggled. 

Everything is ridiculous.

Book Review: Shades of Milk and Honey by Mary Robinette Kowal

 

Imagine Jane Austen’s novels.  Then imagine Jane Austen’s novels with magic.  Are you imagining it?  It would be pretty cool, right?  You’re right. It’s pretty cool.  Also, you can stop imagining now because you can read it instead.

Mary Robinette Kowal wrote a little book called Shades of Milk and Honey.  It is written in the style of a Jane Austen story, but don’t get scared.  It’s great, I promise.  It’s also about magic and the people who utilize it.  In the book, magic is referred to as “glamour” and is absolutely mundane. (It’s mundane in the everyday, usual, utilitarian sense.)  Glamour is easy to learn, and young women are expected to learn it as part of their education. 

Glamour is used by housewives and artists, and the main character of Shades of Milk and Honey is adept in its uses.  Unfortunately, she is not quite so adept at courtship, and has resigned herself to the life of a spinster.

Now I’m going to have to ask you to imagine again.  Stay with me; we’re almost to the end.

Imagine reading about boring dinner parties, and visitors coming a-calling, and walks in a boxwood maze, and strawberry picking parties.  Then imagine an element of drama that can only be resolved by using magic.  Imagining?  Add in lots of ladies in dresses and dashing young men.  Still with me?  Add in some magical artwork and entertainment.  Got it? 

Good.  Now go read Shades of Milk and Honey, because that’s what it’s like. 

I may have a wee bit of skill left...

Book Review: Deathless by Catherynne M. Valente

When I was in second grade, my gifted class took a field trip to see "the treasures of the tsars," a traveling exhibit that showcased the extravagance of the pre-soviet Russian nobility. The exhibit included jewels, carriages, exquisite gowns, and a Faberge egg. I remember being incredibly let down by the egg, but loved everything else. Imagine, a second grader infatuated by old, dusty, Russian artifacts.

Fast forward to my sophomore year of college, and my Russian history professor Dr. Elena Osokina. I loved Dr. Osokina. She probably ranks up there as one of my top ten favourite teachers ever, and she is everything I had ever imagined in a Russian pedagogue. Dr. Osokina taught me about the treasures I saw on my second grade field trip, and what kind of upheaval could make that kind of extravagance obsolete. Imagine, a twenty-one year old college student intrigued and in love with old, dusty, Russian history.

When I heard that Catherynne M. Valente was working on a book set in Soviet Russia and featuring the old folk tales of old, dusty Russia, I about died. I love Valente's writing style, and I love her storytelling. In all honesty, I enjoy seeing how Valente strings her sentences together; they tend to be precise and flowing descriptions that paint the story in beautiful pictures. I forget I'm reading, because the story unfolds in front of my eyes.

Deathless combines the Soviet struggle with the old folk tales of Russia. The story Valente paints is beautiful and heart wrenching; a folk tale mixed with a love story. Deathless combined everything I loved learning about Russia with everything I love about Valente's storytelling. The combination is exquisite. Deathless may very well be Valente's best tale yet.

I'm sure that my both my second grade self, and my twenty-one year old self would love Deathless. However, I'm quite certain my second grade self would have been as confused about the love story as she was about the Faberge egg. Thank you, Ms. Valente for the beautiful story; it was as if you wrote it specifically for me.

Book Review: Ash by Malinda Lo

 

I just finished reading Malinda Lo’s debut novel, Ash.  I loved every word.  I just wanted to get that out there; I feel no need to follow my typical review format with this book (which I don’t have to point out is ironic, since I tend to have no format).  It is amazing. 

I wrote the preceding paragraph mere seconds after I finished reading Ash.  It’s been a full day since I finished the book. I still fully stand behind my initial conclusions, and will justify them in the following paragraphs. 

Ash is a beautifully written variation of the fairy tale, “Cinderella.” Lo imagines the tale in a world that is similar, but so very much different than Disney’s version of the tale.  The world she builds in Ash, is almost haunting.  It absolutely breaks your heart when Ash, the main character, tragically loses both of her parents mere months a part, and Ash is left to the designs of her cruel stepmother. 

The fairy aspect of the tale is haunting and heartbreaking as well.  Nearly everyone in the country has forgotten or lost their ties to the fairy world, and only a few people follow the old traditions.  Ash has ties to the fairy, and she becomes enchanted by the secret people everyone has forgotten.  As she falls in love with the fairies, she also finds that she is falling in love with someone else as well.  However, its not Prince Charming.  He does make his appearance, but Ash doesn’t play by the rules… even the rules of fairy tales. 

Ash is a strong main character.  She’s admirable. She has to be strong in order to overcome everything that seems to go wrong, and then to achieve the life that she dreams.  Ash is a coming-of-age story.  While it is based on a traditional fairy tale, and contains many of the aspects of the original tale, the result is something new entirely.  The way that ash and cinders are the same, only different, is the same way that Lo’s fairy tale compares to the original.

I think I mentioned that I loved Ash, I hope you’ll find it enchanting as well.

Notes to myself

Who brainwashed me to love eagles?

Today, I saw a bald eagle.  I love seeing bald eagles.  My teachers in elementary school brainwashed me completely; they taught us that bald eagles are majestic creatures.  Regal.  Important.  I imagine little me sitting in typical classroom at a typical school desk taking in every word and taking every word to heart.  Back when I was a kid, bald eagles were endangered.  You rarely saw them in the wild.  I’m not sure I ever did.

I remember when the put the eagle tree out in the lake.  It is essentially an upside-down tripod sticking out of the middle of the lake.  Supposedly, eagles needed places to build their nests, and this would be a great place for that to happen.  I watched the eagle tree.  I checked on it every time we drove into town, but nothing ever built a nest there.  Apparently, the eagles found better places for nesting; they continued to be elusive and I only ever saw them when we visited zoos. 

The eagle tree is still out in the middle of the lake.  I still check on it when I drive to town, but not as obsessively as I once did.  Happily, the bald eagle population has rebounded.  A few years ago, I saw one flying over the highway as I headed home from visiting a friend.  I could hardly believe my eyes; eagles never flew over highways.  At least, I’d never seen one doing that.  I wanted to follow it, but had to settle for watching it until I could see it no more. 

Since that first sighting, I’ve seen a few more bald eagles in the wild; however, I’m not sure it’s been enough to even count on two hands.  What surprises me now are the reactions I get when I mention seeing a bald eagle to anyone.  What to me seems like a crazy, big deal never gets much of a reaction.  My mind can’t comprehend how seeing a bald eagle is not a big deal.  Bald eagles are important.  Bald eagles are rare.  They aren’t like sparrows.  People can’t possibly be tired of seeing them. 

I want people to be excited.  I want people to be surprised.  I want to be able to share how it was so close I could see each individual feather.  I want to share how it looked down at me from the branch in which it perched and looked absolutely bored.  I want to share how after looking at me for a long moment, it gracefully launched itself into the sky and quickly flew out of sight as if to say, “I see you down there, but I have better things to do than have you stare at me all day, so I’ll be going now.” 

No one wants to know these things.  It disappoints me.  Which ever teacher it was who brainwashed me so fully about the importance of bald eagles succeeded in that endeavor.  I am afraid I will always be amazed when I see a bald eagle in the wild, and I am afraid that I will always be amazed when I am the only one who cares.   

Book Review: Rag and Bone: A Journey Among the World’s Holy Dead by Peter Manseau

A few weeks ago, a friend and I were discussing Mary Roach’s book, Stiff, while having a merry time at our then-favorite pub.  I have always been fascinated with the Catholic Church and the the Catholic obsession with saints and worshipping bodies long dead.  The incorruptibility of certain saints and the worship of their bodies as relics is fascinating.  It just is.  I wondered aloud to my friend why Ms. Roach did not include these bodies in her compendium of uses for once-live bodies.  My friend said that I should just ask her, so… I did. 

Ms. Roach quickly replied that she had intentionally left out the incorruptible saints as it is not exactly a profession that just any body could take up, unlike that of medical cadaver or a body donated to science.  Then she recommended I read Rag and Bone: A Journey Among the World’s Dead written by Peter Manseau.  Well, when Mary Roach recommends a book, people, you read it. 

Rag and Bone reminds me of a memoir.  Certainly, it is about holy relics, but not only that; it’s a book about a man’s journey visiting important relics from all different religions.  It reads almost as a travel journal would, and tells a story, not just of the relics, but also of those who worship them.  My inquiry about incorruptible Catholic Saints opened a door.  I hadn’t realized that so many religions have bits and pieces left over from the days their important leaders walked the earth. 

From whiskers, to teeth, to entire bodies, Manseau’s descriptions of his journeys to the various relics are vivid, as are his descriptions of the relics themselves.  He explains the historical and political relevance of each relic, and tells a little about similar relics to those that he visits.  Manseau has a knack for observation; his descriptions of interactions with those he encountered on his journeys leave you feeling as if you had witnessed the encounters themselves. The stories are engaging and informative, and the book reads almost like a novel. 

Rag and Bone tells the stories of the world’s holy relics.  Manseau is a wonderful storyteller.  Through his stories of the relics, he tells the stories of those who worship the relics as well.  Manseau turned what could have been a boring examination of what are essentially old body parts into an examination of people. Relics are important to people, but people are important.  Life is important.  Stories are important.  Manseau is a wonderful storyteller, and a great teacher.

After reading Rag and Bone, I want to come up with some other question for Mary Roach.  She has excellent taste in books.

Audiobook Review: Behemoth written by Scott Westerfield and read by Alan Cumming

It is that time of year in which my land is plagued by thunderstorms and severe weather.  While that is awesome in and of itself (sarcasm alert), it is also awesome because it means loads and loads of internet outages for me.  There is nothing worse than satellite internet.  Believe me.  Well, except dial-up, but lets not talk about that.  Lacking internet, I suppose I might just write a short audiobook review. 

Behemoth is the second book in Scott Westerfeld’s “Leviathan” trilogy.  Having recently read, and loved, the first novel of this trilogy, I couldn’t wait to get my hands on this book… or rather, ears on this audiobook.  Behemoth starts exactly where the first book left off, and Westerfeld expertly weaves steampunk together with an alternate version of the First World War. 

Alan Cumming returned as the voice of Westerfeld’s steampunk, war drama, and once again brought the story to life.  I cannot fault his narration, and again think that his ability to voice the various accents of the characters in Behemoth adds something that would be lost without his narration. 

I can’t say that this review is anything more than an extension of my review of Leviathan (which can be found here), and I can’t say that I’m not simply being a cheerleader for Team Westerfeld.  I am eagerly awaiting the final installation of Westerfeld’s trilogy in order to see how he concludes his version of the Great War.  Rah!

Audiobook Review: Old Man’s War written by John Scalzi and narrated by William Dufris

In case you were wondering, we finished the #sekritvideo.  Despite the best attempts of the gods of technology, we finished and submitted it to the competition with one minute to spare.  One minute.  It was intensity at its best.  Believe it.  Now, I feel like I’ve gone back to the land of normal.  It almost seems as if the weekend never happened.  I know it happened.  It was awesome.  In celebration of the end of the #sekritvideo, I thought I’d write another book review.  Hopefully, this time It will be more of a book review than a commentary on what I happen to be doing. (It appears that I’m failing on that point as well, but you’ll forgive me, right?)

I heard of this book through a post at boingboing, I think.  The details of that memory are fishy.  How I came to listen to this book is only a passing detail.  The fact is that I did listen to it, and I shall now relate that experience. 

Old Man’s War by John Scalzi is the story of a not so far off future in which humanity has entered into the race for galactic power.  For humans on earth, this race includes farming out the elderly from and letting them fight the galactic war after they have lived a full life. Once they reach space, they never return to their life on earth and are not even guaranteed living out their full term of service.  The galaxy is a scary place full of plenty of hostile aliens and insects and creatures.  I’ll give Scalzi one thing, he tells a good story. 

If you thought the next word of that last sentence should have been “but”, you get a gold star.  I had one issue with the audiobook.  It is a pretty minor issue, but one that grates on your nerves when you are listening to the story.  This time it hasn’t a thing to do with the narrator either.  Dufris’ narration fit the story perfectly.  The problem stemmed from the continual use of “he said,” “she said,” “Tom said,” etc., in the dialog.  There was nothing for the narrator to do, but even simple conversations are jarring because the “he said”/”she said” interrupts the flow of the story.  Like I said, pretty minor issue, but an annoyance. 

Don’t let this keep you from the story.  Please don’t.  I loved the story.  I loved the story.  That’s all that matters, right?

Anyway, I must return to the land of normal now.  I’ll just have to daydream about aliens and #sekritvideos. 

Book Review: Rosemary and Rue (An October Day Novel) by Seanan McGuire

If you’ve been following a long on twitter, you know that I’ve been working on a #sekritvideo. This is the point in the process wherein everyone goes to the club to shoot the club scene. Why, one might ask, am I writing a psuedo-book review while I should be with everyone at the club? That, my friends, is a very good question. It turns out that I have a slight aversion to clubs. Any kind of clubs. And by slight aversion, I really mean, hardcore phobia. Since I wasn’t exactly needed and I wasn’t certain that I would even be useful at all in such a setting (seeing as I haven’t really done much at all to help today, since we made the #octoporn), I opted to stay home and hold down the fort until everyone comes back to make the #octorain.

Anyway, all that is beside the point… so… I’ve decided to use this time to catch up on yet another of my book reviews (which at this point aren’t so much book reviews as blog entries that happen to mention a certain book).

Rosemary and Rue is the first in the series of urban fantasy books about October Daye a.k.a. Toby. Toby lives in a San Francisco that hides the world of Faerie in plain sight of unsuspecting humans. Toby isn’t your average human. The faerie is in her blood, her mother’s blood. Previously, Toby had shunned the world of her mother, and opted to live her life as a human. She is thrust back into faerie politics when a close friend is murdered.

Toby must use her skills as a private investigator to solve the murder.

Imagine a secret world of politics, magic, and intrigue… And then imagine that your humble writer has been interrupted in her book review by her crew that has rudely arrived back from the club scene 100 percent earlier than she had expected. Then imagine that your humble writer, so rudely interrupted in her book review, has had at least 3, if not 4 more drinks than she had before she started the review. Then (Yes, one more then, because that is how I roll.) imagine that the crew, including your humble writer, has finished (yes, finished) the filming of the #sekritvideo and it is now 3 (maybe four (I lost count of hours when I lost count of beers)) hours later. So… Where were we?

Oh, that’s right. We were imagining a secret world of politics, magic, and intrigue. Cue October Daye. She is this secret, amazing heroine who rules the faerie world of San Francisco (except technically she doesn’t rule it, she only works within the parameters of the fae and knows the inner workings of fae society). Using her background in private investigation (which unbeknownst to those of you who haven’t read the book yet (which I’m about to ruin for you, so if you don’t want to know skip to the end of the parenthesis) she had a career in before she was turned into a fish for many years (which I love) (that she was a fish, that is)), along with her knowledge of the faerie society, she must uncover a secret plot, and discover who killed her friend.

Don’t underestimate Toby. Knowing that this is the beginning of a series, one can assume that Toby will save the day. That assumption makes no ass of you or me. Toby is a kick-ass heroine. Believe it. Don’t take my word for it. Read the book. I’m not kidding.

I have to get the next book in the series. I haven’t yet, but don’t worry, I will. You should get it, too.

Now, I have to finish this blog. The editor of the #sekritvideo wants my input and wants to show me the “money shot”. How can I deny him that? Anyway, in a nutshell, movies are awesome, and so is October Daye. Read it.

Note to Seanan McGuire:

I promise, the next time I do a book review of one of your books I will not a) be involved in a #sekritvideo or b) be drunk. I love your work. Please forgive me. And don’t judge. You are amazing.

Book Review: Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

If you’ve been following my twitter feed, you might have noticed that I am working on a #sekritvideo project.  I know nothing at all about video, but I thought that it would be hilarious and fun to help out on the project.  Turns out that both of those preconceived notions are true.  I have also learned that working on video projects include a lot of “hurry up and wait” time. 

Seeing as I am at a point in between having helped create #octoporn and helping with more videoing later this evening, I have a bit of time in which I have essentially nothing to do except listen to a specific track on repeat from the Grey’s Anatomy Music Event Soundtrack (Unfortunately, I am also that girl. Please take the time to judge me at your leisure.) and to do a quick review of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women.

It has been about a month since I actually read Little Women, so bear with me.  Honestly, this review is more about actually getting rid of my backlog of book reviews, than actually reviewing Little Women, because I sometimes feel terrible reviewing a book that was written by a dead person. 

First things first, I read Little Women for one main reason.  In a certain Friends episode, “The One Where Monica and Richard are Just Friends,” Joey and Rachel exchange their favorite books.  Little Women just so happens to be one of those books.  Since watching that episode, I’ve always wanted to read Little Women.  I finally did. 

Second things second, I enjoyed Alcott’s tale.  It revolves around the lives and struggles of four sisters, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy March, who are growing up in mid-nineteenth-century New England.  Eventually, the plot turns from their childish troubles to those of young women who must find their place and role in life.

I loved the characters especially Jo, with whom I assume I was meant to identify. I loved how the family interacted with each other and with their neighbors.  I loved watching the girls grow up and find their place in life.  It is truly a beautiful story, and has withstood the test of time.  I do have one issue. 

Since I did identify with Jo and felt strongly about her character, when she married the professor.  I felt sadness.  I know I should have been happy for her, because she found her place in life, but I felt cheated.  The ending is too easy.  Everyone is too happy.  Had the story ended before Jo found her professor, I would have more fully enjoyed it. I would have written the story differently.  That’s all.

Aside from my one nit-picky objection, I loved reading Little Women.  You should probably go out and read it.  I mean, it is a classic after all.  I’m kicking myself that I waited so long to read it.  I mean, even after watching the Friends episode that made me want to read it, it took me a hundred years to get it and read it.  There are too many books to read, and only so much time in which to read them.  I will probably never read all the books I want.  No one will probably read all the books they want.  That is depressing.  So… in light of that fact, I am recommending that you read Little Women, but if you don’t want to read it, I want you to read those books you do want first.

Now, I’m rambling. I apologize.  I am going to go back to the #sekritvideo, and hit publish.  Now.

Book Review: Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen

Dear World,

I must confess.  I wanted to read this book because I saw the movie trailer.  I also must confess more than that.  I specifically wanted to read this book because I saw the movie trailer starred Robert Pattinson who at one time portrayed a vampire named Edward Cullen.  Yes, World, I am that girl. 

I apologize. 

Love,

@notthegirl

Now, I shall proceed to the heart of the issue, the book review at hand. In this case, my unorthodox method of choosing books was a success.  Water for Elephants is quite possibly the best book I’ve read all year.  I absolutely loved it.  I’m not absolutely certain that this book wasn’t written for me specifically.  (I understand that this book has been a bestseller since it’s release in 2006, but still… a girl can dream, right?)

The main characters include a veterinarian, a beautiful circus star, and an elephant.  What’s not to love?  I’m being serious.  What is not to love?  I didn’t realize until I started writing this review (which at this point has digressed into nothing more than a long rant about how much I loved the book), that I loved this book so much.  I probably should have noticed when I finished it in approximately two settings, but I did not. 

I absolutely cannot wait to see Water for Elephants in theaters.  (Did I mention Robert Pattinson? Also elephants?  Or circus stars?  I know I didn’t mention horses, but I’m crossing my fingers that they will be in there as well.)  If it is even half as good as the book (which I might mention once more that Sara Gruen wrote specifically for me), then it will be the best movie I’ve seen since… I don’t know… Since a long time. 

There you have it folks.  Water for Elephants=Awesome.  Robert Pattinson=Vampires=good gimmick for getting me to buy a book that I would have normally never read. Me=Crazy.  If anyone had been wondering about my unexpected blogging hiatus, this “book review” should answer some questions.  Or possibly raise some. 

Go.  Read the book.  I promise.  You’ll thank me. 

The world keeps spinning…

…whether I do or not.

I must apologize for my lack of anything blog related over the last couple of weeks… I have fallen way behind on my book reviews, and that is annoying.  But don’t worry!  I am going to catch up.  And… maybe I will even write something not review related. 

Anyway, keep an eye out.  I think I’m about back to full-speed again.  I need to not be depressed for a long while; it does not suit my personality.  This I know. 

Wish me luck! 

An open letter...

Audiobook Review: Stiff written by Mary Roach and read by Shelly Frasier

Mary Roach’s Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers was absolutely the grossest book to which I have ever listened, and probably the book from which I’ve learned the most. I will not lie.  I loved this book.  Capital “L” love.  I am not even kidding.  I would listen to it a hundred times.  I know what you are thinking. How could on possibly love a book about dead bodies?  Dead freaking bodies? 

The truth is that Mary Roach uses her dry wit to break up the almost unbearably disgusting sections of her book.  It is a great combination.  Believe me, almost unbearably disgusting is a perfect way to describe when Roach describes human dissection or decay or even preservation.  There were times when I found myself literally saying, “Gross gross gross eww bleck gross,” while listening to a particularly disgusting section.  Humans love to learn about themselves, and gross things so when the gross thing is a human (or rather, was) one cannot resist.  I couldn’t. 

Shelly Frasier performed wonderfully; however, in the earlier chapters of the book, I noticed that there were quite a number of places where the audio had been spliced together.  I wonder if Frasier needed breaks in able to read such dark content in such a light-hearted manner.  That is pure speculation, but I would not be surprised if it were true. 

This may be the one and only non-fiction book that I wouldn’t mind reading, or listening to, again.  I can’t wait to read Roach’s other books.  She makes learning a blast. (I’m sure the subject matter helped.  I know everyone, even if they swear that it’s too morbid, wants to know about dead bodies.  It’s like learning swear words when you’re a kid, it’s taboo, but you want to anyway.)

Audiobook Review: Wishful Drinking written and read by Carrie Fisher

If you’ve ever thought your family crazy or yourself crazy, or if you or your family is crazy, or if you are simply interested in crazy people and families, Carrie Fisher’s Wishful Drinking is absolutely the book for you.  I would know because absolutely fall under some of those categories. 

I won’t lie, I mostly wanted this audiobook, so Princess Leia would talk to me for 3 hours.  I know I am a ridiculous Star Wars geek.  A ridiculous Star Wars geek with an interest in insanity.  I am the market for this book.  However, I must admit that it is clear in the first few minutes of the book that Carrie Fisher is not Princess Leia.  She talks mostly of her childhood and what it was like to grow up in America’s spotlight. 

Wishful Drinking is a hilarious celebrity memoir.  Fisher’s self-depreciating humor is laugh out loud funny, and her antics rival Charlie Sheen.  It is an interesting look into the life of a princess.  I only wish I would have seen the roadshow. 

Audiobook Review: Leviathan written by Scott Westerfield performed by Alan Cumming

While I prefer listening to audiobooks read by the author, I broke my own rule when I decided to listen to Scott Westerfeld’s “Leviathan.” Leviathan is an alternative, steampunk history about the beginnings of World War I.  (I love alternate history novels.  I spent 6 years of my life learning to be a historian.  While historians, arguably, change and bend history to their will, one thing they aren’t allowed to do is change the facts to any great extent.  I imagine that could be a big reason why I enjoy alternate history fiction.)  This story revolves around the exploits of an Scottish Darwinist and an Austrian Clanker.  Alan Cumming, a Scottish actor who has played roles requiring a German accent, was a perfect choice for the reading of this story.

In Leviathan, Westerfield is able to not only explain the complex reasons why Europe erupted into war in the Summer of 1914, but he also manages to take futuristic elements and weave them seamlessly into the already complex story.  Sure, he changed some of the historic dates and personas and such for the sake of the story, but Leviathan is an alternate history, so that is entirely welcome.  It is fun, especially for a reformed historian, to imagine the First World War being fought between fabricated beasts and hugely complex, mechanical walking machines.  The Darwinists Allies and the Clanker Central Powers become uneasy allies and the plot twists and turns its way through that fateful summer.

Had I been reading this book in the traditional manner, I am positive I would have been unable to put it down.  As a audiobook, I found myself driving slower just to be able to listen to more of it at once.  (Not only is it a good read, it also saves gas!)  There is only one problem with Leviathan, and that’s the fact that it’s the first of a trilogy.  I’m ready to listen to the next!

A Conversation with the Gatekeeper

In a perfect world, Wal-Mart would provide wifi for all it's customers. That way, in lieu of having a always on mobile connection, us non-connected souls could update our blogs in nearly realtime about our issues with their annoyances (or perhaps even our enjoyments).

The issue I had today lies with the Tire and Lube department (where I am currently waiting for my tires to be balanced and rotated). The gatekeeper of said department met me at the entrance, without even the courtesy of letting me get out of my car. (Mind you, I have brought my car to my secondary Wal-Mart. But in a perfect world, all departments would be connected and there would be no issues about what previous gatekeepers had explained.)

I politely asked for a balance and rotation as my car is sorely in need of both. The gatekeeper asked if I had their super perks free balance and rotation program, which I politely replied that I did as I handed her the paperwork the previous department had given me when they said, and I quote, "Since you've bought a tire with us you now have the Road Hazard warranty and the Lifetime Balance and Rotation."

The gatekeeper took one look at the paperwork and insisted that there was no warranty, and insisted that once I paid for a balance and rotation here, then, and only then would I have the lifetime balance and rotation. The only problem with that being I've already paid for a balance and rotation here before. (So not only do they not communicate with each other, they also don't communicate with themselves.) At the point, I became angry and got, dare I say, bitchy with the lady. I insisted that I Did have the correct warranty and that she should either look at her records or call the previous store. Then, I did something I'm sure was unheard of for her. I opened my glove box cum filing cabinet and pulled out all of the receipts I had ever gotten from having my wheels done at Wal-Mart and found the receipt from months ago when I got my tires done here. Much to her chagrin, I did, in fact, have the correct warranty. In her defense, she quickly apologized.

I suppose this is a warning to all who may partake in the great value of having your tires done at the world's favorite blue big-box chain. Be prepared for them to want to make you unnecessarily pay, and keep all your receipts. I won't stop coming here, but I will be ever diligent and no evil gatekeeper (who I'm sure takes classes in getting swindling poor souls) will get me to pay money they are not owed.

P.S. Dear Wal-Mart, while I appreciate the fact that you put disposable seat covers in before getting oil and tire gunk all over the interior of my car, can you please start disposing of them before I have to get back in it. It would be much appreciated.

Addendum: It took me exactly as long to write this as it did for them to finish my car. Almost exactly a half hour for those of you keeping score.

Sent from my iPod, Astronaut.

Review: The Buried Sky by Keith Hartman

Somewhere in my electronic travels, I read a review of Keith Hartman’s “The Buried Sky.” (Actually, I do remember exactly where and why I found that review, but it’s a long story so I’m not going to elaborate.)  I bought it on a whim.  The price was right.  Then I didn’t even bother reading it for 2 weeks. 

I know, I know… I’m a habitual book buyer.  I try not to read reviews anymore because I will buy whatever book might be featured.  Doesn’t really matter if the book is about underwater basket weaving or what, I will pick it up and put it in my “To Read” queue if I read a positive review.  It gets ridiculous sometimes. 

In the case of “The Buried Sky,” I am exceedingly happy with my whimsy.  It’s a short read (I read the whole thing over the course of an evening in front of the television.), but the story is highly entertaining.  It’s essentially a murder mystery that takes place in a confined environment.  Our fearless main character is the prime suspect in the murder of his father, and in discovering his father’s murderer, he also discovers the truth of their Y2K-style confinement. 

I don’t want to give anything more away, but “The Buried Sky” is an interesting look into humanity, and what means people will take to hide the truth. 

The price is right.  Go buy it.  Go read it.  Go.  Do it, already.

The internet has made me a hypochondriac.

Before Google, I lived my life a happy and healthy.  I scoffed at people who thought they always had the latest disease, illness, or psychological condition. (I still do, for that matter, but that’s beside the point.) Then… I grew up.  I came to readily rely on the internet (and Google) to answer all my questions.  Some of those questions revolve around health issues. 

In the last month, I have researched migraines, tumors, ulcers, Alzheimer’s, loss of vision, and dementia.  In the last month, at some point, I have believed that I have all or one of the above mentioned afflictions.  That’s only in the last month.  I’ve been convinced I’m bipolar and depressed.  I’ve believed that I suffered from carpal tunnel.  I also believed I had been abducted by aliens.  (Okay, that last one is only a joke for emphasis.) 

None of the above have ever been confirmed by a physician.  Never have I brought up any of the aforementioned afflictions to any physician.  Only Google.  Google is my best friend and, quite possibly, my worst enemy all wrapped up in the warped sense of well-being I get when I self-diagnose. 

I realized today that Google is like crack for a hypochondriac.  I’m glad I’m not actually a hypochondriac; I mean, imagine what weird conditions I could imagine I suffer were I one.  I can’t help but worry that I am secretly ill and will die a slow, horrible, and painful death.  I suppose everyone worries about their mortality.  I worry that I’m too young to worry about mine.

Dear Google,

When I believe I am suffering from some rare disease or, for that matter, some common one, I am no longer coming to you.  I will not share my fears, because you are unable to assuage them.  You are not my friend.  I am not a hypochondriac.

Love,

@notthegirl

Review: Apex Magazine, Jan edition; edited by Catherynne M. Valente

Fiction:
“The Itaweon Eschatology” by Douglas F. Warrick
“The Tolling of Pavlov’s Bells” by Seanan McGuire
“Tomorrow and Tomorrow” by Mary Robinette Kowal

Poetry:
“The Terminal City” by Preston Grassmann
“The Unkindest Kiss” by Mike Allen

Apex Magazine features dark science fiction and fantasy short stories and poems.  Fiction Editor Catherynne M. Valente outlines the kind of stories she looks for to publish in the magazine:

What we want is sheer, unvarnished awesomeness. We want the stories it scared you to write. We want stories full of marrow and passion, stories that are twisted, strange, and beautiful. We want science fiction, fantasy, horror, and mash-ups of all three—the dark, weird stuff down at the bottom of your little literary heart. This magazine is not a publication credit, it is a place to put your secret places and dreams on display. Just so long as they have a dark speculative fiction element—we aren’t here for the quotidian.*

Not sure where I discovered this magazine, but when I learned that Seanan McGuire, a.k.a Mira Grant of the Newsflesh trilogy, had a story featured in the January issue, I had to check it out.

I can’t say I’m at all disappointed with the line up.  All three featured short stories are amazing, and I managed to consume the whole magazine in the course of a work day.  I devoured the short stories, and particularly enjoyed Seanan McGuire’s “The Tolling of Pavlov’s Bells” and Mary Robinette Kowal’s “Tomorrow and Tomorrow.” McGuire’s is the story of the end of the world as we no it.  Not quite a zombie apocalypse, but an apocalypse all the same.  Kowal’s story takes place after the apocalypse and tells the tale of a woman framed for murder.  I can almost imagine the two stories are a part of a single story that occur in a greater novel.  Even Warrick’s tale, “The Itaweon Eschatology”, while not my favorite of the three, wove a spell around me and kept me intrigued throughout. All three stories were haunting and raw, and of the kind one could read over and over again.

The magazine ends with two poems, “The Terminal City” and “The Unkindest Kiss.” I tried to like these poems.  I read them at least 3 times apiece.  However, as much as I wanted to like the poems and as good as they probably are, I can’t say that I’ve ever liked poetry all that much.  I’m never sure exactly what the author is trying to say, and I’m sure that is part of the charm, but I prefer my fiction as a story.  Like a head on a platter, there is no denying that the person is dead.  That’s how I like my fiction.  Not like a photo of someone you killed for me, you bring me a photo; I’m 100% certain that person isn’t dead.  That’s why I’m not a fan of poetry.

If you like speculative fiction of the dark variety, I suggest you check out Apex Magazine. It couldn’t be more accessible, and it comes at a nominal fee.  Subscriptions are 12.00 a year. Single issues are available in most eformat’s including the Kindle store for 2.99, and if you are patient enough to wait for the new issue the previous issues can be read for free on the website.  It’s awesome.  And full of awesome.  Read it, and believe it.

I am starting the current issue already.  I couldn’t wait.

*Taken directly from the submission guidelines at the Apex Magazine website.