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millennial tarot deck

The Millennial Tarot

Please note: this is not currently a serious project! I am actually working on a tarot deck to go along with a novel series, tentatively named The Clockwork Gothic. It turns out that trying to put together an actual tarot deck seriously changes how you see the tarot. I was journaling one day and came up with a smartass idea for a tarot deck—the Millennial Tarot Deck—and managed to get through the major arcana before I got stuck.

I should also note that I am not a Millennial but a younger Gen-Xer. I’m not here to mock, though. I could have done a Gen-Xer deck, but my initial thoughts on it were kind of depressing. When Paul Ryan showed up as the Devil in my deck…I just couldn’t do it.

So please enjoy this as a smartass mini-project I did to help solidify my thoughts on tarot 🙂

The Millennial Tarot

Tarot is meant to map and organize the great tales of our culture in a way that enlightens us to our common humanity without erasing our individuality, helping us move past ideas that hold us back from a sense of balance and peace.

Tarot points out that we keep doing the same damn things over and over again. It’s the mysterious voice that seems to call from nowhere, saying, “DON’T GO DOWN INTO THE BASEMENT.” Although the tarot is used as a fortune-telling tool, it is always trying to tell us that it isn’t fate that controls our destiny, but our own willful blindness, both as individuals and as a society.

When the cards are upright, read them as generally obvious and straightforward answers: the forces described by the card apply, and you usually not only recognize its existence, and you probably saw it coming—at least in retrospect, you should have.

When the cards are reversed, it’s an invitation to look deeper. Rather than simply reversing the meaning of the card, ask yourself what insecurities may apply to the matter at hand, whether yours or someone else’s. For example, a Fool reversed might mean someone is blaming money troubles on someone else, or telling everyone “it’s all part of the plan” when it isn’t. Or they may become judgy, seeing “fools” everywhere rather than accept their part of the problem.

All you have to do to live a good life, they say, is stop spending money on Starbucks and avocado toast.

At first it may be hard to see how a reversed card might be beneficial. But “good” and “bad” cards are all in how you take them. Nothing stays the same forever in tarot. There are only temporary upturns and downturns, giving us the opportunity to treat ourselves and others with more care, to honor our own choices, to draw healthy boundaries, and to resist the unfairness of the world with a core of inner strength.

Side note, I did find a Buzzfeed article on making the tarot more Millennial-friendly, and it’s cute but not thorough.

The Major Arcana

Note, the text in italics is what’s on the card; the text in regular Roman font is the text that would be in the little book that goes with the deck!

0. The Entrepreneur (The Fool)

A laptop bag on one hip, a latte in the other, the Entrepreneur is surrounded by a halo of icons: lightbulbs, gears, clocks, email, bar graph, wrench. They reach out for a dollar sign, not watching as they step toward the edge of a steeply descending staircase.

Wisdom comes from making mistakes. Just make sure they don’t destroy you after you make them.

1. The Hipster (The Magus)

He stands behind the table, beard flowing, copper home distiller setup on the table before him. He wears a fedora and suspenders. One hand holds an upraised cell phone. His Everyday Carry is on the table: keys, wallet, pocket knife, flask. At his feet and growing up into an archway overhead, are a fecundity of hops vines.

Without the Hipster, there would be no craft beer. But be wary of building a tolerance for bitterness.

2. The Naturopath (The High Priestess)

A dark-haired, young white woman sits cross-legged on a yoga mat on a wooden platform. Two posts stand on either side of the platform. Between them stretch Tibetan prayer flags fluttering in the wind, half-concealing the symbols written on them. A white veil stretches behind her, around her, above her. She, too, holds a phone: is she offering it to you, or taking a selfie? Is she reading the screen as she imparts her wisdom, or recording her message to be passed on?

The doctors said the pain was all in your head. The Naturopath offers different truths—sometimes the wisdom to listen to your body and seek help, sometimes the idiocy of a healing crystal sex toy.

3. The Secretary (The Empress)

A Hispanic woman sits at a desk, phone jammed to her right ear, computer monitor and keyboard to the left. Behind her hand two flags: one of them shows the lands of the Earth, and the other shows a field of stars. She’s wearing a businesslike ivory blouse but is showing tattoo sleeves under them: spiderwebs, skulls, and other images of darkness and death. She has a lot of ear piercings.

She might not be the most traditional…but business is good. Let’s keep it that way.

4. The CEO (The Emperor)

He is white, bald, and has funny ears, and sits upon a messy jumble of books, in a cavernous warehouse that stretches backward to infinity. Distantly, robots move boxes. Beside him, what looks like a golden backpack: his parachute.

True power means not having to care whether you use it wisely or not.

5. The Tech Guru (The Hierophant)

He is Black, has a dimple in his chin like it was driven into him with a golf tee, and wears black plastic-framed glasses, plaid shirt, and overlarge striped tie. He is holding a fire extinguisher. The fire extinguisher is on fire. Behind him are a number of action figurines on shelves.

In the beginning, there was code. But soon there were help request tickets. Some of which may repeatedly and deliberately get lost. He controls your settings, he controls your passwords. Anger him at your own risk.

6. The Fanatics (The Lovers)

The crowd stands behind a row of crowd control stanchions. They look nothing alike, except that they are all—all!—wearing the same t-shirt, a man’s face on them. Above and behind them rises an enormous man with tousled brown hair, tinted glasses, and kohl-rimmed eyes, wearing a goatee and a blazer over the same t-shirt. It is the same man, and the bottom of his chest is indistinguishable, and inseparable, from his fans.

The love of something or someone can bring us together—or it can blind us and ultimately tear us apart.

7. The Feed (The Chariot)

There is always an old man with a goatee in a gray suit. There is always a platform in a room that stretches out of sight both above and below, filled with monitors. There is always a walkway leading to the man, and he is always waiting for you.

The feed is a never-ending stream of information. It can carry you forward; it can crush you; it can hide any lie underneath the flicker of its images.

8. Self-Care (Strength)

In the apartment is a lounge chair, on the lounge chair are fat pillows. Next to the lounge chair is an end table, and on the end table is a steaming teapot, and a large friendly mug showing a crack. Behind the end table is a fiddle-leaf fig tree. On the wall beside the fig tree is a painting, and the painting is of a woman wearing a green facial mask and drinking tea in the same room, with the same cup, only the crack is sealed with gold. On the table in front of the lounge chair is a plate, and that plate holds avocado toast. Beside the plate of avocado toast is a remote control. On the floor is a rug, and the rug is soft and fluffy. In the painting, the woman has already eaten the toast. The remote has been replaced with a set of keys.

Treating yourself as a precious object can make you strong. Treating yourself as a disposable one will only make you weak.

9. The Basement Dweller (The Hermit)

We cannot see his face, only a silhouette in front of a monitor screen, the rays dimly illuminating shelves, a desk, a washing machine, baskets of laundry. A mug sitting beside the monitor reads, if one peers at it, “World’s Greatest Dad.”

He moved out of his mom’s basement a long time ago, but he still sits alone in the dark, reborn with a different identity, one that feels more like himself.

10. The Hustle (The Wheel)

A fidget spinner with three lobes and an eye in the center, the eye of the Illuminati. On the lobes are the icon of a clock, a dollar sign, and a heart. All three icons are slightly cracked. A car, a bicycle, and a walking figure traverse the outside edge of the spinner. Behind the spinner are stairs.

When we’re on the way up, we say it’s talent. When we’re on the way down, we say it’s bad luck. But whose hand holds the spinner? And when will it come time to rise?

11. Cancel Culture (Justice)

A figure straight out of a Magritte painting has not an apple for a face, but a bullseye. It is a dartboard. In the foreground, a strong arm grasps the handle of a beer mug, with the other hand preparing to throw the dart.

They praised it when the majority was moral. But now they mock it as cancel culture. Generally the darts won’t kill you. But they are always a test.

12. The Scapegoat (The Hanged Man)

A door opens onto a dark room, casting light across a dark-haired woman in a blue dress bent backward over a desk, hair hanging loose, a silk scarf tying her hands together as they dangle toward the floor. She is caught in the light between pleasure and humiliation. The man on the other side of the desk is not revealed by the light.

Some truths are more easily revealed than others. Often the truth is that someone needs to be thrown under the bus…and it won’t be whoever is in power. But all is not lost. Often, it is only “normality” that is overturned.

13. Black Friday (Death)

The faces are grotesque, pressed on the other side of a locked glass door, zombielike. In reverse, letters on the glass read the magical incantation ELAS, ELAS, FFO FLAH ELAS, OGOB. The crowd has been summoned. A woman in a polo shirt with full-sleeve tattoos showing spiderwebs and skulls approaches the door from the inside, preparing to open it.

Working shit jobs changes you. It may seem like you have been changed for the worse—but think of the people who have never worked a shit job. It shows.

14. Store Bought Is Fine (Temperance)

A friendly, apple-cheeked woman with a dark bob cut, wearing a blue denim shirt and an orange scarf smiles at you with nothing but kindness. In one hand, she holds a slice of red velvet cake; in the other, a prescription bottle.

A chosen life is the best life. But be wary of constantly making choices using nothing but Google and your drug dealer’s advice.

15. The Alternative (The Devil)

The enormous figure of a clean-cut white man, his hair longer on top and shaved on the sides, wearing a black trench coat over a dark, three-piece suit. He stands over a mass of figures giving a Heil Hitler salute. Churches burn in the distance.

The best way to brainwash someone is to make them believe they’re the exception to the rule. To release yourself is to admit an ugly truth: in most ways, you’re just like everyone else.

16. The Leak (The Tower)

Lightning strikes an oil platform rises above a stormy ocean, dark oil spreading over the surface. Swimmers struggle in the water in the foreground, desperate for help. The platform is on fire. Honestly, the oil had already leaked, the fires started, and swimmers fallen before the lightning even struck.

Sometimes the best of all possible outcomes is when that which is “too big to fail” actually does.

17. Britney (The Star)

A gorgeous woman in a silver dress stands backstage, towel around her neck, holding out a coffee mug to be refilled from off the side of the card. A peep at the stage shows flashing lights. The coffee mug is marked with a hand flipping you off. The woman is bald. A techie watches the stage via a monitor, showing the crowd being addressed by a man in a gray suit.

Behind the spectacle and illusion, there is a pure light that must be nurtured and protected.

18. Beyoncé (The Moon)

The Black woman floats underwater, her hair a swirling halo around her head. Around her is an abandoned apartment, a lounge chair and a painting floating in the current. Below her are tendrils of shadow; above her is the full moon. In the distance, stairs lead upward to the surface, where a line of Black women are emerging, with strength and power.

When we are pulled down into the depths, past all sanity, we can never return unchanged. Some might call that madness or delusion—but we did what we had to do, in order to return at all.

19. Lady Gaga (The Sun)

A woman in a revealinng gold “women’s fantasy armor” bikini with molded shoulder plates and thigh-high boots sits astride a white horse, her white hair flying behind her, turning to a rainbow as it leaves the card. A pile of hospital robes lies beneath the horse’s rear hooves. The front hooves plunge upward, as the horse rises from the edge of a cliff.

Our bodies and minds might burn from the inside out, but our souls stay bright.

20. Activism (Judgment)

A crowd wearing white masks holds up hand-lettered cardboard posters. One shows an upraised fist with rays coming from it. Another reads, “Justice now.” Still another, “There is no Planet B.” In the background, one woman yawns.

Don’t let things to go back to normal. Don’t go back to sleep.

21. Universal Basic Income (The World)

A team of robots builds a staircase, which a crowd ascends. At the base of the staircase is a collection of abandoned spinners. At the top the crowd have begun to help build the staircase: they are wearing space suits. Beyond them, the stars.

There is no “winning” at life, only building a path ahead for others to take.


If you liked this post, please support me by signing up for my monthly newsletter. I’m going to be starting a “Clockwork Tarot” series soon (after the next book is done), and have already designed the deck for it! Also, please let me know what your favorite decks are. I’m always looking for new ones!

A Shrewdness of Swindlers

A Shrewdness of Swinders: Preorders Live

A Shrewdness of Swindlers

A Shrewdness of Swindlers

Ten Tales of the Fantastic and Falsehood in the Fabulous Roaring Twenties

Dames, detectives, and deception…magic meets the decadence of the Roaring Twenties in ten tales of glitter and jazz.

The year is 1929. It’s two months after the financial collapse on Wall Street, and the world is bating its breath, unsure of what will happen next. Is it the end of an era?

At the Honeybee’s Sting, a speakeasy in the basement of a laundry, a group of unusual figures meets to discuss the past—and perhaps some possible futures: the Detective turned writer, the Dame who’s older than she looks, the Vampire who’s been riding the financial markets for generations, the Spy from across the ocean, the Actress who’s only just learned the truth about Hollywood, and more.

But one of their number is missing, a man connected to the mob, a man who holds the prize for a mysterious storytelling contest—a prize that can give you your heart’s desire.

Ten stories, woven together in the style of The Canterbury Tales, follow the contest along a long, dark night where nothing is what it seems and the best way to tell the truth is to lie.

Pour yourself a cocktail and join us at the liar’s table for the divine, the slapstick, the tragic, the transcendent 1920s today!

Table of Contents:

The Liar’s Table

When Pigs Fly

Myrna and the Thirteen-Year Witch

All the Retros at the New Cotton Club

The Mysterious Artifact

Memento Temporis

The Page-Turners

The Last Word Cocktail

The Man Who Would Sell Fear

The Liar’s Table, Part 2

Sample: A Liar’s Table

The Honeybee’s Sting was a speakeasy back in Prohibition days, in a big brick Lincoln Park building in Chicago. The main floor was a Chinese laundry. Upstairs was Madame Ixnay’s, a house of what you might call ill repute, with eight working girls.

It was a classy joint, as far as those things went.

The bribes it took to keep that place open flowed like the Chicago River into Lake Michigan—polluted and thick.

The Boss was a big man, broad in the shoulders, with a big bushy mustache and dark hair. He had impeccable taste in suits and a knack for getting supplies of decent liquor, sometimes even with the right labels on the outside. He was connected to at least two crime families but somehow managed to stay independent. Everyone knew the Boss was bringing in the liquor via the laundry carts, but as long as the bottles weren’t sticking out from under the piles of towels and bedsheets, the cops pretended not to notice.

The Honeybee’s Sting was down in the basement. The outside of the building was plain brick, nothing fancy. You’d get there by car. The driver would pull up to a door in the alleyway, a huge double steel door stenciled with the words KNOCK FOR SERVICE.

You’d get out of the car, dressed to the nines, and knock on the door with whatever the secret code was that week, and either the door would open or it wouldn’t.

That door was never wrong. There was a lock on it but we never used it. It was just that the door would open…or it wouldn’t.

Like magic.

You’d go inside through a plain brick landing stacked with empty laundry carts, then down some cement stairs to the basement, where there was another heavy door, oak this time. You’d knock the code on the door again, and someone would have to swing it open to let you in.

Light and sound would come spilling out, and the smell of alcohol and perfume and men in heavy coats sweating like pigs, the sound of Black men playing jazz or an octoroon crooning, voices chattering, the sound of glass smashing, of women laughing.

You stepped inside that door and the temperature went up at least twenty degrees. The door slammed behind you, and you were in.

Back then, speakeasies couldn’t afford to be all that fancy, unless they were run directly by the mob. You had to be ready for the cops to seize whatever they could get their hands on. The patrons weren’t too gentle on things, either.

So the Honeybee’s Sting wasn’t all that much to look at in 1929. After Prohibition ended, we fancied it up, but that was later.

In 1929, the walls were open brickwork and the floors were bare cement. A high oak table served as the bar and there were high, round tables around the edges of the room. One corner was cleared for the musicians, and the center of the room was cleared out for dancing. Silk palm trees stood in pots in the corner, half-hiding the spittoons. Bare bulbs hung from overhead on cords.

Behind the bar was a door that led to a reinforced smuggler’s closet that was hidden behind a second door at the back of a shallow safe—not a place you wanted to get locked up in at night, but it did mean that the cops couldn’t get at the liquor stores during a raid.

Opposite the safe was a door to the back room, which used to be the coal cellar. The coal furnace had been replaced a few years ago with a gas furnace that worked more efficiently, and didn’t require stoking.

At least, that’s what everyone said had happened. But I never saw where that gas furnace wasin that basement, or anywhere else for that matter. We had radiators for heat and no end to the amount of hot water for the ladies to wash clothes in, but I never saw a hot-water tank, either. Dom told me not to worry about it.

If the Boss was big, Dom, the bartender, was bigger.

Dom was his own favorite bouncer. If it was busy, the Boss might send one or two guys over to help him, but mostly what they did was answer the door and pour drinks for the girls. I never saw a one of those other guys have to lift a finger against a customer. Dom took it as a point of pride to handle things personally. Word got around. Dom would let loose on some scumbag about once every six months. There was one time Dom cut a guy’s pinky finger off, right in the bar. I put it in a jar of milk to help keep it fresh while he saw if a doctor could sew it back on again.

Dom had an on-again, off-again middle-European accent. He used to talk to the bar itself, and that’s when the accent would come out. “Tair tair,” he’d tell the bar while wiping it. “Is only scratch, noboty means bat. Only scratch.” Then he’d turn around and, in a pure Chicago nasal accent that went straight through your eardrums, would yell, “Hey mister, you gonna get yer fat ass offa that tabletop, or yam I gonna have ta come over and remove it?”

The tables were small, the Black jazz musicians were all right when you could hear them, the girls serving drinks were pretty and had sharpened fingernails, and I washed dishes, mopped floors, swept out spiderwebs, and served as general dogsbody.

They called me Kid.  I started working there in 1927 and stayed after Prohibition ended, all the way to 1949 when it closed. Some new folks re-opened the bar in 1993. It wasn’t the same. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, I couldn’t tell you. Just different.

The Honeybee’s Sting had a number of incidents worth telling stories about, but one in particular sticks in my mind.

The date was December 29th. Two nights later, it would be one of the busiest days of the year, with everyone out looking to celebrate the change from one decade to another. But the twenty-ninth was a cold Sunday night, cold enough to freeze your spit before it hit the ground, a night so cold it couldn’t snow. It was windy as hell, though, and what snow there was on the ground whipped around like knives.

In short, it was a slow night, even for the girls upstairs. Nobody wanted to go anywhere. Even the jazz trio, always desperate for tips, hadn’t showed up.

And yet that night, the back room had been reserved for special guests.

The back room was darker and damper than the main room and had a low ceiling, just high enough that I didn’t hit my head. Two walls were nothing but rough brick, and the far wall had an old coal chute that had been rebuilt as a back exit against police raids.

When I had come in for the night, Dom had told me, “The Boss wants you to serve the special guests tonight, so the girls can go home.”

I said I was game, and the girls left gratefully. I even got a kiss on the cheek from one of them. Problem was, I was so shy I could barely stutter out my own name, let alone make witty banter. I hoped I wouldn’t have to say much. Maybe the whole thing would be cancelled due to weather.

I finished up my chores early, then sat at a table, reading an old back issue of Black Mask that I had in my back pocket. I reread one of the Continental Op stories, and waited.

Cover of A Shrewdness of Swindlers

New Release: Wild Magic Storybundle, Featuring A Shrewdess of Swindlers

Cover of A Shrewdness of Swindlers

There’s the real world…

…and then there are our worlds, secret, wild, and free.

We can’t remember when we first noticed magic.

Oh, sure. When we were kids, we played pretend and imagined we were powerful sorcerers, clever tricksters, and subtle witches. But then we got older, and we told everyone that we’d grown up and were too old for that stuff now. How much we wanted to be like the adults!

But then the enchantments of adulthood grew thin. We may not like to talk about it, but we know it’s true: all the things we truly needed to learn in our lives, we learned as children, as dreamers. We learned what it was like to be stand up for what we believed in…and what it was like to be punished for it. We learned how to fall in love…and how to be rejected by our first crush. We got up to mischief…and hurt someone we shouldn’t have.

And we knew what it was like to be filled with wonder at the world.

But adulthood doesn’t last forever. As the enchantments of adulthood finally grew as thin as a haze in the sky, we began to see magic again.

Here and there.

In the small things—and sometimes in the big things when we needed it most. We vowed to protect it, to nurture it, and to visit it as often as we can.

The Wild Magic bundle holds ten volumes of the magic. Ten books about what we find after we have passed through the illusion that we can live without wonder in the world, and come out the other side.

Pack your bags, put on your good walking shoes, and make sure you bring plenty of water. We’re going out into the wilderness, and who knows when we’ll be back?

A Shrewdness Of Swindlers

Ten Tales of Fantasy and Falsehood in the Fabulous Roaring Twenties

Dames, detectives, and deception…magic meets the decadence of the Roaring Twenties in ten tales of glitter and jazz.

The year is 1929. It’s two months after the financial collapse on Wall Street, and the world is bating its breath, unsure of what will happen next. Is it the end of an era?

At the Honeybee’s Sting, a speakeasy in the basement of a laundry, a group of unusual figures meets to discuss the past—and perhaps some possible futures: the Detective turned writer, the Dame who’s older than she looks, the Vampire who’s been riding the financial markets for generations, the Spy from across the ocean, the Actress who’s only just learned the truth about Hollywood, and more.

But one of their number is missing, a man connected to the mob, a man who holds the prize for a mysterious storytelling contest—a prize that can give you your heart’s desire.

Ten stories, woven together in the style of The Canterbury Tales, follow the contest along a long, dark night where nothing is what it seems and the best way to tell the truth is to lie.

Pour yourself a cocktail and join us at the liar’s table for the divine, the slapstick, the tragic, the transcendent 1920s today!

Table of Contents:
  • The Liar’s Table
  • When Pigs Fly
  • Myrna and the Thirteen-Year Witch
  • All the Retros at the New Cotton Club
  • The Mysterious Artifact
  • Memento Temporis
  • The Page-Turners
  • The Last Word Cocktail
  • The Man Who Would Sell Fear
  • The Liar’s Table, Part 2

Sample!

The Honeybee’s Sting was a speakeasy back in Prohibition days, in a big brick Lincoln Park building in Chicago. The main floor was a Chinese laundry. Upstairs was Madame Ixnay’s, a house of what you might call ill repute, with eight working girls.

It was a classy joint, as far as those things went.

The bribes it took to keep that place open flowed like the Chicago River into Lake Michigan—polluted and thick.

The Boss was a big man, broad in the shoulders, with a big bushy mustache and dark hair. He had impeccable taste in suits and a knack for getting supplies of decent liquor, sometimes even with the right labels on the outside. He was connected to at least two crime families but somehow managed to stay independent. Everyone knew the Boss was bringing in the liquor via the laundry carts, but as long as the bottles weren’t sticking out from under the piles of towels and bedsheets, the cops pretended not to notice.

The Honeybee’s Sting was down in the basement. The outside of the building was plain brick, nothing fancy. You’d get there by car. The driver would pull up to a door in the alleyway, a huge double steel door stenciled with the words KNOCK FOR SERVICE.

You’d get out of the car, dressed to the nines, and knock on the door with whatever the secret code was that week, and either the door would open or it wouldn’t.

That door was never wrong. There was a lock on it but we never used it. It was just that the door would open…or it wouldn’t.

Like magic.

You’d go inside through a plain brick landing stacked with empty laundry carts, then down some cement stairs to the basement, where there was another heavy door, oak this time. You’d knock the code on the door again, and someone would have to swing it open to let you in.

Light and sound would come spilling out, and the smell of alcohol and perfume and men in heavy coats sweating like pigs, the sound of Black men playing jazz or an octoroon crooning, voices chattering, the sound of glass smashing, of women laughing.

You stepped inside that door and the temperature went up at least twenty degrees. The door slammed behind you, and you were in.

Back then, speakeasies couldn’t afford to be all that fancy, unless they were run directly by the mob. You had to be ready for the cops to seize whatever they could get their hands on. The patrons weren’t too gentle on things, either.

So the Honeybee’s Sting wasn’t all that much to look at in 1929. After Prohibition ended, we fancied it up, but that was later.

In 1929, the walls were open brickwork and the floors were bare cement. A high oak table served as the bar and there were high, round tables around the edges of the room. One corner was cleared for the musicians, and the center of the room was cleared out for dancing. Silk palm trees stood in pots in the corner, half-hiding the spittoons. Bare bulbs hung from overhead on cords.

Behind the bar was a door that led to a reinforced smuggler’s closet that was hidden behind a second door at the back of a shallow safe—not a place you wanted to get locked up in at night, but it did mean that the cops couldn’t get at the liquor stores during a raid.

Opposite the safe was a door to the back room, which used to be the coal cellar. The coal furnace had been replaced a few years ago with a gas furnace that worked more efficiently, and didn’t require stoking.

At least, that’s what everyone said had happened. But I never saw where that gas furnace was in that basement, or anywhere else for that matter. We had radiators for heat and no end to the amount of hot water for the ladies to wash clothes in, but I never saw a hot-water tank, either. Dom told me not to worry about it.

If the Boss was big, Dom, the bartender, was bigger.

Dom was his own favorite bouncer. If it was busy, the Boss might send one or two guys over to help him, but mostly what they did was answer the door and pour drinks for the girls. I never saw a one of those other guys have to lift a finger against a customer. Dom took it as a point of pride to handle things personally. Word got around. Dom would let loose on some scumbag about once every six months. There was one time Dom cut a guy’s pinky finger off, right in the bar. I put it in a jar of milk to help keep it fresh while he saw if a doctor could sew it back on again.

Dom had an on-again, off-again middle-European accent. He used to talk to the bar itself, and that’s when the accent would come out. “Tair tair,” he’d tell the bar while wiping it. “Is only scratch, noboty means bat. Only scratch.” Then he’d turn around and, in a pure Chicago nasal accent that went straight through your eardrums, would yell, “Hey mister, you gonna get yer fat ass offa that tabletop, or yam I gonna have ta come over and remove it?”

The tables were small, the Black jazz musicians were all right when you could hear them, the girls serving drinks were pretty and had sharpened fingernails, and I washed dishes, mopped floors, swept out spiderwebs, and served as general dogsbody.

They called me Kid. I started working there in 1927 and stayed after Prohibition ended, all the way to 1949 when it closed. Some new folks re-opened the bar in 1993. It wasn’t the same. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, I couldn’t tell you. Just different.

The Honeybee’s Sting had a number of incidents worth telling stories about, but one in particular sticks in my mind.

The date was December 29th. Two nights later, it would be one of the busiest days of the year, with everyone out looking to celebrate the change from one decade to another. But the twenty-ninth was a cold Sunday night, cold enough to freeze your spit before it hit the ground, a night so cold it couldn’t snow. It was windy as hell, though, and what snow there was on the ground whipped around like knives.

In short, it was a slow night, even for the girls upstairs. Nobody wanted to go anywhere. Even the jazz trio, always desperate for tips, hadn’t showed up.

And yet that night, the back room had been reserved for special guests.

The back room was darker and damper than the main room and had a low ceiling, just high enough that I didn’t hit my head. Two walls were nothing but rough brick, and the far wall had an old coal chute that had been rebuilt as a back exit against police raids.

When I had come in for the night, Dom had told me, “The Boss wants you to serve the special guests tonight, so the girls can go home.”

I said I was game, and the girls left gratefully. I even got a kiss on the cheek from one of them. Problem was, I was so shy I could barely stutter out my own name, let alone make witty banter. I hoped I wouldn’t have to say much. Maybe the whole thing would be cancelled due to weather.

I finished up my chores early, then sat at a table, reading an old back issue of Black Mask that I had in my back pocket. I reread one of the Continental Op stories, and waited…

The Folly of Whitaker Wright

Statue of Neptune at Whitaker Wright's Witley Park
A view of the statue of Neptune above the underwater ballroom at Whitaker Wright’s Whitley Park

(I’m going to be developing some neat stuff about Whitaker Wright later! Research!!)

The tale of Whitaker Wright begins in Stafford, England, and ends in Surrey about a hundred and fifty miles away. But this is not a small tale. While Whitaker Wright was born the eldest child of a humble clergyman, he rose to fame and became a wealthy man in the Americas, then once again in the United Kingdom. He died a ruined man, sentenced to seven years’ penal servitude, but left behind a country house worth (at the time) over $50 million in today’s US dollars.

Wright started out in business running a printing press, and briefly served as a Methodist preacher before starting another printing business with his brother, John Joseph Wright, inventor of the reversible trolley pole—the pole that transfers electricity from the overhead live wires to trolley cars.

That business failed as well; following the death of their father, the entire family packed up and moved to Canada, which perhaps speaks of the financial straits they were in, or of a reputation that needed to be left behind. Wright also left behind his attempts at running a profitable printing press per se, and instead began hustling business for silver-mining companies for the Denver City mine in Leadville, Colorado, and then again in Lake Valley, New Mexico, where he picked up knowledge about mining and engineering.

The companies he promoted made him a lot of money, but suspiciously, none for the shareholders.

In 1878, he married Anna Edith Weightman, age seventeen, when he was thirty-two.

By the 1890s, he was back in England, promoting American and Canadian mines to English stock and bond purchasers, apparently supported by titled men like the Marquess of Dufferin, a man who had served as the Governor General of Canada and Viceroy of India. Some of these mining companies were not, and would never have been profitable; others tapped rich veins but were run more to drive up the value of the stock than to profit the shareholders.

Wright might not have been able to run an honest business, but he had no trouble extracting profits from the shareholders. In 1890, he purchased Lea Park (later known as Whitley Park) and began excavating an entire hillside to “improve the view” and establish three lakes, as well as expanding the exiting Tudor-style house to a 32-bedrom mansion.

The country house included a theater, ballroom, glass-roofed conservatory, velodrome, fifty-horse stable, several lodges and farms, and other modest amenities.

But is Whitaker Wright’s folly for which the house is known.

In architectural terms, a folly is an ornamental building or structure constructed primarily as a conversation piece or to add ambiance. Other follies include fake “ruined” castles, a pineapple-shaped roof in Scotland, and even the modern-day Bishop’s Castle in Custer County, Colorado.

Whitaker Wright’s folly was an underground smoking lounge or “ballroom,” so called because the underwater dome looked like the upper half of a ball! It was built at the bottom of the largest of the three lakes, with an underwater path leading from the house to the entrance of the folly.

To get to the folly, visitors take a spiral staircase from the surface downward to a sunken, curved metal doorway; below that, another forty feet of steps take visitors to a tunnel, then to the underwater conservatory itself, made of metal framework and thick panes of glass.

Outside, in daylight, the light that reaches the bottom of the small lake is somewhat green and murky; the lake was been stocked with carp that liked to goggle in through the windows at the guests whenever the inner lights were on. The floor was covered with mosaic tilework, held a potted palm tree in the center, and was lined with long, curved velvet benches along the walls—an elegant retreat.

To top the folly, a statue of Neptune was added, one that remains today, appearing to stand effortlessly atop the surface of the water.

Wright’s fame and fortune seemed impressive, but they didn’t last for long. In 1900, he tried to issue a bond to build a rail line in London, the Baker Street and Waterloo Railway (now called the Bakerloo Line). The project was plagued by construction issues, and no one wanted to buy the bond. (Once again, Wright struggled as he attempted to pull off a project that was intended to do more than look impressive on paper.)

When the bond flopped, Whitaker began moving money between his different companies in an attempt to prop up his fortune. However, the money he was moving around was the money intended to pay customer dividends.

When no dividends appeared in December of 1890s, shareholders began to become suspicious and eventually called for an investigation into his finances.

It is said that at the exact moment that Whitaker Wright’s finances failed, one of the stones of Stonehenge toppled. The collapse of his companies certainly caused a panic at the stock exchange, and many of his wealthy investors lost large sums of money.

The Government declined to pursue the matter, not believing they would be able to bring charges to bear on the man (the fact that a few high-ranking members of Parliament were caught up in the scheme might have had something to do with that). However, a civil suit was brought against Wright by his stockholders; he was found guilty and sentenced to seven years of penal servitude.

Having been sentenced, he stepped out of the court to an antechamber with his lawyer, asked for a glass of whiskey and a cigar, then excused himself to the restroom, where he took a cyanide capsule. He was not searched upon being brought into the courtroom, as he was in a civil court; he also had a silver revolver in his pocket, just in case the cyanide didn’t work.

He had a few sips of whiskey, took a few drags from the cigar—then fell down dead.

After Wright’s death, Lea Park was sold to Viscount William Pirrie, the man who helped build the RMS Titanic, and who famously said that the new Olympic-Class ships were unsinkable and the lifeboats were only there to save the survivors of other wrecks they might encounter. The viscount eventually sold Lea Park in 1950 to a butcher who had risen from a humble background to wealth; this new owner, Ronald Hugget, was always just about to move into his mansion, but never did; the construction necessary to make the building habitable still hadn’t been completed.

Hugget mainly lived with his wife in one of the lodge houses at the edge of the property, selling off furnishings and other materials from the house, until one day in 1952 a fire began (or was set) in the aboveground ballroom of the main house and burned it to the ground.

The larger property, originally thousands of acres, has been split up, part of it becoming an event center and other parts becoming farms and apartment houses. Still, the lodge houses, the folly, and several other original buildings remain.

Recently, a stately new country house has been built on the property by the new owners, who are very private, and don’t take kindly to “urban explorers” coming onto the property to explore it—or even flying drones over it. The grounds are overgrown, a wilderness of trees and rhododendrons. Construction is ongoing as, once again, the house is being expanded, the grounds landscaped, and the older lodge houses restored.

The folly remains locked, however, and not even a drone can get inside.

A collection of images of the original house exterior and interior.

Images of the new house, designed by architect Robert Adam.

Daily Mail article with lots of great photos of the folly.

The Saga of the Spice Cabinet

I grew up in a household with a lot of spices in the spice cabinet, eating some of the blandest food you could ever find it your misfortune to eat. I used to joke that our family (European-ancestry, white, Catholic people from the Great Plains) didn’t spice our food, we blessed it. As in, whoever was cooking would take a spice jar out of the cabinet, hold it over the food, and make the sign of the cross.

Without opening the jar.

There were reasons for this. For all that we lived in farm country, we also lived in a food desert, where the food selection was more or less limited to iceberg lettuce, bland sliced black olives in a can, and whatever you grew or raised yourself. Not many people could afford to invest in good, fresh spices back then, so a cabinet full of spices was a sort of status item, to be admired more than used. 

Looking back now, it seems weird.

Until…I open my spice cabinet.

Right now, I’m reading SALT FAT ACID HEAT by Samin Nosrat. It’s excellent, and I recommend it. What she says is simple, but easy to forget. For example, one of the points she keeps bringing up is that good cooks taste food as it cooks.

I find myself making dishes asking myself, “Did I taste this yet? Nope. Is it salty enough? Nope. I could add a little lemon juice here, couldn’t I?” And my cooking turns out a little better—consistently.

And all of that is great, but…

Let’s talk about my spice cabinet.

Frankly, it is full of cute jars of spices that I don’t use.

Here are the recommendations that I guiltily have not been following:

  • Ground spices: replace once a year.
  • Whole spices: two to five years.

If I had to throw out everything that didn’t meet these standards, what I would have left is:

  • A giant box of cumin
  • Red pepper flakes
  • Dill (two small jars, because I have ADD)Peppercorns
  • Cocoa powder
  • S&B curry powder (I know, not the most authentic thing ever but I got hooked on it in college)
  • Chipotle powder
  • Szechuan peppercorns
  • Chinese five-spice powder
  • Smoked paprika
  • Bavarian seasoning from Penzey’s.

Technically, I’d have to throw out my nutmegs, because I had them when I moved to this house a little over five years ago, but I use them all the time. A little goes a long way with those suckers.

Spices that should be gone:

  • Basil
  • Oregano
  • Marjoram
  • Sage
  • Thyme
  • Chives (I use the ones in my garden)
  • Cinnamon—regular and Ceylon
  • Allspice
  • lot of spice mixes that I only vaguely remember
  • White pepper
  • Tarragon
  • Ginger
  • Rosemary
  • Turmeric
  • Dried garlic and dried onion
  • Sesame seeds (I put these in the one-year-or-less category)
  • Pumpkin pie spice
  • Ground mustard
  • Garlic bread powder
  • “BBQ Seasoning”
  • Anise
  • Cardamom
  • Caraway
  • Powdered cloves

And let’s not get into the gritty and embarrassing details about condiments. At least I did a massive condiments purge this past February. Salad dressing should not be five years old.

I tossed out a few spices, decided I wasn’t strong enough to do the rest, and did a mental experiment with my spices, herbs, and condiments instead:

If the house burned down and I had to start all over again, what would I replace?

I went through several iterations and got it down to the absolute minimum:

  • Fine sea salt ($2.40 for 24 oz)
  • Black peppercorns, whole ($2 for 1 oz, with attached grinder)
  • Extra-virgin olive oil (California Olive Ranch, $11, a splurge because I like that brand)
  • Red wine vinegar ($2.30 for 16 oz)
  • Red pepper flakes ($2.60 for 1.5 oz)
  • Fresh garlic ($.80 for a head of garlic)

Total: $21.10. Prices were what I looked up at Target, because if my house burned down and I had to get all the things, I’d go to Target first. This morning, I tossed out at least that much in expired spices.

The other thing that struck me is how often I’ll turn to fresh herbs when I can get them. I planted a boatload of basil this summer, and have been happily eating salads made of nothing but basil and some balsamic dressing. I invested in some cloth grow bags and dirt that wasn’t mostly gravel (I currently live in a very rocky development in Colorado), and have been nagging myself about the cost, because I grew up cheap in the Great Plains and have trouble allowing myself to have nice things.

But, again, if I run the math, what I spent on grow bags, dirt, and seeds is less than the value of the spices that I threw out this morning. 

So here’s the plan:

  • Gradually toss the herbs and spices that are out of date, as I can stand to do so.
  • Toss expired condiments and the rest of the old spices in February (I spring clean in February).
  • Splurge on good, but not frou-frou, olive oil.
  • Plant a window garden for this fall and winter (mostly basil and chives).
  • Replace whatever I tossed but want to use again with a very small amount. No buying the big jar of spices because “it’s cheaper per ounce.”
  • When I run out of something, replace it with the good stuff.
  • Stop buying every spice mix I pass like it’s gonna cure my cooking blues. It won’t.

I should end up saving money, having better spices that I use more often, and not having to go through Operation Heartbreak again, a.k.a., cleaning out the spice cabinet.

This brings me to one final point of spice cabinet shame: the chai box.

Maybe you don’t have one. A chai box is a cookie tin that has all the whole, unground spices that you need to make chai: cinnamon sticks, cardamom pods, star anise, allspice, whole cloves. Peppercorns and  nutmegs get used too often to stay inside the box for long, but those count, too. At the bottom of a chai box, you can often find one or more vanilla beans that have been sitting there for at least a decade, waiting for a special occasion that never comes.

Everything in that box is at least five years old. But, dear reader, I cannot make myself throw it out. I have sworn to make chai concentrate all fall and winter long, so I can use everything up and buy new spices.

My recipe for chai concentrate:

  • Half a long cinnamon stick
  • Six cups of water—begin bringing to a boil

In a mortar and pestle, smash up:

  • 10-12 cardamom pods
  • 10-12 peppercorns
  • 4-5 whole cloves
  • 2 star anise
  • A piece of ginger (peel and all) about the size of your thumb.
  • Maybe some orange peel.

Add to water with 1/4c sugar. This is an excellent excuse to use up your dried out brown sugar that’s hard to measure. Just eyeball a chunk and drop it in.

Bring to a boil and simmer for fifteen minutes with a lid on. Then turn off the heat, add 1/4c loose leaf tea leaves, and steep for five minutes, no longer. Strain the concentrate through a fine-mesh strainer. You don’t want to use ground spices for this, by the way, because they slip through the filter and can upset your stomach.

Mix half and half concentrate with warm milk, smug in the knowledge that you knew there was a reason you bought all this stuff.


Just stop buying tea bags, by the way. They’re expensive and wasteful, and cover up the fact that you’re overpaying for cheap-ass tea.

I used Stash English Breakfast to make chai last time, and that turned out really well. Cost per cup: $14.51 per pound of tea, or $.08/cup—the equivalent of a small 20-bag box of tea at $1.60, with higher-quality tea.

(Need to figure out how much bulk tea costs per cup? Try the tea calculator here: https://ineedcoffee.com/calculating-the-cost-per-cup-of-tea/)

I’m not going to calculate my chai spice cost, because they’re FIVE YEARS OLD I just need to focus on using them up!


Originally, I wrote the above post in September 2020 for my newsletter. You may be pleased to note that I have disposed of most of my out-of-date spices. I kept the Cardamom and Ceylon cinnamon, and ended up replacing the box of cocoa.

I have been faithfully making brewed chai mix every week, but have doubled the amount of water. Now I can pour it straight out of a pitcher and drink it cold with half and half, or nuke it in the microwave. I finally just decided that I liked half and half better than milk (or cream, for that matter) in my tea, and no outdated fear of fat was going to harsh my teatime!

Book Review: Wonderland by Jennifer Hillier

Book review: Wonderland by Jennifer Hillier

Wonderland by Jennifer Hillier

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


A decaying theme park…a cop looking for a second chance…a right-hand man whose loyalties have already been tested…and the wrong murder.

Okay, this wasn’t the most shocking thriller, but it was perfectly put together. I saw it coming, but had no regrets. Your every expectation is expertly calculated and used against you, from the opening scene to the chapter points of view.

My only question is,

Where’s the movie? It’s perfect Hitchcock material. On

Recommended if you liked Knives Out.



View all my reviews on Goodreads, on my blog, or sign up for my newsletter.

Five Excellent Weird Fiction Novels in Translation

Now You're One of Us, from Five Weird Fiction Novels in Translation
Now You’re One of Us, by Asa Nonami, translated by Mitsuko Volek

Tired of reading the same plots by the same types of authors? Need a palate cleanser? Want to interject new life into a reading group that thinks The Help is a controversial title?

Looking for an author that can really describe the unsettling, creepy feeling of not knowing whether the people around you mean well or not? Of not knowing whether the things your soul craves most are good for you or not? Of not knowing whether your craving to belong will help you—or hurt you?

If so, I have some lovely, dark, and wonderful weird fiction novels in translation for you!

I tried to organize this list in order of shorter, easier reads that might lead to book club discussion, to more complex reads that require time to unfold.

1. Now You’re One of Us, by Asa Nonami (Japan), translated by Michael Volek.

Now You’re One of Us is the tale of an upper-class Japanese family gone wrong. So wrong. This book is like a combination of Liane Moriarty (Big Little Lies, The Husband’s Secret) and an instruction novel on how to run a profitable family cult. While other books on this list are weird and surreal, this book is weird and juicy, scratching the itch for scandal in a way that’s so over the top that it becomes almost a satire.

2. The Vegetarian, by Han Kang (South Korea), translated by Deborah Smith.

The Vegetarian is the tale of a woman who, against her family’s wishes, decides to stop eating meat, after a series of sensual nightmares leads her to worry about the darker side of her nature. The strongly feminist story feels like a combination of Franz Kafka and Virginia Woolf. It’s short, and written in a clear, direct style that lends itself to book club mischief.

3. Amatka, by Karin Tidbeck (Sweden), translated by the author.

A marketing researcher in personal hygiene products travels to a farming community, Amatka, to see whether any of the products they make can be used in her home town. However, Amatka mainly farms fungus products that turn into goop if they aren’t properly cared for. Another short book that is clearly and directly written—deliberately so, in a way that becomes horrifying as the story progresses. The story reads like a combination of 1984 and Stanislaw Lem’s alien novel Solaris.

4. The Memory Police, by Y?ko Ogawa (Japan), translated by Stephen Snyder.

Unlike a lot of weird fiction, which can be skimpy on descriptions, this book is invested in incredible details. It feels like the difference between a concrete bunker and a Miyazaki movie like Spirited Away. However, because this is a book about how remembering the wrong things can cost you, the details serve to increase the tension of the book. I recommend this one if you liked Japanese classics by filmmaker Akira Kurosawa. It feels like his kind of story, zooming in on the small details and exploring conflicting points of view.

5. Kalpa Imperial: The Greatest Empire that Never Was, by Angélica Gorodisher (Argentina), translated by Ursula K. LeGuin

This book is more challenging than the previous two, more complex, and less direct and clear in its writing (and translation). It’s also more of a mouthful, something to savor and consider, and enjoy reading just for the pleasure of seeing the author and translator turn a phrase. The book is the history of an unnamed empire over its various ages, seen from after its fall, and from another country. (“Kalpa” means “aeon” in Sanskrit; the title loosely translates to “The time between the creation and recreation of an empire.”) I don’t recommend this one for your book club; it’s book more meant for leisure reading. There’s a twist to the book that slowly becomes apparent toward the end. Read this if you like Ursula K. LeGuin’s books or Gene Wolfe’s Solar Cycle.

Bonus Book:  The Complete Stories of Leonora Carrington (Mexico), translated by Katherine Talbot, Anthony Kerrigan, and Marina Warner.

Leonora Carrington was a surrealist writer and painter who wrote short fable-like stories for adults and children as strange as anything Salvador Dalí ever painted (or wrote). Each story seems, at first glance, to have been sloppily tossed together, but in a way that makes perfect sense and never wastes a word. I found myself reading these tales not so much for their meaning (there is meaning!), but as a sort of brain-refresher, clearing out the daily dust that had gathered in my brain. Read these if you like Dalí or Frieda Kahlo.

If you’re interested in weird fiction written by yours truly, check out The House Without a Summer, describing what happens when an asshole gets his hands on the spacetime continuum. It’s set in England in the year 1816, the real-life year without a summer (and the year that Frankenstein was written). It has not yet been translated out of English, but I promise you it’s off the beaten path! I recommend it if you liked Black Tom by Victor Lavalle or The Intuitionist by Colson Whitehead. You can find out more about it here.

And now you must excuse me; it’s time for me to read the next book on my weird fiction novels in translation list, Flowers of Mold by Ha Seong-nan. I’ll let you know if it’s good.

New Short Horror Story Release: Trick or Treat (Tenebrosities #4)

Short horror story: Trick or Treat

Universal Sales Link | Goodreads

Release #4 in the short horror story, Twilight-Zone-esque Tenebrosities series, “Trick or Treat,” is available now. I originally wrote this in 2012, but rewrote it this month to rescue it–I just liked the story and characters too much to completely blow it off 🙂

You can find it here:

books2read.com/tenebrosities-trick-or-treat

What’s the matter, Jake? Chicken?

It’s Halloween. Just over a month ago, Jake’s brother Dave died in Afghanistan, killed by an IED bomb. Now Jake is going trick or treating, dressed like a solder. Dressed like his brother.

He decides to take the same route that he and his brother took, cutting through a junkyard, walking down a big hill, and scoring candy at the kind of neighborhood where the neighbors actually leave the lights on and don’t pretend not to be home.

But something is waiting for him in the graveyard.

Is it the ghost of Jake’s dead brother?

A creepy horror tale about what finds us when we’re vulnerable, on Halloween.

Trick or Treat

Jake stood at the edge of the junkyard, dressed as a soldier and holding a fake rifle on a strap over his shoulder. The rifle had an orange tip in case anyone was stupid enough to think it was real. The sun had set and the dark sky was covered in low clouds, turned orange from the streetlights. Lone flakes of snow descended here and there. Did that really count as “snowing” or not? The air smelled like rust. A ton of sirens were going off on the far side of the junkyard, more of them every second, like they were headed toward a fire or a big accident.

This morning—Halloween—he’d decided to cut through the junkyard on his way to go trick-or-treating at the bottom of Cliff Avenue. Now he wasn’t sure.

Stuff had changed at the junkyard since the last time he had been there.

The fence had a new line of barbed wire at the top, one that hadn’t been there before, and there was a new sign up on the fence.

Beware of dog.

Jake had cut through the junkyard once before with his older brother Dave, when he was ten. But that was two years ago.

Last year Dave had graduated early, joined the Army and gone to Afghanistan. And then in September he had died from some stupid homemade bomb buried under the road. Mom had told the Government to cremate Dave’s ashes. They were in a memorial building that looked like a post office, with Dave’s name on a brass plate.

Nobody was okay at Jake’s house. Not Jake, who was always in trouble at school, and not his mom, who was an EMT and had a pretty good excuse, and not his older sister Amy, who was fourteen and just plain mean anyway.

Tonight she had yelled at him that he was too old to go trick-or-treating, and he had to stay home and pass out candy so she could hang out with her friends.

He had screamed back at her that she didn’t have friends and run out the front door, slamming it behind him.

Then realized he had forgotten his trick or treat bag.

He wasn’t going back. And he wasn’t going trick-or-treating in his own neighborhood, either. Too many people who locked their doors and turned off all their lights, except for the TV flickering in the living room.

A mocking voice seemed to whisper in his ear:

What’s the matter, Jake?

Chicken?

Before Jake could think too much about it, he threw his fake rifle over the fence.

It turned around and around through the air, the orange tip flashing under the streetlight, and crashed on top of a car before skidding out of sight.

No alarms went off, no dogs barked.

He was going in.

Read more at books2read.com/tenebrosities-trick-or-treat.

Timelines are Like a Box of Chocolates: Interview with Stefon Mears

People like us, who believe in physics, know that the distinction between past, present and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.–Albert Einstein

Welcome to the Big Time StoryBundle, where you can find ten books on time travel and all things weird and timey wimey. Pay $5 for four ebooks, or a minimum of $15 to unlock all 10 ebooks. Once you purchase, you will be sent download links for your ebooks. More info about this StoryBundle is here.

This StoryBundle helps send money toward the Oregon Food Bank, which has been hit particularly hard due to the Oregon wildfires in the area, as well as the increased need from COVID-19.

But unless you’re a time traveler, don’t wait! Because you’ll have…the time of your life!

Time is Like a Box of Chocolates: Interview with Stefon Mears

Stefon Mears writes magical tales that operate at 45 degrees off reality–and never quite the same way twice. He may or may not be a time-traveling, musically-inclined pool shark.

1. Tell us about your book. What’s it about, and how does time travel or other timey wimey weirdness fit into your book?

Twisted Timelines is a short story collection. Every story tweaks or messes with time in some way, and no two of them are quite the same in their approach, or their use of time.

2. What is one of your favorite time-related works? (Fiction, non-fiction, games, etc. all count!)

I have so many that it’s hard to call one out. For example, one of my current favorite roleplaying games, Blades in the Dark, has a flashback mechanic that allows characters to solve a current problem retroactively, if the players can narrate it well. I have to say, though, that time travel plays a small but crucial role in one of my favorite television shows of all time, Babylon 5.

3. What is one of your favorite songs featuring time? Or, if you used a theme song/playlist for your work, what was it?

I don’t really use theme songs or playlists for most of my writing, but my favorite time-related song is “Caught Somewhere in Time” by Iron Maiden.

ABOUT STEFON:

Stefon Mears earned his M.F.A. in Creative Writing from N.I.L.A., and his B.A. in Religious Studies (double emphasis in Ritual and Mythology) from U.C. Berkeley. Stefon’s short pieces have sold to magazines such as Fireside and Strange Horizons and anthologies edited by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Kevin J. Anderson, Denise Little, Kerrie L. Hughes, and John Helfers. He has published more than thirty books to date, including the Rise of Magic series. Look for him online at http://www.stefonmears.com, on Facebook, or @stefonmears on Twitter. Sign up for his newsletter at  stefonmears.com/join

YOU CAN FIND HIM AT:

stefonmears.com

Nibble your way through Stefon’s short story collection Twisted Timelines and other tales at StoryBundle!

The Woman with the Time Travel Tattoo: Interview with Kim Antieau

Time is the longest distance between two places.–Tennesee Williams

Welcome to the Big Time StoryBundle, where you can find ten books on time travel and all things weird and timey wimey. Pay $5 for four ebooks, or a minimum of $15 to unlock all 10 ebooks. Once you purchase, you will be sent download links for your ebooks. More info about this StoryBundle is here.

This StoryBundle helps send money toward the Oregon Food Bank, which has been hit particularly hard due to the Oregon wildfires in the area, as well as the increased need from COVID-19.

But unless you’re a time traveler, don’t wait! Because time…waits for no reader!

The Woman with the Time Travel Tattoo: Kim Antieau's Her Frozen Wild

Kim Antieau always wanted to be a writer when she grew up, and here she is. She’s the author of The Jigsaw Woman, Coyote Cowgirl, and more.

1. Tell us about your book. What’s it about, and how does time travel or other timey wimey weirdness fit into your book?

When an American archaeologist discovers she shares DNA with an ancient tattooed mummy recently found in a grave in Siberia, she goes on a quest to Russia and through time to figure out what it all means. 

2. What is one of your favorite time-related works? (Fiction, non-fiction, games, etc. all count!)

Terminator 2: Judgment Day.

3. What is one of your favorite songs featuring time? Or, if you used a theme song/playlist for your work, what was it?

Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock & Roll.” 🙂

ABOUT KIM:

Kim Antieau currently lives in the Southwest of the United States with her husband, writer Mario Milosevic.

YOU CAN FIND HER AT:

www.kimantieau.com

Time travel to the past with Kim Antieau’s Her Frozen Wild and other tales at StoryBundle!

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