Edgar Allan Poe would be celebrating his 200th birthday this year. He cast an epic shadow across American fiction; he inspired every last horror writer who came after him; and his fans founded Weird Tales magazine. Weird Tales wondered if Poe still has the same impact today — so in their latest issue, they asked a bevy of dark fantasists (including Cherie Priest, whose essay is already published online) how much the Grandpa of the Gothic loomed in their tender years. The answer: a whole freakin’ lot.
Here’s what geek princess Alethea Kontis has to say about it. Click here to read "Teen Angel, Dark."
Yes, Poe really was my emo high school boyfriend. And yes. I'm still reeling a bit from the fact that I have officially been published in Weird Tales. Weird Tales. THE Weird Tales. Yeah. Me.
Sweet.
Drop on by The Story Station and check out one of my very favorite short stories -- "The Monster & Mrs. Blake."I was one of those kids with monsters under her bed (they looked a lot like the little guys in Critters), so I empathize with Jeremy. I also wrote it while my best friend Casey was pregnant with her first child and craving apples for no apparent reason...
This was meant to be read aloud, so if you have the time -- and the children-- I encourage you to do so. And please...let me know what they think!
And yes, the rumors are true -- this story has been optioned by Bamfer Productions. I get to see a screenplay soon. Saying I'm a little excited about it is like saying there's a little sand on the beach.
Enjoy!
The Women's National Book Association wants to know about bookstores in the United States that excel at inspiring interest in reading, as well as creatively bringing books and young people together. They will present the annual WNBA Pannell Award to two bookstores--one a general bookstore and one a children's speciality bookstore--at the 2010 BookExpo America. Each recipient will receive a check for $1,000 and a framed piece of original art by a noted children's book illustrator. Nominated stores have the option of making their submissions to the Pannell jury electronically or by sending hard copy materials by mail.
To nominate your favorite bookstore (even your own!) that works within the community to instill the love of reading in young people, please provide the following:
Please send your nomination to mgjames@eastwestliteraryagency.com. Deadline for nominations is Jan. 15, 2010.
The Pannell Award was established in 1981 by WNBA, a century-old national organization of women and men who work to promote reading and to support the role of women in the book community.
His bones hit the stones with a crack as the guard shoved him to his knees. They weren't normal playing cards; they all had strange metric road signs on them. And they spoke French.
"Brian Keene," said a terrible voice. A familiar voice.
The burlap sack was ripped from his head. On the throne before him sat the most beautiful woman in the world. Her blood-chestnut hair fell in a shimmering cascade below her generous breasts. Her short red skirt revealed several miles of leg encased in several miles of black-and-white striped tights. The ruby platform slippers matched her dress, the four-inch heels of which he knew masked the blood of men's hearts exceptionally well. Her glistening diamond tiara reflected the bright sunlight and scattered rainbows around her, complimenting the fire in her eyes and the glittery flames that decorated her face, surrounding them. Her crimson lips parted in a gorgeous smile he couldn't help but reciprocate, and he damned himself for his lack of willpower at her feet. Those perfect teeth had fed on many a meager soul before his own, and they would feed on many more when his time on Earth was finished. Which he imagined would be about five minutes from now, give or take.
She was the Good Fairy who had given him life. She was the Muse who'd ruined it when he'd asked her to. And now she was the Reaper, here to claim what was rightfully hers.
Five minutes or no, Keene decided to spend the rest of his life being true to himself. "You remind me of a princess I know," he said without being spoken to.
"I get that a lot," she said, sotto voce, and then, "My little Bunny Foo Foo. Whatever am I going to do with you?"
Keene winced. He hated when she called him that. He also hated rhetorical questions.
"Off I sent you, skipping along through the forest, with one warning. Do you remember what that was?"
"Something about field mice?" he asked.
The right shoe shot out and kicked him square in the jaw, the rubies on the toes scraping deep into the skin of his cheek. With his hands bound behind him he couldn't assess the damage, but he could already feel the wetness, taste the blood. As suspected, her shoe still looked perfect, unmarred, and hotter than hell. "I said, 'NO MORE ZOMBIES.'"
"Is that what it was? I'm so bad with French." Expecting the shoe this time, he managed to peek up her skirt before his face hit the stones. Skull panties. The guards propped him back up on his knees.
"I should turn you into a goon," she said.
Keene spat out a mouthful of blood; it shaped itself into a heart on the stones at her feet. "I believe that is the established method."
"And yet, my dearest bunnykins, something about you compels me to go old school." She rapped her emerald scepter three times and bellowed, "OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"
It all happened with a quickness that commanded respect. A playing card obliged and bent himself in half like a table so that Keene's head could be pushed down upon him. He saw the giant shadow of the executioner behind him and had not even the time to wince as the sharp blade bit into his neck, snicker snack. Ninety seconds, he knew. Ninety seconds before he lost consciousness forever. Forever. She smelled like forever.
His head rolled in the pool of blood at her feet and he looked up at her, his new vantage point affording him quite the view, and with his last breath he did the one thing he knew she'd hate, the one thing that grated her nerves more than anything ever had. He'd miss that damn cat.
"Why are you smiling?" she asked Keene's head. "WHY ARE YOU SMILING?!?"
He loved that it was a question she'd never have the answer to. As it happened, he did know a princess, one who had placed his name in a bag with salt and herbs and planted it at the base of her ivory tower by the light of the full moon. She knew a thing or two about magic. And he knew a thing or two about zombies.
He thought about that princess in his last 140 characters before the world went black. Now if only all her father's horses and all her father's men hurried up and got to him before he bled out completely he'd be home in time f--
****************************************
Today is Brian Keene Must Die day. Brian will be killed in dozens of horrifying ways in blogs across the blogosphere for a very good cause. If you enjoyed this humorous little vignette, please consider making a donation to the Shirley Jackson Awards.
Sarah Pinborough, the British Grace Kelly of the horror genre, is riding high--having just won a British Fantasy Award for her short story “Do You See”--and in a few weeks she is up for the World Fantasy Award for her short “Our Man in the Sudan.” Anyone who follows her on Twitter knows that she’s a jet-setting wine connoisseur who’s not afraid of getting down and dirty and telling it like it is. Sarah is completely adorable...and can scare the ever-living daylights out of you. I sent a “little birdy” Sarah’s way with a few fun questions about her life recently, and this is what came back.
Read our interview here.
For those savvy tech people, Harlan County Horros is now available on Fictionwise. And they're having a big sale on horror right now, so it's only like three bucks. What are you waiting for? Go for it. What better way to get in the mood for Halloween?
I got a copy of THE DREAMER graphic novel from IDW and immediately fell in love (Click on the banner above -- you can check it all out online!). So much so that I contacted Lora Innes -- the comic's dynamic and fabulously talented writer/illustrator -- to see if I could do an interview with her. She said yes.
And then Cat over at Fantasy Magazine mentioned that she'd like to be the one to run it. So I said yes.
We're all such a bunch of affable people.
Hey -- wanna read it?
(You don't even have to say "yes." Just click right here.)
Happy Friday!
The rest of us remember what was one of the coolest weddings in history -- held at the Charleston Aquarium, my father officiating, Soteria walking down the steps in her customized designer gown to a string-version of The Pixies' "Where is My Mind?", my nephew cracking us all up during the "speak now or forever hold your peace", Monica's amazing flower arrangements complete with fish in the vases, and the dancing. All the wonderful dancing. Including this one. Remember this?
The song is "Burning Down the House" -- the demo tape got yanked off YouTube, but the tutorial is still there:
And here is a clip from the actual dance being performed at the wedding, complete with some of us jokers wearing masks like the tutorial taught us:
The best part, though, was never captured on video -- like most truly best moments are. But those of us who were there remember someone handing the wedding soundtrack to the bartender at the after party, and someone else pushing the tables aside so we could all jump up and do an impromptu recreation of the dance right then and there.
Because all the best people's lives include impromptu musical numbers.
Happy anniversary, Soteria & Charles. Here's to many more awesome years. xox
(Want to wish them happiness yourself? Stop by the Dixie Dunbar Facebook page and send your love!)
Yeah. That goober there in the picture with the chibi eyes and the face of a Muppet. The one and only Alethea Madeleine Kontis, a.k.a Princess Alethea. Moi. Yes, Alethea is my real, mom-and-dad given name. The Princess title was inevitable...like a freight train down the track, it was simply a long time coming. Contrary to popular belief, I never wanted to be a princess growing up. I wanted to be an actress and a writer...both of whom were free to dress like a gypsy and run around the yard speaking in a British accent.
Mostly I blame my current Princesshood on Jill Conner Browne who, during a visit to Ingram in March of 2007, bestowed upon me a Big Ass Tiara and proclaimed me Princess of Ingram. When I signed up for LJ they told me I couldn't use my own name as someone had already syndicated it, so I had to come up with something else. BAM. At my best friend Devin's wedding a year later, I made up nametags for Devin's sister, my sister, and myself, declaring that we were Princess Megan, Princess Soteria, and Princess Alethea. I left it stuck on my laptop for a very long time. When I was asked to come up with a title for my review column at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show, what name could have been better than Princess Alethea's Magical Elixir? Similarly, when the sideshow idea for Dragon*Con sprang to life like Athena from my cranium...well, you see where this insanity has led.
Type in www.princessalethea.com. Yeah, I went there. Figured if I was gonna do it, I was gonna own it. I took physics -- that freight train has a lot more inertia than I do, and it would be futile to stop it. A lot less fun, too.
Ultimately, I've found it's easier for people to call me "Princess" than remember how to pronounce Uh-LEE-thee-uh, and I'm totally okay with that. If we only see each other at the odd convention, you really shouldn't have to work that hard. We're there to have fun, not embarrass each other.
Now, according to my magic mirror (which I sometimes refer to as "Google Alert"), there are two other Princess Aletheas on these here intarwebs. One is a Princess in the SCA (Alethea Eastriding, Crown Princess and one-time Queen of the East), and the other is a fan fiction writer. I should not be confused with either of these women -- who I'm sure are very much fabulous in their own special ways.
But let's be clear -- like it says up there at the top -- all the ways about here belong to me.
BFFs: The Soul-Seller, the Necromancer, the Vampiress, and the Princess
Also, I'm in the thick of novel revisions/rewrites. Your regularly scheduled blog will return...um...yeah. And it's not like I'm not constantly on Twitter or anything. I'm still alive and kicking. And beautiful. And caught in a storm...
The new Princess Alethea's Magical Elixir reviews are up over at Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show! This month I discuss:Title: Rogue Angel: Destiny (audiobook)
Author: Alex Archer
Publisher: GraphicAudio
EAN: 9781599502052
Title: Bad Moon Rising
Author: Sherrilyn Kenyon
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
EAN: 9780312369491
Title: Ophelia Joins the Group Maidens Who Don't Float: Classic Lit Signs on to Facebook
Author: Sarah Schmelling
Publisher: Plume
EAN: 9780452295735
(If you happen to see that last one in the bookstore, pick it up and have a giggle.)
Excerpt:At first, she sang to remember. It was a way to pass the long, dark time, a way to drown out the buzz in her head when the earth shook and the bunker rattled, a way to live outside the bars of her cage, to be a woman who smoked and drank, flirted and pined, flipped her pin curls and married a man for his car. Eventually, Patsy Cline became Kerri’s reason for living. In five years, she hadn’t found a better one.
“Good morning,” said Stella. It was the only clue Kerri ever had to the time of day, or the notion that days passed at all. Stella opened the cage hatch and slid the food through. “I have a surprise for you today.” She smiled. “You’ll like it.”
Let’s see…what would she like? Kerri would have welcomed a hot poker in the eye, an asteroid hitting the earth, or the blast from that damned super volcano the world had been holding its collective breath about for the past decade. It would be ironic, Kerri mused, if all three suddenly happened at once. About as ironic as someone surviving cancer just to live out the rest of her days in a prison.
Read the rest of "A Poor Man's Roses" over at Apex Magazine. Or just make me look popular and click on the link.
When it rains it pours, and I've got my umbrella flipped upside-down to catch it all!On the heels of Horrorfind comes this sale to the awesome Michael Knost at Shroud Magazine. Look for it in the very next issue!
This story is based on the legend of Beilstein castle in Germany (pictured right).
Excerpt:
April 12, 1946
You left me here, you bastard. Left me in this picturesque burg on a riverbend strewn with wretched Nazi refuse, left me weeping in this tower--the only part of this rotting castle that's still in one piece. Godforsaken, as Mama would say. This country, this town, this pile of crumbling rocks, me. I miss Mama. I hear her sometimes, in the back of my head. Sit up straight. Don't overcook the chicken. Chew your food. Smell the roses. Smile into the sunshine.
I hear you too. Telling me to be strong; telling me I'm going to be all right; telling me I'm your princess. I wake up to your voice every morning, whispering "Maddie" in my ear, and every morning I open my eyes to nothing. I know I'm depressed, and I understand that you're never coming back, but I want you to be there in that second--just for a second--so I can yell at you.
You should go buy a copy.
Table of Contents:
“The Witch of Black Mountain” – Alethea Kontis
“The Power of Moonlight” – Debbie Kuhn
“Hiding Mountain: Our Future in Apples” – Earl Dean
“Psychomachia” – Geoffrey Girard
“Yellow Warbler” – Jason Sizemore
“Kingdom Come” – Jeremy C. Shipp
“Trouble Among the Yearlings” – Maurice Broaddus
“Spirit Fire” – Robby Sparks
“The Thing at the Side of the Road” – Ronald Kelly
“Inheritance” – Stephanie Lenz
“Greater of Two Evils” – Steven Shrewsbury
“Harlan Moon” – TL Trevaskis
Hooray! Just got notified that "The Monster & Mrs. Blake" has sold to The Story Station! (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
bev_vincent has a story up there now.) I'm super-excited about this one, because it's one of my absolute favorite stories...and it's for kids!! Summary: Jeremy Blake has a big imagination. He's eleven years old. He has a monster under his bed. And the monster's getting bigger. He's too ashamed to tell any of his friends or his father about it, but he finally confesses the details to his mother...who knows a lot more about dealing with monsters than Jeremy ever dreamed.
I liked Story Station because their guidelines said they wanted "stories like Goonies," and that's just awesome. No details yet on when the story will go live -- I'll let you know as soon as I hear. Squee!!! I really can't wait. You guys are going to LOVE this one.
What would YOU caption this?
The Southern Festival of Books: A Celebration of the Written Word is a three-day literary Festival celebrated each year during the second full weekend of October. It is free and open to the public. No advance registration or tickets are required. All seating is on a first-come basis.
Come one, come all, October 9-11 To War Memorial Plaza in lovely downtown Nashville. Go to the website to check out the amazingly long ilst of horribly famous authors you've known for years, and new blood you might want to check out. Follow them on Twitter (@SoFestofBooks) -- they're doing fun author trivia contests and giving away free books every Friday. For sure you should come see me host the Young, Fanged, and Undead panel. It will take place on Sunday, October 11 from 2:30-4:00 and features Melissa de la Cruz's The Van Alen Legacy, Daniel Waters' Kiss of Life, and David Macinnis Gill's Soul Enchilada. (David and I go waaaaaay back -- we were Orson Scott Card Boot Campmates together in 2003. Expect there to be some ribbing.)
And check out this official 2009 poster! It's one of the best ones yet. The one on my wall starts out red at the top left and fades to purple by the bottom right...it's really super lovely. A lot of people get the poster and then hang out all weekend, trying to get signatures from every single one of the guest authors. It's a pretty classy idea. I'm tempted to try it myself!
Yay! I sold a story to Jason Sizemore at Apex Magazine called "Poor Man's Roses." It's a 2400-word dark science fiction tale set in the near-apocalyptic far future. It's also a total homage to Patsy Cline. I dedicate it to my fellow author and BFF Kelli Dunlap, who inspired me to come up with the idea (the woman being bled by her husband stuff, not the Patsy Cline stuff. I take full responsibility for that part).
I should have a contest to see how many Patsy Cline references people can guess. Of course, by now I've forgotten how many I actually crammed in.
Turns out, Jason was so excited about this story, he's going to run it in the October issue. I'll be sure to post a link when it's out!
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