Tag Archives: Mike Resnick

Happy Busting Out of Your Unwitting Host Day!

Bug hunt

 

Since Xenomorphs don’t have birthdays, it seems wrong to wish Aliens: Bug Hunt a happy book birthday.  So, happy Chest-Bursting day, book!

I am so excited to have a story (co-written with Mike Resnick) in this anthology!  In case you didn’t know, I’m in love with the ALIENS franchise.  Like, really.  I have a Xenomorph Queen hanging in my office.  See:

XenoQueen2

Oh, and I own a Xenophone:

Xenophone

If you’re like me, and the idea of a space station overrun with hundreds and hundreds of facehuggers fills you with glee, then our story is for you!

You can get Aliens: Bug Hunt at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or wherever terrifying books are sold.

Happy Reading…Mwahahaha!

~Marina

 

 

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My Exceptionally Late and Exceptionally Brief Post-Sasquan Post

I came, I saw, I choked to death in the apocalyptic-levels of forest-fire smoke. Awesome people were hung-with, I met old friends for the first time, spent time with three-thirds of a brain, created an epic photobomb when I didn’t mean to, and basically had a blast. All while maintaining the utmost professionalism, of course.

I present to you my limited collection of pictures (as I am awful at stopping the party to pull out my phone):

On the Street sasquan

Above: C. Stuart Hardwick, Martin L. Shoemaker, Gama Ray Martinez, Austin DeMarco, Tina Gower

Austin and Beth

Above: Austin n Beth Cato

Jeremy Tina Andrea

Above: Jeremy Honer, Tina Gower, Andrea G. Stewart

Photo 3 by Lezli Robyn

Above: Tina, Kary English, Me, Mike Resnick, Lezli Robyn

Tina n Tardis

Above: Tina, the TARDIS, and Dr. Bashir

At the Hugos!

Me n Jackie

Above: Jacquelyn Bartel n Me

Hugos 1

Above: Gama, Thomas K. Carpenter, Jacquelyn, Jeremy, Andrea

Hugos 2

Above: Stuart and Dominick D’Aunno

Hugos 3

Above: The awards stage, before the place was packed.

After the Hugos!

Photo 1 by Lezli Robyn

Here’s an extremely blurry picture of the Alfies (an award created and distributed and voted upon by GRRM, which you’ve probably heard the run down on by now):

GRRM n alfies

Above: GRRM and company

And the epic photobomb.  Which I actually did not mean to do. Obviously it is the best picture take of me during the con:

photo bomb

Above: John Scalzi and Jason Gurley and me being an idiot (photo by Annie Bellet).

Others took much less–ahem–insane pictures of me as well, here’s an example. Note lack of crazy groundhog face:

Photo 2 by Lezli Robyn

Above: Me n Tina being photobombed by Writer Dad and Robert Silverberg (photo by Lezli Robyn)

Anywho, there’s my drama-free roundup. Informative and controversial, I know.

~Marina

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Happy Reading in 2015!

It’s 2015!  Hope the new year brings you lots of laughs and loves and good stories.  I look forward to sharing more new fiction and new artists’ interviews with you soon!

If you’d like to start 2015 off with warm fuzzies and a good book, might I suggest Fantasy for Good?  It was officially released on December 9th.  Don’t forget that all of the work was donated and the proceeds go to the Colon Cancer Alliance.  This book helps fight cancer!  The anthology contains stories by George R.R. Martin, Neil Gaiman, Piers Anthony, Katherine Kerr, Carrie Vaughn, the late Jay Lake and Roger Zelazny.  Not to mention many more.  And I might have something in there, too.  Here’s an excerpt from my story, Lenora of the Low:

Lenora turned to the claw-footed bathtub and pulled the cracked curtain from around its edge. Beyond lay her flesh-garden.

Like insects pinned to a collector’s cardstock, sections of skin lay mounted on fragments of wood in a saline bath.  Small wires slithered into the tub and provided mild shocks every few moments.  The flesh crawled with the energy, flexing and shivering at the stimulation.

Each stolen piece of living tissue equated another day on Earth for a Low One such as she.  Another day beyond the reach of the reaper’s clawing spirit.

Exiting the bathroom, she began preparations for her last harvest.  With giddy, fidgeting fingers, she pulled her tobacco pouch and pipe from their hiding place between the bedsprings and lit up.

Thin smoke curled around her like a halo. Avoiding her grotesque reflection in the vanity mirror, she pulled a small chain with a rose charm from a drawer and secured it around her neck.  It was a reminder that this night didn’t belong to her alone.  She would get her revenge and become a savior all in one glorious swoop.

Click on the cover to pick up a copy:

Fantasy for Good cover

And if you’re looking for yet more great fiction, grab a copy of the Best of Galaxy’s Edge 2013-2014.  It’s the best of the best from the publication’s first year–curated by Mike Resnick.

Click the cover to get a copy:

Best of Galaxy's Edge One

Happy New Year, and happy reading!

 

~Marina

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Song of the Sargasso up at Galaxy’s Edge

Song of the Sargasso is the first story in a new shared-world series from Galaxy’s Edge.

Hundreds of years in the future, we discover that the solar system is encased in a strange region of impassable space, known as the Sargasso Grid.  Those who enter never come back–it’s the Bermuda Triangle of space travel. In Song of the Sargasso, freelance miners attempt to scout out a dwarf planet orbiting just over the Sargasso boundary, but something unexpected threatens to end their operation.  The pilot, Victor Carvalho, grapples  with personal-demons made reality while trying to keep his crew from falling apart. Here’s an excerpt:

Aye, aye, m’lady,

There’s a dragon down below.

Aye, aye, m’lady,

Yet exploring we shall go.  

Don’t give your heart to the red-dusted man,

Don’t give your heart to the Sea.

Please stay steady-on by the dock,

And save your heart for me  

—Chorus. Last transmission from the Illico One.  

***

Victor Carvalho couldn’t hear Kira’s scream, but he sure as hell could see it.

It was plastered on her face, frozen there beneath her space helmet. The image would be forever seared into his memory.

He crouched down on the barren deck of the Illico and reached a shaking hand toward her supine form. She didn’t move—how could she, with her body twisted like that? We shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have reached into God’s domain.

***

Nineteen Hours Before

“All right everyone, we’re about to cross into Sargasso space. If you feel the need to vomit, or strap yourself in tight, maybe say a few prayers, no one will hold it against you.” Victor made a slight course adjustment, then buckled himself into the nav chair.

His cat, a short-haired calico with ‘Starbuck’s limp,’ curled herself up on his lap. “Ready, Dinah?” he asked, running his fingers through her soft fur. “Hold onto your hairballs.”

Though he joked, he didn’t think anything was funny about the extra-solar Sargasso Sea—or the Sargasso Grid, as it was called by those who’d never dare travel out beyond the planets. He watched the computer count down as it estimated their position, and his heart beat faster with every light-second gained. Just remember the money, you can’t beat the money, he told himself.

A lot of hazard pay came with venturing into the Sea, and Victor ticked off all the things he could buy when he got back to Mars. An entire biodome all for himself. A sports-class racing ship. A million swimming pools’ worth of cat food.

… Diapers. Lots of diapers.

There were as many stories about the Sea as there once had been about the edge of the world. Here there be drag-ions, went the old astronaut’s joke. Mythical beasts, mythical particles, it didn’t matter—the region, forming a globe around the solar system starting at 1,260 AUs from the sun, was a very real borderland. Did something swallow the ships out this far, or shut them down? Did they fall into micro black holes, or drop out of existence altogether? No one really knew what happened out in the Sargasso. But one thing was for sure: no one who’d gone more than three light-hours in had ever come back.

You can find the rest here (free to read for the months of November and December): http://www.galaxysedge.com/n9.htm Other writers in the series include Hugo and Nebula nominee, Brad R. Torgersen, my fellow WotF vol. 29 alumni, Andrea G. Stewart and Tina Gower, and authors Lou J. Berger and Alex Shvartsman. Happy reading! ~Marina

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Short Story Sale!

I’ve just sold a sci-fi humor detective story to Galaxy’s Edge. My first story with this venue is set to appear in the September issue, so I’m very glad to have another one in the works.

Happy dance time.

~Marina

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Writers of the Future Workshop Week and Gala, Part 3

Here is a links to Part 2 (which contians a link to Part 1).

So, on Wednesday I typed up the following and posted it to WordPress.  Or, at least, I thought I did.  I was surprised to log in today (in order to moderate a comment) and find that there was no Part 3.  Either WordPress glitched on me, or somehow I navigated away from the page before actually hitting publish.  Luckily I save all of my lengthy posts in word docs.   I apologize for not catching the mistake sooner!

So, Sunday was Gala day.  We had a nice breakfast at the hotel in the morning, and then all the ladies were rushed off for hair and makeup (the guys got a couple of hours of down time, I believe.  Which is a fair trade off, since they did have to suffer through tux fittings earlier in the week).

Our beautification was done by cosmetology students, which had its pros and cons.  As we artists and writers were new to our perspective industries and had been learning all week, I liked the idea of furthering education in yet another field.  However, having students instead of pros do the work had its issues.  The woman who did my hair was very nice, but insisted on curling it.  I tried to explain that it would not work (I slept in curlers for my wedding and my hair was perfectly straight six hours after taking them out), but she went for it anyway.  As a result, when I finally made it on stage that night (I was the last writer to give my thank-yous), my hair simply looked like I’d failed to comb it.  And I’d made the mistake of telling my makeup artists that I usually wear smokey-purple eye shadow.  All she heard was purple, apparently, because man, my eyelids were puuuuurpppple.

Other ladies had much more luck–and others, much worse.  But, overall, despite our hits and misses, we all looked quite fantastic once we slipped into our gowns and jewelry.

My husband, father, brother, and step-mom had all flown in for the awards.  It was fantastic to see them all, if it was only for a few minutes.  I’ve been to several awards events with my husband, and at all of them the awards recipients were given specific times to take pictures with their guests.  Not so at the WotF gala.  We winners were rushed from one thing to the next, pictures here, interviews there, but never with our significant others.  The only time I got to spend with my husband was a few minutes on the red carpet out front, and at dinner (I would recommend future winners take dinner time to break out the cameras).  I got to see the rest of my family even less, as they were understandably not invited to the dinner.

The event itself was magnificent.  Beautiful sets, fantastic guest speakers, and wonderful dancers.  A special vignette was preformed for a few of the stories, and I was so glad mine was chosen.  (ETA: one positive point to the mis-post is that I can now share with you the gala clip that includes the dance done for my story, Master Belladino’s Mask.  My speach is in there too, but you can ignore that.)

Everyone’s speeches went well–even when they didn’t go as planned.  Alex Wilson (author of Vestigial Girl) ended up thanking two wives (though he insists he really only has the one).  I was introduced by none other than Larry Niven, who was quite shy and very nice.

After the ceremony we were all whisked away to the signing (this is when most award events afford the recipients some time for pictures with family).  We were seated in a circle emulating book order, which had me between Brian Trent (whose work opens the anthology), and Andrea Stewart (whose story, Dreameater, comes right before mine at the end).

It was a whirlwind event, with everyone in attendance coming by to get their copies of the anthology and calendars signed.

David Wolverton’s son, who had been in a coma for the entire workshop week, woke up for the first time that night, right before the gala started.   It was perfectly serendipitous.

After the signing I got to see my family for a few minutes, to thank them briefly and give hugs before we were once again rushed back to the hotel for an after party–which Joni Labaqui graciously hosted.  Though I don’t remember the exact time, it was pretty late at this point.  Mike Resnick hung out with us for a while, and though I had to tear myself a way relatively ‘early,’ I know many of the winners stayed up until 4am or so.

And that, my friends, was the gala.

There will indeed be a Part 4, as though the awards event was on Sunday, the workshop week wasn’t officially over until Tuesday.

~Marina

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