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The sound of a 1956 Cadillac horn is a four-note chord. D-F-A-C. Notoriously loud. Sandra knew that horn well. Sourcing the replacement for the missing “C” note had been a royal pain. She smiled. That horn could mean only one thing, because there was only one like it.
Baron Samedi 1956 Cadillac Miller-Meteor, rolled smoothly into Sandra’s workshop, animated hyperreal flames blazing across his body, the veve on each door glowing.
“‘Ello Mamma Sandra,” the Baron said,”It is so good to see you today. I bring guests, but you know ‘ow it is. It’s always best that they relax and go to sleep, rather than they freak oud or puke on the ‘pholstery. So I gave dem de gummies.”
“I’m awake,” Delrick said sleepily, “Kinda hungry. Need some help getting the capuchins out of the back.”
|What I Write||
I write weirdness. Alchemically-summoned Paracelsian gnomes? Check. Voodoo Loa Vintage Hearses? Check. Nikola Tesla and Mark Twain touring the US in a Steampunk alternate past where Marie Leveau is the newly-elected mayor of New Orleans, and multiple zombie Abe Lincolns walk the streets of the French Quarter Chinatown? Check. Hypersentient capuchin monkeys who speak Portuguese? DAMN STRAIGHT THAT’S A CHECK. Time-traveling KKK vampires? Author-approved cameo by Harry Turtledove? Yup. Check.
Oh, and did I mention, this is not only silly but reasonably hard SF, with only one central “thing” not supported by physics?
Goals this year: NOVELLA! Write it. Polish it. Second draft. Off to a publisher. This year has been really weird, and you know what that means…
Raise all the funds! See above… 40,o00 words. Please sponsor me all the sponsors.