What I Write
FINN FANCY NECROMANCY (excerpt):
It took all my self-control not to push my Fey warden to move faster along the glowing path towards freedom. We were like a couple of floating melted gummy bears made of unicorn snot and dreams, gliding lazily through the fractal rainbow landscape of the Other Realm. Twenty-five years, that’s how long the Arcana Ruling Council had exiled my spirit to the Other Realm without true physical sensation, without access to other people, to real music or any of the things that make our world so awesome. Exiled from my body and my life since 1986 for a crime I didn’t commit. But my sentence was over at last.
“When I get back,” I projected at the warden, “I’m never touching magic again, even if my family begs. Just going to find my girlfriend and live like a mundane.”
The warden didn’t respond. I was really just talking to myself anyway, nervous that the Fey would somehow yank away my freedom at the last minute.
We reached a raised platform of violet light. My warden raised a hand-like glob, and the air in front of me rippled.
A portal opened up, an oval window to my world, good ole Earth version mine. Beyond shimmered a beach, the Washington State variety with the freezing gray Pacific Ocean lapping a shoreline of pebbles and driftwood, all kissed orange by the setting sun. Just seeing those shapes and colors without having to manifest them from my own memory was enough to bring tears to my eyes. Actually, it caused butterflies to leak from the jewel-like lights that floated in the blob that served as my head, but point is, it was damn good to see Earth again.
I can’t say, however, it was so good to see myself standing there on the beach.
I was fifteen years old when they exiled me from my body. And most of my time in the Other Realm had been spent reliving memories of my youth for the entertainment and nourishment of the Fey.
So despite all the mental growth I achieved by reliving and reflecting on my past and all, my physical self-image was pretty well stuck at fifteen. But the dude who stood waiting on the other side of the portal was old. Not Emperor Palpatine old, I mean, I still had all my hair. Too much hair in fact: the wind blew it around my head in a ridiculous black mane. And the changeling who’d been granted use of my body kept me in good enough shape that he probably wasn’t even embarrassed to wear those tight jeans and even tighter black tee-shirt, though I would not be continuing the David Hasselhoff look once I retook possession. But I looked, like, forty years old, nearly my father’s age, or at least his age at the time I was exiled. I’d sort of known that would happen: the changeling might be immortal, but that didn’t stop my body from aging normally while he possessed it.
Still, it was a total mind blower.
A man in a black suit strolled into sight of the portal. His braided mustache identified him as an enforcer, a representative of the Arcana Ruling Council and police of all things magical in our world, come to monitor the transfer. He probably had a “we’ll be watching you, punk” speech ready for me as well.
The changeling flipped back his Joey Ramone hairdo, and raised his hand – my hand – to signal readiness for the transfer.
And as a bonus for ordering a body transfer today, I’d receive one memory transfer absolutely free. Twenty five years of selected life history and real-world memories from the changeling – where “I” lived, where I worked, who I’d talked to, what had happened on TV the last twenty five years – all part of the arrangement so that I wasn’t clueless, jobless, homeless and presumed dead by the mundane authorities when I returned home.
I hoped he hadn’t watched Star Trek IV. It was just coming out when I got exiled, and I really wanted to experience it myself (yes, despite Star Trek III).
And music! Oh dear gods, I hoped this guy had listened to decent music.
Wait. Did I cancel my Columbia record and tape club membership before exile, or did I owe them like ten thousand dollars for a whole stack of unwanted tapes at this point?
Well, I’d know soon enough. The sun melted beneath the horizon and twilight began, a time for transitions. I felt the transfer begin.
On the beach, the enforcer kicked the changeling in the gut and flung something glittering at the portal. The transfer cut off.
What the –
The flung object disintegrated against the barrier between worlds, and a screech cut through my mind like a rabid cat being scratched across a chalkboard. Roiling clouds of gibbering ink gathered above our heads.
The portal began to shrink.
|What I Write||
is what I am.
The Finn Fancy series from Tor (US) and Titan (UK) are “darkly funny” urban fantasy novels:
Bigfootloose and Finn Fancy Free
Smells Like Finn Spirit
“The Beloved Changeling who was Neither” in Penumbra (September 2013 Issue)
“Needs of a Half-Dead Heart” in the anthology Roms, Bombs, and Zoms by Evil Girlfriend Media (November 2013).
“Surviving the eBookalypse” in Escape Pod
“The Most Epicly Awesomest Story! Ever!!” in Every Day Fiction
“A Witch’s Heart” in Realms of Fantasy, April 2011 issue.
“A Shelter for Living Things” in the M-Brane anthology 2020 Visions, edited by Rick Novy
My Write-a-thon Goals
5,000 words a week minimum on my YA series or my Epic Fantasy series, whichever is calling most strongly to me.
Reasons you should sponsor me: