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About Literature / Artist G. DeykeGermany Group :iconlitconquistadores: LitConquistadores
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Deviant for 9 Years
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The bearskin is hot and heavy. Beneath it I am hair and sweat and fingernails, itching and bleeding, stinking with the filth of unwashed years. The people I pass recoil when they see me.
Good, I think. I recoiled from myself in the mirror long before my seven years began: there is a spiteful glee in my heart each time I see that they see me as I see myself.
But there is hope before me now, strong as silk, and I follow it grimly. Seven years I must wear this bearskin, seven years I must leave my nails and hair uncut, seven years I must go without washing – but at the end of it, so the man with the horse’s foot promised, I’ll have whatever I desire.
“You know what I want,” I told him.
In my pocket I carry half a broken ring, a promise within a promise. I find some comfort in its smooth curve, its raw jagged edges: touching it, I think of the woman who holds the other half. She loved me for myself, I think, for she met me as Bearskin. It cannot be my b
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 4 2
The Dunwich Helper(s)
“Hi. My name’s Steve, and I have the face of an eldritch abomination.”
A mumbled “Hi, Steve” made its way around the room in acknowledgement. Steve, indeed, had the face of an eldritch abomination. Tentacle-beard and all.
“I wasn’t always this way,” Steve explained. “I mean – obviously. Can you imagine what my mother would have said if I’d come out like this?”
The room tittered nervously.
“I’ve always had skin problems,” Steve continued, “but, like, conventional skin problems. Not go-mad-from-the-revelation skin problems. I try to stay fairly upbeat, but…” Steve trailed off dejectedly, staring into the expectant, if uncomfortable, faces before him.
“Anyway, there was a sketchy clinical trial in Fresno and here we are.” He scratched a tentacle.
“That’s not a… normal… side effect, is it?” Meg Guyver was the first to break the awkward silenc
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 3 5
He comes home too late, already exhausted. The thought of a warm bed is all that’s kept him going the past few hours.
Still, as he enters, he turns on the light – turns it off again – and on – and off – five times, so; touches his fingers against the door, thumb-little-index-ring-middle, right hand first, then left, then right again; locks the door, unlocks it, locks it again and twists the key twice.
In his mind, he knows that the ritual is meaningless.
In his heart, it’s all that keeps the bed he shares with his husband from burning as they sleep.
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Eighty-Seven Days Before the End
They look at the pocketknife every morning. Run their fingers over the handle, tracing the letters of the engraved name. Flip it open and gaze into the mirrored blade, wishing they could see through it to find their love on the other side – but all that looks back from the polished steel are their own haunted eyes.
Vivian gave them the knife before she left. It’s all they have left of her: they can’t write or call her, can’t even follow her on tumblr. Viv’s parents know all the passwords, and they’re not the sort to let even a hello go unquestioned.
They had to meet her in secret, before she moved away. She didn’t even dare to tell her parents her new name, or that she had one, or that she needed one.
It’s only for eighteen months. Seventeen. Sixteen. Eight. Five. They count down the days to Vivian’s eighteenth birthday, waiting for her freedom, helpless to help her.
Eighty-seven days before the end, the blade of the pocketkn
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The Stardancer's Love
There lived a king on a distant planet who treasured two things above all else: firstly, his three children; and second, a tree which bore fruit of gold.
It happened one night that a thief came and stole a fruit from the golden tree, unseen by the palace guards. The king, fearing as much for his life and that of his children as for his precious fruit, proclaimed that the thief must be caught at once: and whosoever brought them before him would win his planet’s throne.
The king’s sons were eager to please him, and all the more eager for the promise of kingship. They guarded the golden tree by turns: but each night the weight of sleep closed their eyes at last, and each night the thief came and went without any trace of their passing. At last the youngest prince cut a wound into his arm and rubbed it with salt. The pain of it kept his eyes open through the night: and so, at last, he saw who it was that came to steal his father’s fruit.
But the thief was not human. It ha
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The Dove in the Trees
There was once a maid who travelled with her lord’s retinue through a great forest, and when they were deep in the woods and far from any town or village, their train was beset by robbers. The lord and all his retinue were slaughtered, and all he’d had was plundered or destroyed. Only the maid, who had jumped from the wagon and hidden herself between the trees, was left alive.
She fled the road, hearing the death-cries of her companions behind her, and when she heard them no more she looked about herself and saw that she was lost. There was no one who lived in that forest, and she could never find her way out of it; and so, thinking that she must starve, she sat down weeping with her back against a tree. There, she thought, she might remain forever; for what use would there be in moving? Come what may, she would stay here till the rain washed clean her bones.
Evening fell; and some time later a little white dove flew to her, carrying in its beak a tiny golden key. It laid t
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Smiles Full of Secrets
The ladies walk through the moonbeams with their hands laced together, rose-cheeked, rose-lipped, their gossamer gowns floating all round them. Their eyes are dark with secrets, their smiles sharp-toothed, knowing.
A rawboned shadow dances after them, catlike, twitching and pulling at the ladies’ drifting sleeves. “Listen – uh – I’m sorry, but –”
She is a gaunt and pale-faced thing, with stubble growing in along the square line of her jaw, her skirt and blouse well-tattered beneath the grime. The ladies barely deign to glance at her. Beneath their radiance she is nothing, less than nothing: still she follows after them, nimble-footed, a fool’s last hope still shining in her eyes.
At last they turn to her, and speak in voices like shattered starlight in glass:
Who are you, then, who calls us from behind?
Know you not who stands before you now?
Have you no fear of death? of sharp-toothed smiles?
No wariness of shining in the night?

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The Spirit of the Spring
There was once a knight, well-practised in all knightly virtues, but unmarried and with no eye for the beauty of women; and one evening as this knight was out hunting, he came across a spring, and on its edge there sat a man whose beauty was such that the knight was overcome with it.
He asked the man his name, and at first received no answer. At last the man spoke: “I am the spirit of this spring, and I have sat here for a hundredfold years, always awaiting the day when my fate will be fulfilled.”
“And what fate is it you wait for?”
“I must sit at this spring until a young man comes by who will love me, with unchanging loyalty, for twelve months; and if it is done I will become mortal, and my fate will be joined with his.”
“I will be this man,” said the knight, “and be faithful to you: I swear it.”
The spirit’s face shone with joy, then; and he said: “Come to me in the hour before midnight, each time the moon is fu
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Captive Audience
I’m never going to be the dancer Lynna is. I know that: I’ve watched her enough. I can’t take my eyes off her. But I have to get better than I am.
The memorial stays silent as it watches me dance. The shallow graves beneath my feet never offer their judgement. Thirty-four dead, thirty-three of them nameless: they’re the only witnesses as I practice, stumbling, falling face-down in the dirt.
I’ll never be as good as Lynna. I don’t even want to: god, no one could be better than she is. I just want her to notice me. Just once.
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The Thicket
The castle had been wiped from memory. There were some old legends, of course, but I’d never have known it had actually existed if I hadn’t indulged a love of old maps while waiting out the rain in the library one day. This’d be the cursed castle, then: the place no one who’d set foot in ever returned from. It’d be a ruin now.
I didn’t think there’d be much left of it – maybe a few buried foundations – but I’m a sucker for creepy folklore and I can always use an excuse to go for a walk, so I went to check it out as soon as the weather was decent. Finding it was another problem. I’d copied down the map as well as I could, but they weren’t great at drawing to scale in those days: not to mention that most of the roads would’ve changed course by now. Once I’d gotten kind of close I pretty much couldn’t do anything but wander around a bit and keep my eyes on the ground.
Then I found the rose thicket, a
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Final Prayer
The geese have been nattering on for hours now. They show no signs of stopping.
The fox orders a seventh Venti Orange Nutmeg Mocha Frappuccino avec Crème, checks his watch, and strikes up a game of chess with the barista. He’s beginning to regret his act of mercy.
How long can one final prayer take?
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The Drummer's Dreams
I wore a dress today as shining as the sun. It bought me a night outside your room, my drummer, my love: do you hear me? have you forgotten me? You were with me on the glass mountain; I kept you safe, there, from the witch; you gave your hand to me in troth. My drummer, my love, can you hear me? can you hear me?
But the drummer sleeps, and does not hear.
She dreams of a lake she passed, one day, and of three fine cloths of linen she saw lying on its shore: she takes one with her and walks on, and when night comes and she lies half-asleep a soft voice calls her to wake.
Drummer, drummer, do you hear?
She wakes, in her dream, but in the darkness she sees nothing: only a shadow drifting up and down at the foot of her bed. She lifts her head and speaks with it: What do you want?
Give me the robe you took from me, from the shore of the lake.
I will give it to you, the drummer says, if you tell me who you are.
I am the daughter of a mighty king, f
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All That Glitters
The darkworms feast on everything that glitters. They swallow crystals, and metals, and sunlight on water. Gold alone repels them.
They spread from the craft that brought them in a silent wave, leaving ashen darkness behind them. We who could not flee them remain as shadows; and all that glitters in the darkness is gold.
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From Dark to Dark
It was a pity, he thought, that he would have to kill her.
She was still new, a flicker of silver flame in a sky like black velvet. Every part of her shone with hope. Like a child she flew from one end of the sky to another, drifting ever farther from the light of his shadow, and never thinking she might one day die; her light was weak, still, but if she would shine she first must glow.
A yellow bird in flight, he watched her, and watched as she passed beyond his realm. She grew to shine over forests and cloisters, deserts and seas; far below the people saw her as she passed, and whispered to her, and prayed. Her worshippers called to her from thickets of brambles, where they burnt herbs and mushrooms in her name, and she smiled down upon them and showed them the dreams that led the way to madness.
When the amber moon was full she travelled beyond his reach. She came out again on the other side of morning, a white lady regal with strength, and told him what she had seen in the night: d
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She doesn’t dare to ask for dresses and jewels, as her sisters do. Instead she plants a tree on her mother’s grave, and waters it with weeping.
They laugh at her when they see her in front of the mirror, trying ribbons in her hair. It’s the reason for their jeering, their middling cruelties: if he wants to be a maiden, they say, then let him be a maid. She cooks and cleans for them, sorts lentils, fetches water, helps them dress. She sleeps in the kitchen, in the warm ashes of the hearth, where she needs not hear their mockery. Beneath the soot she can barely see her own skin.
There is no question of her attending the ball. She knows better than to ask.
But when she weeps under the tree that night, something falls from its branches: a dress of gold and silver, glowing in the light of the stars. When she puts it on her shoulders thin, her hips swell, her breasts grow round beneath the cloth. Her feet turn small and delicate, wearing slippers of silver sti
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Mission Distracted
Alyssa crawls through the duct on eir belly, half wondering why it’s big enough to fit em, half glad enough that it is not to wonder. The small arsenal of guns and knives and exploding swords e always carries with em isn’t making things any easier. It’s not just that getting stuck here would be hell: even the sound of eir weapons scraping against the walls could be enough to get em killed.
Anyway, e has a mission to complete.
The hostages should be somewhere in the compound, but where they are exactly e doesn’t know. Searching room-by-room wouldn’t be viable even if the network of conveniently large ducts went far enough, which it doesn’t. Espionage is mission-critical, and it’s eir excuse for belly-crawling towards command central by the quickest route e can work out.
The thing that’s running this place isn’t human. It’s not even alive – just a complex collection of transistors and wires, close enough to a brain that it
:icongdeyke:GDeyke 5 16


FFM 18: Apocalypse, NOW!
The Harbinger of Death hung the last of the solar panels on the roof of the makeshift hut and hopped down, clapping the dust free of her hands with satisfaction. She stood for a moment, admiring her handiwork before picking up a broken piece of plywood she had fashioned into a sign, propping it beside the entryway of her little shelter. The sign read:
She had run out of space when painting it, but still felt confident that the appropriate message came across. Finally, she picked up a milk crate, stood it on its end, and sat.
It took about an hour before she caught sight of a silhouette moving in her direction. Eagerly, she stood up, rubbing the grid imprinted on the backs of her thighs before recognizing the figure approaching. She slumped back into her seat.
“What do you want?” she mumbled, crossing her arms.
“Me? I came here to see what you were doing,” the Harbinger of Doom peered around her at the sign, picking his teeth wi
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FFM18 18 - Selkie
One last time, she watched the sun set into the ocean.  Like every night before it, she wondered where in those depths her love currently laid, and if he was well.  Once, she would’ve spent this time fantasizing about his form breaking from the foam and surf, shedding his tentacles to join the world of man again.  Those fantasies died long ago, and cold reality had taken their place.  He was never coming back.  But she was resourceful.  And determined.  
When the last golden ray dwindled on the horizon, she began to walk toward it, pulling her new sealskin on.
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Giveaway! Giveaway! Giveaway!
Giveaway! Giveaway! Giveaway!
30 lucky winners in the USA will receive a free paperback copy of Phantasmical Contraptions & Other Errors! Spread the word!
For our fans in other parts of the world, and those who prefer digital books, we haven't forgotten you! Starting tomorrow and lasting through the weekend, you can get the Kindle version on your country's local Amazon site for free!
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Deviants in Print: Jae Waller
Publishing Week

Jae Waller aka akrasiel - dedicated Community Volunteer and a familiar and helpful presence around DA’s Literature world - grew up in a lumber town in northern British Columbia. She has a joint B.F.A. in creative writing and fine art from the University of Northern British Columbia and Emily Carr University of Art + Design. Now living in Melbourne, Australia, she works as a novelist and freelance artist.
Today I’m talking with Jae about her recently-published debut fantasy novel The Call of the Rift: FLIGHT, on sale now from ECW Press. From the ECW website’s synopsis:
Seventeen-year-old Kateiko doesn’t want to be Rin anymore — not if it means sacrificing lives to protect the dead. Her only way out is to join another tribe, a one-way trek through the coastal rainforest. Killing a colonial soldier in the woods
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FFM 2018: Tether
Hollow-mouthed, and dry-eyed, I press the intercom button on my wrist.
“You have to cut me loose, Sam.”
The silence on the other end is deafening.
“I can’t.” A declaration, or a plea - I can’t quite tell. Either way, neither of us has time for this. Sam’s window is closing fast. Ten metres to the hull, another three metres through the airlock. It might as well be the other side of the world.
“Then I’ll have to do it for you.” I tell him, and somehow saying it out loud makes it real in a way it wasn’t before.
The exo-suit makes manoeuvring difficult, but we’ve all been drilled to within an inch of our lives on the protocol, and my fingers find the release catch without hesitation. The safety catch gives me a little trouble, but I eventually get it loose. After that it’s easy.
Holding the tether in my hands, I open my fingers, and watch it drift away from me in slow motion. I could still reach out and grab it,
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FFM 2018: Fated
There was no time in the cave at the root of the world. No weeks, no days, no hours, or minutes. The Weaver sat at her loom, watching as mortal men grew and died, and their children rose to take their place. But time did not move for her, and she remained unchanged.
She was not one of the Fates, she did not decide the course of history. The Norns would send her messages through the red threads of fate, a tug here, a severing there, and the Weaver adjusted her work accordingly. But sometimes she wondered what it would be like to truly hold the fate of someone’s life in the palm of her hand.
Time did not pass for her in the typical sense, but she did other things in-between her loom work. She had a small garden, growing in a patch of sunlight that filtered down through the roots of the tree. She cooked, and cleaned, and sometimes she would rest in her small bed at the back of the cave, her blankets the old tapestries of bygone ages. She did not sleep, but sometimes she did dream, a
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FFM 2018: Like Magic
Arturo always picks the best songs.
He finds them in the boxes upon boxes of old records that my father left to me, retrieving them with exaggerated care from their yellowed protective sleeves. Arturo doesn’t believe in anyone or anything besides himself, but whenever I see him putting a record on I am reminded of a worshipper kneeling before his holy altar. The comparison always makes me smile.
I know I should clean things up. It has been months now, but I still I haven’t been able to bring myself to unpack all the boxes, and now they just sit in the corner of the apartment, gathering dust. My apartment has become a shrine to the dead, sacred objects stashed in corners, spilling over into the tiny living room, and across the floor of what used to be our bedroom.
Last summer the heat became so extreme that Arturo decided to reduce everything in the apartment to its simplest components. We removed half the furnishings, the curtains, our antique couch. He insisted that we tea
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FFM 16: Impending
Misha stepped out of the whirlwind, a brief meeting of air separated by centuries shrieking in her ears before it dissipated.
She smoothed out her sparse clothing and nudged her eye back into its socket. Shouldering her backpack, she walked onto the roughly paved road towards the closest building.
It was the outskirts of a town, and the building turned out to be a modest house, somewhat worn, but strong. A woman stood on the porch.
“Where is your mother?” she called as she spotted Misha.
Misha blinked, taking a moment to absorb the language. It had been a long time.
“I have none,” she said.
The woman clicked her tongue in concern. “You poor thing. Just look at your hair!”
Misha fingered the choppy split ends that ended just above her shoulders. It just hid the gashes on her neck.
“Do you need some food,” the woman said, her voice kind, but strained.
Misha looked at her pinched cheeks, her thin frame, and shook her head.
“I’m o
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FFM 17: The Miracle Man
The first time we met, I was performing his autopsy. He winked at me – innocuous but terrifying, considering.
We got him all cleaned up; he said his name was Danny and told us not to be concerned. This was natural for him, this dying and reviving. I had my doubts but found him charming.
I thought that was the last I would see of him, but I was wrong.
The second time we met, he'd jumped from a building and fate supposedly brought us together again. He told me he was a miracle man and I believed him.
We kissed in the rain. I wanted it to last forever, but he only had control of his own life and death: such a small thing. We met many times after that.
But of course, he took too many chances.
The last time we met, it wasn't really his fault. The doctors determined it was a heart attack. I wanted to perform the autopsy, but of course they wouldn't let me. Being married to him gave me an unfair bias.
I took one last look at Danny in the coffin. I just felt so cheated. The mirac
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When Grandmother Calls
When Grandmother calls, she says that everything will turn out alright in the end. I haven’t told her that the wolves are at the door.
     Metaphorically and literally.
    I’m not sure which concerns me more.
    At first I thought that it was stress. You worry about a thing—about next week’s work rota, about making ends meet—and you start to see it as an animal skulking about behind the railings across the road.
    Then you realise that there really is an animal, and you think that it’s a fox.
    Then you hear the howling, find the claw marks in the wood.
When Grandmother calls, she says that everything will turn out alright in the end. I haven’t told her that the wolves are in the stairwell.
    Nobody else seems to notice as they step over them or squeeze by. Perhaps
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The Flatmate
The first note stuck on the fridge doesn’t bother me at all. I’ve been working such long hours, never seeing anyone outside of work—back home far into the night, out again at the crack of dawn. I’m still halfway between reality and dreams, so I don’t even read the note’s message. The angry tone permeates through but that’s all. I just throw the scrap of paper into the bin as I leave.
The note when I get home does upset me though:
There wasn’t much food in. Why don’t you ever do the fucking shopping? You’re the one who’s out near the shops all day.
There may not have been much, but it was my food. I’m hungry and that makes me anxious. I check the whole flat over and over before I go to bed but everything’s as it should be.
The message on the fridge next morning berates me for leaving the place looking like a tip. Why don’t you tidy it then? I think, though it’s pointless to exp
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What's in a Name?
You guys are doing a wonderful job so far.  We have almost thirty submissions and of course, we’re still accepting.  So don’t forget to send in your best flash fiction for this month. We’re even looking at bringing on a few more Readers to make sure I don’t overwhelm the awesome volunteers I’ve already got!
But there’s an actual reason for writing this journal other than telling you guys how wonderful you are.  We’ve got plenty of time, but it’s never too late to start thinking of titles for our anthology. Since this is a very community related event and it’s our first book, I thought it might be nice to allow the community to have a say in what we name our book.
Got an idea?  Drop a comment below.  I’ll compile my favorites and then we’ll vote on it later.
Keep those submissions coming in, too!  
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The Dunwich Helper(s)
“Hi. My name’s Steve, and I have the face of an eldritch abomination.”
     A mumbled “Hi, Steve” made its way around the room in acknowledgement. Steve, indeed, had the face of an eldritch abomination. Tentacle-beard and all.
    “I wasn’t always this way,” Steve explained. “I mean—obviously. Can you imagine what my mother would have said if I’d come out like this?”
    The room tittered nervously.
    “I’ve always had skin problems,” Steve continued, “but, like, conventional skin problems. Not go-mad-from-the-revelation skin problems. I try to stay fairly upbeat, but…” Steve trailed off dejectedly, staring into the expectant, if uncomfortable, faces before him.
    “Anyway, there was a sketchy clinical trial in Fresno and here we are.” He scratched a tentacle.
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FFM 19: The Dunwich Helper(s)
    “Hi. My name’s Steve, and I have the face of an eldritch abomination.”
     A mumbled “Hi, Steve” made its way around the room in acknowledgement. Steve, indeed, had the face of an eldritch abomination. Tentacle-beard and all.
     “I wasn’t always this way,” Steve explained. “I mean – obviously. Can you imagine what my mother would have said if I’d come out like this?”
     The room tittered nervously.
     “I’ve always had skin problems,” Steve continued, “but, like, conventional skin problems. Not go-mad-from-the-revelation skin problems. I try to stay fairly upbeat, but…” Steve trailed off dejectedly, staring into the expectant, if uncomfortable, faces before him.
     “Anyway, there was a sketchy clinical trial in Fresno and here we are.” He
:iconinksoaked:inksoaked 2 4
Traditional Novel Publishing
Publishing Week
So you've written a novel. You've edited, gotten beta readers, polished that sucker 'til it shines, and you're ready to enter the wide world of the publishing industry. Where do you start? First, here's what you DO need:
a finished manuscript. (Only non-fiction can be pitched before it's written.)
Here's what you DON'T need:
money. It's always free to submit novels to legit agents and editors. Reading fees for novels are scams.cover art or other illustrations. I advise writers not to commission art ahead of time, since the publisher will want a say in all images that go into the novel. It'd be a shame for your money to be wasted.publishing experience or a big following (known as a "platform.") Novels stand on merit alone! Meow :3 
Step 1: Pitch Materials
1.1: Query Letters
You need to write a query letter, sometimes called a pitch. These are 1-page letters that introduce your bo
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Teatime Simulator in Rock, Paper, Shotgun!
Lovely Pleasant Teatime Simulator is one of Rock, Paper, Shotgun's free games of the week, and I am utterly flabbergasted. In the three days since that happened it's already become my most-played Twine game of all time, reaching more people in less than a month than Blacklight 1995 has in almost five years. If you'd like to read more about the feature, I've written a more complete post over on my blog.

The high scores are also into positive numbers, which I find similarly astounding. I always knew that was possible - there wasn't anything in the game to prevent it - but I never expected anybody to actually push the thing that far. Almost from the moment I released this, it
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UPDATE: joe-wright got a hold of me in chat and made a compelling series of arguments, to wit:
1. It is clearly the will of the people
2. [ceaseless flattery]
3. There doesn't need to be any mention of cowardice, does there? a result of which I have somehow been persuaded to take on his All-Star challenge in addition to the month-long challenges I already committed to, and of course FFM's official challenges. CONGRATULATIONS TO THE NO LESS THAN FIVE OF YOU WHO VOTED FOR IT. Here's a refresher on what that entails:
The All-Star challenge.
Over the course of FFM, your oeuvre must address the following items:
  • -Something somebody once told you
  • -The sharpest tool
  • -A finger and a thumb
  • -The shape of an L
  • -What does it mean to be 'fed to the rules'?
  • -A smart brain and a dumb head
  • -"You'll never shine if you don't glow"
  • -Definitive proof that all that glitters is in fact gold
  • -A shooting star that breaks the mold
  • -The meteor men, and the hole in the satellite picture
  • -Skating on thin ice
  • -The world on fire
  • -"Can you spare some change for gas?"
  • -An all-star, getting their game on, and going to play, or alternatively and perhaps easier, a rock star, getting the show on, and getting paid.
  • -Shrek
This isn't going to be unreasonably difficult at all, right? Right???? THREE MONTH-LONG CHALLENGES ON TOP OF THE OFFICIAL ONES SEEMS PERFECTLY REASONABLE.

You're not going to get any points or anything, joe-wright, but not only do you get to cackle madly while I pirouette around this series of handicaps, you have also earned my unending admiration for your skills of persuasion. I mean, maybe I'm pretty easy to manipulate, but we both come out of this looking better if we pretend that I'm not and you're just very, very persuasive.


FlashFictionMonth starts tomorrow, and it's time to select a winner from among the 27 challenges I've been issued this month. That's more than double the challenges I received last year!

It's also kind of an awkward number. I could deal with this using a random number generator, but that wouldn't afford me a chance to use my fancy dice; so I guess I'm using a d100 and re-rolling until I get a valid number.

The winning number is... 66! Wait... 88! No, 68!

...This may take a while.

Skipping all the invalid numbers, our actual winner is: 26!

Our winning challenge comes as a last-minute entry by Teague-Drydan:
At least half of the month needs to be fairy tale re-writes. Bonus if they aren't well known fairy tales.

Thank you, Teague-Drydan! Your points will arrive shortly. (And sorry to the no less than five of you who voted for the All-Star challenge: another time, maybe!) I BET YOU'RE HAPPY NOW, NO LESS THAN FIVE OF YOU

Because I was kind of on a ...roll (badum-tsh) and we have plenty of challenges to go around, we have a second, lower-priority winner: 4! An anonymous contributor slapped me with a glove and challenged me to write every single character queer. Which, you know, I can do, but doing it explicitly is harder. Will I be doing it anyway? Possibly! Since this isn't the actual winner-winner, I'm not going to do any acrobatic tricks to make it explicit (and I'm certainly not going to give it as much priority as the actual winner, not to mention the official FFM challenges), but we'll see how far I get in avoiding allocishet characters over the course of the month. Queered fairy tales, here we come.

On a completely different note, one of my stories from last year's FFM - Johannes and Margarethe - received a Daily Deviation a few days ago! It's still one of my favourites from 2017, and it does a good job of setting a fairy tale tone for this year. ;)

Johannes and MargaretheIt would be easy enough to flee. The only bond that ties Margarethe to the blind old woman is her love for her brother. But he is all she has left, now, and she will not leave him.
Johannes sits in a cage of bones, eating canned mandarins and jars of sour cherries, awaiting his death. Margarethe visits him there when the old woman is out. “I’ll save you,” she says. “I’ll find a way – somewhere we can flee to, somewhere she can’t follow. I’ll steal the key from her.” The cage is held together with steel cables and padlocks and barbed wire. There is no escaping from it.
“You know what she’s planning,” says Johannes, and Margarethe knows. Fresh meat is hard to come by. If they run, she will try to follow.
“Why is she waiting, do you think?”
“Fattening me up, probably. She keeps feeling my finger, seeing how thin it is.” He scoffs. “I always show her a bone – there are enough of them

There will be a chat event happening in CRLiterature on Saturday July 7th, from 10am-1pm PDT (19:00-22:00 CEST) (check your time zone here) to discuss June's Daily Deviations. Barring unforeseen circumstances, I'll be there to discuss!

And on that note, I hope you're all ready for FFM: it begins tomorrow. ;)


G. Deyke
Artist | Literature
G. Deyke is an indie author of games, novels, short stories, flash fiction, and the occasional poem or screenplay. They will write anything from humor to horror to fairy tales, but have a particular penchant for speculative fiction: especially (though not exclusively) fantasy. They currently reside in a small village in southern Germany.

Due to a tragic imbalance of their machismo-to-sense ratio, G. Deyke can never refuse a ridiculous challenge.


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xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jul 7, 2018   Writer
Thanks for collecting :iconredsparklesplz:
MQE-Discord Featured By Owner Edited Jul 2, 2018  New Deviant
I love your style of writing. You seem to choose careful snippets to your story and I would honestly love to see you do a small mini-series set in a universe of your making. :0

Best Regards,
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2018   Writer
Thank you so much! I have, in fact, done something similar, though it was unplanned enough that it doesn't stand up pacing-wise the way a planned mini-series would. Still, "The Gift", "For the World's More Full of Weeping", "The Silence of Death in a Vacuum", and "As They Feast" - all written for 2017's Flash Fiction Month - at least share a world. I might want to do more with that sometime, and/or something entirely different. I do love this mini-series idea.
LadyLincoln Featured By Owner Jun 25, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the return :+devwatch: dearheart, I appreciate the support!

With love,
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jun 26, 2018   Writer
Likewise. :heart:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch! :hug: 
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jun 22, 2018   Writer
You're very welcome. :)
baspunk Featured By Owner Jun 11, 2018
merci :)
xlntwtch Featured By Owner Jun 1, 2018   Writer
Nice web site, a new (to me) place to explore.
GDeyke Featured By Owner Jun 2, 2018   Writer
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