So It Begins

Manifest Reality cover

What if I told you Other Me didn’t write the Shipley story in this anthology.

I did.

“Mistress, feed us.

Mistress, lead us.

Your legion awaits your fury.”

Everyone is looking at you funny, right? RIGHT?! They are, they’re looking at you out the corner of their eyes, plotting against you. The whole world, they’re out for you. Aren’t they?

He wanted this. You know he did. He said forever, didn’t he? Well, maybe he didn’t say it, but you could tell he thought it by the way he smiled at you while you checked out with your newest batch of steamy romance novels. The way the light shined off the spikes of his hair while he tried to sell you a discount card, you could tell he wanted to spend eternity with you. That struggle? That wasn’t a struggle, he was just playing hard to get. All the other boys did that before your special potion too, but this time will be different because his smile said forever.

Manifest Reality is a collection of sanity-bending short stories with one single, tenuous thread connecting them:

It’s all in your head.

“Manifest Reality” – featuring “Sundown” by Danielle E. Shipley

Available now

A Madman, a Good Man, a Hero, a Villain

“Was he a good man who just went mad in the end?” Jor asked.

Wren considered. “He was a man,” she said slowly, “who’d been going mad for a very long time. He first went mad enough to be an assassin, and then he went mad enough to be a hero, and then he went mad enough to be a villain.”

Cry of the Nightbird

a fantasy novella by Tirzah Duncan,

available now.

Nightbird cover, final

Attention, World

I survey the surrounding lands from my shadowy fortress, my evil pigeon* perched upon my head like a truly ugly hat, the pair of us glowering down on the bane of our existence: Humanity.

*The evil pigeon is my familiar. Totem. Spirit animal. Whatever stupid thing people go about calling such creatures. Just label it the physical manifestation of my soul and have done with it.

You would think, wouldn’t you, that people would pay more heed to the sudden erection of a massive tower in the middle of the hypothetical landscape. You would be a fool. People never pay me any attention. Not really. Not enough.

Take my good-natured alter-ego, the authoress. She released a new book today. This book, if you’re interested. But you’re not.

It’s the most idiotic thing. People get all excited when you say you’re a writer, like that somehow makes you the most magical, spectacular thing (which it is, but not in the way that non-writers think), and oh, oh, what is your book about and when is it coming out? Golly gee, how glamorous, you must be so thrilled!

Tell me, insignificant life forms: Why should she be thrilled when the book launches and the only ones crowing about it are her and the crickets?

Where now are all the so-called friends who insisted they simply couldn’t wait until the very event they now all but completely ignore?

You think an artist can spend your admiration? That a lazy click of the “like” button does a thing for their career? No, simpletons, no. That is not interest. That is not caring. That is not support. You’re mistaking these things for actually useful actions like, I don’t know, spreading the word and buying the flaming book.

Popularity, I sneer. That seems the only way to get ahead in this sorry excuse for a reality. That, or forceful subjugation of the populace.

At least if there’s an uprising against me, my name will fall from every tongue.

No such thing as bad press.