I’m headed to Austin next week to attend the 39th annual Armadillocon. It’s the alt-weird sci fi con, like Worldcon’s snarky teenage kid sister. Going to sit in on some flash fiction panels, going to go to writing forums, and enter some contests, and drink.

It’s become startlingly clear to me recently that you can’t and shouldn’t work in a vacuum. I do it all alone in the dark, and it’s starting to make me yell at wallpaper and suspect passing dogs of being cats. I’ve realized — admitted after denying it for years — that I need contact with other writers. One goes funny otherwise. And I don’t need to get funnier.

So I’ll post dispatches from there. Once it’s here.

The Universe of TRM

The Rude Mechanicals, subject of the forthcoming novel of a related title, fly around in space. Nothing noteworthy about this. Fictional outer space is more crowded than a Beijing interchange, what with all the millennium falcons and Enterprizes and whatnot rattling around up there.

In this telling, however, the theme is mighty: to wit, the Universe we know and love —  is a giant rubbish heap. A disaster area, a Superfund site.

Before the catastrophe of the Big Bang, the universe was a perfect singularity.

No Time, no Space, no Birth, no Decay, no Beginnings, no Endings.

Beings of inconceivable perfection enjoyed perfect stasis and nonbeing. Elegant Abstractions, Magnificent Conundrums, Esteemed Paradoxicals knew all there was to know and did nothing at all … and is this not what a Heaven’s for?

But a Contradictory Aspersion had other plans. He touched a match to a keg of flammable Reality. And the whole edifice blew cosmos-high.

And we’re living in the aftermath – a giant sooty Void full of glowing embers (OK, stars, but you get it). Chunks of random matter hurtle willy-nilly along vertiginous curves of spacetime, rollercoastering this way and that, banging into each other.

Worse than Gravity, worst of all — Time! Who unleashed this corrosive slop on undeserving lifeforms? Time makes fools and atoms of us all. No sooner do you get a good construct going than it decays into glup. Eventually, every living thing will die, and every chain of atoms will decouple, and every atom will devolve into iron-56. Nothing but a dead haze of isotopic rust.

Who could live in such a catastrophic wasteland, in a dangerous Nothingness hung with gobs of burning nuclear fuel, hurtling along a temporally-destabilized one-dimensional butterslide towards death?

The Abstractions and Conundrums, safely ensconced in a pocket universe, were stunned at what they saw. Flecks of carbon — building cities! Zipping around in rockets! Heating frozen foods with toaster-ovens!

TRM is the story of unlikely beings who survive in a hostile universe. Really, isn’t every story about that?




New story in NASTY: Fetish Fights Back!

NASTY: Fetish fights back, a politically-charged erotica anthology, reviewed in Rolling Stone, is now available on Amazon. ” With stories from New York Times Bestseller Selena Kitt, Shirley Jackson Winner Gemma Files, five-time Bram Stoker Award Winner Lucy A. Snyder and more, this collection pushes the boundaries not only of steamy sex but of what defines us as sexual beings.” Oh, and it has a sci-fi story by Matthew F. Amati in it. Needs some review love, people, go to Amazon, order/download, read, and give us some reviews!

Latest activity – March 2017

  • Shortlisted at Clarkesworld  and another possible acceptance at Daily Science Fiction. We’ll see — getting into Clarkesworld is like jumping off the roof and landing on a passing unicorn.
  • Review of To Comfort the Headless Child  has appeared in Quick Sips. They like my story so I will point you to it.
  • New edition of Loompaland will be ready as soon as I make up my mind and hit “approve.”
  • Sitting on a bunch of submittable material; have been distracted and lazy due to life upheavals.

Science fiction, fantasy, nonsense