Happy Friday everyone! I have a jam-packed blitz for you today. First off we have all of the book details, as usual with blitz's, and the author bio, but then! Oh, what I have for you! Normally I will choose only one guest post, interview, etc. But I read the excerpt and both of the guest posts and I simply
to add all three--which makes for quite a long post. Enjoy!
Diagnose Your
Dystopia!
Something’s not right with the world. You know it, you can feel it, and you’re
probably going to die because of it.
Congratulations, you’ve just discovered that you live in a nightmarish
dystopian future!
The next question: what kind of dystopia? If you’re going to live, you’ll need to know
this stuff. Fortunately, we’ve assembled
a handy checklist to help you diagnose your dystopia.
Total Surveillance State: If they’re watching
your every move, including your facial expressions and body language so they
can read your thoughts, and eavesdropping on all your conversations...hey,
you’re not paranoid, you just live in an Orwellian total surveillance state!
Odds are, they’re trying to control all media and information, including
changing past records to suit their ever-changing lies. There may be no escape,
so your best bet is try and hook up with that hottie from work before the
oppressors destroy your mind and soul.
Good luck!
Game Show-ocracy: If you find yourself cast
into a game-show-to-the-death with a name like “The Running Man” or “The Hunger
Games,” then you’ve entered a world where game shows keep the public
complacent. If you play the game right, you
might just topple the evil rulers of your society, but you’ll have to break a
few rules to succeed. If you’re trapped
in a game show-ocracy, my best advice is to contact Alex Trebek from Jeopardy! That guy has all the answers.
Happy Dystopia: Hey, maybe things aren’t so
bad. Maybe in this Brave New World
society, the rulers encourage sex, drugs, and other completely harmless
entertainments to keep the population busy and content. You can try to whip up a rebellion if you
want, right after you take your happy pills, eat your chocolate, get a pedicure
and a massage...maybe have a nap...is this really a dystopia?
The State of Weird Ideas: Is everyone forced to wear pink bunny hats at
all times? Or perhaps the letter “Q” is
forbidden by law? Sounds like you live
in a world where a completely loopy-fruits dictator has come to power! Your best bet is to play along while it
lasts, but if you really want to shake things up, try being even weirder than
the law requires.
We hope that this short pamphlet has somewhat enhanced your
chances of surviving through this unfortunate dystopian period, and living onto
into the even more miserable dark age to come!
In the comments below, you could tell us what kind of
dystopia you would prefer, or which kind you would most want to avoid.
What Not to Wear When
Traveling Through Time
When the conversation turns to time travel, as it so often
does, you’ll hear a lot of blather about the risks and dangers. Everyone talks about the risk of
universe-destroying paradoxes, but little attention is giving to the risk of
universe-destroying fashion decisions.
Don’t fear! We’ve put
together this handy guide to what to wear (and not wear!) on your next
time-travel escapade.
DON’T wear high heels. If you’re traveling into the past, you may
have to escape Nazis or rabid cavemen.
In the future, watch out for killer cyborgs and radioactive mutants! Whatever your destination, be prepared to run
for your life. We recommend comfortable,
well-worn running shoes, with combat boots as a useful second option. If you’re attending a formal event in another
century, simply pack those high heels in your carry-on luggage. If you must have high heels, pick the
stilettos, as they can double as a handy weapon.
DON’T dress in a silver bodysuit with a clear bubble
helmet, especially with antennae on top.
People will mistake you for a 1950s-era space alien rather than a time
traveler, leading to a variety of potential problems: quarantine, imprisonment,
military attack, being a guest on The Today Show, and other horrific
outcomes. Dress in a low-key fashion,
and save the aluminum-foil outfit for another occasion...or, actually, just
throw it away. That silver bodysuit
doesn’t go well with your hair.
DON’T wear ankle-length dresses, tight corsets, or
other binding clothes. Again, you may
need to fight or flee for survival, so jeans or slacks might be your best
bet. Short skirts are both alluring and
provide ample kicking radius, in case you need to kick in a face or two.
DON’T clash with the time and place you’re
visiting. Skinny jeans, for instance,
are huge no-no in the Puritan era. That
cute cami top may be both comfortable and casually sexy, but if you wear it in
Victorian England, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb from another century...a
thumb full of licentiousness and sin.
Learn before you get burned!
Always study the correct attire and customs of your destination before
you travel in time. For help, contact
your local vintage thrift shop and/or Halloween store. Remember: the right look at the right time is
the right way to go. And you can quote
us on that.
If you have additional fashion tips for time travelers,
please share in the comments below!
Excerpt:
Her hands were red with
blood, but the cold rain washed it away.
Whose blood? She couldn’t
remember.
She became aware of pain
throughout her body. Freezing water and
tiny hailstones lashed her face as she stumbled through a storm. Dying thunder echoed in her ears, and
crackles of lightning faded in the night around her.
A pair of lights rushed
toward her through the darkness, but her brain couldn’t interpret what her eyes
saw. A long screech ripped through her
ears, followed by shrill bleats.
Car horns, she realized as the lights loomed closer. Through her thick, fuzzy brain, it dawned on
her that she was staggering along a multi-lane road, seconds away from getting
splattered across the oncoming grill of an eighteen-wheeled truck.
She discerned a dark space
off to her left and moved into it, stepping from hard pavement into squishy wet
earth. The truck that had nearly killed
her squealed past as the driver braked, dousing her with a wave of cold
mud. Horns blew at the stopped truck
blocking up the left lane.
She rubbed her eyes and
tried to grasp her surroundings—a grass median dividing an interstate highway,
up to her ankles in frigid mud.
She couldn’t remember
where she was, or how she’d come to be there.
After a moment’s reflection, she realized she wasn’t entirely sure who
she was, either.
Raven, she remembered. She
clung to that word like a lifeline. My
name is Raven. It is now, anyway. She’d once had a different name, but that
original, scribbled-on-the-birth-certificate name no longer mattered.
She wore black boots and a
long black jacket. A backpack weighed
down her shoulders, but she didn’t know what it contained. She trudged on weak, trembling legs toward an
overpass bridge ahead. Once she was out
of the downpour, she could gather her brains and figure things out. She didn’t seem to be bleeding, so the blood
on her hands must not have been her own.
“Hey! Hey there, girl! You all right?” shouted the truck driver who
had almost flattened her. More cars
honked and swerved to avoid crashing into the back of his trailer, which was
decorated with puffy pink sheep.
Raven squinted up at
him. The man was in his forties,
severely overweight, with a handlebar mustache and scratchy, graying beard
stubble. His blue and white cap read: MoonPie:
The Original Marshmallow Sandwich!
“I’m fine!” she shouted
through the downpour. “Keep going!”
“You got a car?” he asked.
“No,” she told him. “I
don’t think so.”
“Where you headed?”
“I don’t know.”
“The troopers gonna lock
you up if they see you! You drunk or
what?”
“I don’t think so.” She
raised a hand to her mouth to check her breath.
Not drunk.
The trucker eyed her up
and down, a soaking wet girl stumbling along the interstate alone at night, and
then he swung open the passenger door.
“Best climb on up in here
with me,” he said. “Gonna freeze your pants off out there.”
Raven looked at the gruff,
obese man and the warm, sheltered transport he was offering, and then at the
overpass bridge in the distance. Her
legs were rubbery. She might not make it
to the overpass before she collapsed.
“Lady, I got to get
moving,” he said. “You want a ride to the exit or what?”
“Yeah,” Raven said. She had no reason to trust him, but he seemed
soft-bodied and slow. If he tried to get
rough, she would break his wrists. Even
in her current state, she knew she could take him if he pushed her to it.
Raven stumbled around to
the passenger side and struggled to climb with her weakened limbs until he took
her arms and pulled her up.
“Thanks,” she whispered,
still shivering. She was almost too weak
to pull the door closed.
“Just glad you ain’t tore
in half.” He settled back into the driver’s seat, and it groaned under his
weight. “You musta been one, two, three, four inches from me. Or less.
Just popped up outta nowhere when that lightning hit.” He drove
cautiously through the storm. “Didn’t seem like no normal lightning, you ask
me. What was you doing out there? That big flash hit the road, then you come
stumbling out....Did the lightning get you?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
The interior of the cab smelled like cigarette smoke and old
hamburgers. A collage of small objects
was glued to the dashboard—action figures, an old watch face, postcards, salt
and pepper shakers. Hail clattered on
the cab’s roof.
“You don’t know?” he asked.
“Sorry.” Raven shrugged off her backpack and set it on the
floor between her wet boots. She wanted
to see what was inside it, but not while he was watching.
“It’s Jebbie, by the way.” He offered his calloused hand,
and she hesitated a moment before taking it. “Jebbie Walters. From Yazoo City, Mississippi. You got a name, darling?”
“Angela. That’s my
name,” Raven said. She knew not to trust
a stranger with data about herself. He
might be the enemy, and she felt informants and spies were everywhere, looking
to report those who resisted.
“Huh. Where you from,
Angela?”
She tried to remember, but finally shrugged.
“You ain’t gotta tell me,” he said. “You going north? Cause that’s where I’m going, way up north of
here. You might want to hop out quick if
that ain’t your plan.”
“I’m not sure.”
“You ain’t sure about much of nothing, are you?”
“Not right now,” Raven
said.
“I guess I ought to drop
you up at the exit.”
“You can.” Raven shrugged.
“I think I’m lost.”
He looked her over again.
“Tell you what. About three, four, five
miles from here’s a good spot, the Big Porcupine Travel Plaza. Got showers, motel rooms, an
all-night-you-can-eat place. We could
stop there, get you a place to sleep.
Maybe in the morning you’ll start to remembering things. I figure you just need to sleep it off. You’re on drugs or something, ain’t you?”
“Maybe,” Raven said.
He laughed. “It’s okay by
me. I don’t do drugs, myself. Just pills and booze. Well, you think about what you want to do.”
He turned up the radio,
where a woman sang a slow, gentle song that Raven gradually recognized. Someone—her mother?—had once played it on the
piano. It was an old song called “The
Rose.”
“Uh, sorry.” Jebbie
blushed pink and spun the radio knob. “I, uh, usually find a good honky-tonk or
country gold station. Don’t know how my
radio ended up on that soft-rock junk, or whatever that was. Yeah, here we go.” He found a song with a
steel guitar and a man singing about his wife leaving him for his boss.
Raven looked at herself in
the rain-streaked side mirror. She was
about twenty years old, maybe nineteen.
That felt right. Her black hair
was pulled into a short ponytail with a rubber band. She wore all black: boots, fatigues, blouse,
backpack, jacket. The knee-length jacket
was made of a stretchy artificial material with a texture like a crocodile’s
back. She felt a web of metallic fibers
between the layers of leathery fabric. That’s
armor, she realized, and she wondered why she might need armor. Her only jewelry was on her left wrist, a
thin silver bracelet with a large moonstone.
She tried to reach back in
time with her mind. She’d been stumbling
along the highway. The moment before
that: what? It was a solid blank slate,
as though a giant magnet had wiped her brain clean. Perhaps the trucker was right, and she’d been
struck by lightning.
Raven, she reminded herself. I
know my name.
Frigid by J. Lynn
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