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Just start here and go forward. Or check them out on Facebook, sans captions. (Thanks to Lilwenchi et al for the tagging help!)

Sunset over the Alien Lesbian Cow Park

I had a very surreal moment on Sunday. It was one of those moments where you almost fall asleep, and then you open your eyes and think, “Wait…THIS is reality? Holy crap that’s AWESOME!”

Living here in this house–this house with an Awesome Porch and a Snuggle Couch and a Needy Cat, two of which have their own Twitter account–has been like attending a party I never have to leave. It’s just this constant dynamic state of motion and emotion, full of amazing and smart and beautiful people who add to the hilarity. We are all characters who enhance the plot–none of us are just along for the ride.

It’s magic–this house is full of it–and it’s better when shared.

I woke up laughing for the second day in a row this morning, remembering Kram and his faceplant into the street on Saturday night. The whole scene couldn’t have been pulled off better had it been choreographed–I honestly believe Chevy Chase Himself would have given the boy an award had he been present. It wasn’t just the fall, or that it happened in the middle of a serious conversation I was having with the Gypsy, it was that Kram tripped, fell, and just laid there in the street for what had to have been a full minute.

There was silence as we all watched him. Kelli and I by the Alien Lesbian Cow fence, his friends from the sidewalk above him, and the house & contents of Awesome Porch.  Bob slowly sauntered down the front walk, crossed the street to where Kram laid, and bent down.

“So, how’s that working out for ya?”

Kram got up, brushed himself off.

“What do we say?” the Gypsy yelled at her son from the fence.

Kram raised both hands to his audience. “It’s all good. I’m good. It’s all good.” And his adoring fans hooted and hollered as he walked off the field of play.

There was so much more than that moment, though. There always is. There were pansteaks and pigtails and nail polish. There were stripey socks and toe socks and Twister. There were Ninja Turtles and Snuggie herpes. There was ice and rain and a trip to the adult store and another funeral. There were tummy aches and belly laughs and too much cuddling and not enough sleep. On the last day, there were cookies.

That’s where the Gypsy caught the magic on camera.

See the magic in the air?

Qwee’s birthday was Thursday, and her favorite cookie in the whole world is a Greek pastry called koulourakia. And as any refugee princess worth her salt never flees without her recipe box, I decided to make them for her. I also decided it would be fun to have a little help from my friends.

When Kelli took the first picture, she laughed and said, “My god, there’s so much flour in the air, the flash keeps catching it. It looks like you’re surrounded by snow. Or ghostly orbs!”

Personally, I prefer to think of it as magic. Fairy dust. Princess glitter. There’s nothing to say that’s not what it actually was.

Awesome Porch is a magic place. Things happen here that don’t just happen everywhere. We’ve all come to accept that. The fun part is, those things still continue to surprise us. Because nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Nor do they expect bullhorns and flashing red lights at 8pm on a Sunday.

The house was quite–the first time it had been quiet for weeks. Kelli had found The Philadelphia Story on AMC, heated up a bowl of leftover potatoes, and watched the movie with her eyes closed. I got comfy with a blanket & pillow on the floor. Kram sat on the other end of the couch, playing Mario but still commenting on the film. Lilwenchi sat in the rocking chair with a laptop and headphones, content in her own little world. Until the bullhorns and flashing red lights.

“We’re surrounded!” yelled Kram, leaping to his feet.

“It’s SANTA!” yelled Lilwenchi.

“What the hell?” said the Gypsy, and we all ran out onto the porch in time for the second fire truck to pass by, this one bearing a smiling and waving Mr. and Mrs. Claus.

The bullhorn wished us a Merry Christmas. “Hi, Santa! Hi, Mrs. Claus! Merry Christmas!” The four of us jumped and yelled and waved and cheered. The fire truck paused in front of the house long enough to honk and run the siren for us, and the third truck did the same when it passed. The rest of the neighborhood stayed dark. We wondered if anyone else bothered to enjoy the impromptu parade.

Not that it matters what anyone else thinks. Because we did.

We don't need no stinkin' sleigh!

Awesome Porch = still awesome.

I’m honored to be part of the newest issue of Shimmer magazine: The Clockwork Jungle Book. Inside are twenty fabulous steampunk fables by some of the hottest names in SF:

Shedding Skin; Or How the World Came to Be, by Jay Lake
The Jackdaw’s Wife, by Blake Hutchins
The Student and the Rats, by Jess Nevins
The Mechanical Aviary of Emperor Jalal-ud-din Muhammad Akbar, by Shweta Narayan
Kay’s Box, by Marissa Lingen
Otto’s Elephant, by Vince Pendergast
The Monkey and the Butterfly, by Susannah Mandel
Message in a Bottle, by James Maxey
The Clockwork Cat’s Escape, by Gwynne Garfinkle
The Wolf and the Schoolmaster, by James L. Cambias
A Garden in Bloom, by Genevieve Valentine
And How His Audit Stands, by Lou Anders
The Story In Which Dog Dies, by Sara Genge
A Red One Cannot See, by Barbara A. Barnett
The Fishbowl, by Amal El-Mohtar
His Majesty’s Menagerie, by Chris Roberson
The Emperor’s Gift, by Rajan Khanna
The Clockwork Goat and the Smokestack Magi, by Peter M. Ball
The Giant and the Unicorn, by Alethea Kontis
Mockmouse, by Caleb Wilson

An excerpt from “The Giant & The Unicorn”:

In the beginning, the Toymaker fashioned the Box. In the second year, he scattered his power throughout the Box and made the heaves and the stars. In the third year he cast the cogs and wheels, the grasses and the trees. In the fourth year he formed the animals: the bear, the fox, the dragon, the griffin, the monkey, and the unicorn. In the fifth year he forged the Giant, in his own image, so that the Giant might rule and maintain peace over this great land. In the sixth year he uploaded Sentience and Symbiotics; he breathed life into his creations and set them free. He looked down upon his work and knew it was good.

In the seventh year, spent from his task, the Toymaker lay down and died…

Purchase your copy of The Clockwork Jungle Book in hard or electronic copy at the Shimmer website.

Also check out the fun interview I did with Anne for the issue! Find out which dead authors I would love to talk to, what authors I wish I could write like, things I wish for my characters, some writerly advice, and a whole section about things I do that no one ever asks about.

And soon there will be an audio version of the story available, read & acted by yours truly (I had SO MUCH FUN), so watch this space for more info!

Once upon a time there were Three Musketeers who grew up: Me, Casey & Margo. Each of us had a little sister: Soteria (Sami), Darra Dane (Dee or Brat) and Alison (only one “l”).

Last month, The Brat got married at the Lace House on the Governor’s Mansion grounds in Columbia, South Carolina. It was a perfect, gorgeous, sunny day, and a beautiful wedding. Our little Dee’s not so much a Brat anymore. But she’s still ours.

Click the picture to see the full album.

Last night, a few minutes after 11:00pm, I shut my laptop, stood up from the kitchen table, and announced that I was going to bed. In response, Murphy blew a transformer and the neighborhood went black.

Bob stood up from our little computer huddle and realized that in the hour since we’d gone workaholic, there was a solid inch of snow outside and it was still falling.

There was no bed after that. I ran straight out into the street and wrote my name in four-foot tall letters down the road. Bob got me some real gloves — proper ones with fingers. And fur. And then I made snowmen. I can’t actually remember the last time I made a real snowman. With real snow. So I made two. ‘Cause I can’t have a Dickie without a Tomo. And they can’t not have the ingredients for squirrel fixins.

Pics are in the latest Picasa album: click the snow-covered Princess to see them!

Midnight Snowprincess!

Do you think she looks like me?

Princess Alethea’s new book reviews are now up at Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show. This month I discuss:

Title: Quatrain
Author: Sharon Shinn
EAN: 9780441017584

My friend Gayle held this book tight to her chest on the day she gave it to me. “I know you really like Sharon Shinn,” she said, “but I have to say, it’s a bit creepy how much you look like this girl on the cover.” Beyond the cover, however, four goodies lay in store like a Whitman’s chocolate sampler for any fan of Sharon Shinn…

Title: Catching Fire
Author: Suzanne Collins
EAN: 9780439023498

I got Hunger Games and Catching Fire at the same time. I polished off Hunger Games – the first novel of Collins’ trilogy — in one sitting. I allowed myself to stay up until 3 a.m. on a school night just to get to the end. I waited almost a whole week before starting Catching Fire, and I forced myself to read only one part at a time (there are three parts) to space it out a bit (and so I wouldn’t yawn all the way through work the next day). As folks who follow me on Twitter will attest, I finished it right around 3 a.m. as well on that third day…

I was monkeying around last night with the comments section and learning fun new things about this here New Website of Awesomeness. Like:

1.) I only have to moderate your comment once. After that, if you use the same email address and IP, it goes through automatically.

2.) That “invisible guy” avatar was bugging me, so I changed it to this cool patterny thing a-la Cheryl Morgan. Now each post gets a unique cyberquilt square.

3.) If you *do* want a cool avatar (check the previous post’s comments to see examples), go to www.gravatar.com and associate a global avatar to your email address.It takes about 5 minutes to sync up.

Feel free to play around in the comments here and make yourselves all pretty. I’ll be back in a bit with some fun news.

I would like to officially welcome you, one and all, to the brand-spanking shiny new website, and my brand-spanking shiny new life.

One of my favorite quotes is from Winston Churchill: “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” The Saturday before Thanksgiving, I realized that somewhere in the middle of living my life, I had stopped. I had followed Artax into the Swamps of Sadness, watched him die there, grieved, healed, and never left. Fate had handed me the prophecy of what would happen if I stayed there, up to my armpits in muck: I was destined to Live Alone and Like It, as certain Grand Dames had done before me. A powerful Mystic had hinted at what hardships lay ahead should I continue to move forward: destruction. Darkness. Change. Rebirth.

Like it or not, I did not want to live alone. So I made a decision. I decided to live my life, this one life that I get, no dress rehearsals, no do-overs. My adventure was not over yet, my story still far from ever ending. I embraced Pluto. I walked along the Ouroboros and planted my foot square between his eyes. I blew a kiss and crumbled the walls of the Ivory Tower. I burnt down the city, became the Phoenix, and rose from the ash. I lifted my arms to Falkor (in this world his name is Expedia) and flew out of the swamp and away to the next chapter.

For those less metaphorically inclined: I quit my job, packed a suitcase, and escaped to a far off land. When I returned home from that land, home was a house in Pennsylvania with two writers, four kids, a fireplace, a gas stove, a Needy Cat, and an Awesome Porch. I took off Bridget Jones’ bunny suit and donned the apron of Alice in The Brady Bunch. What surprised me was how incredibly easy it was to do, how badly I realized it needed to have been done once I did it, how little I actually left behind, and how much a TARDIS-quality suitcase costs on Delta if it’s seven pounds over the weight limit. (SEVENTY DOLLARS?!? REALLY?)

My parents came to visit me a week later since they were in the area for the holidays. (That’s right, I’m now IN AN AREA where people stop by and visit.) Bob and Kelli were at work but Lilwenchi and Kram were around, weaving in and out of the house trailing skateboards and Kool-aid and girlfriends like ducklings and boys with acoustic guitar sets in their wake.

At one point, Mom turned to me and asked the question Kelli asks so often when trying to plan dinner. “How many people actually belong in this house?”

“Four,” I answered. “Five, counting me. Rarely three. Usually five. Sometimes seven.” And I smiled a smile she hadn’t seen in a very long time, one of those smiles that comes straight from the heart and soul, one of those smiles that warms a cold room and makes blemishes disappear, one of those smiles that eases muscles and cures headaches and sets a parent’s mind at ease, assuring them that everything is all right with their wandering princess child whose hair still smells of soot and whose shoes are still covered in swamp mud.

In a contest between “live alone and like it” and “sometimes seven”, I’ll take Sometimes Seven every time.

There’s no place else I’d rather be.