And sweet music to drive my grief away

My poem "Aetiologies" is now online at Mythic Delirium. I adore this issue's cover. The poem is dedicated to Dr. Michael Fiveash, my first Latin teacher and one of the best; it was written in October 2013, a few days after his funeral. The Greek is what Thetis asks Achilles when she finds him weeping beside the sea in Book I of the Iliad: Child, why are you crying?—the answer is Briseis, but it foreshadows all the future rage and loss. An imago is a Roman death mask. The story is one he told me in high school, beside the bookshelf that contained everything from Milman Parry to Harlequin romance paperbacks with Fabio on the cover. I still miss him. He gave me my first dead language.

[edit] Continuing the theme of the day, my poem "Something Different from Either" is now online at Uncanny Magazine. It's about the Fisher King. The title is quoting Eliot, though not necessarily as he intended it. Half of the issue is online now; the rest goes live in December and it's all great. The story from Yoon Ha Lee is worth waiting for.

Candle-light, fire-light, Cups, Wands and Swords, to choose at random

In the midst of a whole bunch of stress and difficulty, today has been a good writing news day. In addition to today's publications—

My short story "A Voice in Caves" has been accepted for reprint by Friends of Hyakinthos, edited by Steve Berman (Lethe Press, May 2016). The title comes from Cocteau Twins' "Mud and Dark," because it is a contemporary (queer) retelling of Echo and Narcissus; it was originally published in 2007 in Caitlín R. Kiernan's Sirenia Digest #14. The reading period is open through the end of the year, so if you've been looking for a market for classically themed gay male stories, here it is! Ancient Greek settings and later receptions of Hellenism equally welcome. Original fiction preferred. If there is not at least one story about A.E. Housman in the slush pile, I will despair of humanity.

My short story "The Trinitite Golem" has been accepted by Mike and Anita Allen for Clockwork Phoenix 5. This is something of a big deal. When I finished this story last March, it was the first full-length fiction I had completed since "The Boatman's Cure" the previous July and my longest piece of historical fiction to date. I read declassified materials from Los Alamos in order to write it. I read biographies of J. Robert Oppenheimer and his family and his colleagues. I had no idea if it would work because it was not structurally or stylistically like most of my short stories—initially I had thought it was going to be a poem. And then I could not find it a home. It racked up more rejections than any story of mine in fourteen years, always of the achingly frustrating this-is-beautiful-it's-just-not-quite-our-thing kind. I began to wonder what everyone had against nuclear physics. I am delighted that it has placed with Clockwork Phoenix, especially since I've never had a story in the series before, and look forward to finding out what the rest of the anthology is like.

This afternoon I visited the cats at derspatchel's current residence in Malden. They are taking this move much better than the one to Roslindale, even with the part-corgi dog in the other room. Autolycus purred in my arms and Hestia writhed happily all over the carpeted floor. Rob and I got dinner from Addis Café, which was in the process of closing early but kept the kitchen open to make us a takeout order of kitfo and qwanta firfir. My beloved corduroy coat is all right, after an unpleasant narrow scrape this weekend. I am enjoying Glenn Markoe's Phoenicians (2002) immensely. I am holding on to these things. The writing, too.