where the writers are
Short Stories 365:73

A couple of times in the last week or two, the Orson Scott Card topic has reared its ugly head - ditto Brandon Sanderson - and I just don't have it in me to find a nicer way to say it than this: I won't fund someone who uses their funds to try to limit or remove my equal rights. The end. I'm a little tired and frustrated of being reasonable and calm and trying to present myself that way all the time. I like Jim C. Hines's post The Luxury of Reasonable, as it pretty much sums up my feelings about Card, Sanderson, and the whole shebang. When you've tasted your own blood, it's hard to get that taste out of your mouth when someone tells you to calm down and approach the topic calmly.


Horse asses. The lot of them.

So I turn to a horse's ass of a different sort to make me smile today.

"Horse's Ass," by Ralph Seligman

One of my favourite memories of meeting Ralph Seligman in New Orleans at the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival was having dinner with him and his fellow, and a large table of many of the contributors of Tented, and watching him pull out a clown nose and pop it on his face. I needed that laugh then.

In fact, one of the things Jerry L. Wheeler said in the original call for submissions was to avoid clowns. Clown erotica, the tone suggested, would likely be a very - very - hard sell. And not hard in the good way. Ralph managed to sidestep that gracefully, in a way, using the greasy white clown face paint to make the shortest story in the collection a lovely laugh-out-loud inducing pleasure.

Certainly, re-reading it today after reminded me that there are more people out there to support than I need to worry about not supporting. So thanks for that, Ralph. Again.