brni (brni) wrote,

Now Available: The Flesh Made Word

I'm very happy to announce that, at long last, The Flesh Made Word, erotic stories about writing, is available. It's available as an e-book from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords, and of course, at Circlet you can select your preferred format — epub, mobi, or pdf — or get all three, as well as read an extended excerpt of A.C. Wise's story, "All the Spaces In-Between."

It's also available as a trade paperback. What does the paperback have that you can't get from the e-books? Well, there's a little space toward the back of the book to write your own smut.

So here's the deal: the first 5 people who buy the paperback and write their own smut in it, and post a photo of it online (and, of course, send me the link for it), will receive a free story critique (up to 8000 words) from Yer Humble Editor. What you write in the book has to be erotic for it to count. The story for critique can be any genre.

Today's mini-excerpt is from "For All to See" by Kannan Feng.


On Sunday, I started seeing words written on the people around me. At the grocery store, I saw the word “heartbroken” on the wrist of the girl who handed me my change, and I would have passed it off for a tattoo if I hadn’t noticed that the elderly woman behind me had the word “cruel” printed on the back of one hand and “survivor” across the other.

I blinked and shook my head to see if the words would disappear, but then it was like seeing the trees instead of the forest. The boy bagging my oranges and lunch meat had the word “submit” written in curly cursive around his throat, and the other cashier at the register behind me had “poisonous” in an old- fashioned typewriter font across her chin.

At this point, they were all staring at me, and I realized I had been staring at them. I muttered an apology, gathered up my groceries and scuttled away.

I thought it would go away, but it didn’t. Every person I saw had at least one word written on them somewhere visible; some had as many as seven or eight. I worked as a waitress, and after I saw a calm-faced professor type walk in with the word “devour” printed across the bridge of his nose, I ended up at my best friend’s apartment, spilling my guts.

“So is there anything written on you?” Sama asked thoughtfully.

I grimaced.

“Yes,” I said, and I tried to put a note of finality there that told him that I didn’t care to answer any more. Of course, if he listened when I used that tone, we wouldn’t be as close as we were, and at his raised eyebrow, I sighed. He was good at this. He had more than ten years of experience pulling things out of me that were better left unseen, and there were very few secrets I’d managed to hold on to in spite of his silences and his questions.

“Broken,” I said flatly, pointing at the flat area behind my ear. “Healing,” pointing at the curve of my belly.

“Loved,” my right inner forearm.

“Loving,” my left inner forearm.

Sama’s smile was soft, and he nodded.

“Sounds right,” he offered. “At least there’s that.”


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