Release date: August 13, 2019
Subgenre: Feminist science fiction, Literary science fiction
About Claiming T-Mo:
In this lush interplanetary tale Novic is an immortal Sayneth
priest who flouts the conventions of a matriarchal society by
choosing a name for his child. This act initiates chaos that splits
the boy in two, unleashing a Jekyll-and-Hyde child upon the
universe. Named T-Mo by his mother and Odysseus by his father, the
story spans the boy’s lifetime—from his early years with his mother
Silhouette on planet Grovea to his travels to Earth where he meets
and marries Salem, and together they bear a hybrid named Myra. The
story unfolds through the eyes of these three distinctive women:
Silhouette, Salem and Myra. As they confront their fears and
navigate the treacherous paths to love and accept T-Mo/Odysseus and
themselves, the darkness in Odysseus urges them to unbearable
choices that threaten their very existence.
Excerpt:
Salem
T-Mo happened exactly one week after the puzzle-piece woman with fifty-cent eyes.
One night, black as misery, Salem Drew stood, arms wrapped about herself, at the bus depot three streets from the IGA where she worked late shifts. A bunch of commuters had just clambered onto a number 146 for Carnegie, and Salem found herself alone at the depot.
She waited for a night express bus to take her back to a cheerless home that housed equally cheerless parents. An easy wind around her was just as dreary, foggy as lunacy. There, just then, the shadow of a woman’s face jumped into her vision.
Salem blinked. Was the woman real or a figment of thought? Singular parts of her were easy to file, were possibly real: maroon hair, rugged skin the color of coffee beans. And the scar . . . But all put together, cohesion was lost.
The puzzle-piece woman stood head lowered, quiet in the mist. When she raised her face, silver shimmered from one good eye, petite and round as a fifty-cent coin. The other eye was broken, feasibly some bygone injury. Even though it was as smooth and flawlessly round as the right eye, it held no sight. The coin perfection of its shape was embedded in scar tissue, disfigurement that needed nothing but a single glance to seal the hideousness of it.
If Salem thought to speak, to ask, “Who are you? How long have you been standing there, watching me, and why?” the mighty keenness of the woman’s good telescopic eye, the one that filtered, turned inward, then came back at her without translation, threw it right out of Salem’s mind.
Thunder like the hammering of a thousand hooves did it. Salem ran without a scream, all the way through all that night, never minding the night bus when it whooshed past. All she minded was the gobbling eye, and the unwarned sound of deep belly laughter that chased behind.
One night, black as misery, Salem Drew stood, arms wrapped about herself, at the bus depot three streets from the IGA where she worked late shifts. A bunch of commuters had just clambered onto a number 146 for Carnegie, and Salem found herself alone at the depot.
She waited for a night express bus to take her back to a cheerless home that housed equally cheerless parents. An easy wind around her was just as dreary, foggy as lunacy. There, just then, the shadow of a woman’s face jumped into her vision.
Salem blinked. Was the woman real or a figment of thought? Singular parts of her were easy to file, were possibly real: maroon hair, rugged skin the color of coffee beans. And the scar . . . But all put together, cohesion was lost.
The puzzle-piece woman stood head lowered, quiet in the mist. When she raised her face, silver shimmered from one good eye, petite and round as a fifty-cent coin. The other eye was broken, feasibly some bygone injury. Even though it was as smooth and flawlessly round as the right eye, it held no sight. The coin perfection of its shape was embedded in scar tissue, disfigurement that needed nothing but a single glance to seal the hideousness of it.
If Salem thought to speak, to ask, “Who are you? How long have you been standing there, watching me, and why?” the mighty keenness of the woman’s good telescopic eye, the one that filtered, turned inward, then came back at her without translation, threw it right out of Salem’s mind.
Thunder like the hammering of a thousand hooves did it. Salem ran without a scream, all the way through all that night, never minding the night bus when it whooshed past. All she minded was the gobbling eye, and the unwarned sound of deep belly laughter that chased behind.
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About Eugen Bacon:
Eugen
M. Bacon, MA, MSc, PhD, studied at Maritime Campus, less than two
minutes' walk from The Royal Observatory of the Greenwich Meridian. A
Computer graduate mentally re-engineered into creative writing, Eugen
has published over 100 short stories and articles and multiple
anthologies. Shortlisted Bridport Prize 2018. Honorable Mention L. Ron
Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest 2017. Her articles were nominated
for the 2017 Aurealis Convenors Award for Excellence. Out soon: Creative
non-fiction book with Macmillan International (2019). Literary
speculative novel with Meerkat Press (2019). Chapter, multi-authored
book: Creative Writing with Critical Theory: Inhabitation, Gylphi
(2018). Eugen's work is published in literary and speculative journals,
magazines & anthologies worldwide. She is also a professional
editor, check out Writerly - editing services.
Website | Blog
About Meerkat Press:
Meerkat Press is an independent publisher committed to finding and
publishing exceptional, irresistible, unforgettable fiction. And despite
the previous sentence, we frown on overuse of adjectives and adverbs in
submissions. *smile*
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