Welcome to the Hard Luck Cafe. Today's specials are...

Stuffed Peppers

2010-07-25T09:03:00.004-04:00

Time to get my butt in gear and get this Bordertown cookbook finished. That way, when next summer rolls around and we're down to mere days or hours before our copies are available, all the Townies can gather for a huge pot luck of their favorite Bordertown inspired dishes. Today on the menu is...

Stuffed Peppers
“...if the staff decides they want to do Chinese that day, that’s what’s for dinner. If you don’t like it, that’s - all together now - Your Hard Luck. That day it looked like mixed down-home: fish chowder, lentil and spinach casserole, stuffed peppers, Brunswick stew.”
- Finder, pg 21

6 medium assorted bell peppers
1 large onion, diced
1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil
3 cloves garlic, minced
1 carrot, peeled and diced
4 ounces mushrooms, chopped
3/4 cup uncooked basmati rice
1 cup chicken stock
1 cup water
1 1/2 teaspoons sea salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/2 teaspoon ground cumin
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1 cup corn kernels
1 cup canned black beans, rinsed and drained
3/4 cup grated cheddar or Pepper Jack cheese

Slice off tops of peppers about 1/2 inch down from stems. Remove and compost seeds and cores.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Heat oil in a large nonstick skillet over medium heat. Add onion and garlic. Cook, stirring occasionally, until they begin to often, about 5 minutes. Add carrot and cook until just soft. Add mushrooms and cook until vegetables are just tender.

Stir in rice; cook mixture, tossing to coat, for 1 minute. Stir in stock, the water, salt, pepper, cumin, turmeric, and paprika. Bring to a boil, and reduce to a simmer; cook, uncovered, until the rice is just tender and most of the liquid has evaporated, 15 to 20 minutes. Stir in the corn, black beans, and 1/2 cup grated cheese. Divide the mixture among the bell-pepper shells, mounding it. Top with remaining cheese. Peppers can be made a day ahead up to this point.

Bake until peppers are tender and filling is hot, about 1 hour.

In case you don't read comments...

2010-07-22T12:58:00.004-04:00

...this deserves repeating! THE BOOK IS DONE!! All the stories are written! A website is in the works! Yippee!! Terri Windling was kind enough to leave the following comment in the last post.

"*All* the stories are now done, and have been turned in to our publisher, Random House. The book is called Welcome to Bordertown -- and that's also the name of the story that Ellen Kushner and I wrote together for the volume.

Here's the Table of Contents:

Voice Like a Hole - Cat Valente
Stairs in Her Hair (poem) - Amal El-Mohtar
Welcome to Bordertown - Ellen Kushner & Terri Windling
Shannon's Law - Cory Doctorow
Cruel Sister (poem) - Patricia A. McKillip
Fair Trade (comic) - Sara Ryan and Dylan Meconis
Lullabye (song) - Jane Yolen
Prince of Thirteen Days - Alaya Dawn Johnson
Incunabulum - Emma Bull
We Do Not Come in Peace - Christopher Barzak
Jump Rope Rhyme (poem) - Jane Yolen
Elf Blood - Annette Curtis Klause
The Sages of Elsewhere - Will Shetterly
Run Back (song) - Steven Brust
Our Stars Ourselves - Tim Pratt
The Wall (poem) - Delia Sherman
Ours is the Prettiest - Nalo Hopkinson
Crossings - Janni Lee Simner
Rap (song) - Jane Yolen
The Rowan Gentleman - Cassandra Clare & Holly Black
The Song of the Song (song) - Neil Gaiman
A Tangle of Green Men - Charles de Lint

The book will be published in 2011, and a new Bordertown website is in the works."

How cool is that?! So here's my question: The way to Bordertown is tricky (unless it turns out to be easy). How do you start your trip and what do you bring with you?

(Photo used without permission from Kristen Hernstrom)

Keeping you posted

2010-07-15T19:41:00.005-04:00

I don't know about where you are, but it's damn hot and humid here. Too hot to cook fabulous things and post them. Too hot to tolerate poking through websites for awesome things you can make to enhance your appearance. Not too hot for music, but hot enough that anything new better kick some serious ass. Yeah, it's the kind of summer we dream about when the snowdrifts are 10 feet high but grumble over while we experience it.

If you're in the same boat, join me as I attempt a more zen approach to the heat. Accept that this moment is summer, don your cutoffs, head for your favorite cheap eatery, get whatever's good plus an ale and discuss the following: Ellen has made it known that Terri has finished her Bordertown story and that it's called "Welcome to Bordertown". One step closer, my friends, one step closer.

One year ago today....

2010-07-07T21:20:00.002-04:00

I got the best birthday present EVER. The announcement that a new Borderlands book was forthcoming. Here's hoping next year brings a new standard for Best Birthday Present Ever - the book itself.

350ish days and counting...

Fringe Necklace

2010-06-22T19:54:00.005-04:00

It's been a bit since I've posted a fashion DIY that might get you noticed at the next Danceland show. How about crafting a wild, mixed media fringe necklace? If you are missing some of the suggested fringe elements, feel free to substitute with materials you have on hand.

Next year at this time...

2010-06-21T07:45:00.000-04:00

So, we've been promised the new Borderlands book sometime in the summer of 2011. Since today is the first day of summer, one year from now we'll be queuing for our copies! 365 (give or take) days and counting!

Tofu Teriyaki and Fiddleheads

2010-05-23T09:52:00.003-04:00

For the empty of pocket and hungry for company, Soho provides an unrivaled range of greasy spoons, soup joints, quick-fix taquerias, noodle-shops, and usquah bars. Some of these are ptomaine heavens; most of them pride themselves on serving decent, cheap food; some of them are magnificent. This kind of operation tends to have the lifespan of a mayfly, but enduring favorites are the Hard Luck Cafe on the west end of Ho (watch the blackboard for Stone Soup of the Day), Chaz’N’Chang’s at 24 Ison Street (Tofu Teriyaki and fiddleheads)...

from The Essential Bordertown, pg. 146

Fiddlehead season is almost over here, so I figured I should get this recipe out there while you still have a chance of catching those tasty wild greens.

Tofu Teriyaki and Fiddleheads

1/2 cup soy sauce
1/2 cup mirin or sake
2 tbsp honey
1 tsp sesame oil
fresh grated ginger to taste
1 lb extra firm tofu

3 big handfuls of fiddleheads
1/3 cup rice vinegar
3 Tbsp sugar
1 tsp salt

1 cup basmati rice
2 cups water or vegetable stock
1 tsp your favorite curry powder

For the tofu:
Combine soy sauce, mirin or sake, honey, sesame oil and ginger in a saucepan. Stir the mixture, place on medium heat and bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and simmer until marinade is reduced and thickened to a syrup consistency. Refrigerate marinade overnight to let flavors come together.

Remove tofu from package, drain liquid, and place between two plates. Put a book or saucepan or something else with a bit of weight on top of the plate to press as much extra liquid out of the tofu as possible. Let drain for 30 minutes to 1 hour. Slice into six 3/4-inch slabs. Place in bowl and cover with marinade, tossing gently to make sure the tofu is coated. Let marinade for 1 to 3 hours.

Heat your grill to medium hot, making sure the grates are clean and well oiled. Remove tofu from marinade and place a few inches apart on the grill. Cook for 5 to 8 minutes each side, basting with marinade as necessary. Tofu is done when it is crisping at the edges.

For the rice:
Combine basmati rice and 2 cups of water or vegetable stock in a large saucepan. Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cover. Let cook for 15 minutes. Turn off heat, add curry powder to rice and mix well. Recover pot and let sit for 5 minutes.

For the fiddleheads:
Make sure your fiddleheads are clean; remove any of the brown papery chaff that might still cling to your fiddleheads and snap off any long stems. At their peak, fiddleheads should be tightly coiled and a lovely, rich green color.

Bring a pot of salted water to a boil. Add fiddleheads and cook for 10 minutes. While fiddleheads cook, mix rice vinegar with sugar and salt. Toss vinegar mix with fiddleheads and serve.

Of Hats and Comic Books

2010-04-14T10:47:00.004-04:00

Ok folks, big news first. Our new anthology now comes with pictures! That's right! Ellen has announced that Dylan Meconis of the online graphic novel Family Man and Sara Ryan, author of Empress of the World, have joined forces to create the superpower team behind a 16 page comic to be featured in Welcome Back To The Border (or whatever they decide to title it).

That makes my find rather anti-climatic but I share anyway because that's the sort of rabid fan-girl that I am. I've posted a lot of punk fashion, but something about this hat spoke to the starving artist in me. Perhaps because it reminds me of the tuque worn by Marcello in the 1999 PortOpera production of La Boheme (you never forget your first opera, even if you can only afford to sit up in the nosebleeds).

Having just completed one of my own, it knits up quick and is warm, comfortable and stylish. Just the sort of thing if you happen to be creating your masterpiece in an unheated warehouse loft.

Photo used without permission from Knitty.com.

News around B-town

2010-04-09T06:49:00.003-04:00

For those not in the habit of checking out Ellen Kushner's Livejournal for all the latest on the new Bordertown anthology (and shame on you! No cookie!), there's been some interesting stuff that you may want to take a look at.

First and foremost, if you missed the comment in an earlier post, Our New Anthology is still scheduled for release next summer. It's pretty exciting that the stories are already coming in. Think on that a second... the stories we get to read next year are already written and being edited. Pardon while I now pause for giddy shivers and enthusiastic clapping.

Although Terri Windling is taking a much smaller role in this new book, she's offered up juicy tidbits on The Way Things Work. For those of you working on your ultimate fanfiction masterpiece, be sure to read The Border Rules about who can cross into where and this piece that explains the difference between the Border and Bordertown.

While the stories themselves are top secret, apparently some of the authors who have been around Bordertown for a while have toyed with the notion of what happens when you're no longer 20 and still in Bordertown. Alas, since this is a young adult book, we're unlikely to get any stories on this subject. Dreadfully unfair. Anyone interested in a campaign for an adult Bordertown book?

Finally, take a listen to Ellen's Sound and Spirit about Bordertowns. It's filled with great music and interesting thoughts on how borders create culture.

"Punk Fashion" used without permission from ~finsternis.

Folks Who've Found Bordertown?

2010-04-05T06:51:00.009-04:00

Check out this clip from Off the Grid: Life On The Mesa. It's an interesting look at what happens when people leave the world to try and find somewhere that they belong. While there are no crumbing streets, abandoned warehouses, motorcycles that run on spellboxes or elves, the people who choose to live on the Mesa have found their way to Bordertown. It's not the Bordertown that I (or probably you) would find, but if you have a spare hour and an interest in what makes people leave "the World" and where they end up, this film is worth a look.

Perhaps the Real Goldie Cookies

2010-03-04T20:18:00.006-05:00

So, I was riffling through Will Shetterly's blog this evening because, well, his blog is kind of a mishigas of cool things and occasionally it warrants a good riffle for some of the stuff that I might have missed. He's a prolific blogger and I'm glad that he is unable to completely abandon the pastime. I learn all sorts of useful stuff over there.

Anyway. I discovered a post titled "Will Shetterly's Finest-Kind Cookies". What they are is oatmeal raisin cookies. Could this be the true recipe for Goldie's Oatmeal Raisin Cookies? Only Will or Emma would know. Maybe someday they'll tell us.

While we're waiting, I'm going to go whip up a batch of these bad boys. I suggest you do the same. I should note that this recipe was swiped directly from Senior Shetterly's blog and all credit belongs to him. I'm merely the pirate what stole and reprinted it without so much as a by-your-leave. Sorry Will. The Borderfolk need to know this stuff.

Will Shetterly's Finest-Kind Cookies
This began as a recipe from the back of a Quaker Oats box, but it's evolved over the years, and Quaker Oats, for reasons known only to them and their God, have switched to an inferior recipe. Evil does walk the Earth. But Emma Bull says this cookie can thwart the powers of darkness; I say it tastes pretty darn good.

3/4 cup butter
1 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
1 egg
1/8 cup apple juice (or water, if you're as boring as Quaker Oats)
1 tsp. vanilla
3 cups uncooked rolled oats
1 cup flour
1 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. soda
1/2 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 tsp. nutmeg
1/4 - 1/2 cup coconut (optional, but nice)
1 bag (12 or 16 oz.) Guitard's (my favorite, but you can use similar deluxe) semi-sweet chocolate chips
1 cup raisins
1 cup almonds, pecans, and/or walnuts (sliced or chopped)

Preheat oven to 350 degree F.

Beat the butter, sugar, honey, egg, juice, and vanilla together until creamy.

Combine the oats, flour, salt, soda, cinnamon, and nutmeg in a separate bowl, then mix them with the wet ingredients. Add chocolate chips, raisins, coconut, and nuts to the batter last.

Drop by spoonfuls onto a greased cookie sheet and bake for 12 to 15 minutes.

Eat some of the batter while the first batch is cooking. You're the cook; you deserve it.

Just the right atmosphere

2010-01-29T07:42:00.000-05:00

Trolling the various B-town author sites for any tiny scrap of news, I found these great links posted by Ellen Kushner regarding places that humans have abandoned and that nature is slowly reclaiming. Just like taking a walk through the Nevernever, right?

Check out the Feral Houses of Detroit and this intriguing post about abandoned places. What stories lie out among these forgotten buildings?

Photo used without permission from James D. Griffieon.

Danceland - Now with Will Shetterly endorsement and corrections!

2010-01-28T08:03:00.003-05:00

Hey y'all! Guess what the fabulous Will Shetterly added to his blog the other day? It's a copy of the equally fabulous short "Danceland" written by Will and his partner in crime, Emma Bull.

Go read it right now.

In other B-town news: Emma Bull reports that her newest story progresses slowly, but surely. Go Emma go! Just don't break our hearts again with things like the brave yet tragic death of certain beloved elves with a penchant for the mechanical. That's still a sore spot.

Her favorite recent bit:

"He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. Sight was thought's widest window; perhaps in wiping the glass he might freshen his mind."

Intriguing, no?

Image used without permission from Emily Fiegenschuh.

Border fashion: Ripped Jeans

2010-01-24T08:21:00.002-05:00

There's an art to ripped jeans. I would argue they they look best when the rips come naturally. Should your pants not suffer the misadventures to make them fashionable to wear out on a Saturday night, check out this tutorial on ripping jeans.

Photo used without permission from Cut Out and Keep.

Border Fashion: Faux Barbed Wire Jewelry

2010-01-20T11:58:00.002-05:00

Sure, if you're super tough (and none too bright), you could make jewelry out of real barbed wire. You'd look really intimidating out there in the clubs. Of course, no one's gonna want to dance with you if they have to worry about whether their tetanus shots are current.

Go for that rock and roll look without the need for bandages later. Make a Faux Barbed Wire Bracelet and then use the technique for a matching choker or belt. All the bad but none of the ass.

Photo used without permission from Cut Out and Keep.

Rock and Roll Ruffle Skirt indeed!

2010-01-08T19:12:00.003-05:00

Ok B-town ladies - here's a bit of fashion that will look way hip on the dance floor. The skirt was made by Claudia at Handmade Con Amor. The pattern comes from Dana at Made.

If you are short the $6 for the pattern, experiment with long lengths of chiffon. Get the kind that will fray. Run a stitch down the center and gather the strip into a ruffle. Stitch the ruffles onto a simple skirt. Wear with heels and socks. No, not gym socks. Get yourself something delicate and wild and fancy. Maybe something Elvin.

Well, what are you waiting for? It's Friday night already!

Photo used without permission from Handmade Con Amor.

Bordertown - Where every day can become a New Year

2010-01-01T11:08:00.005-05:00

Happy New Year to every runaway, misfit, loser, townie, cynic, punk, wizard, mutant, and Rat. Remember, any day can be a New Year on the Border. Remember too, to feel pity for them what can only start fresh on January 1.

Every man should be born again on the first day of January. Start with a fresh page. Take up one hole more in the buckle if necessary, or let down one, according to circumstances; but on the first of January let every man gird himself once more, with his face to the front, and take no interest in the things that were and are past.

~Henry Ward Beecher

New Year's Day: Now is the accepted time to make your regular annual good resolutions. Next week you can begin paving hell with them as usual.

~Mark Twain

Photo used without permission from elbesoldeldiablo.

Recipe: Vegetarian Lesco

2009-12-28T07:44:00.006-05:00

"Get the gulyas. Unless you want vegetarian, in which case, get the eggplant, peppers and noodle stuff"

-Sunny Rico
Finder by Emma Bull

Whew! Managed to survive the holidays and finish a year long blogging project on handmade gifts. Time to get back to the good stuff, no?

Today's recipe is based on a Hungarian saucy stew called Lesco. Its ingredients vary, but it always contains peppers and paprika.

Vegetarian Lesco

1 large eggplant
1 large onion chopped
4 cloves garlic, crushed
1 sweet green pepper, chopped
4 Hungarian wax peppers
2 red Anaheim peppers
1 cup veggie broth
3 tbs tomato paste
pinch of salt
1 Tbs paprika
1 tbs caraway seeds, crushed
black pepper to taste
2 cups egg noodles
4 tbs butter
sour cream

Preheat oven to 350. Cut the eggplant in half lengthwise, salt, and brush with olive oil. Place face down on cookie sheet and bake 30 minutes. Remove from oven and let cool so it can be handled.

Saute onion and garlic in olive oil until translucent then add peppers. Cook peppers a few minutes. While they cook, scoop the seeds out of the eggplant, then scoop the flesh out of the purple skin. If it comes out mushy, add it to the peppers and onions. If it comes out more solid, chop it before adding it to the pan. Add veggie broth, tomato paste and spices.

Put noodles on to cook and let the stew simmer until it thickens up. When noodles are done, drain and add butter, stirring to coat. Serve lesco over noodles and top with sour cream, if desired.

Halloween in B-town?

2009-10-14T10:26:00.002-04:00

Howdy all! No, I haven't forgotten about this blog but I am spending all of my free time getting ready for Halloween.

All this prep got me thinking, what holidays do you suppose are commonly celebrated in Bordertown? It's such a diverse mishmash of cultures that you're sure to find someone celebrating something. What are the "big" holidays though? Are there any?

This mask is something I stumbled across in my search for cool Halloween ideas. I can't decide if it is elven or merely something that humans would wear because it looks like it should be elven. Whichever it is, now you can make your own!

Photo used without permission from Instructibles.

Border Fashion Sunday - Painted Shoes

2009-09-27T10:48:00.004-04:00

In true Bordertown form, painted shoes combine fashion and art. There are lots of great tutorials for doing this. I like this one for painting on leather shoes and this one for painting on canvas.

Photo used without permission from The Bus To Sorry.

Border Music Tuesday - Steeleye Span

2009-09-22T08:22:00.000-04:00

Ever hear of Steeleye Span? Me either, until I started poking about the web in search of bands for Border Music Tuesday. I won't tell you exactly how I stumbled upon them, but I suspect that this Folk-Rock group might have influenced some of the Bordertown writers.

The band formed in 1969 and has the sort of folk-rock sound you would expect from the period - earthy and experimental. They take traditional songs and give them an electric edge; sort of a folksie Jethro Tull. It's an interesting take on ancient songs and worth a listen.

Fans of the Border will no doubt recognize the names Allison Gross and Long Lankin, two classic ballads that made their way into Bordertown and onto the recordings of Steeleye Span.

Border Fashion Sunday - Arm Warmers

2009-09-20T09:52:00.004-04:00

Arm warmers may have gone from street fashion to high fashion, but this is still an accessory you can make yourself.

Make your sleeves from old socks or sweaters or even from the sleeves of a shirt. The most interesting ones though are the ones that are knit and there are tons of patterns out there. Check out these corseted arm warmers, these cabled arm-warmers, these crochet sleeves, and my favorite these mermaid gloves. I'm working on a pair of these for a certain young punk I know.

Experiment with color and texture. Add embellishments, stitch together parts from multiple socks or shirts, you can even reclaim yarn from an old sweater to turn it into something new.

Photo used without permission from Lillith-zine.

Border Music Tuesday - Flogging Molly

2009-09-15T08:57:00.003-04:00

Flogging Molly is a high energy mix of punk rock style with Celtic flair. They've been rocking out since 1993 and have released four albums, one of which - Drunken Lullabies - went gold. This measure of success proves that they aren't just a fun band to listen to, but they have talent too.

Photo used without permission from Flogging Molly.

Border Fashion Sunday - Leather Lanyard Bracelets

2009-09-13T09:24:00.004-04:00

Those basic lanyard skills you learned that year they sent you to summer camp can now be put to good use. Turn strips of nylon or leather into a fashion statement.

Erleperle has a tutorial on how to construct the bracelets, but GlennMoller has some samples of how cool they can be. A couple of other ideas to ponder are this links lanyard bracelet and this ribbon bracelet.

Photo used without permission from GlennMoller.

Border Food Thursday - Oatmeal Cookies, Goldie Stylie

2009-09-04T10:04:00.002-04:00

Well, I'm a day late with this week's Border food, so I figured I should make it something really good. How about some cookies inspired by our favorite Renaissance Man/Bouncer, Goldie?

Oatmeal Raisin Cookies
mentioned in Elsewhere during one of the tea time scenes.

1-3/4 c flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ginger
1/4 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
2 sticks butter, softened
3/4 c sugar
3/4 c brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
1/4 c milk
2 eggs
2 c old fashioned oatmeal, toasted
1 c raisins
1 c chocolate chips
1/2 c chopped toasted almonds

Preheat oven to 350. Put oatmeal into a dry fry pan and place over low heat. Let sit, stirring occasionally until oatmeal starts to turn a light golden color and you can smell it cooking. Do not walk away from toasting oatmeal, since when it starts to brown, it browns quickly. Immediately remove from heat and put into a bowl. Sift flour, baking soda, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg and salt into the oatmeal bowl.

In a separate bowl, cream butter and sugars. Add vanilla,milk, and eggs, one at a time, mixing each until well blended. Add the dry ingredients and beat well to incorporate. Fold in raisins, chocolate chips, and almonds. Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto cookie sheet and bake for 10-12 minutes.

Makes 4 dozen cookies.

Border Music Tuesday - Seth Lakeman

2009-09-01T08:05:00.003-04:00

It's the first of September and with summer winding down, I find that I'm dragging my fiddle out more often to ~~torture the family and the pets~~ practice and make perfect.

Should you be in the mood for some talented fiddle playing, I'd recommend giving Seth Lakeman a listen. Terri Windling offered his name as a recommendation and I've really taken a liking to his stuff. Kitty Jay has some very B'town friendly songs (put the title track and The Bold Knight on repeat loop, please).

Unfortunately, his latest album Poor Man's Heaven is not currently available on a certain iCorporate music download site and I haven't yet tried to track it down in any of the local music shops. You can get a listen to some of the new tracks on his MySpace page, though.

Photo used without permission from Seth Lakeman.

Border Fashion Sunday - How To Spike Your Hair

2009-08-30T08:26:00.002-04:00

More great stuff from HedgeTV. Today, Hedgehog shows us all how to turn flat, boring 'Burbs hair into a spiky masterpiece fit for any night of hitting the clubs in Soho. Hedgehog isn't keen on endorsing products and as a rule, I'm not either, but I've used the Got2B stuff and it does work well.

Border Food Thursday - Spinach and Lentil Casserole

2009-08-27T08:33:00.003-04:00

I have yet to take a good photo of this dish, so you'll just have to do without for the time being. Lentil Spinach Casserole is occasionally served at the Hard Luck Cafe when the staff feels like doing "downhome" cuisine. Unfortunately, what isn't mentioned is what nationality this particular dish calls "home".

Since there are lots of cultures that lay claim to lentil dishes, there are several ways this could go. I have settled on two and will present both. I think you'll be surprised at how a couple minor changes in seasoning make a world of difference to essentially the same ingredients.

Lentil Spinach Casserole - Italian Stylie

1 large onion, chopped
2 cloves of garlic, minced
1 tbs olive oil
3 cups broth (chicken or vegetable)
3/4 cup green lentils
1 pkg frozen spinach, thawed & squeezed dry
1/2 cup basmati rice
a couple of healthy stems of fresh rosemary or 1 tsp dry
a handful of fresh basil or 1 tsp dry
a handful of fresh oregano or 1 tsp dry
1 tsp chili powder
pepper to taste
Juice from 1/2 a lemon
2 cup grated sharp cheddar cheese
1/2 cup grated Parmigiano-Reggiano or pecorino romano cheese

Preheat the oven to 300 degrees. Saute onions and garlic in olive oil until golden. Mix all ingredients except the cheese in a baking dish or dutch oven. Cover and bake for 1hour 30 minutes or until the liquid is absorbed and the lentils and rice are tender. Stir part way through cooking. Remove the cover, add the cheese, and bake at 375 until the cheese is melted. and golden.

Border Music Tuesday - Bordertown

2009-08-25T09:44:00.004-04:00

What they lack in that world sound that has come to define the music of the Border, they make up for in energy and, of course, their name. The group is called Bordertown and they've got a very upbeat punk vibe going.

I can't see that the band is affiliated with our B'town, but I could see them rockin' the Ferret until the wee hours.

Border Fashion Sunday - Spiking a Leather Jacket

2009-08-23T08:14:00.000-04:00

Somewhere in the depths of my costume closet, waiting for my daughter to become a teenager and claim it for her own, is my old leather jacket. It was the pride and joy of my punk-rock days and has its share of little spikes along the shoulders and wrists. Do your wardrobe a favor and add some pointy goodness to your favorite ensemble.

Now, applying spikes to your B'town fashions isn't exactly jumping the Border, but if you need some help figuring out where everything should go and how to piece it together, check out HedgeTV's spike tutorial.

Border Food Thursday - Huevos Rancheros

2009-08-20T22:16:00.006-04:00

I'd like to take a moment tonight to talk about my own contribution to the Bordertown universe. No, it's not a story. I wouldn't presume to assault any of you with my poorly written fiction. No, what I'm bringing to the Bordertown Fan Table is a cookbook. That's right. Eight years of professional graphic design experience (and a lifetime of cooking) is going into a collection of recipes right from the pages of your favorite fictional town.

I've scoured the B'town books for culinary references and compiled a list of the foods mentioned therein. I should tell you that the recipes I've come up with are in no way endorsed or supplied by the authors of said stories. These are merely my interpretations of Border cuisine.

The plan is to add another recipe to the Hard Luck Cafe blog every Thursday. But wait! There's more! As a special added bonus, when I get to the end of the 25+ recipes I've been working on perfecting, I'm putting the whole business together into a downloadable PDF. A COMPLETELY FREE, high res, four color, fully illustrated, downloadable PDF that you can print out and keep for your very own.

If nothing else, it's something to keep you occupied until the midnight release parties for Welcome Back to the Border or whatever it's going to be called.

In the meantime, enjoy my recipe for Huevos Rancheros.

Huevos Rancheros

4 corn tortillas
1/3 cup refried beans
1 cup grated cheddar
1/2 onion chopped
1 red pepper chopped
5 or 6 mushrooms chopped
4 eggs
your favorite salsa

Spread refried beans on tortillas and top with cheddar. Heat some olive oil in a pan and fry up the tortillas until the tortilla is crunchy and the cheese has melted. Remove to a plate and saute vegetables. Put vegetables onto tortillas and fry eggs over easy. Put eggs on top of vegetables and top eggs with your favorite salsa. I like a medium mango salsa.

Serves 4 regular people or 2 hungry people.

Photo by me, so I have permission to use it for a change.

Welcome Back To Bordertown... Has such a lovely ring to it, don't you think?

2009-08-20T21:25:00.003-04:00

The fabulous and talented Ellen Kushner reports that the new B'town book, tentatively titled Welcome Back to Bordertown, has begun the long journey from concept to book. Even more exciting are rumors that there may be (*gasp*) advance reading material available online before the 2011 publish date. That's just like a picnic by the sea on a beautiful summer day.

Scratch that. I'll take new B'town stories over a picnic any day. Now, if only they could get Phil Hale to do the cover, I might just die in raptured bliss.

Check out all the news at Puggy's Hill, which includes a link right back here, thank you very much! How's that for throwing the coolness meter through the roof?

Border Fashion Sunday - Hair Falls

2009-08-09T10:47:00.003-04:00

Harry Potter had them. Twilight had them. Bordertown deserves them too. Of course, I'm talking about midnight release parties and the fans who dress up for them. The wonderful thing about Bordertown fashion is that it's a free-for-all of punk goodness. There is one cardinal rule to remember: mass-produced, buy them anywhere, everyone-has-the-exact-same-thing clothing and accessories will not get you into the Dancing Ferret for the Guttertramp's The Greenman Commeth tour.

A hair fall is simple thing you can make to add some pizazz to your wardrobe. They are inexpensive and you won't have to commitment to an odd hair color. That's a handy feature, especially if your folks back in the 'burbs don't know where you spend your Saturday nights. Be sure to check out some of the Related Videos at the end of the above tutorial for ideas on how best to wear your falls and not look like someone who's just arrived on The Scene.

Summer Reading

2009-08-01T14:49:00.004-04:00

I've re-read all of the Bordertown books and have been itching for just one more story. The Last Hot Time is... well, not a Bordertown book per se but rather Bordertown-esque.

I picked up a copy a few years back because I heard that it had many of the qualities that made the Bordertown series great. I'm about halfway through and the jury is still out as to whether I like the book or not.

It starts out with a young man heading off to seek his fortune in a world where the Elflands have returned. Then it jumps into an alternate reality Borderland where there's enough that is familiar that I've had to wonder if this was supposed to be a Borderlands book but ended up being too "30's gangster" for the setting. I keep expecting the punks and the rock n' roll and the art to show up but instead, I get Jimmy Cagney and Ann Sheridan.

This not-quite-the-Border feel prompted me to dig into the conception of this novel. If random Interwebz people can be believed, The Last Hot Time was going to be a Borderlands novel and then strayed from the path. Terri Windling and John Ford decided that it should be it's own setting.

Here my trouble. Reading this book after re-reading all of the Borderlands books has been a little like eating raspberry ice cream and believing that it's strawberry. You know that the flavor is off but you can't pinpoint why. It's not a story of the early days after the Return. It doesn't fit neatly into the timeline between Prodigy and Gray. It has some of the same characters, elements and concepts but a very different feeling.

I'm going to keep reading because I'm curious to see where it goes, but don't let anyone tell you this is a Borderlands book. They'll be doing you and this story a great disservice. Check it out if you're a fan of film noir and hardboiled crime fiction and feel that the genre would be even better with magic and elves.

Dealer in Curses by Alseides

2009-07-27T06:52:00.000-04:00

As I search the Interwebs for pieces of the Border, I occasionally run across stories written by fans. I have dreams that one day there will be websites (like this one) devoted to Bordertown fan fiction but until then, I present Dealer in Curses, republished with permission of Alseides.

The Bordertown world was created by, and is copyrighted by, Terri Windling. The world, its landmarks and characters are used with her permission only. All rights to Borderland material are reserved by Ms. Windling and the authors of the Borderland books: Borderland, Bordertown, Life on the Border, Elsewhere, Nevernever, and Finder.

Dealer in Curses

By Alseides

“Hey, Spock-ears! I got the latest news of Bordertown, right here, come and buy it!” The speaker accosted me with an aggressive grin. She was human, with painfully orange hair and hundreds of silver bangles on her arms, and she was waving a handful of newspapers in my face.

I sidestepped her and continued down the street, brushing invisible lint off my cravat. The news of Bordertown did not concern me. I made my living off the kind of needs and wants that had always been around, and always would be. Love, hate, petty rivalry, these were my bread and butter. A dealer in curses has no use for gossip in the broad, impersonal sense of newspapers.

The street was fairly empty, but then it was but a few hours past dawn, and utterly charming creatures that they are, few humans find early morning suitable for anything other than slumber. Of course, I could say much the same for many of my brethren elves. I found a section of curb near the wharves but far enough from the Mad River so as not to offend my delicate nose, and settled down to wait and watch. Pickings were generally slimmer in the morning, but one never knew.

A motorcycle sped past, roaring like the Harley it proclaimed to be, but smelling distinctly of peanut oil and soy sauce. Apparently I was in a magical area, for a while at least. Good. I pulled some embroidery thread from the pocket of my trousers, and began to tie carefully spaced knots.

Across the street, a clothing store opened its doors. The owner was an elf girl, perhaps an even five feet in height, although she almost looked old enough to be running a store. Then again, I wasn’t one to judge. She slid open the metal covers on the windows, to reveal shirts and jackets dripping in rhinestones and sequins. I squinted at the dark interior for a moment, then gave up. It certainly wasn’t worth rising and walking over there.

A man walked by, carrying a large cardboard box and muttering to himself. I cocked my head toward my work, pretending to be occupied, but strained my ears. The insane made good customers.

“I’ll show them,” he was saying, jerking his head side to side, but not actually seeing anything, I would guess. “I can’t stand how they look at me, the bastards. I’ll show them, and then . . . then . . .”

He was almost to me. Showtime. I stood, slipping the knotted thread into my pocket and brushing away the wrinkles on my clothing. “Excuse me, sir?” I began, keeping my voice gentle. “Are you, perhaps, in need of vengeance?”

The man came to a dead stop. His eyes were a tired blue set in a face that belonged in an office in some human city in the World, not here. He even had a receding hairline, and nice shoes. I suspected he was new to Bordertown. “Vengeance?” he repeated, lowering the box ever so slightly. I caught a glimpse of what looked like firecrackers. “Why . . . yes,” he purred, hugging the box to his chest. “Why do you ask?”

I permitted myself a small smile. “I specialize in the production of such things.”

His eyes widened, then narrowed suspiciously. “You’re an elf, aren’t you? Why would you want to help me?”

He was just now realizing that I was an elf? My opinion of him, already shaky, slipped a notch. Still, a customer was a customer. “It would be my pleasure to aid you in your pursuit of justice, for a small fee of course.” I nodded meaningfully. “I can provide you with a variety of choices for the actual deed, from the very subtle to the more . . . extravagant, shall we say?”

The man was frowning now, but clearly interested. “What exactly is it that you can do?”

“A demonstration, then.” I glanced about the street. Probably best not to demonstrate on elves or humans; if nothing else it would make my services seem too easily applied. I settled on a scruffy pigeon that was rooting about in the gutter a few yards away. Taking the knotted thread from my pocket, and a pinch of ground toadstool spores from a tiny vial, I pointed out the pigeon to the man. While his eyes were on the bird, I wrapped the thread around my hand, lining up the strings to the lines on my palm, and summoning the particular magic it is my dubious honor to control, cast the powder in the direction of the hapless pigeon.

Slowly, but visibly, its feet began to grow. The pigeon squawked in alarm and flapped furiously, but it was pointless. By the time it stopped growing, the pigeon was standing on six-inch long taloned monstrosities. Feebly it pecked at them, and tried to fly away. Pigeons are not good flyers under the best of circumstances. With giant feet, the pigeon was reduced to waddling like a penguin.

I glanced at the man. His jaw was hanging, but there was a light in his eyes, and it wasn’t friendly. Inwardly I felt a surge of exultation. Business would be good.

He turned to me and nodded, the light in his eyes giving him a sense of energy I hadn’t detected before. “My name’s Barnaby Phelps. I believe I am going to hire you. What . . . do you call what you just did?”

My face was empty and polite, just distant enough to remind him that I would call the shots. “I deal in curses, my good man.”

He glanced back at the pigeon, eyes bright. It was a temporary curse, and would wear off in a few hours, but I didn’t feel the need to tell him that.

We went to Clam Clowder, a cute little coffeehouse near Dragontown where one might find excellent coffee, the fine company of cats, and truly hideous clam chowder. Of course, having never developed a taste for clam chowder in the first place, I might not be qualified as a critic. Phelps didn’t order the chowder either, I noticed.

“So, see, what I want is some heavy-duty stuff, you know? Like, a curse that isn’t going to wash off in the rain, or fade away after a few days. One that will hold up where magic doesn’t work, you know?” He leaned back in the booth, spreading his legs under the table and forcing me to either move out of his way or endure physical contact.

Stonily I endured. I am not without pride. “My curses are high quality, I assure you. They are constructed to last a lifetime.”

He looked down at his coffee. “Even in the World?”

A warning bell went off in my head, and I sipped at my espresso. It was my first ever, and it tasted like the ashes of the Seven Sisters Who Went Mad at Ilmshaddin. But it was caffeine, and because it was concentrated caffeine, I didn’t have to drink as much as normal to get the same effect. Phelps seemed to be fixated on the World. He was dressed as if he was still in the World, he spoke as if he was still in the World, and his vengeance seemed directed at people in the World. Why bother coming to Bordertown at all?

He was waiting for an answer. But what the hell, honesty was a luxury. “Indeed. But I am not cheap, if the undertaking is complicated. Can you tell me how many people you wish to have cursed?”

“Two. Their names are-”

I held up a hand. “First, do you have specific requests? And I believe I would prefer if we settled on a price,” and make certain you can afford it, “before sharing such personal details.”

Phelps looked disturbed. “I can pay you. I –” He paused as a sleek tabby cat came past his head, sauntering along on the walls of the booths. We both watched as it made its way to another table. Then Phelps cleared his throat. “I want them ridiculed. I want people to look at them the way they looked at – I want them to be embarrassed. I don’t care about the details, I just want to be there to see it. How much will it cost?”

“Do you have a short time frame?” I asked, and received a head-shake “no” in answer. “Well, then. I want gold: trinkets, coins, whatever, but it must be in gold. If you can provide me with enough to fill this sack,” and I removed a small leather bag, about the size of a man’s chest, from a hidden pocket in my waistcoat, “then I will complete the task you have assigned.”

He took the sack. “This is a large bag.”

“Will it trouble you to fill it?” I asked innocently. It was worse than he thought, for the bag was magic and held considerably more on the inside than it appeared to be capable of on the outside.

Phelps considered the question, for a little longer than I felt was comfortable. Finally, he nodded. His eyes were cold when he caught mine. “I will keep my end of the bargain. When do you want the names?”

“Now is fine.” And the deal was struck.

That evening, the streets of Bordertown were washed in twilight shadows and somber light. The air sang of weary warriors and pale queens going to rest in soft graves. I caught a glimpse of myself in a store window on the way home. Vizirien Orthalas, the dealer in curses. As elves went, I was tall, though my silver hair and green eyes were ordinary enough to afford me near invisibility. My face had finally grown a bit beyond the age of youth that marks so many of the elves of Bordertown. The silk cravat, the tailored, lace-adorned linen of my suit, so classically Elvish, was beginning to show wear, despite my best attempts. The store I was using as a mirror held reworked castoff clothing, creatively sewn together for a carnival effect. One shirt caught my eye; a pale blue, with patches of pearl grey that almost made for a decent shirt.

But if I had wanted to dress like a Soho runaway, I would have done so long ago. I headed home, to a small, neat house on the outskirts of Dragon’s Tooth Hill. It required bravery to live here, I liked to think, so close to the elven nobles who had scorned my vile magical talent. But none of them knew me on sight, and I was careful to never ply my trade in view of the Truebloods.

Once home, I headed for the refrigerator. I loved the human invention. It was a magic box to end all magic boxes. I opened the door and stood staring at the few items on its shelves, reveling in the wintery air that escaped. None of the appliances in my house actually ran on electricity they were designed for, of course. At various times I had rigged each one up with a spellbox, those being far more familiar to me. But the feeling, the exotic atmosphere, was there.

“You’re a tourist, Viz,” said Angharad behind me. I turned to face the young weredragon. She was in her human form, or as human as weredragons ever got, her gold hair spilling down to her waist in gentle waves. Angie wore a pair of well-aged jeans and a lycra top that had been through the wars. I shuddered at the indecency of it all. By dragon standards, Angie was a child, barely old enough to fly.

“A tourist?” I repeated, closing the refrigerator and smiling down at her.

Angie hopped up on the counter and reached into a cupboard for the cookie box. Her mouth full of chocolate chip with macadamias, she mumbled, “Your fancy for human things. Did you get a taker yet?”

I paused. She glared at me, impatient. “Why, my dear, whatever makes you think that?” Perhaps a hint of glee crept into my tone. Or perhaps she just knew me too well.

“You did! Oh, who was it? Anybody we know? I hope they agreed to fill the sack! I need some more gold, the hoard is really pretty skimpy still. If I’m going to shapeshift more than once or twice a year, I’m going to need more gold to charge my power. Who was it?”

I poured myself a tall glass of cold water from the fridge. It bore a slight brownish tint. I shuddered, and downed as much as I could in one gulp, then filled Angie in on the details of the job. She shrieked with laughter at the part about the pigeon, but I found it hard to join in, for once. In my mind’s eye, I could picture that pigeon, still hobbling around down by the docks, and the unnaturalness of it struck me. Elves played with their quarry at times, much in the way that a cat plays with its food. But to deal consistently, exclusively, in curses; that was ill bred. The bitter sting of my banishment came back to me, and I dumped the rest of my glass into the sink.

“So what do you have in mind? A pair of black market traders like that could be pretty tough to catch unaware, don’t you think?” Angie was so helpful when she knew she was getting most of the payment.

I slumped into my armchair. An orphan from better days in a nicer house, the leather armchair sported more than a few cracks and abrasions. The rain stains gave it that weathered air. I loved it. Angie wrinkled her nose, and settled on the floor, crossing her slim legs. “Well?” she demanded.

I raised my eyebrow. “I have decent furniture. There’s a sofa-”

“It sags in the middle. This whole house has an air of leftovers to it. You’d think an elf would have better decorating taste, but no. Oh, hey. You’re distracting me.” She frowned at me.

I gestured toward the sofa. “Dragons, even half-dragons, do not belong on the floor. Now, from what he told me, Ellis Meyer deals in motorcycle parts. Nothing very fancy, just the basics needed to run a motorcycle in Bordertown. And he trades strictly World equipment, I suppose so that he doesn’t have to learn anything about magic.”

“You’re one to talk, o master of motorcycles. You could fix one up with a spellbox, at least.” Angie still sat on the floor.

“Ha. I have no skill with spellboxes. It’s the other target that worries me. Marita Hammel. I’ve heard of her. She deals in talismans and amulets and such, again strictly from the World, but . . . cursed items are a specialty of hers.” I stared out the window, at the last death-cry of sunlight that strained to touch the house before expiring somewhere between the Realm of my upbringing and the World of humans. I inhaled and said what had been bothering me ever since I learned of her part in this. “If she deals in cursed items, she almost certainly has protection against curses.”

Angie was silent, thoughtful, her dragon-gold hair spilling around protectively. I worried suddenly that it might attract attention, that someone might recognize her for what she was and come after her, but no. There were enough elves and elf-wannabes in Bordertown with gold hair for Angie to remain anonymous. Growing up half dragon was dangerous; Angie was potentially the kind of commodity that made people like Hammel go all warm and kidnappy inside.

“It’s got to be a curse, though. That’s what your customer wants.” Angie said. “Too bad you couldn’t fake a curse, somehow.”

“Indeed.” My stomach rumbled, and I lifted my eyebrows in mock surprise. “Why, my dear, it would appear that supper is in order. Taco Hell, or Godmom’s?”

“Godmom’s, of course.” She bounced to her feet. “You’re buying, right?”

Over the next few days, I sought out my spy network, which is to say I went around chatting up acquaintances for information, specifically any information which might be useful to my little endeavor. Casually, of course. It wouldn’t do for word to get back to the targets that they were being studied.

Ellis Meyer lived above his store on Chrystoble Street. It seemed like awfully shabby digs for a man with black market dealings, especially items as popular as motorcycle guts, but the word was he spent most of his time in the World, anyway. Perhaps he didn’t need anything more fancy during his brief visits. If so, it was bad news to me, who would have to wait until he showed up. Cursing the assistant of my target was useless. Going to the World after my target was beyond consideration.

My friend, the colorfully dressed Parsnip Trooper, visited Meyer’s shop fairly often. Parsnip had a weakness for gourmet chocolate; armed with that knowledge, I stocked up on marzipan and truffles and stopped by Parsnip’s apartment.

It was in a low, squat building that hadn’t been painted since Faerie’s return. Weeds sprouted in the cracks in the sidewalk and shunned the planters, which held only barren dirt. Parsnip’s apartment was ground level, on the end by the street. I walked up to the fence and peered at the gate. It was padlocked. I paused, taken aback. The gate was never locked.

A cat sitting in a puddle of sunlight glanced up at me, and began her midday bath. I cast about for some alternate means of entry.

“Hey, Viz! What’re you doing, just standing around?” Parsnip hailed me from his door. He was wearing bright yellow cut-offs and a pair of galoshes. His shirt was Hawaiian with plumeria flowers, and I saw a tie fixed on his throat. I blinked.

Parsnip came up to the gate, grinning like a mad thing. “Pleasure to see you, my scrawny friend. Come on in, man.”

I clenched my teeth, warning myself that patience was a virtue, and explained in a measured tone that the gate was locked. And incidentally, that the pleasure was all mine. And it was. I was so sincere I almost believed myself.

“Locked? It’s never locked.” He reached out to finger the padlock, just a gentle caress. It sprang open, falling into the weeds with a scritch. “Come on, elf. I think I’ve got some tea, or something, in the apartment.” He headed to his door.

I glanced down at the padlock as I entered, frowning. I could have sworn it had been locked. It had certainly looked locked. Inside, three large parrots and a fuming purple lava lamp greeted me. Scarves were strung from available corner. Parsnip had a large metal contraption in one corner which baffled me entirely. It was strung with Christmas lights and the interior was furnished with bedding.

We sat on the sofa, which was in comparable condition to my own, and Parsnip handed me a beer. I took it before realizing what it was. Well, courtesy prevented any refusals now. I cracked it open, and managed to take a sip without spitting it back out. Swallow. Sip. Swallow. There, that was probably enough for courtesy. Casually, I proffered the chocolate delicacies. Purely a gesture of friendship, of course. Parsnip eagerly accepted them.

“So, what brings you here, man?” Parsnip asked, gnawing enthusiastically on a truffle. He seemed to me to be just beyond his youth, but human age is so difficult to measure, because it changes so quickly.

I had decided to disclose as few details as possible, so I lied. “I was considering entering the market for a motorcycle. I’ve heard that Ellis Meyer offers good merchandise for splendid prices. You do business with him, do you not? Perhaps you have heard something?” Actually, I’d heard that he had “cool merchandise for kick-ass prices,” but everyone has their own way of phrasing a sentence.

“Yeah. Meyer is decent. He gives you real fair prices, you know? Like, man, one time I had to get a new set of shocks, and he gave me this leather saddlebag free. I mean, it was just like a gift. It was cool. I don’t know if he sells motorcycles, though. I think . . . hey, look, I can fix you up with a motorcycle. What kind d’ya want?” His eyes were earnest through lanky hair. I felt like buying him shampoo and scissors.

“I . . . was looking for something rather . . . deluxe,” I offered, hoping that deluxe was out of his procuring power.

He deflated a bit. Apparently it was. “Maybe you’d better talk to Meyer, then.”

Now it came to the tricky part. I needed certain crucial details, and I had to act as if they were trivial. First, the basics. “What time is he available, do you know?”

Parsnip stuck his tongue out in some arcane form of concentration. “He’s not a morning person. But he’s not in the shop a whole lot. Don’t know where he goes – I’ve heard he has a little business on the side. Probably that’s it.”

“Business?” I made it a question, and kept it light and curious.

“I’m not sure what it is, man. I think maybe he sells toys or something, though. He’s got kids around a lot.”

That was a bad sign. First, it made private access to the target that much harder. Worse, though, it suggested a level of good karma for Ellis Meyer that I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to tangle with.

I thought fast. “Perhaps I might catch him for a dinner meeting, then. Do you happen to know if he has any favorite restaurants?” Places he’d run to if threatened, places not to use for the curse because they would be his home ground, not mine.

“Um . . . gee, Viz. That I don’t know. Sorry, man. Hey, can I get you another beer?” He pointed at the one in my hand.

“Ah . . . no, thanks, Parsnip. It’s quite all right. Anyway, I’d better get going; I need to do some grocery shopping before I get home.”

Some further research confirmed my suspicions. Ellis Meyer was rarely in one place for very long, and he did indeed spend much of his time in the presence of lovely young people. I restated my findings to Angharad that evening over succulent water fowl and a light watercress sauce.

She frowned at me. “That sounds kind of strange. Hanging out with kids, I mean. He deals in motorcycles, not exactly kid stuff.”

I considered. In my youth in Faerie, I remember a cousin my age spending hours poring over the mechanics of magical bridge-building: the necessary node constructions, the temporal restraints and the physical manifestations required, as well as the various appeasement spells for all the creatures offended by the existence of an Elvish bridge in their territory. Still, it did not seem quite normal for entire hordes of Bordertown’s youth to converge on this one man. But – “I don’t know that it matters. Ideally, I’d like to perform the curse in the middle of the night, when he’s sound asleep. I rather doubt there will be any children around then.”

Angie shrugged. “Is that honorable, attacking the guy while he’s asleep?”

This was the girl who laughed at my pigeon with giant feet. “Honor, my dear? Pray tell me what of anything is honorable about cursing?”

She sputtered something about fair play, and how would I like it if the tables were turned, and wound down surprisingly quickly. For a moment Angie looked sheepish. Then she said, “Have you decided what curse you’re going to do?”

I paused. I had been thinking of something fairly complex, which would possibly lead back to me. In Bordertown, strange and impossible things happen to people on a fairly regular basis, which was what enabled me to perform my services in the first place. Still, I had to be careful not to create a reputation as a dealer in curses, or people would begin to look beyond the general weirdness of the Border and find another explanation. It was a fragile environment in which to work, but so far I had done splendidly. It would be nice to be able to do some fancier work. But with children around, possibly muddling my spell or worse, accidentally making themselves the target, I thought a simpler curse might be in order. Easier to reverse, if it came to that. I said as much to Angie.

She nodded thoughtfully, and stretched like a cat, or rather, like a dragon. Her golden hair glowed in the candlelight, reminding me of the River of Amber in summertime: an endless slow cascade of warm, golden liquid slipping past the aspens in the hills above my home. My old home, I reminded myself. Bordertown was my home now.

“Let’s see. I’d turn him to stone, except that that’s not so much humiliating as truly inconvenient. Limb deformation is humiliating, but more difficult to reverse. I think I could do it. Or – hmm.”

Angie brightened. “What about something that’s not physical? He’s gotta be a motorcycle fanatic. He–”

“Must. He must be a motorcycle fanatic. Not ‘gotta.’” I corrected gently.

She made a face. “Anyway. What if you made it so he was clueless about motorcycles? Or something along those lines?”

I blinked. “That’s . . . got definite possibility.”

Angie grinned briefly. “But what about the other target? You haven’t mentioned her much. Marguerita? Or what was it?”

“Marita Hammel. I think I’ll worry about her after I finish with Meyer.”

“’K. Go for it, Spock.”

I growled at her, though not seriously. “Don’t call me that.” The reference had been explained to me several times, and it still did not amuse me.

She giggled.

The supplies required to make Ellis Meyer forget everything he ever knew about motorcycles were common enough to find in Bordertown. People are often disturbed to learn how many ordinary, everyday items are the key ingredients in curses. But it’s the magic itself that is uncommon. Even among elves, beings suffused with magic living in realms of magic, the power to curse is rare. Oh, there are hedgewitches, and demon summoners and frequent enough, but those who can truly curse are fortunately very limited in number. The knowledge necessary to curse effectively is even less common.

Anyway, I needed almonds, associated with wisdom, rosemary, associated with memory, a drum, symbolic of thunder and violent force, two scales from the hide of a fire salamander, traditionally the lore keepers of their realm, and a piece of a motorcycle.

The herbs I bought at a nearby food store, along with bread and soda imported from the World. It wasn’t subterfuge; I seriously doubted anyone considered almonds and soda a tasty meal, even for an elf. It was simply a matter of combining errands. The drum was procured in a similarly prosaic manner. A mere hand drum, constructed for one of the many fools in Bordertown who fancied themselves musicians, it came cheaply to my hands. I painted the drum red when I got it home. Angie was out for once, having said something about helping a treasure hunt by the Mad River. The red paint wasn’t strictly necessary for the spell, but it helped to set the stage. My general plan was to set up the herbs as representations of Meyer’s memory, tie them more specifically to his knowledge of motorcycles, and then destroy that knowledge.

A piece of a motorcycle would be easy to come by in Bordertown, but the problem was I needed one of Meyer’s motorcycle bits in particular. I shuddered at the thought of accidentally causing a random stranger, or worse, all of Bordertown, to forget all knowledge of motorcycles.

And, of course, the fire salamander scales, symbolic of his visual memory, would be quite expensive. And the sack of gold coming to me was off- limits, as was Angie’s current hoard. I couldn’t remove anything from it without her noticing, and besides, it defeated the whole purpose of my job. So I was going to have to get creative. But where to get them?

Milo Chevrolet didn’t strike me as the type, although he had a reputation as one of the most powerful magic-workers in Bordertown. I was too nervous to ask Mrs. Wu. She had a fairy godmother air that didn’t mix well with my cursing ability at all. Any elves at all were out; even the elves that were banished or expatriated wouldn’t help a dealer in curses. I couldn’t count on hiding my ability.

Who, then? I tried to think. Maybe I’d think better if I sat in my favorite chair. I wandered over to the leather armchair and slumped into it. No humans to see, so I didn’t have to be quite so lithe and limber.

The red drum sat on the table in the kitchen, looking at me reproachfully. Who was I kidding? It was cruel to take away the man’s entire livelihood. And for what? So that some jerk from the World could feel that surge of petty revenge? My teeth ground together. Startled, I tried to relax, staring off into space and concentrating on not worrying about the curse.

Apparently, I succeeded, for I did not wake until Angie came home at dusk.

“Viz!” she cried, bounding into the room, her golden hair showering tiny sparks in her excitement. They lit the room like fireflies as they fell and disappeared, no more dangerous than a campfire on one’s carpeting. She clutched a filthy shoebox to her chest.

“Viz. Tell me you didn’t spend all this time sleeping! Are you awake?” She prodded me in the elbow. Reluctantly I sat up, wondering if I might be able to slip back to my dreams.

“And where have you been, dragonlet?” I murmured, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

She plopped onto the floor, and placed her shoebox in front of her with exaggerated care. “The treasure hunt, of course. Remember? I told you? Anyway, guess what! I found something for my hoard. Drum roll, please.” Angie paused with her hands hovering over the box.

Sighing, I gave up entirely on sleep and leaned forward to offer the proper level of attention.

Angie lifted the cover off the box. Inside lay a tiny motorcycle. It was encrusted with grime, but she had wiped clean the wider surfaces, and I could see the chrome underneath. Every visible inch of the motorcycle gleamed gold. I blinked.

“Oh, surely not . . .” I whispered.

Angie lifted it out and flicked her fingernail into the intricacies of the tiny model, removing some of the mud. “It’s real gold. Someone must have really loved their motorcycle to have made this. Anyway, obviously I need to clean it up a bit.” She glanced at me. An “aren’t-you-proud-of-me” look crossed her face.

“It’s wonderful, Angharad. It reminds me–” No. Never mind that. She gave me a questioning look. I had almost said that it recalled memories of some of the treasure in the hoard of Rantrinaedras. The dragon who had kidnapped her, raised her, and forced the weredragon power upon her. So the sweet child could be his mate. Long term rape. Best not to bring that up.

“It’s the kind of thing one sees in Faerie,” I finished lamely. Angie seemed to take that at surface value.

We spent the next hour cleaning the tiny bike, though Angie did most of the cleaning and I mostly provided unhelpful advice. “In the Realms, there grows a splendid plant by the name of wyvern’s mouth, which is renowned for its ability to eat dirt from any inaccessible spot – and no, it doesn’t grow around here.”

Dinner was chicken korma, with enough substitute ingredients to make it worthy of a different name, but we each consumed our fill. There were leftovers, which provided me with an excuse to make use of the refrigerator. Angie was in a good mood. She let me stand in front of the open door for at least a minute before yelling at me. At one point, I told her of my plan for the cursing of Ellis Meyer. Angie approved of it heartily. She promised me she’d get a small motorcycle part from his store, if she had to steal it. When I protested, she bared her teeth at me in a playful grin, reminding me that she was a weredragon and could take care of herself. Her almost savage eagerness to see the man punished raised my spirits a little. I warned her to be careful.

It wasn’t until I had climbed into the cushions and silks in which I normally slept that I recalled the fire salamander scales. It occurred to me that I might look up the halfie girl Zephyral for them. She was a frequent traveler to the Borderlands. It was likely she’d seen a fire salamander at one point. Since I hadn’t heard of her demise, it was even possible Zephyral might have survived an encounter with one.

“Fire salamander scales?” Zephyral repeated somewhat increduously. We were sitting in her garden on the edge of Bordertown. Soft midday light filtered down through the leaves, reflecting in the hundreds of tiny pools she had constructed in her garden. “You’re interested in the strangest things, you know that, Viz?”

I stiffened ever so slightly. Zeph was a friend, I reminded myself. She wasn’t after my secrets. I forced myself to relax and replied, “It’s for a party.”

She raised an eyebrow, but rose and headed for her stores. I followed, dragging my heels a bit, in part so as not to seem too eager, but also to relish in the heady scent of green growing things and the gentle thrumming of the tiny fountains. All of the plants were from the World, but there was still an unmistakable resemblance to places I had left behind in Faerie. It was . . . nice.

“Here you go, Viz, a dozen or so fire salamander scales.” Zeph handed them to me wrapped in a thick cloth. I nearly dropped them in surprise. They were heavy. When I unwrapped the cloth, I saw oval flakes the size of eggs, each burnished like bright copper.

“I can’t afford these,” I murmured, admiring the way the sun caught in them and sparkled.

Zeph shook her head. “For free.”

I stared at her in horror. “You’re joking. These must be worth a fortune.”

Zeph smiled at me, a smile too wide and easy to be sincere. “You’re a good friend, Viz. Besides, they’re just pretties. I’ve got hoards of them.”

She refused to take no for an answer, and finally, I left with the scales. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled out a hair from my head and tied it in two knots, each on the same end, whispering words to the spirits of light and air. It was not a curse, but rather, traditional elven magic, and it made the caster invisible. In Bordertown, where magic was highly unpredictable, there was a risk to using magic, but I decided I’d better take that risk.

I doubled back and entered the garden through a side doorway, pausing by a stone statue of a selkie half-submerged in one of the larger pools. Zeph was talking with someone.

“I don’t traffic in that kind of merchandise, you know that,” she said flatly.

“But, my dear Zephyral, we have it on good authority that you’ve been selling the body parts of sacred fire salamanders to the public.” It was one of the Suits, the peacekeeping figures of B-town. Ye gods of fire and dust. I glanced down to make sure I was still invisible. Of course I was.

“Look, I don’t have – hey, there’s nothing back there but gardening tools.” Zeph said.

I couldn’t see what was going on from my vantage point, but something warned me not to go any closer to the conflict. I could hear. That should be enough.

The Suit searched the place for over an hour, finally calling to Zeph, “All right.”

“Finally,” she responded tartly. I saw her toss her head.

“Watch it, Zephyral. We’re going to keep an eye on you.” He nodded meaningfully and made his exit.

I left then, making my invisible way back to Dragon’s Tooth Hill. About halfway there, I hit a pocket of no magic, and popped into visibility, startling two Soho kids. The chicken they were attempting to stuff into a sack escaped while they were gawking. I kept on going.

So. Zephyral apparently had a smuggling operation going. Lucky me to be her safe deposit box. I supposed she was going to want her little gems back at some point. A thin smile crossed my face. It didn’t matter to me that the fire salamander scales were hot merchandise; I was going to use them up and leave no evidence.

I stopped by Parsnip’s place on the way back, planning to wheedle some information about my other target from him. Parsnip was in, the gate was open, and he was cooking an early dinner. The scent of chicken and cinnamon wafted toward me as I walked up. I knocked on the door.

“Hey, Parsnip?”

“Hey!” Parsnip was delighted to see me. He greeted me at the door, and when he turned to go in, I saw a woman sitting on the couch, talking to one of the parrots. She heard us come in, and glanced in my direction. It was Marita Hammel. Just the person I had been coming to ask Parsnip about. I nearly swallowed my tongue.

“Come in, man. Beer?” He offered a bottle to me.

This time I was expecting it, and politely refused. I had learned that while Parsnip always offered some means of refreshment, he rarely bothered with any other formalities. The only piece of furniture not completely strewn with scarves was the sofa, and Marita was sitting on it, so I took a seat on the floor, next to the lava lamp. After he got a fresh beer, Parsnip went back to cooking.

Marita saluted me with her own bottle from the couch. She was quite tall, dressed in strange, artificial materials that could only have come from the human lands, and had elegantly manicured nails. Keenly I recalled the tattered edges and fraying seams of my Elfland threads.

“I’m Marita,” she said warmly.

“Viz.” Actually, my full name was considerably longer than even Vizirien, but I wasn’t about to offer my True name to someone I was planning on cursing. Especially someone who could curse me back. I offered her my hand, attempting to carry out the human tradition of shaking hands. She glanced away, and I dropped my hand uncertainly. But I thought-?

“I understand you’re in the market for a motorcycle?” she asked.

Elfbane take her. What was she doing here? I would have to continue the charade. “Well, yes. I am . . . considering a purchase, yes.”

Marita nodded. “Ellis is a good businessman. I highly recommend him to you. He’s very sweet.” She smiled, something in that gentle smile told me that her whole demeanor was a lie. There was something positively wicked about that woman.

“Thank you. I will bear your recommendation in mind.” I managed to keep a veneer of calm; years of delicate diplomacies and politics in the Realm had taught me that much.

“Hey, man, thanks for the chocolates,” Parsnip put in from the kitchen area. I had almost forgotten he was there until he spoke.

“Oh, it was no trouble. I’m glad you enjoyed them,” I assured him.

We chatted for a few strained moments about the weather, which had been so appallingly nice of late that there was little to say. Parsnip offered me dinner, but I declined with some comment about the need to use up the food in my refrigerator before it went bad. This went over fine with Parsnip, who so rarely cooked for himself that he thought a natural way to refuse, but Marita seemed very thoughtful.

I made my escape, trying not to look like I was running away while making as much haste as possible. Finally, I was back on the street, heading home by a somewhat circuitous route. Whenever I found myself in a precarious situation, I surrendered to my paranoia in full. This time was worse than most. The feeling of being followed didn’t fade until I had gone the long way past Dragontown. I avoided the streets I knew, operating under the shaky logic that if I wasn’t recognized, anyone chasing me wouldn’t be able to track me once they’d lost sight of me.

As I walked, I thought seriously about calling the whole thing off. Meyer seemed like an easy target, but if he was such a nice man to the children, it didn’t seem . . . fair to punish him so that my unpleasant (unhinged?) client could have a revenge fantasy. And Hammel. She was confusing, at once too wonderfully nice to deserve a curse, and yet there was something about her that made me want to run in the other direction and never let her find me again. Back to Faerie, even, maybe. I weighed the choices. But Angie could not live in the Realm, and she needed help building her hoard. She was still a child in so many ways. I couldn’t abandon her.

Stepping past an alley overflowing with rubble from the two houses that had fallen down on either side, near the river, I stumbled and paused to ascertain my whereabouts in Bordertown. Two large human males slunk out of the rubble toward me, carrying knives. They were dressed all in black, and one had a leather jacket.

The first called to his unshaven friend, “Looks like someone’s gotten lost.”

His friend only giggled wordlessly and steadied his grip on the knife.

Numerous curses came to mind, but I had no preparation time for any of them. The fire salamander scales in my pocket were useless without readying. I swore, and ran down the street, away from them. They ran after me, their heavy human feet pounding the street in black boots. The Pack, the largest human gang in Bordertown. Two of them anyway. How could I have wandered into Pack territory? My mental map of Bordertown was frankly a joke, but I was sure I was nowhere near Chrystoble Street or any of the other streets the Pack laid claim to in their swaggering, elf-hating way.

I ran full tilt along the cobblestones, stretching my long legs as hard as I could. I had to hope neither of them was smart enough to throw a knife at me. Behind me the steps grew heavier, and the sun was setting. Twilight washed the houses in somber radiance. Most people were elsewhere: the concerts, Danceland, restaurants. Now was an excellent time of day to visit the Endless Rave, just as the sun was setting and the air grew cool, but there was still enough light to see. Where in Telforin’s name was I? If I could just get out of their territory, they might stop chasing me.

I found myself at an intersection. A trio of Truebloods stood on the far corner, dressed in ruined velvet and lace dyed the color of heart blood. Elves, but more importantly, members of the elven equivalent of the Pack, known as the Bloods. When they saw the Packers behind me, they drew heirloom swords and struck battle stances. I ran past them, then slowed and turned to watch. The two humans skidded to a halt in front of the Bloods, raising their knives uncertainly. Good. Let them kill each other. I ran on, until I was out of sight, and pain laced my side from running. Then I slowed to a walk, frequently glancing back to make sure I wasn’t being followed. At that point, I wasn’t sure who I was more afraid of finding behind me, Marita or the Pack.

When Dragon’s Tooth Hill came into view, fairy lanterns gleaming in the growing dusk, a weight I had not realized was there lifted in my heart. Things were getting entirely too complicated for my tastes. My stomach growled as I reached my door. The house was grey, with a green door, in a row of aging beige houses. Elf-colors, though the tiny house dated to the years before Faerie’s return, so I knew it couldn’t be related.

“Angie? My dear, I’ve acquired the scales . . .” I trailed off, peering into the darkened living room. Angie wasn’t there. “Angie?”

No answer. But surely she’d be home; she hadn’t told me she’d be busy, and she always remembered to tell me when she was. I searched the rest of the house quickly, poking into the closet for no logical reason, and finally checking under the beds. Nothing. Well, the usual menagerie of dust puffs, but no weredragon. Anywhere.

I dashed out back, to the alley behind the house. Here and there trashcans crouched hopefully awaiting the appearance of the infrequent trash collectors that wandered down from the Hill. No Angie. I called her name, trying to think where she might have gone. The only response was the opening of a window further down and an old Trueblood male leaning out to swear at me in the high tongue.

After a moment, I returned to the house and sat down at the table in the kitchen to think. Surely, she was simply out with friends. I was overreacting, that was it. I should wait patiently for her to come home. In fact, I should make dinner.

I sat there, alternately drumming my fingers and staring out the front window at the darkening street. When the street light flickered on, I rose and began pacing. Hunger warred with worry, and finally I stalked over to the refrigerator and pulled out leftovers from Vates, which was, in my opinion, the only Bordertown restaurant with good food from the Realm. The crust had wilted, and the toppings were soggy, but it was cold. For a little while, I was thoroughly enveloped in refrigerated splendor. Then I ran out of leftovers, and Angie still hadn’t come home.

I rose and put the dishes in the sink to wash, then went over to the window. The stars suggested that it was late autumn, that the moon was new, and that it was well past midnight. This did me absolutely no good whatsoever, as I was fairly certain that midsummer was not that long ago, and it felt more like early evening. I did concede that the moon was in its proper phase, and drew my curtains.

Angie’s little gold motorcycle sat on the giant wooden cable spool that served as an end table in the living room. I slouched in my armchair and stared at it. Where could she be?

The motorcycle gleamed. I wondered idly what it would look like under fairy lantern light, but those lovely creations were out of my reach monetarily. Motorcycle. I blinked.

Angie had said something about getting the motorcycle part I needed from Meyer’s store.

It took me a few moments to gather various “ingredients” for curses. Some people carried charms and enchantments, or knives and guns. I could curse people; the ability itself was a curse at times, but it did make a good weapon. I stuffed dried apple skins, tiny golden lion charms, beggar root, and a vial of oleander honey into my pockets, more or less at random. Almost as an afterthought, I added the fire salamander scales. Cursing without having constructed a plan first was dangerous, but I didn’t have time for the kind of elaborate curses I preferred.

I ran out into the night, using the soft glow of stars and the occasional street light to guide my path. The scents of Bordertown drifted past. With the fall of night, a riverside breeze was coming in, bringing with it the stench of unmentionable things. Running full out, I reached Meyer’s neighborhood quickly. Chrystoble Street itself loomed in front of me before I remembered that this was the heart of Pack territory. No man’s land for those of the True Blood. I swore and ducked into an empty alley and paused for breath and thought beside broken crates and rotting fish heads. Did I dare an invisibility spell? It was the only way to reach Meyer’s store alive. I jerked a hair loose from my scalp and tied it, calling on the spirits of light and air.

Cautiously I stepped back out onto the street. A small dance club was opening, and humans, many dressed in black leather, were streaming toward it. I threaded my way through them, careful not to touch anyone, and found the store. A hand-lettered sign above the door proclaimed, “Meyer’s Motorcycle Maintenance.” The door was closed. I stared at the handle of the door, frustrated. It would most certainly give me away if I opened it invisibly.

I cast around for ideas. Nearby a cat sprawled on the cracked sidewalk, her hind end resting higher than the front. Strange. I looked away, then suddenly had an idea. A moment later, I was “encouraging” the cat to rise, mostly by prodding and lifting. She disliked this treatment immensely, and told me so. I ignored the hissing and picked up her forefeet, leaving her to wobble on her hind legs as if she were trying to stand up like a person. Carefully I walked her over to the door, and used her paws to open it. It looked for all the world as if the cat were opening the door – a strange enough sight, to be sure, but then, the animals of Bordertown were anything but normal. As soon as the door was open, I released my feline assistant, and she tore off down the street yowling. I spared her a glance, then crept inside.

Meyer’s store was still open for business, though no one was there to buy anything. Hubcaps, tires, shocks, various bits and pieces of chrome, and other motorcycle miscellany lay propped up against counters and tables, which in turn were covered with smaller items. I had never seen so many objects from the World gathered together in one place, and certainly hadn’t expected it here in Soho, the runaway part of town. The scent of metal twisted against its nature rose from the floor like the stink of sweat, or the sound of tears. I swallowed hard. Motorcycles didn’t usually feel like that.

Meyer was nowhere to be seen. There was a back room, though, and stairs leading up to the house part of the building. I checked the back room first. It was small, dingy, and painted beige. A calendar behind the door marked the date according to human reckoning, with big X’es crossing off days past. Next to the calendar was an image, made by the mysterious World technology known as photography. It was of a small Trueblood child, dressed in lace and velvet rags, and not very many, either. I was shocked. True, I had heard of Trueblood lords taking low-rank children and using them as dolls, but this. This was here, in Bordertown, in the office of a man I . . . I remembered Parsnip’s words. “I think maybe he sells toys or something, though. He’s got kids around a lot.”

Somehow I didn’t think Meyer was running a toy store for kids.

Just then the man himself came downstairs. I was standing in the office, and came out to see. Meyer stared at me. I blinked, and glanced at myself. The spell had faded, maybe from a no-magic spot.

“Who the hell are you?” Meyer demanded. “And just what do you think you’re doing in my office?”

He was short, but wiry, with blond hair. I was betting he was a powerful fighter. Just then he looked ready to fight. I grabbed a fire salamander scale from my pocket, and drew on the magic of cursing, and threw a curse at him.

He staggered, which I found amusing, as it was only supposed to be a truth spell. When I found myself telling him that I was amused because it was only a truth spell, I realized my mistake. The salamander scale was too powerful a reagent. I’d cursed myself as well, and probably everyone in the vicinity, and now we were all eager to tell each other everything that came to mind.

Meyer was babbling something about a smuggling ring. I focused on him with a little difficulty.

“I don’t know who you are, but you shouldn’t be here,” he was insisting. “I’m needed at Marita’s place. I haven’t got time for this; I’m supposed to help her with the work.

“Work?” I repeated, confused. “Look, I just want to know where my friend is-”

“I don’t know you! I don’t know your friends, so I’m not going to play hide and seek with you. I have to go. Marita can curse people. I don’t want to be late. She gets mad when I’m late.”

“That’s not good. I’ve never fought another dealer in curses before,” I found myself commenting somewhat frantically. We were both backing away from each other. Meyer’s eyes showed the whites.

“You can curse, too? Oh, right, you said this was a truth spell. Aagh!” he cried, slamming a fist against the counter. “Shut up! I can’t stop telling you everything!”

“Look, just tell me where Angie is, and then . . .” I caught myself. I had almost said, “and then I’ll curse you and go find her.” Damn truth spell. “How am I going to reverse this?” I wondered aloud.

“Angie?” Meyer repeated. “Who is that?”

I supplied a description without thinking. “Girl, looks maybe fourteen, long golden hair, weredragon – I mean, oh crud.”

His eyes narrowed with an evil light. “A weredragon? I think I like this truth spell. She’ll be worth even more that way. I was just going to sell her as a halfie, but a weredragon . . . that’s got to be valuable.”

“Sell?” I asked blankly.

He blinked at me, calmer now. “Halfie children bring a lot of money in. Sweet little trophy wives back in the World need cute pets to love. Halfies are just exotic enough to corner the market. I can make serious dough on the brats.”

Why was he just telling me this? I felt sick. Stick to business, Viz, I reminded myself. “Where’s Angie?”

“Hammel’s basement,” he said, face twisted angrily. He was trying to hold back information, but it wasn’t working.

“Where is that?”

He told me, giving a street behind the Lodge of Foxes. Then he grimaced and shuddered. He was fighting the curse. Experience gave me empathy, but not that much. I tried to think what to do.

Meyer turned to stare at me. “Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for Angie,” I managed, struggling not to answer more completely.

“No, you said something about fighting Marita. What did you mean? Why are you really here in my store?”

Crud. The answers came, drawn out of me like breaths. “I’ve been hired to lay curses upon you and your partner, to do grievous vengeance in the name of another.”

He smiled, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

Suddenly, he was charging across the room toward me, knife from out of nowhere in his hand. Someone was screaming, and I wasn’t sure who. I ducked and rolled, sliding under a table and crashing into a display case. Glass rained down on me as I fumbled in my pockets for something, anything.

Meyer leapt onto the table, gesturing with the knife. It was huge, and in very good condition.

My hand closed on the oleander honey. I yanked it out of my pocket, uncorked it, and tossed the viscous contents in his face, pulling hard on the curse magic at the same time.

Meyer screeched, his hands going to his face as the knife clattered to the floor. He fell backward, the table crashing over on top of him.

Shakily, I rose to my feet and brushed bits of glass out of my hair and clothing. Meyer was mewling when I summoned the courage to walk over to him. His hands no longer covered his face. When he turned his face in my direction, I saw his eyes.

They were without pupils, clouded over in the classic sign of blindness.

I ran out the door, heading for the Lodgefollow Street and Angie.

Most cities swim gently into night in the way that leaves fall from trees and pass gently along in the stream, quietly making their journey to the great oceans. In the Realm, anyway. I’ve never seen the World; the closest I ever came was my sojourn in the Nevernever, when I found Angie, so I cannot speak for the cities in the human lands. Bordertown, however, does not slip gently away into the darkness. It throws a temper tantrum. Violence, explosive colors, burning hatred and spoiled children make themselves known. And of course, everyone else has a party. Sometimes I think the party has been going on for so long that there are only guests left, that the hosts have gone somewhere else. To the great Blueberry in the sky, perhaps.

Hammel’s basement was apparently under an abandoned house on Lodgefollow Street, a grey and straw-colored affair with sagging corners and bare iron supports showing in places where the concrete had crumbled. It did not look altogether stable. Broken glass littered the ground in front where something had been tossed out the second-story window and then dragged away. No lights on inside, and the nearest functioning streetlight was at the corner, some tens of yards away. The place looked positively cheerful. And Angie was in there. I bit my lip. I did not want to enter. I did not want to go anywhere near a woman who could throw curses, who was known for her ability to curse. In the years before my banishment, I had met only one other dealer in curses, and that meeting had left me with the shakes for months, just from talking to the fellow. Most people I knew were rightly afraid of those who could curse. Privately, I admitted I was not one of the scary ones. It was my talent, but not my choice. I did not enjoy my work, but one had to make a living.

I was stalling. The front door was missing. My stake-out spot behind a dying elm tree was conveniently far from the door. I strained my ears for sounds, and heard only crickets, and somewhere a party or a club. Hot Chinese food wafted on the wind, and I was still stalling.

Fine. I put one foot in front of the other, and made my way to the door.

Inside was darkness and little clouds of dust. Hammel must not have used this way as an entrance. I made a mental note to watch out for other entrances, and felt my way silently to the kitchen. Moonlight sprinkled in the window to reveal a back door and a closed door near where a refrigerator had once stood. In the dimness, I could make out mud tracks by the back door. Hammel’s entrance.

I put my hand on the other door to ease it open when I heard voices, coming from below.

It was Phelps, the man who had hired me.

“I don’t know where he is, either!” Phelps spat.

The cool, sweet voice of Marita Hammel cut in curtly, “Well, find him, then. I don’t have time for this. We need to get this shipment loaded before the night ends.”

“Why do I have to find him? Can’t you just, you know, throw a curse or something?” Phelps whined.

“A curse? You’re a fool, Phelps, and Meyer’s a worse one for hiring you back again. I would have to design a curse specifically for that. Should I test it on you?” she asked sweetly.

There was a pause.

“Fine. Fine, just be that way. You want me to find Meyers or to get the truck?”

“Forget him. We don’t have time. Get the truck; we’ll start loading the kids.”

Phelps was coming up the basement stairs. Frantic, I ducked back the way I had come, toward the front door and out of sight. I listened as Phelps banged out the back door, muttering to himself. So. It appeared I was no longer employed. Yet Phelps had not contacted me to cancel the contract. Either he had forgotten it, or he still felt a little inconvenience in his colleagues’ lives would brighten his day. Either way I was annoyed with him.

Once I was certain Phelps was gone to get the truck, I ducked back into the kitchen and peeked into the basement. Marita was standing in front of ten or so children, all sitting on the floor. She had a pocket watch in her hand, and was examining it, her back to me. The kids seemed unnaturally still in the darkness. Holding my breath, I slipped down the stairs to kneel behind a moving crate. My back was to the stairs, which was bad, but Hammel couldn’t see me, and with luck, I could grab Angie and go.

Then I took a closer look at the children sitting in front of Hammel. Ten halfie kids and Angie sat there, still as statues. They were statues.

She’d turned them to stone.

For a moment, I just knelt there, stunned. It was a powerful curse. And she’d cast it on children. One didn’t do that. It was one thing to attack adults, as evil as that was, but to turn children to stone-! Well, it wasn’t permanent. I froze. Maybe it was. I knew how to undo the curse, but to do it, I would have to find the string Hammel had used as the key. Untie the knot in the string, and the curse would be reversed. Where was the string?

Hammel was shaking the watch and muttering to herself. Apparently it wasn’t working. I had no sympathy. I glanced around the rest of the basement, hoping to spot a loose bit of string. The basement had a bare concrete floor, with water heater and other human contrivances packed into the far corner. Water stains spread across the top of the walls in numerous places. Dead leaves had blown in where a window had broken. A piece of string could be hidden in many places, but I doubted Hammel would throw it away. So she had it, most likely.

Marita was looking in my direction, I noticed suddenly. Our eyes met, and something like fear went running through my veins. She raised her hands, preparing a curse. I ran for the stairs, thinking something along the lines of using the higher ground, when Phelps opened the door above me and we collided.

I felt the impact of the curse hit, off-center, as it smacked into Phelps. He went down, and the weight of him dragged me down with him. We tumbled down the stairs. Marita was shrieking in frustration in the distance and I think I was screaming as well. I found myself in a heap at the bottom, buried under Phelps. I struggled to my feet, one hand against the wall for balance and the other diving into my pocket for cursing material. Phelps sprawled on the ground, drooling and wide-eyed. A feeble- mind curse. And I had felt the impact, it had come so close to hitting me. Wildly I wondered if it really had missed.

My hand closed on the lion charms and the beggar root. The first was for courage and the second for reversal. It would do. I began to focus my power, shaping the curse. Phelps groaned underneath me. Hammel stalked toward me, bristling with anger, one hand reaching into her purse.

I threw the fear curse in a hurry, but not fast enough. Hammel pulled a fistful of nettles out of her purse and held them in the line of fire. The curse smacked into an invisible wall. Of course, the curse was invisible, too. It was just that I could sense it somehow. A moment later I was on the ground again, the lion charms and herbs vaporized.

The basement seemed to swell, the walls rising like waves and carrying the only door far, far away. Shadows loomed in every corner, and it seemed they were filled with hundreds of tiny, chittering beasts. I looked away, my heart pounding. Hammel was watching me, eyes narrowed, then nodded in satisfaction and turned away. Her head distorted before my eyes, growing monstrous and cruel, then back to her usual pleasant form. I couldn’t get enough air. I couldn’t move, but I knew I wanted more than anything to get out of that place.

Dimly I realized that the nettles must have been part of a reflection spell. She’d reflected my own curse back at me. It was more powerful than I expected, one calm part of my mind noticed while the rest of me writhed in terror at the foot of the stairs. I tried to think about rising and fighting some more, but my body wouldn’t move. Hammel was far, far better at cursing than I was. She was trained, educated, better prepared. What had I been thinking? I struggled for breath, feeling my throat swell up at the thought of all the unmentionable creatures that were undoubtedly lurking in the basement. It would be worse than impossible to attack Hammel now. I had lost the advantage of surprise. I was a failure. Angie was about to be condemned to a freakshow life, and I had destroyed my one chance to liberate her.

Defeat is agony. In the stories, when someone is defeated, they either gracefully bow out or they viciously backstab the victor. Either action seemed too much to ask of me just then. I would have dearly loved to do a little backstabbing. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t, something would go wrong and I’d be a worse failure and I might even get Angie killed. I didn’t dare look away, either, partly from fear that Hammel would do something else to me, and partly out of a need to at least witness this terrible moment. Indecision rose in my heart and warred with cold dread.

Hammel brought a handcart around to the stone forms of the children, and tipped one of them onto it. It was one of the younger ones, a half human, half Trueblood toddler with soft curls about her ears. She was pale stone all over, a kind of spidery marble of sorts, so it was anyone’s guess what colors her hair and skin and clothing had been. Hammel wheeled her over to the foot of the stairs, near the mindless body of Phelps, and my own shattered self. She neatly stepped over us and went upstairs to check on the truck, leaving the cart.

Now, I thought to myself. Now would be an excellent time to jump up and find that string to undo the curse. Except that the string was with Hammel. The shadows seemed to leap around whenever I glanced at them out of the corner of my eyes. There were things in them, dangerous things that would attack me if I moved at all. I could feel chilled sweat running down my back and I shuddered hopelessly, sobbing to myself.

Faintly I thought I heard a whisper. I paused, trying not to sniffle like the drooling shell beside me. No, it was just my imagination. I was going mad. Why not? It wasn’t as if there was any reason left to cling to sanity.

The image of a golden dragon beating sail-like wings against the sky filled my mind. I had never seen Angie fly in dragon form. When I had found her, she’d been too weak and too young to even hop a few feet off the ground, too weak to change back to her human form. If not for the gold I’d found for her, she’d never have been able to shift and sneak out through the tiny tunnels of Rantrinaedras’ lair. This was it. If I lost her now, I’d never see her again. I steeled myself for Hammel’s return. Ignoring the skittering shadows, the eerie silence of the statues, and any other horrors my mind spun into creation for me, I eased the apple skins out of my pocket. On reflection, I added a fire salamander scale to the handful. I was going to need more power. Carefully, slowly, I built the power I would need for the curse. I added each twining bit of magic as delicately as possible, both to create a safer curse that couldn’t be reflected, and to avoid alerting Hammel. I could sense curses within my vicinity; it was likely she could as well. As I worked, I listened for footsteps. If she returned too soon, I wouldn’t be ready and that would be the end of it.

Once, I felt something warm like blood dripping down the wall above me, seeping into my hair. It was all I could do to hold still and concentrate on the curse. Everything in me screamed to run, to escape, and to get away from whatever vile thing was above me on the ceiling. I did not look up.

Then Hammel was at the door, propping it open and muttering to herself about the difficulty of the handcart wheels on the stairs. I was out of time. I threw the curse, tossing the apple skins and the scale in a clumsy underhand throw. The force of the curse threw Hammel back, slamming the door open. I heard her crash into something in the kitchen. The fear began to dissipate, draining away like so much cold water. I lurched to my feet and ran up the stairs.

In the kitchen, Hammel sprawled on the floor. Or, what had been Hammel. Her body was melting, elongating, her skin changing to a strange, smooth grey. When she saw me, she struggled to rise, wailing, her hands reaching out to me. I stood in the doorway and watched impassively. Slowly, painfully, her arms stretched upward toward the windows, where moonlight poured in, and her feet dug like roots into the kitchen floor, lifting up the tiles to reach underneath. Her face disappeared and more branches grew out to form a tree. It grew silently, once her mouth vanished, with only the slightest creaking noises, as of wind between the branches. Tiny green buds sprouted on the smooth grey branches and opened into leaves. Here and there the beginnings of apple blossoms appeared, then bloomed, and withered, leaving swelling apples to grow. The tree continued to form itself until it filled the windows, its slender, graceful trunk leaning against the counter. An apple tree, at its midsummer growth.

When the tree ceased to expand, I took a step toward it. Hammel’s clothing hung from the branches, stretched to tearing in places, and loose in others. In the front pocket of her flowered skirt, which was ironically strewn with the remains of real flowers, I found a small bit of lavender ribbon. It had one knot in it.

Curious, I thought dispassionately. I would have used multiple knots, so that I could change them back individually. I went back to the basement, and halfway down the stairs, I found myself wondering why the curse she’d thrown at me had broken when the curse on the children was clearly still in place. The halfie toddler was still at the foot of the stairs, on the handcart. Her expression was one of gentle surprise. I mulled it over for a moment. The curse she’d reflected back at me had been one of my own doing, and it had been constructed in a hurry. I knew from experience that curses cast hastily did not hold up as well, and sometimes did not even function correctly. Humph. My own shoddy workmanship had saved me from dying of fear.

I took the ribbon, and loosened the knot. She’d pulled it fairly tight, but it was loose enough that it was obvious she had meant to untie it at some point. I worked at it for a moment or two, and then it was undone.

I looked out at the children, and they were all moving, slowly and sluggishly, but definitely alive. They were so much more colorful now. I’d never paid much attention to halfblood children. The prohibition against their existence was drilled into every Trueblood, which almost gave me a reason to support them. And yet, indoctrination was difficult to set aside. It was too complicated for me just then. Angie was the first to notice me, and she ran over, awkwardly, as if her legs had gone to sleep. “Viz! You’re here! What happened to the – oh.” She stopped short when she saw Phelps. “There were three of them, Viz. Did–”

“I know, I know, they’re all gone. They can’t do anything to you anymore.” I interrupted softly.

Angie took a trembling step forward. “I’m sorry, Viz. I meant to get your curse material and then leave. I didn’t realize he was going to . . . going to . . .” she quavered.

I nodded stiffly. “It’s quite all right, my dear. Everything worked out in the end.” I wasn’t quite sure how to put into words my own apology for involving her. I would have to make it up to her somehow.

For a Trueblood, that would have been enough. But Angie was not a Trueblood. She closed the distance between us and threw her slender arms around me in a desperate hug. I was startled. Ah, humans. Awkwardly, I patted her back.

I felt a soft clamp around my leg, and looked down to see the halfie toddler clutching me in her own hug. I blinked. She looked up at me, eyes as innocent and trusting as newborn kittens. Ye gods of flame and dust.

After a few moments of chaos, we managed to get everyone upstairs, past the apple tree, and outside. I didn’t bother to mention where the tree had come from. I think Angie guessed, though, because she glanced at it briefly, and then squeezed my hand.

By dawn, we had taken all but the toddler home. She wasn’t speaking, either from the trauma of being kidnapped and turned to stone, or from some arcane facet of childhood I wasn’t equipped to deal with on no sleep. I finally took her to the police station and dropped her off there, saying only that I had found her wandering with no parents to guard her. The Suits seemed to accept my story, although they wanted to hold me for questions. I was in no mood to be cooperative, especially when there were Truebloods in authority there who might recognize my exiled person. I slipped out with an invisibility spell, and headed home.

Angie was already there, sound asleep on the couch in the living room, her golden hair spilling around her shoulders. I paused by my armchair.

Without stirring, she murmured, “Thanks.”

I whispered, “I’m sorry.” For not getting the gold this time, for endangering her life, for nearly failing her when she needed me most. For a thousand things I could not speak, even in the dreamlike time of early morning.

The only response was the sound of gentle, even breathing. My ward had drifted into deeper dreams.

Paintball Angel used without permission from Kfxposure.

Snippets from the Border

2009-07-23T06:35:00.001-04:00

I was down at my local farmers market a couple of weeks ago and there was this girl selling poems. Give her a topic and an amount and she'd write a poem. I wish that my budget hadn't already been spent on squash blossoms and goat cheese or I'd have asked for a $5 poem about cooking that ended with the words 'never never'.

Maybe she'll be there next time I go back.

In other Border related subjects, I recently took a listen to the Bordertown Waltz written by Gina Donahue and performed by the Configurations. Very fun and now a song on my Bordertown playlist.

A brief timeout for a geeky Fangirl Moment

2009-07-18T13:25:00.004-04:00

Keep your Stephanie Meyers, says I!

Ellen Kushner - one of the authors Mockery - wished me - ME - a happy birthday. I'm sure she was hoping that the anonymous post I left on her LiveJournal was from someone far cooler, but hey, it's my little thrill for the afternoon.

Music from the Border

2009-07-18T10:01:00.001-04:00

As fans of the series know, music plays a huge part in Bordertown culture. Some of the bands mentioned in the books are fictional, but some of them - like Cats Laughing - are real, if no longer together.

On a couple of occasions, the various Bordertown authors were kind enough to publish lists of bands that inspired their work and would be right at home in the clubs of Soho.

Finder -
Richard Thompson, specifically Rumor and Sigh
Bards of a Feather - Homeward Way
Danny Carnahan and Robin Petrie - No Regrets
Boiled In Lead - Orb
David Lindley - El Rayo X
Flash Girls - Return of Pansy Smith and Violet Jones

Life on the Border -
Accordions Go Crazy
Blowzabella
Boiled In Lead
Dead Can Dance
The Horseflies
Not Drowning, Waving
Rare Air
Savuka
Alan Stivell
Three Mustaphas Three
The Waterboys

Beeswing by Richard Thompson is getting a lot of play on my iPod Bordertown mix right now. This song about the one who got away always makes me think of Hale and Linny from my all-time favorite story ever (no, I really mean EVER), Mockery.

The cool thing about the Border is that it is different things to different people. My current Bordertown playlist includes:

Dead Can Dance - Toward the Within
The Waterboys - Fisherman's Blues
Afro Celt Sound System - Vol. 2 Release
The Pogues - Rum, Sodomy and the Lash
Fleetwood Mac - Fleetwood Mac
Richard Thompson - Action Packed
Loreena McKennitt - Book of Secrets
The Smithereens - 11
Tori Amos - Under The Pink
Sinead O'Connor - The Lion and The Cobra
Ani DiFranco - Not A Pretty Girl
Dropkick Murphys - The Warrior's Code
Peter Gabriel - Shaking The Tree: 16 Golden Greats

Will Shetterly's Nevernever

2009-07-15T14:49:00.001-04:00

Didn't get enough Wolfboy with yesterday's Google Book? Here's an excerpt from the second book in this story, Nevernever.

Will Shetterly's Elsewhere - a preview

2009-07-13T08:08:00.000-04:00

Still more great stuff mined from the Google Books servers. Today is another of the crown jewels of Bordertown stories - Will Shetterly's Elsewhere. Like Emma Bull's Finder, this tale of Ron-Who-Becomes-Wolfboy is simply marvelous.

And the choir of punk rock angels sang "HELL YEAH!"

2009-07-11T09:57:00.000-04:00

Too good to be true or a phenomenal birthday gift just for me? I prefer the latter, thank you. I just noticed that back on the 7th, Terri Windling mentioned that there is hot news about a new Borderland anthology called Welcome to Bordertown. We may have to wait until 2011 but what's one more year in the time we've been forced to wait so far.

My heart leaps like gazelle at this news.

Check out Ellen Kushner's Live Journal for more details about the project as well as notes from co-editor Holly Black.

And there was much rejoicing.

Photo used without permission from Kfxposure.

Limited preview of Emma Bull's Finder

2009-07-09T07:56:00.000-04:00

Google books to the rescue again. This time, with one of my favorites - Finder. Of course, Emma Bull broke my heart with this story and I haven't quite forgiven her yet. There are enough pages here to get a good look at Bordertown and two of its most interesting inhabitants

More Bordertown Books Online

2009-07-06T10:24:00.000-04:00

A search of Google Books has turned up most of The Essential Bordertown - the last of the Bordertown anthologies. It's not my favorite of all of the series, but if you want a good look at the Border and can't afford the books, give this a read.

Just remember, the stories only get better from here.

Bordertown Books Online

2009-07-04T19:49:00.001-04:00

Google books is kind of a cool thing. It allows stories that might otherwise be lost to time to live on and give new readers a chance to experience their magic. The story Charis by Ellen Kushner is available from the book New Magics: An Anthology. If you've new to Bordertown, this is one of the stories from the book Borderland. Enjoy.

The Bordertown world

2009-07-01T07:06:00.000-04:00

The folks at The Yellow Brick Road did a wonderful job of creating a "map" of Bordertown locations. Just remember, like the Nevernever, Bordertown can change without notice. Your experience may vary depending on your expectations.

The World
When the Realm appeared (or re-appeared, if you believe the folklore) in the late 20th century, it threw pretty much everybody for a loop and divided recent history into "pre-Change" and "Now." Once the Border appeared, any city out in the World—be it New York, Chicago, Berlin, Beijing, you name it—became a gateway to Bordertown. Someone just has to want to find it bad enough and poof!, he or she discovers they're on the yellow brick road to Oz. Truebloods call the World "The False Lands." Soho is jam-packed with runaways from the World, and every once in a while, an act from B-town will make it big back in the World. Most folks who go to Bordertown either return to the World during the first year, or never again. And most B-town folks who head out into the World are never heard from again.

The Border
The Border which divides the World from the Realm appears like a shimmering curtain. Humans can't cross it (well, ostensibly. If a shape-changed human crosses and is caught, he or she will at best pay for it with their sight; at worst, their life). Elves can't cross it, except through the Gates. Anyone who tries to "jump" the Border is pretty much dusted. The lands along the border are, quite sensibly, called "The Borderlands" which include Bordertown, and the patch of wild between the Border and the city called "Nevernever." There's a two-car steam train which runs from Nevernever to Bordertown, and you need a ticket to ride, or your butt will get tossed off. The Border messes with both magic and technology, rendering both inoperable 50% of the time, and forcing residents of Bordertown to get... creative. Most usable tech can be powered using spell-boxes, though these can fail somewhat spectacularly, so backing them up with a working motor is sound advice (especially if the tech in question is a motorcycle, for example). Cameras don't work the way they're meant to, and forget your CDs, and invest in a seedy box, if you want to listen to tunes. It makes for a curious existence, but people manage.

The Realm
What humans call Elfland and Faerie, Truebloods refer to as The One True Realm. Truebloods rarely speak of it, and most of the Truebloods in Bordertown who arrive there from the Realm are either exiles, runaways, or there on business or pleasure. Time passes differently there. The main gate (and most heavily guarded) which connects the Realm to the Border is Elfhaeme Gate.

The Nevernever
Nevernever is a stretch of wild between the Border and Bordertown. Truly magic mushrooms grow there, and wild elves roam there, and it's probably not too safe to be there, unless you've got some major mojo, or your own set of claws and fangs.

Bordertown
A human city all but abandoned after the Change, it's been repopulated by humans, elves, and halfies, several generations of whom live in various sections of the city.

Soho (Old City)
Soho, i.e. "South of Ho Street" is pretty much given over completely to kids, and is carved into various territories by the Bloods (an elf gang), the Pack (human gang), Rune Lords (halfling gang) and Rats (human kids addicted to water from the Mad River). The cops (i.e. the Silver Suits) generally won't come to Soho for anything less than murder, so it's up to the inhabitants to police themselves which, for the most part, they do.

Ho Street
The Northern boundary of Soho (i.e. "South of Ho Street"). Neutral territory. Landmarks include:
The Oberon Building - Runaway central.

The Puck Building - home of Oberon House, which is best avoided by humans, as within Elves coax stories out of human children lured there (and is little more than a brothel in many ways)

The Poop - is a squatter's advisory network run out of a wheel-less van permanently parked on Ho by Café Cubana. The Poop has bulletin boards with adverts for squats looking for squatters, squatters looking for squats, maps of the neighbourhoods, up to date gang boundaries, warfare information, and treaties, mail service, free condoms, stale doughnuts, tea, and gossip. The Poop is run by Pony Express.

Danceland - (Ho and Third). The Factor is older, the Dancing Ferret is trendier, and the Wheat Sheaf is more exclusive. But Danceland has a certain kind of magic to be found namely in the company one keeps there. Run by Dancer. The Terrible Trio (Strider, Sai, and Goldy) work as bouncers there, and Valda is one of the waitresses. Features dance concerts in the main room every Sunday night, ranging from traditional elvish court dancing, to elvish-human modern dance, to "glam-dance" troupes.

Contraband Books - (Ho and Third, behind Danceland) has elvin sculpture in the courtyard.
The Wheat Sheaf - (far east Ho, beside the Old Town Wall)

Taco Hell - Cheap, pleasant, all races welcome, and their Meltdown Burrito is infamous.

Café Cubana - A tea room run by the inimitable Screaming Lord Neville. A chalkboard lists the current performances of the Squatter's Theatre, including (occasionally profane) reviews.

Hell's Kitchen - Theme restaurant, with the theme being damnation (and spicy, spicy food). It's also considered a bit of a Yeppie (Young Elvin Professional) spot.

Miruvor's - Elvin take-out. Bad elvin take-out.

Ozeki - The sole Japanese restaurant on Ho street. Well know for its excellent sushi and sashimi prepared by a Trueblood sushi chef called "Gojira".

Hard Luck Café - Originally a bank, now an all night greasy spoon across the street from Danceland, next door to Snappin' Wizards. The Stone Soup of the Day is listed on a chalkboard, and not to be missed. The last Thursday of every month is Open Mike night

Snappin' Wizards Surplus and Salvage; - Across the street from Danceland, next door to the Hard Luck. Where you can get "More Bang for the Buck. More Spell For The Silver."

The Lost Sequoia - A cut above dive local, populated mainly by working class humans.

The House of the Onion - (Ho and Ginger) Where Trueblood exiles and highborns from the Realm can find refuge.

Chrystobel Street
Northernmost boundary of Pack territory. Landmarks include:
The Electra Lightworks Building - Pack headquarters

The Chrystobel Street Transit Station - one of Bordertown's oldest clubs, located at Chrystobel and Old Bleak Court

The Factory - The oldest rock n' roll club in the city. Humans only. Horn Dance won't play there any longer, after George wouldn't allow halfie Manda Woodsdatter to play with the band.

Carnival Street
Neutral territory between Mock Ave. and Stone. Landmarks include:
The Dancing Ferret - The oldest dive of a club in town, and traditionally the first stop on every green newbie's tour. Farrel Din, the portly Trueblood owner, gives a free beer to every greenie. Serves the best burger in town. Once the hottest club in town, now it is the traditional venue for bands about the break. The back room is often used as gallery space, and hosted the first ground-breaking Mock Ave. show. Liza Malone and Laura work there.
Magic Lantern - B-town's only movie palace, for very good reason, as characters have a habit of escaping their celluloid confines, if too my fairy dust gets into the projection equipment. Run by movie-buff O'Malley and his niece, Pickwick.

Carnival Place
Rune Lords territory. Landmarks include:
The Branch Library of Alexandria

Café Breve

Mock Avenue
Landmarks include:
Mock Avenue Church - topped by the Mock Avenue Bell, which never rings the actual hour. If it does, the gargoyle atop the Church would be free. Headquarters of Patrick Hale, Ash Bieucannon, and the Move Ave. School of painters.

José Gutierrez Gallery (Mock & Carnival) - Once a store, now the most important exhibition space in Soho. If someone wants to make it as an artist in Bordertown, the goal is to hang in José's.

Wu's Worldly Emporium - a market run by Madame Wu (one of B-town's doctors, and a fortune-teller whose fortunes always come true)

Elsewhere - Bookstore originally owned by Mickey. Sai, Goldy, and Wolfboy worked there.

Hell Street
Runs North to South, from Hell's Gate (closest to the World). The area is mainly trailer parks and old homes. Landmarks include:
O'Donovans - Next to Hell's gate. Has Guinness on tap, and hosts a Session.

Tumbledown Park - Near Hell's Gate. Skater's heaven, with pipes and ramps that make it a favourite hangout of the Bogans and the Khandromas.

Digger House
Locted in Soho, the Diggers provide a place to crash for all races, and help addicts kick their habits.

Stone
Caliente! - (Stone and La Llorona Place, in the old Rio Grande Hotel).

Vates - Elvin restaurant, which serves mostly Elvin variations on pizza.

Carmine
Digger Free House
Carmine Street Drums

Plum
Digger Free House (Bard circle held on the porch)

First Street
Milo Chevrolet, one of B-town's best magicians, has taken over a used car lot located at the corner of First St. and First Ave. where he dispenses both magic and medicine.

Puck
Runs parallel to Ho. Landmarks include:
Godmom's (Puck & Second) - Neutral territory, and home of the best pizza and cheesecake in town. Run by the eponymous Godmom, it features cosy decor including sofas, red-checked tablecloths, and a free wish with every meal.

Planet Kolob - Dance club.

The Eighth Street Cafe - (Corner of Eight and Puck) All of the food seems to have been prepared to look perfect based on photographs of real food, but no one seems to know how anything ought to taste.

Oshun Way
Runs perpendicular to Ho. Café Cubana is located at the corner of Ho and Oshun.

Third
Runs perpendicular to Ho. Danceland is located at the corner of Ho and Third.

Ison Street
Landmarks include:
Chaz'N'Chang's - Where to find tofu teriyaki and fiddleheads.

Ginger Street
Runs perpendicular to Ho. Ginger Street is the boundary of Blood territory.

Birch Street
Landmarks include:
Birch Street Bar & Grill - A Blood handout.

Magpie Place
Headquarters of the Bards, a gang of storytellers who escaped from Oberon House.

Lower Down
PS 101 - Old public school located at Lower Down and Bleak, home to a women-only Health and Community Center.

Bleak
Runs perpendicular to Lower Down.

Troll Lane
Landmarks include:
Club Kooeykooeykooey - Relocates every now and then, apparently having something to do with the Great Bear Cult's rendition of "Waka Waka Stomp."

Red Rowan Lane
The Cairn Palace - A huge house turned into a dance club. Hosts bands such as The Void Boys, and Wheels of If.

Bloated Fish Lane
Wholesale Closeout Outlet - A favourite hangout for morris dancers and folk musicians. The folk group Sandie's Bairnes perform their nightly.
Tintown
Home to hobos and runaways. The Diggers had a free flophouse in Tintown, which was burned down by Ysa Cran and Corwyn, trying to shut the Diggers down and keep them from helping kids kick their drug habits.

Dogtown
Old freight yards turned into a dump located out past Tintown, where rats, packs of wild dogs, and a few lone hobos live.

Litle Earth
Home of the Thunderbirds, a Native American gang. Located on baseball field between the city wall and the Factory, Little Earth is the Native American is a collection of tipis, trailers, tents, shacks, and a cottonwood grove. Natives can always find a bed and a meal at Little Earth, but it's closed to outsiders. Electrik Hawk has the easternmost tipi, and is a healer. Has community bonfires where the Bards are allowed to storytell.

Trader's Heaven
Once a Wordly shopping centre, this crowded indoor/outdoor market is now where everyone comes to buy and barter all manner of goods and services.

Fare-You-Well Park

Endless Rave - A dance party that never ends. Hundreds of dancers of all aces can be found here, dancing to music from everything from seedy boxes to drumming circles.
Tent City
Stoned Soup Kitchen and Herbal Pleasures - Where you can find Juju Daddy

Scandal District
The red Light District. Rents are cheap, so lots of folks live here who aren't in the Trade. landmarks include:

TheHot Club - an exotic dance club in the Scandal district. Sarah and Lolly Dove dance there.
The Body Shop - (Brews street) A gym and headquaretrs of Alison Gross, a witch who buys full-blood human or Trueblood children.

Dragontown (New Asia) Sandwiched between the Scandal District and Soho, the Asian district is a rabbit warren of narrow streets and alleys, patrolled by the local gang called the Dragons. Also home to the Tongs and Yakuza. There's magic here that even the Truebloods have learned to respect and avoid. Full of martial arts studios, tea houses, and noodle shops. Landmarks include:

Koga Sensei's dojo
The Phoenix - Best Chinese food in Bordertown
Lhasa Tea House - A Tibetan restaurant where Deki and the Khandromas hang out

El Barrio
Latino neighbourhood. Scorpion territory.

La Llorona Place

Dragon's Tooth Hill (Uptown)
This is where the rich folks live. Humans, in mansions, and elves in crystal palaces. It's the glass ceiling of Bordertown. It has its own gang, Dragon Fire, but they're mostly poseurs.

Little Tooth
Jamican neighbourhood above the Hill, right up against the Border.

Elftown
A working-class Trueblood neighbourhood, officially known as Fare-You-Well Park (not to be confused with the actual park).

Gryphon Park
Between Dragon's Tooth Hill and the Scandal District, borders the Business District Filled with enchanted fountains and fantastic statues. Hosts free music concerts May through October.

Pleasant Gardens
A suburb of Bordertown. Patrick Hale and Linnea Dark Garnett are both from Pleasant Gardens.

Mad River
Also called "The Big Bloody" the red river runs from the Realm down through Bordertown. The water is harmless to Truebloods, but addictive to humans. River water addicts are called Wharf Rats. Closest to the Border, the banks of the river are home to galleries, posh restaurants and trendy shops, and the old city Art Museum. At the end of the Promenade, below Dragon's Claw Bridge, it gets decidedly seedier.

Dwight's Dock
This abandoned amusement park is prime Wharf Rat territory.

Riverside
Where the boats come in. Populated mainly by Fisher Folk. Landmarks include:

Fish and Farms's Market - An outdoor market almost as crowded as Trader's Heaven.

Letterville
Landmarks include:

Tatterstock - Where ragpickers drop off loads of clothes, which are sorted, washed, repaired, and re-sold.
Ground Zero Café - (Avenue A) Coffee shop with live jazz.

Gang Warfare Neutral Zones:

Ho Street
Carnival Street between Mock Avenue and Stone
Water Street up to Canal

Photos are for illustration purposes only and are not meant to depict actual places in Bordertown. All photos used without permission. Fish Dock, Grimsby, Lincolnshire from National Maritime Museum. Kyoto Alley from mo0nl4nder. Marrakech Souk from 71 miles . Used Car Lot from Lli Wilburn. Old Movie Theater on Broadway and Rodney from The Williamsburg Nerd. London's Soho from Why Go London. Times Square from FreeFoto.

Regarding the creation of the Borderlands

2009-06-30T06:38:00.000-04:00

By Terri Windling

Back in the "leather and lace" Eighties (when Blondie, the Eurythmics, Culture Club, Cyndi Lauper and Prince were all struttin' their stuff on the newly created MTV), I was the Fantasy Editor for a publishing company in New York City. It was great time to be young and foot-loose on the streets of Manhattan--punk and folk music was in abundance; music videos weren't yet commercial and slick; and the Eighties sense of style meant I could wear my scruffy black leather right into the office without turning too many corporate heads. The fantasy field was growing by leaps and bounds, and I was delighted to be a part of it, working with the stories and novels of a talented group of new writers--Ellen Kushner, Charles de Lint, Emma Bull, Will Shetterly and Midori Snyder among them.

In addition to my regular editorial gig (at Ace Books), I was also doing some consulting work for New American Library at the time. One day the publisher of NAL expressed an interest in the new phenomenon of "shared-world" fantasy anthologies (pioneered by Robert Linn Asprin, creator of *Thieves' World*.) NAL commissioned me to create a shared-world anthology for teenage readers. I asked them if I might bring Mark Alan Arnold into the project--and they glady agreed, since he and I had just won the World Fantasy Award for our work as an editorial team. (The award was for an anthology called *Elsewhere*--not to be confused with the novel of that name Will Shetterly published some years later. The anthology, by the way, was named after a bookstore Mark used to own in Ohio. It seems fitting that a ghost of that store eventually found its way to Bordertown.)

I was torn between two ideas for the setting of this new series: creating a town in a border region between the human world and the faery world (an idea influenced by the recent re-reading of Lord Dunsany's *The King of Elfland's Daughter*) and something more modern and urban, reflecting the style, the buzz, the flash of Eighties music and street culture. Mark egged me on to suggest to NAL that these two ideas could actually be put together--wacky as that seemed at the time. I wanted a setting in which I could delve into my own experience of being a teenager--for I'd once been a runaway kid, and spent time homeless on the streets--thus a modern yet magical city would be the perfect background for the kind of tales I had in mind. It wasn't exactly what NAL had bargained for when they first asked me to create "Thieves' World for kids" -- but they were an open-minded bunch and gave me the go-ahead. Then it was time to sit down, grit my teeth, and confront the demons of my youth--the Bad Old Days of life on the streets. I had pushed those memories far into the past, but I knew I was going to need them now--those youthful emotions, fears and dreams all needed to be part of Bordertown, or else the book was just going to be a slick gimmick, riding the Thieves' World train.

The wheels of publishing can turn quite slowly, and when, much later, it was time to take all those amorphous ideas and turn them into something real, several life changes had occurred with an impact on Borderland. Mark and I had joined a short-lived "book packaging" company called Armadillo Press, bringing the Borderland deal with us (Mark and Armadillo gave Borderland back to me when I subsequently left that company.) In addition, Mark and I had come to a cross-roads in our lives together--he went back to Ohio to live, and I moved into Ellen Kushner's rambling old apartment in Manhattan, feeling somewhat dazed at being single for the first time in a decade, and playing rather too much angst-ridden Bryan Ferry music on the stereo.

Now, I understand that every writer who has joined the Borderland project over the years has their *own* vision of Bordertown, largely influenced by the city where they live, were raised, or otherwise know best. But for me, Bordertown will always be a corner of Ellen Kushner's apartment, with the vibrant, punky New York City of the Eighties pulsing just beyond the front door...grafted onto older memories of sleeping in parks and alleyways back in the Bad OId Days...as well as of the colorfully squalid "squatting" scene I had known in London, England, where I'd been a college student short on cash and common sense.

Bordertown began to take shape beneath the pens of the original writers: Ellen Kushner, Charles de Lint, Midori Snyder, and myself (under the name Bellamy Bach). I wanted Ellen in Borderland for her wonderful prose and dazzling sense of style; Charles had once been a street kid like me, and was also a musician--perfect! Midori asked to join the group, which took me by surprise I confess, since I knew her only as the writer of a gentle fairy-tale-type novel. Then I discovered she too had an adolescence straight out of Borderland, and she soon drew a powerful story from that well of experience. Steven Boyett came into the book rather at the last minute (saving my bacon when a writer who lived abroad suddenly failed to deliver), adapting a story idea he'd already had into a Borderland piece. From the very beginning, Mark and I had wanted the cover art to be by Phil Hale--a young painter friend in Boston whose punky, distinctive and irreverent canvases we both adored. *Borderland* was completed, and published in 1986 with little fanfare. The sales were unexceptional; nonetheless NAL stood by their commitment to produce a second volume.

Book #2 (titled *Bordertown*) saw the addition of two new writers into the circle: Emma Bull and Will Shetterly. I had worked with both of them previously, editing their first novels, *War for the Oaks* and *Cats Have No Lord* respectively. And, just as importantly, I knew that each had excellent taste in music and motorbikes. () Charles was hard at work on a novel at the time, and Steven had dropped out of the project, but the rest of the original Borderland crew came back for the second volume. Phil Hale, who had moved to England, sent us another splendid cover painting--which was subsequently incorporated into the plot of "Mockery". The sales on this book were a little better, and an underground cult following was growing. A film company in Seattle contracted for Borderland media rights--introducing screen-writer Michael Korolenko to the circle.

With my departure from Armadillo Press, I moved the series from the Young Adult line at NAL to the Adult Fantasy line at Tor, where enthusiasm for these quirky little books has been unflagging. This change allowed us to reach a larger audience of readers of all ages, but the flavor of the books has not been changed: these are still stories focused on the lives of street children and teenagers, with all the joys and terrors that coming-of-age presents to us all. Book #3 (titled *Life on the Border*) widened the Borderland circle once more to include Kara Dalkey, Craig Shaw Gardner and Michael Korolenko alongside all the Usual Suspects. In addition, the input of Tor editor Patrick Nielsen-Hayden (and copy-editor Teresa Nielsen-Hayden) proved to be invaluable. It was Tor's decision to change the look of the series away from the Phil Hale covers--a decision (with all due respect to Tor, and the subsequent cover artists) I confess I still regret. Maybe I'm just sentimental, but to me Phil's art will always be a strong part of Bordertown.

Around this time, first Will, then Emma, conceived ideas for Borderland tales that couldn't be squeezed into short-story length. Through their agent Valerie Smith, we worked out a contractual deal allowing them to borrow the Borderland setting for works of novel length. Will wrote two moving Young Adult novels, *Elsewhere* and *Never-Never* (published by Jane Yolen Books/Harcourt Brace in hardcover, Tor Books in paperback.) Emma wrote the heart-breaking novel *Finder* (published in hardcover and paperback by Tor.) All three books made wonderful new additions to the Borderland cannon...and I'm pleased to say that we plan to present more Borderland novels in the future. (Midori Snyder, Delia Sherman and "Bellamy Bach" all have stories on the drawing board.)

The fourth Borderland anthology (*The Essential Bordertown: A Traveller's Guide to the Edge of Faery*, co-edited by Delia Sherman) was turned in to Tor in 1996--publication keeps getting delayed, but let's hope we'll see it out before too long. Tor is more interested in Borderland novels than anthologies (which are always difficult to sell), so it's possible this may be the last short story collection for a while. As a result, we wanted to make this collection something special, and I think we've done it: a *very fat* volume chock full of great new tales. The writers in the volume include Borderland regulars Ellen, Charles and Midori, plus Delia Sherman, Patricia A. McKillip, Steven Brust, Caroline Stevermer, Ellen Steiber, Felicity Savage, Michael Korolenko, and even a few new kids on the block, if only to keep the rest of us on our toes!

As for media rights, keep your fingers crossed...but don't hold your breath! Phil Lucas Productions (a Native American company in Seattle) first purchased the rights ten years ago, but was unable, despite heroic efforts, to raise the cash for production. The series was then bought by Lynda Guber Productions in Los Angeles, who signed a development deal with Sony Studios and NBC Television. A script was written, and Brian Froud was hired to create conceptual designs, but this deal too eventually languished...and the rights were subsequently picked up by Dananxi Studios. Another heroic effort ensued, but the bulk of Dananxi's resources were tied up with another, larger project (a film version of the Earthsea books). Currently, the rights are in the hands of an independent producer in New York, a terrific script has been written, and all we can do is wait and see what happens.

I must admit that when I wrote the first words of "Gray" over a decade ago ("She wakes in an alley and can't remember how she got there. There is blood under her fingernails..."), I never quite imagined Bordertown would still be so vividly alive to readers so many years later. Despite the fact that the books are damned hard to find, somehow they still seem to get around--the music's still playing, the bikes are still roaring, and a whole new generation is heading to the Dancing Ferret to claim a beer from Farrel Din. The various Borderland sites on the Net, role-playing, and events like this one, have allowed a sense of community to develop on a Border that is nationwide...which is especially pleasing since the books have always been about the creation of community. When I read the words of people (particularly young people) on the Bulletin Board, I am touched more than I can possibly express to discover that Borderland actually seems to have done what we all once hoped it would do: we hoped the tales would resonate with kids (and the "kid" within us all) during the dark and difficult passages of life, holding out the idea that community, friendship and creativity are potent forms of magic.

It is still, all these years later, difficult for me to think long about that devastating time when I was fifteen, homeless, hungry, and in need of a helluva lot more than adult platitudes to change my life. Books, friends, a love of art and music, stubborness and sheer dumb luck got me through it. All these things are ingredients in the basic stew of Borderland. Each writer who has entered the project has added their own ingredients to the stew, creating a taste beyond anything I could ever have dreamed of cooking up alone. To Ellen, Midori, Charles, and Steven who first braved the streets of Bordertown; to Will and Emma who subsequently explored those streets so thoroughly and so well; to each of the other talented writers who have contributed to Borderland to date, I owe great thanks. I only laid the cobbles; you're the ones who brought the streets to life.

And to the Borderland community (all you folks who are buying the books, passing them on, nagging bookstores to carry them) I owe the greatest thanks of all, for keeping it all going.

See you on the Border.

All artwork by Phil Hale and used without permission from various sources. Photo 1 from the cover of Borderland. Photo 2 from the cover of Bordertown. Photo 3 from Hellblazer: The Fear Machine. Photo 4 from Magic: The Gathering 1998 Calendar. Text by Terri Windling and taken without permission from Borderzone.com.

Terri Windling's Rules for Bordertown Fanfiction, Art and RPGs

2009-06-29T13:04:00.000-04:00

Terri Windling has been gracious enough to give her permission to those of us who want to play around in her town. Of course, there are rules. If you're interested in writing some fanfiction, drawing some Bordertown artwork, or putting together an RPG, here's what you need to know before you share it with the rest of us:

All Borderland fiction or artwork must carry the following notice:

"The Bordertown world was created by, and is copyrighted by, Terri Windling. The world, its landmarks and characters are used with her permission only. All rights to Borderland material are reserved by Ms. Windling and the authors of the Borderland books: Borderland, Bordertown, Life on the Border, The Essential Bordertown, Elsewhere, Nevernever, and Finder."

No characters from existing Borderland stories may be used without express permission from the authors of those stories. Ms. Windling hereby gives permission for the following characters to be used in noncommercial fan fiction: Farrel Din, Gray, Sammy, Wicker Leaf-and-Tree, Thorn Leaf-and-Tree, Will Hernandez.

The Borderland world may not be used in any commercial venture whatsoever, including any publication or event for which money is charged. Permission to use the world is granted for noncommercial fan fiction, art work and role-playing only.

All dramatic and gaming rights to the Borderland world, characters and stories are strictly reserved by Ms. Windling.

Should Borderland material commercially published or produced by Ms. Windling co-incidentally resemble characters, landmarks or stories created by fan writers and artists, these fan writers and artists will not be entitled to compensation.

Ms. Windling reserves the right to shut down Borderland fan fiction at any time should her lawyer advise her that her rights or the rights of the other commercially published Borderland authors are endangered in any way.

Anyone using the Borderland world for fan fiction, art or role-playing must read, agree to and abide by the provisions outlined herein.

Artwork used without permission from Sarah Ann Davies.

The Books

2009-06-28T10:45:00.000-04:00

Elsewhere
by Will Shetterly. Currently in print.

Bordertown lies halfway between the world of humans and the realm of Faerie. Here, elf and human gangs clash by night, magic works better than technology, and runaways like Ron show up with dreams of changing themselves into someone new.

Ron's come searching for something he thought he'd lost, but instead he finds all sorts of other things - a makeshift family of punk castaways; a friend in half-elf biker Mooner; and maybe true love in Mooner's beautiful - and dangerous - sister, Wiseguy.

Getting to Bordertown took Ron a bit of luck and magic. Surviving there will be another story altogether.

Nevernever
by Will Shetterly. Currently in print.

Like most teens, Ron is concerned with love, set and rock and roll, not necessarily in that order. But ever since a powerful spell was laid on him by a beautiful elf named Leda, Ron has been a wolfboy. And while rock and roll and even love are not beyond him, he wonders whether sex is.

Such thoughts seem all-consuming until one of his best friends, Strider, is framed for murder and another is kidnapped, and the Ron finally has a chance to get even with Leda - big time - by leaving her stranded in the magical countryside.

Growing up is hard enough in the human world. But - as Wolfboy finds out - it's even harder in the world of the Nevernever.

Finder
by Emma Bull. Currently out of print.

Welcome to Bordertown. A hybrid community of misfits, oddballs, and runaways. Where humans, elves and halflings co-exist. Where magic and the brutal realities of survival clash and mix. For Orient and Tick-Tick... it's just home.

Orient is a finder. A finder of lost things. His gift will come in handy. Human kids seeking wild thrills in the Nevernever are being lured into taking a new drug that morphs them into Truebloods. Except this is a one-way trip. The drug kills everyone who takes it.

It's up to Orient to find the killer.

The Anthologies

2009-06-27T14:44:00.000-04:00

Borderland
Published by Signet in 1986. Published by Tor 1992. Currently out of print.

The Borderlands: where humans and highborn Elves mix, on the streets of an American city transformed by the reappearance of the Border between Faerie and the human world.

Where neither elvin magic nor human machines reliably work, and ingenious improvisation is a way of life.

Where runaway teens seek otherworldly magic, and runaway else crave movies, motorcycles, and mirrorshades.

Where, in Soho, gangs clash, attitudes flash, music clubs shake, and on the dangerous streets the young of two worlds find a new way of life...

The Borderlands. Where magic meets rock & roll.

Bordertown
Published by Signet in 1986. Published by Tor in 1996. Currently out of print.

Bordertown. Once a normal American city, now a brilliantly dangerous nexus between the World and returned Elfland. From the banks of the addictive Mad River to the all-night clublands where young elves and humans fight and play... all the way up to glittering Dragon's Tooth Hill, where high society tries to seal itself away from the streets, this is no city to be trifled with.

Bordertown. A place of half-lit neighborhoods of hidden magic, of flamboyant artists and pagan motorcycle hangs. A hothouse laboratory for the return of magic to the life of the World—and the return of life to magic. The city you always knew was there, towards the lights in the distance, beyond the everyday shadows.

Bordertown. It's an attitude and a state of mind. It's elvin light and human sweat. It will never let you go.

Bordertown. Where magic meets rock & roll.

Life On The Border
Published by Tor in 1991. Currently out of print.

Dateline BORDERTOWN (Global News Service)—Like the runaways of so many previous generations, the youngsters who flock to Bordertown are lured by the glamour of the place. Much of this glamour is associated with the exotic segment of the local population whose origins lie on the other side of the Border. Tall, pale, with distinctive silver-white hair, they call themselves 'Truebloods.' Everyone else calls them elves.

A complex mercantile city with a rough frontier edge, Bordertown has dealt with its human and Elven runaway youth by giving them an entire section of the old city. Called Soho, it is policed by gangs of teenagers—some of whom promote inter-species hatred, some of whom fight for their own streetwise brand of tolerance and understanding.

What's startling about Soho is that in spite of gang violence and destitution, there's hope here as well as despair. The youth of Bordertown have their own street culture, music scene and unique attitude... full of energy and life and, yes, a bit of magic. Life on the Border isn't for the starry-eyed or the faint of heart—but for these kids, survival has become an art of its own.

The Essential Bordertown
Published by Tor in 1999. Currently in print.

Bordertown is the place where our world and the world of elves meet... but not just any kind of elves. These are hard-rocking, magic-flinging, motorcycle-riding elves who aren't entirely thrilled to be back in contact with lowly humans. Nevertheless, certain types of both elf and human are drawn to Bordertown, a place where magic and science coexist, and where neither works quite the way it's supposed to. Not everyone can find Bordertown, but those who do find it discover that it's a place where anything can happen, and where they can be anything they want to be. This collection of 13 stories continues the grand tradition of one of the most popular shared-world fantasy series of all time, and it also serves as an excellent introduction for anyone new to the border.

Perhaps it's fate...

2009-06-26T18:23:00.000-04:00

When I registered the name of this blog the visual security type word was haffee.

Why bother to create anything for a book series that will in all likelihood never see a new novel or anthology published? Because every now and again, the Border still calls to me and if Hogwarts can have seven movies and a gillion fan sites, Bordertown deserves someone to keep the way open.

I'm no Billy Buttons, but I'll do what I can.