Relia-robot

I'm now on Throne, where you can help me acquire books for the Friday Night History podcast, teaching aids for the Cleyera Podcast, and various art, streaming, and other sundry equipment I'm in need of. Thanks for your support!

An ambiguous object, dredged from dreams and never quite fully visible; blurry, inconstant, and naggingly fascinating.

Oh, that? I picked that up when I was dabbling in onierology. Not my finest work, I have to admit, but a pretty passable dream sample. I know it's tempting, but please don't touch it-

...

Okay, then. Where did I leave that book on rescuing someone from your own subconscious?

Anybody got paid writing venues for a gal with a journalistic, fiction-authoring, and academic (history) resume to pitch to?

Drop them in the replies if you got em. I know about freedomwithwriting dot com; it is not helping me.

My publication list, podcast appearances, and public lectures can be found here:

"Hey, baby," Wanda says. "You okay?"

Gemma makes a vague noise, prowling back in from the kitchen without the drink of water she'd mumbled about. Wanda looks at her over the top of her book, other arm stretched along the back of the couch, ready to curl back around her girlfriend.

"Restless?" Wanda says.

"No, I'm fine," Gemma says.

She can't sit still for more than a few minutes, increasingly vague and forgetful about what she's stalking around the house in search of. It happens in the runup to every moon, and she almost never manages to recognise it herself.

"Come and sit down," Wanda says, and Gemma sighs and slinks over, climbs awkwardly onto the couch to kneel on the cushions, and gently pins Wanda's arm down on the back with both hands held blunt-instrument flat.

She starts unselfconsciously licking the back of Wanda's hand.

"Baby," Wanda says, flexing her hand. "Baby, that tickles—" and Gemma freezes, staring at the arm under her face as she realises what she's doing.

"It's Tuesday," she says. "It's Tuesday, isn't it?"

"Baby, it's Thursday," Wanda says, and Gemma whines.

"I'm sorry," she says, body doing its best to telegraph canine contrition with physiology that currently doesn't quite cooperate, and Wanda puts her book aside and tugs on her until Gemma flops down with her head in Wanda's lap.

"Who's a good girl?" Wanda says, stroking her hair.

"That feels a little bit patronising," Gemma says glumly. "Also, I don't feel like a good girl. I feel like I'm not supposed to be on the furniture."

"Who's my best girl," Wanda amends, and Gemma heaves a huge sigh.

"Woof," she deadpans, grabs Wanda's hand, and gives it another lick.