Aynjel Kaye began life firmly rooted in Normal and has escaped. She is an angst-queen
in exile holding court in Seattle, WA where she is plotting to retake her throne. She may
or may not be a chocolate lover, a goth, a punk, and less harmless than she was before.
Aynjel is also a graduate of the y2k Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writer's workshop in East Lansing, Michigan, where she wrote and wrote and critiqued and wrote and learned why baby sea turtles are better than thirteen-year-olds (turtles don't ask difficult questions).
She has appeared on panels at Torcon and MileHicon talking about goths, vampires, sex, and whatever else might have come up.
Aynjel also dabbles in fine-art photography. You can see some of her work at dead flowers photography on this site.
You can read Aynjel Kaye's fiction in the following places:
Then Aaron would leave her alone in the room with its acoustic tiles on the walls
that drank song in eagerly. When he was gone, the feathers would fade back into her uncertain memories,
and she would forget to try their song aloud.
She only remembered the feathers at inconvenient times: when she was in a crowd too noisy to hear herself think and the feathers were only a whisper; or while she was rehearsing with the other singers, with props clunking around behind them and Aaron rearranging them on stage, or shouting at them to sing higher, or louder, or facing a different direction. Or she heard them at dinners.
"Circus of Regret"
Read "Circus of Regret" on Strange Horizons.
The widow is gone and Ebb thinks perhaps Anne will notice while she paints. But Anne has
always tried so hard not to see it there that while she decorates Ebb with spiderweb patterns
this time, she does not see that the spider is gone.
The widow is gone and Ebb thinks perhaps the ringmaster will notice, that he will see and will make his choice based on that sight. But he doesn't notice, or does not care. He does not look at her the way she has seen him look at other female acts. She is not a real woman, a whole woman. He calls her Widow the way the rest do.
The widow is gone and Ebb thinks for a moment that she will not be able to spin without it, but there is always guilt and lust and regret, and there is enough of the widow still in her veins that she can spin.
The widow is gone and Ebb descends from the platform, thinking that with the marks on her belly and the webs on her skin she is the widow.
"Air, Water and Road"
Read "Air, Water, and Road" on Strange Horizons.
These are bus pirates. You don't mess with bus pirates. They'll do worse
than keelhaul you, and the Northwest is crawling with them, come up from the water like some
primordial creepy-crawly that couldn't stand fins and evolved, went for tires instead.
The pirates, fuck the pirates. The bus, though. Damn, it's cool. And the figurehead on the front of it totally rocks. She's sleek and latex-covered, her tits held up by a corset, her waist waspishly thin, hips flared. She struggles a little, but I think it's mostly to keep balanced in her precariously bound position.
Booty. Pirate booty. Bus pirate booty.