'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 43

Short Stories 366:165 — “Mafia Butterfly,” by Raymond Luczak

[image error]A few years ago, I was lucky enough to go to watch a panel with Raymond Luczak in Toronto, specifically about queerness and Deafness, and I’ve been diving my way through his work ever since. He’s clever and funny and has a turn-of-phrase skill I just adore, and this is so very apparent in “Mafia Butterfly,” included in Nothing Without Us. Here we meet a young woman who was born to hearing parents and who came to signing a bit later in life, but the sheer joy in her expression and expressiveness is like watching confidence walk.

The narrative itself is more of a character monologue, as she explains a bit about her life, and introduces a few key figures, most notably her ASL teacher (who she loves) and then an older man, who she refers to as a kind of Deaf Godfather (in the mafia sense, not the religious one). She spins her tale without losing any of the verve that’s on display from the opening lines of the story, of how this one man nearly destroyed her chances of finding her place in Deafness and the Deaf community, but her strength of character is so evident, and the ASL teacher and the language itself bolster her.

I remember this gatekeeping when I was only barely brushing up against the edges of the Deaf community when I was younger. This story was in some ways a little crushing on that front; to know the barriers can come so strongly from inside the house shouldn’t surprise, though. The entire time I was reading “Mafia Butterfly,” I couldn’t help but see the parallels in queerness in the story (the gatekeeping-from-within is an astoundingly huge problem in the queer community). Ultimately, though, Luczak’s character is determined, and I loved her sense of time: eventually, these gatekeepers will die, and if we make sure the accepting take their place then things will get better.

Short Stories 366:164 — “A Compass in the Dark,” by Phoebe Barton

[image error]I was lucky enough to get to be on a panel with Phoebe Barton at Can-Con last year, and it was one of those moments where you just want to lean back and absorb the knowledge, so when I saw her name in the table of contents in the May/June issue of Analog, I stopped everything I was doing and dove right into the story, and I regret nothing (even if my tea over-steeped in the kitchen). Basically, sinking down into a Phoebe Barton story was exactly what I needed.

“A Compass in the Dark” is a short story with an untidiness of emotionality I could immediately empathize with. Set on the moon, the main character of the story is a woman whose relationship with her father (and her father’s belief in spirits and the use of magnetic towers to “guide” them) is, at best, complicated. We have only enough time for a few small glimpses into their interactions, but Barton fills them with so much impact that I caught myself nodding multiple times while I read. When an accident on the unforgiving moon claims a life, the fallout is similarly emotionally tangled (there is a great line about what aunts want versus what the deceased would like, and I guess even in the future and on the moon funerals are more for the living than the dead).

Ultimately, I think “A Compass in the Dark” was such the perfect time-and-place read for me because of the sense of isolation of the main character and how it’s presented: she’s gone to the far-side of the moon, is very alone, and that’s by choice. That doesn’t mean it’s perfect, but it’s good and chosen and sometimes choosing to do a thing matters the most, including choosing how to pay respects, and how to say a farewell to someone. It’s a wonderful story, and one I’m still pondering since.

Short Stories 366:163 — “Alief,” by Bryan Washington

[image error]Even though by this point I’d only gotten two stories along in my reading of Bryan Washington’s Lot: Stories, I’d already decided one of the things Washington did so incredibly well was to frame a narrative event with incredible voice. There’s a cadence and progression in “Alief” like there was in the first story that completely swept me along, and I found myself doubling back a few times to re-read a transition or a turning point and always in those moments it was the narrator’s voice drawing me back.

“Alief”‘s narrative spark is a catastrophic one: we know from the beginning this is a story about a woman, her lover, her husband, and that it ends violently. As the narrator tells us the ways in which this story were glimpsed, we alight on a wide mix of people, learning perhaps names and brief backgrounds and then moving on to another. Alief is a neighbourhood in Houston both incredibly diverse in background and status, though commonly poor, and there’s a networked pride invoked by the narrator of the people about their space, their connections, and their own internal mixes of culture and caring.

For a story with such a dark and violent sparking point, “Alief” left me feeling triumphant in a way I’m struggling to put to words. It was a narrative reminder, I think, of times in my own life when my own support networks of friends and chosen family have come together, or at least it echoed that sentiment of “taking care of our own” with the “our own” opened so expansively that even in the face of what had passed, it felt enough like hope.

Short Stories 366:162 — “Inventory,” by Carmen Maria Machado

[image error]Oof. Reading (or, rather, listening to) this particular story was all the heavier thanks to the current world around us, but I’m getting ahead of myself. This second story from Her Body and Other Parties, falls firmly into contemporary spec-fic/sci-fi territory, and multiple times I found myself shuddering at the ease of the narrative voice in the face of, well, something quite terrifying. Here, the story forms from the list of nameless lovers of a single woman, who tells a brief story about each before moving on to the next. One girl. One boy, one girl. Eventual boyfriends, a wife, and onward, this woman’s tales at first seem to be a kind of backward glance at a life, but then, almost in passing, the mention of a news channel in the background of an outbreak.

What follows is this wonderfully balanced story of both the end of things (as the virus spreads and containment and organizations and states begin to fail) alongside what’s still a progression and narrative of this woman, and her lovers. She moves away from the hot spots, she stays ahead of the virus, she meets someone, and someone, and someone. These moments told through such a particular lens of lovers, is enough to glimpse the larger whole, but still completely centred on her, and it’s just phenomenal.

Given this is a Pride Month review, I also want to take a moment to mention the absolutely central (but not aimed at plot-driving) bisexuality of the first two narrators in the first two tales of this collection, and how Carmen Maria Machado’s prose places sensuality, sexuality, attractions and arousals along such wonderful, broad strokes. I absolutely live for this kind of characterization, where things just are, as casual as breathing, existing as, y’know, queer people do. Even when the world is falling down around her.

Short Stories 366:161 — “Director’s Cut,” by Matthew Bright

[image error]I’m not sure it’s possible to find a story with more elements seemingly tailor-made for my own enjoyment as I found in “Director’s Cut.” It’s got a queer lens that’s grounded in a cultural and historical moment, a pervasive willful surviving and thriving tone, and then a thread of something magical, otherworldly, or strange. Wrap all that up in a bow, tell it well, and you’ve got “Director’s Cut,” from Matthew Bright’s wonderful debut collection Stories to Sing in the Dark.

Eugene Watkins lives in a time and place where his queerness is an unspoken blemish on his family, especially at this time as his sister’s wedding approaches and he feels the constricting, awful otherness inside him. No one speaks of this part of him, and he sort of exists on a periphery of actual living, going through the motions, feeling alone and broken and then he decides to make a terrible, final choice.

And someone stops him. Someone handsome and compassionate, and the next morning Eugene finds himself in a reality that seems all the more confused about what to do with him. His sisters seem to have lost track of things (how is it still his sister’s wedding day, again?) and there are… people… telling him that he needs to go through with what he’d attempted earlier, because that’s the only way his story can end. They seem very determined that he not survive.

But Eugene has someone on his side, even if he doesn’t quite know it yet.

Matthew Bright delivers a triumph here that’s grounded in something so real and so very queer that my throat was tight and sore in that good, bittersweet way you get from something that feels like justice. By the time I finished the story, I felt almost rejuvenated from the experience. Pride Month can be daunting, and exhausting. Stories like “Director’s Cut” are a great way to replenish.

But don’t just take it from me.

From the Author:

This story was specifically written to turn a trope on its head – in this case bury-your-gays trope originating from the Hayes Code era in which homosexuality was only permitted in media if it was punished, something that’s outlasted it’s mandated censorship roots and become a part of the standard portrayal of queer characters. It was enormous fun to be so metafictional – the embodiments of text and subtext literally hound our protagonist – and really shaped the referential, meta-textual, arch narrator voice that I now consider my signature style.

You can find Matthew Bright online at his website.

Short Stories 366:160 — “Andrew Barbee,” by Dan López

[image error]As I mentioned yesterday, I can be a hoarder of anthologies and collections, and I have a terrible habit of reading a story or two from each before another shiny anthology or collection comes along, and, well… shiny. I believe I bought this anthology, With: New Gay Fiction, when it first came out, after reading an article or an interview with Dan López. “Andrew Barbee” is—like many of López’s works—centred around sailing (the title is the name of the boat), and in this case also pivots on the triangle formed by three people: a man, his former lover (who is older than him), and his current boyfriend (who is younger), while they’re on a celebratory birthday sail for the former lover’s birthday, and attempting shark fishing.

I think what I love the most about López is his ability to take the world of sailing and highlight so much of a living world of queer men alongside what could easily be, on the surface, a simple narrative of a man who’s been with this other man and the man he’s now with. Instead, there are these lovely traces: the main character loses his balance (he’s lost his sea legs, which he admits he never really had) and has to lean on his ex to remain upright at one point, and the moment is so wonderfully sly I found myself grinning to myself. The ex talks about how every boat sinks eventually. The relationships at play, one gone and definitely unsound, one new yet still unsteady, is a perfect parallel.

More, I have to cheer López’s ending lines here. To say they’re a short, sharp shock wouldn’t do it credit, and I actively inhaled a burst of surprise. I should be clear: it’s not a narrative shock, but rather the word play and the moment the story ends on all coming together with that earlier intertwining of both boating and the lives of these queer men. It’s really clever, and I freaking loved it, and the immediateness of the ending snaps shut in an instant. You’ve seen everything López is going to show you, and it’s exactly enough.

 

Short Stories 366:159 — “King’s Favor,” by Ana Mardoll

[image error]Hi, my name is ‘Nathan and I am a collection hoarder. (Hi, ‘Nathan!) Okay, as Pride Month continues, I’ve been grabbing from my giant freaking stack of queer short fiction collections and anthologies I’ve owned for (mumble-mumble) years, and diving back in and holy crap, why did I wait so long to get back to No Man of Woman Born again? It’s a collection of tales where transgender and nonbinary characters subvert and fulfill gendered prophecies, and I have to tell you, each one has just nudged my enjoyment up a notch from the one that came before. I don’t read a lot of fantasy—partly because so often the gender lines are, well, drawn pretty damn tight—but in Mardoll’s hands, this isn’t the case, and is actively not the case as the point. I’m loving it.

“King’s Favor,” tells the story of a spy and (literal) hedge-wizard, Caran. Nee is capable of some magic, but it’s all plant based, and as such, it’s not like nee’s a thread of any kind, but the kingdom Caran has been spying on is run by a witch queen known for rounding up magical people of any kind and then those people either (a) joining the hunters who help track down more magical people, or (b) never being heard from again. No one knows why, exactly, but magic in this world is closely tied to keeping track of nature, and the former network of magical people is basically broken because of this queen, and thus their on-site knowledge of nature in the queen’s nation has holes, which is affecting magic, and so, spy.

What follows is Caran attempting to leave this kingdom with ner information, and what happens when instead nee triggers a magic-sensitive alarm and is caught. When all you’ve got to work with is magic based on plants, figuring a way out of this sort of situation is pretty much hopeless, no? Well, not really, as Caran is clever, nature is full of surprises, and—more importantly—Caran might just be everything the kingdom is hoping for. It’s a clever and tightly-woven story, with some fantastic world building alongside the running theme of the subversion of prophecy plots.

Short Stories 366:158 — “The Bellwoods Golem,” by Myriad Augustine

[image error]I was lucky enough to get to read Nothing Without Us in its nascent stage, which let me offer up the following blurb: Nothing Without Us is a reminder and a declaration both that narratives can—and should—elevate the voices we so rarely get to hear, but not to explain or educate, or to inspire others, or any other of the typical lenses regarding the marginalized from the outside-looking-in, Instead, these stories cross genres from their own point o view, definitely without apology or permission, and get down to business of telling awesome tales with characters who should have been there from the start.

The first story in said collection, “The Bellwoods Golem,” is a perfect example of what I mean here. Myriad Augustine’s protagonist, Hadas, wakes up in pain (as usual, it’s quickly apparent they have chronic pain) and eyes the day ahead with the usual considerations right up until they spot the individual standing in the room with them. It turns out to be a golem, and what follows is a brilliant mix of speculative fiction, character exploration, and social commentary, all done from within. The intersection of marginalizations—Jewish, disabled, queer—are all just present.

The arc of the story, of how this golem came to be, what Hadas discovers having the golem around to help them, and ultimately what they decide to do with the golem is a beautiful little journey, and the initial framing of the story with the semi-explanation of the craftwork of golem-making deftly done. It’s my favourite kind of speculative fiction: our world, with all the frustrations and realities, but with just a tiny dash of something “other” to offer up a slice of hope.

Short Stories 366:157 — “Cupid’s Bow,” by Karen F. Williams

[image error]If I’m honest, my favourite thing about romance is always the meet-cutes. Two people having a connection spark is where I generally find myself hopping aboard in a romance, and my favourite of the favourite are the awkward meet-cutes or the borderline meet-disasters, and “Cupid’s Bow” is a great example of this. We meet Kay at a bar, where she has attended a writing conference (she’s a novelist and an English teacher), and she spies Ann, and is attracted, and takes a swing—and a miss!

Ann is there to take part in some lesbian speed dating, and she’s a math professor, and Kay’s romance novelist pick-up lines fall completely flat, and her own mentions of her professional life have Kay wincing in return: math? Math and romance don’t go together, at all. (I have to say, as an English Lit student, former-bookseller, current romance and spec-fic writer who is married to a fella with a math degree, their “communication” was hysterical in this regard). The two, however, have a moment or two, spark a few times, and then find a thread they find enjoyable to discuss from both their points of view: the rule of three.

Math, romance, and a growing connection make this short novella a joy to read. The banter, and the little verbal jousts and one-upmanship that the two woman make start off a little snarky, but is soon playful, and then flirtatious. And as “the rule of three” moves on to “the golden ratio” and to “cupid’s bow” I was rooting for these two and grinning my way through to the end.

And as an added bonus, I was lucky enough to have the opportunity to ask the author where the story came from:

From the Author:

When I sat down to begin Cupid’s Bow, I’d been asked to write a short romance with a “conference theme.”  What came to mind was a vision of two women meeting in the bar of a Boston hotel on a snowy night in February. But who were they, and why were they there? 

Around that same time, I had an interesting phone conversation with a writer-friend about the notion of things always happening in threes, and why the rule of three works so well in literature. The discussion digressed and ended on the subject of the golden mean—a mathematical concept that manifests in art and nature (think of the spirals of a seashell), thought by many to repeat itself throughout the universe. 

All these ideas came together, and suddenly I had a story plot for an opposites-attract romance: an English teacher/novelist from New York is attending a writer’s conference. The other woman, a math professor living in Boston, is at the hotel awaiting lesbian speed-dating held in a downstairs conference room. 

If you’re already yawning, the story won’t interest you. Nor would my company if we met at a social gathering. And you know, that’s how I think of the author-reader relationship – two strangers meeting at the party of a mutual friend. You’re there with a drink in your hand, unable to find any familiar faces, and decide to shoot the breeze with a person standing next to you.  “Some weather we’re having, huh?” or “How do you know so-and-so?” 

Sometimes those conversations reach a dead-end in record speed, and with a growing awkwardness you politely excuse yourself, glad for the opportunity to shake the ice cubes in that empty glass and gesture toward the bar. “I think I’ll go get another drink. It was great meeting you.” I’m laughing here, but it’s true. We’ve all been there. But then other times, that connection with a new acquaintance, like the connection between an author and a reader, is instant and wonderful. There’s nothing like that feeling of simpatico, a meeting of minds, where talk about the weather easily leads to all sorts of topics: climate change, polar bears, fireflies, sustainable farming, the tomatoes in your backyard garden…how beautiful the moon was last night. And rather than parting ways, you head to the bar together, hoping to find a quiet corner where you can sit and talk some more.

So! If you think you might enjoy reading my work, or having that drink (haha), meet me at the bar in Cupid’s Bowl. We’ll eavesdrop on the conversation between writer, Kay Westcott, and Professor Ann Ward. But don’t expect things to go smoothly. The writer’s humorous flirtations do more to irritate than impress the math professor. Still, the chemistry is undeniable and sets the stage for an exchange of quirky facts, fun phenomena and, of course, irresistible attraction. 

Coyote Blues, Ms. Williams’ new shape-shifter romance, comes out this June. To find out more, visit her at www.karenfwilliams.com

Short Stories 366:156 — “Lockwood,” by Bryan Washington

[image error]One of the discussions I’ve had multiple times with editors and authors of anthologies and collections is how they choose the order of the tales in the completed work. The first story has to carry so much weight. It’s not just its own story, it also serves as an introduction to the collection or anthology itself, carrying tone and theme and—hopefully—draws the reader to keep going. “Lockwood” felt like a master class in this, and opens Lot, Bryan Washington’s collection, with such an impact.

“Lockwood” gives us the lens of a young man to look through, and his blunt but not cruel declarative views of his neighbours—who don’t have papers—and his relationship with the neighbour’s son, Roberto. We watch him as he sees his father angry that his mother is passing food, and we’re with him when he and Roberto talk, and cross lines, and move from talking to touching. They steal moments together, often hurried, often out and about in Houston, and the fragility of it brims to the surface throughout the story. And then, Roberto’s family is just gone, and we have only the briefest moment of time with the narrator to settle how he feels about it, and some haunting words from earlier in the story about Roberto’s thoughts on home.

Ultimately, “Lockwood” had me ready to dive into the next story immediately. I nabbed this collection because it was shortlisted for the gay fiction Lammy (which it won!), and I am so glad I grabbed it. If you’re looking for more queer short fiction—and especially queer short fiction by and about queer people of colour—I heartily suggest you pick up a copy for yourself.