'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 47

Short Stories 366:128 — “Windfall,” by Lesley Nneka Arimah

[image error]Holy flying crap this story. Okay, first off, major content warnings for, well, all sorts of things: familial abuse, under-age sex and statutory rape, injury, miscarriage… it’s a lot. Like most of What It Means when a Man Falls from the Sky, the core upon which this story is built is a familial relationship between a mother and daughter, and in this case, they’re on their own ever since an accident claimed the life of the father, and a settlement check set the mother on a particular path.

The daughter—written in the second-person “you” to incredible effect—tells the story, and it unfolds almost casually, told with an off-the-cuff tone despite the various moments of truly awful, illegal, and life-changing damages done to her. The mother blew through the initial settlement thanks to young men who realized she was a somewhat easy mark, and thereafter a second accident—a fall in a grocery store that left the daughter with a brace and the lingering unsurety of just how accidental the fall was—another settlement puts them on the path they now live: from one false “fall” to another, seeking the pay cheques and gag orders that keep them flush and always moving.

Then something changes for the daughter, and she tries to put a stop to it, tries to get out, tries to settle and reach for something different. And the final narrative zag at the end of the story is an emotional punch, followed by an even worse moment that somehow seals it all together into the brilliant, unsettling, and incredibly dark story it is. The audio performer blows this one away with the progression of the flippant narration into something a little cooler, then a little vulnerable, and—ultimately—to the story’s final moments.

Short Stories 366:127 — “The Case of the Silenco Scientist,” by Maverick Smith

[image error]So often in science fiction worlds, if disability is approached at all, it’s approached with the notion of some sort of hand-wavy “cure” rather than accommodation, sometimes with a downside, but most often there’s that sense of a disability being “fixed.” This is why I enjoy stories like Smith’s contribution to Nothing Without Us, “The Case of the Silenco Scientist,” so very much: they tack in a different direction. Building on accommodation instead, the future far-flung world where this particular investigation/mystery story tales place is full of Deaf and hard-of-hearing citizens, and built to support them. Corridors have mirrors. Alerts are visual. That sort of thing.

As we follow a pair of investigators trying to track down a missing spouse, the mystery untangles at a fun pace, and things are (of course) not as simple as they seem. What follows is a nice mix of mystery and clever character reactions to the roadblocks in their investigations. Ultimately, the turn-the-tables moment is all the more enjoyable for how it builds on what came before, as the author spins all their little bits of worldbuilding into one moment of (somewhat) controlled chaos.

The entire time I was reading this story, I couldn’t help but wonder what other worlds might be like, if whole colonies in space were built on a simple principle of accommodation for their future citizenry. I’d love to visit more worlds Smith pens, or even spend more time on this planet, especially if I get to read more of these investigators in their stories, and I suppose that’s the best thing I can say about the story really: it made me want more.

Short Stories 366:126 — “An Arrow for Sebastian,” by Greg Herren

[image error]I’m not usually a fan of stories where characters are trapped in a terrible situation, and there is no way out to be found, but now and then I bump into one where there’s a different angle, or a cadence to the tale, and I find myself drawn in. Such is the case with “An Arrow for Sebastian.” Found in Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories, this story is like a long, slow fall toward what feels like an inevitable darkness, but all the way through, Greg Herren manages to string the tension tight through his protagonist, by giving the barest sense of hope that he will act.

We meet our narrator, David, at a terrible party where he’s trying his best to stay just long enough to give no offence, and where he notices something just a slight bit off about another guest, the forty-ish Jake, and his much younger new boyfriend, Sebastian. David has never particularly liked Jake, though he has no concrete reasons as to why, and Sebastian is handsome and intriguing in his own right, but a few moments and a few unguarded looks reel David in: he wants to know more. Specifically, he wants to know if he imagined the briefest look of desperation in Sebastian.

What follows is a friendship between David and Sebastian where the two dance around a topic that is all too often danced around, and where David’s suspicions edge closer and closer to him acting, and the reader feels the impending ticking clock of the difference between “in time” and “too late.” It’s so cleverly written, with passages in David’s thoughts striking right to the heart of why real-world incidents like this aren’t acted upon, and that gives it all the more gravitas. It’s by no means an uplifting story, and if the ending leaves us to believe there will be at least some form of justice, it’s a fairly cold comfort.

Short Stories 366:125 — From a Certain Point of View, edited by Elizabeth Schaefer

[image error]It’s May the 4th, so, okay. Yeah. I’m going to do a cheesy thing and talk about Star Wars short stories. Now, normally on Short Stories 366 I talk about one story a day, but it’s May the 4th, and it’s not like Star Wars needs my help boosting attention to it. Also, this anthology as a whole was a really mixed bag on two levels (I’ll get to that in a second) so I’m going to do more of a drive-by on the stories I really, really loved out of the forty stories collected into From a Certain Point of View.

“Raymus,” by Gary Whitta gave a breadth and depth to the captain of the Tantive IV (the ship Leia is on when it all began, with the death star plans and so on), and his thoughts of his family, his life thus far, and the reality of what he knows he’s up against—but wanting to maintain a sense of hope—is so nicely woven.

“Stories in the Sand,” by Griffin McElroy is a story about Jot, a jawa in a sandcrawler who is assigned to wiping droids, and who comes across something truly unique when he bumps into a certain Astromech droid. The character of Jot is just full to the brim of longing for something more, and I loved that I was left hoping he got his chance.

“The Baptist,” by Nnedi Okorafor was flipping brilliant. That beast in the trash compactor? Not only a sentient alien, but Force sensitive and aware—in her own way—of what was coming, and approaching her role in it with bravery and hope, despite knowing her prison was likely the last place she’d be. So freaking good, this story alone felt worth the audible credit.

“There is Another,” by Gary D. Schmit is the story I wish I could have read as a novel—Yoda learning it’s coming close to time to train a new Jedi, and assuming the Jedi in question will be Leia, because Luke is such a damn emotional mess. Yoda training Leia… What could have been, no? Always my princess and general. Sigh.

“Duty Roster,” by Jason Fry was emotionally satisfying on so many levels, and a glimpse into the pain and realities of the rebellion and its pilots. More, I think Col was one of the rarer characters in the book who was one of the good guys but came across so rough-edged and borderline-broken, which was nice to see in a story about a rebellion on the edge of being destroyed forever.

“Grounded,” by Greg Rucka was a glimpse into support staff and mechanics and engineers in the form of one of the technicians trying to keep the rebellion in ships able to fly, and the weight of responsibility of the ground crew was so deftly written into her character, I wanted to give Nera a hug. Not that she’d have accepted one.

“Contingency Plan,” by Alexander Freed was such a dose of plausibility that I loved it on that level alone. We are with Mon Mothma as she escapes before the Death Star swoops in to potentially more-or-less end the rebellion, and it’s about her plans… to surrender. Or, at least, her plans to do whatever it takes to save as many lives as possible once the rebellion fails. So well written, and such a great glimpse into a leader who gets a few lines on screen.

Now, I don’t want to sound overly negative about the rest of the tales and those above (and a few others) are good enough that I think a fan should give the anthology a go, but I do want to mention the two problems I had with the anthology as a whole. One was something I honestly hadn’t expected from an intellectual property like this one, which was maybe naive, but it’s this: the stories consistently and constantly contradict each other. In one story, the rebels don’t have enough pilots to put all their ships in the air against the Death Star. A few stories earlier? A pilot is left on the ground because they don’t have enough ships to put into the air against the Death Star. A detailed description of sandcrawlers in one story (there is no spare space, nowhere to ever truly be alone or out of view of others) is immediately contradicted in the next, where the same sandcrawler has a large open bay area where a woman hides for a good length of the journey. The musicians at the cantina are hired the morning of the day Han Solo’s famous shoot-out goes down; wait, no, they bartender arrived for his evening shift and he’s so tired of their performances he’s heard over and over; Also, Boba Fett is a well known bounty-hunter who is dangerous and works the system to maximize credits from Jabba the Hutt; wait, no, he’s about to prove himself to Jabba for the first time with his first score, Han Solo. And… well, you get it. It felt like every third story directly contradicted something in a previous story, and not in a “point-of-views can attribute things differently” way, but factual, world-building elements. It just seemed like a strange choice not to cross-edit with an eye for consistency, and it knocked me out of story after story.

The other problem was perhaps more to taste, but: choosing to have so many stories told from the points of view of the Imperials, who are—let’s be clear—complicit at the very least, and outright evil otherwise was a hard sell. Especially asking me to care about the romance between a stormtrooper and an officer? It wasn’t really going to fly (also, I guess a galaxy far, far away still has don’t-ask-don’t-tell, and really tired stereotypes, but I suppose at least there were gay characters, so yay for gay space fascists who die?). Ditto the story where the stormtrooper’s big narrative was basically “the rebels see us as faceless, we’re people in these helmets, too, y’know!” or the one where the guy decides he just can’t shoot rebels in the face anymore, but he’s gonna find a way to shoot them without looking them in the face because, uh, growth? Paper pushers and operational managers, soldiers taking off (at least that’s better than sticking around), the generals filling in incident reports; we spend so much time with Imperials and they’re often presented somewhat sympathetically, but…their side destroys whole planets, so no?

I listened to this one on audio, and for the most part, that enhanced the experience, as there was often background sound effects (blaster fire, cantina noise, etc.), but a few times—looking at you, “The Kloo Horn Cantina Caper”—that meant including aliens with super-screechy, awful-to-listen-to voices and I barely made it through some of the tales because of it. So, a mixed bag, even on the audio front.

Short Stories 366:124 — “The Dance of the White Demons,” by Sabrina Vourvoulias

[image error]And this is it! I’m at the end of Long Hidden: Speculative Fiction from the Margins of History, which is probably the anthology I had the longest in my possession and only partially read before I started this wee project. This final trip from the anthology takes us to Guatemala in 1524, and is thematically a perfect story with which to close out the collection.

We meet a young woman—she has albinism—who is a witch, training under the tutelage of an older witch, and working to keep the people hale and hearty in the face of what seems to be insurmountable illnesses and—more frighteningly—the arrival of white people who are destroying their people.

K’antel meets a young man while she’s out collecting herbs (and also goofing off with her spiritual/magical animal counterpart) and when she realizes he is a projection of a young man having a vision, she brings him back to the other witch, and they learn he is a local ruler, and faces the oncoming destructive white people and is trying to figure out a way for his people to survive.

K’antel’s journey, and her desire to help the ruler, and her desire for him to survive—he has become, in many ways, her first real friend—is all the more heartbreaking because we know it’s so very unlikely. But in Vourvoulias’ hands, the story becomes something other than disheartening, and instead shifts to such a perfect example of the anthology as a whole: if the stories are told, then the people aren’t forgotten. How that plays out, and the last few moments of the story (and the collection) left me sitting and smiling and nodding along.

We’ve always been here. And this anthology was a great reminder of that.

Short Stories 366:123 — “Anisoptera with a Side Order of Soft Blast,” by Fiona Patton

[image error]Our next foray into the twisting tunnels and shopping levels of Plexis brings us to a story that I can only describe as a kind of caper-meets-hacktivist-meets-SF-answer-to-the-Baker-Street-Irregulars and I don’t even know if I can explain how super cool and awesome this is. A trio of young men who are cared for more-or-less by an older woman who runs a kind of new-age/craft/art shop and cafe in Plexis come together with a singular mission: to take down a new funeral service company that’s literally planning on using a beautiful kind of insect to make vacuum-style fireworks during funeral rites (to the lethal detriment of said insects). So, time for a plan, right?

The thing about The Clan Chronicles: Tales from Plexis that I’m enjoying the absolute most is how most of the tales absolutely stand alone, but when you’ve read Czerneda’s series, the little glimpses of alien races or walk-on characters given full stories adds a little zip and zest to the whole. “Anisoptera with a Side Order of Soft Blast,” dips, zigs, and zags with alien races, the noise and mix of Plexis itself, and the sheer range of alien cultures and how rules had to be made to allow for culture (which allows people to try to subvert them for their own gain, of course), and the end result is using exploding insects as fireworks being legal on a few technicalities, and three boys deciding to fix this oversight themselves.

When I say Fiona Patton delivered a caper, I mean the “Do we have a plan?” contingency effect, whereby the characters do have a plan, kinda-sorta, but it’s convoluted and things will likely go wrong, and at the same time, you’re rooting for these boys from the get-go. I loved their bickering (the characterization of teen boys was bloody brilliant, even in a space mall and set in the far future, these were such teenage boys I cannot even tell you). And the little sci-fi touches were just awesome: music, mood-ring decorations for teeth, hairstyles, clothing, and—of course—space bugs.

Short Stories 366:122 — “Antonia and Cleopatra,” by Matthew Bright

[image error]As of today, I’m a third of the way through my Short Stories 366 project! Huzzah for short fiction! I admit that I’m psyched, and I know I’ve said it over and over again, but I love short fiction and it’s been grand thus far. Now onward.

Speaking of “over and over again,” one of the things that happened with Stories to Sing in the Dark was my checking out which place an individual story was originally published, and then either (a) buying a copy of the anthology or magazine in question, or (b) realizing I already owned the anthology or magazine in question and hadn’t read it yet. This was a case of the latter, and it reminded me to get off my butt and make time for Clockwork Cairo.

“Antonia and Cleopatra” are a mother-and-daughter team unlike any I’ve read before, and I mean that in the absolute best way possible. The setting—a steampunk alternate historical Egypt—begins with a group of inept British soldiers trying to stop a theft, failing miserably (this is how we met Antonia) and trying to give chase after she gets away, only for her to make it to a large floating brothel run by the so-called “Iron Mistress” (this is how we meet Cleopatra).

Antonia has a mystical object d’art (or relic, or something) she’s trying to offload, Cleopatra has the contacts, and together, they have a simple plan to make some profit.

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Gah. So gorgeous.

Which, of course, goes pear shaped in roughly thirty seconds.

What follows is a tongue-firmly-in-cheek adventure with borderline slapstick moments mixed with seriously great wordplay, a cadence in language that’s pitch-perfect for humour, and even a bit of mayhem and ancient evil curses and perhaps a lost soul or two. It’s brilliant, and I loved it, and I would read more adventures of Antonia and Cleopatra in a heartbeat.

Oh, and good news on that front from the author, or at least I choose to believe it to be so:

From the Author:

Cleopatra Bonny is a character from much-rewritten-but-not-yet-seen steampunk detective novel which I’ve been writing since steampunk was the hottest new genre. But she’s more than that! The dominatrix madam with the glass-bottomed floating brothel is a fictional version of a close friend (with her enthusiastic consent; she even picked the name!) and Cleopatra’s adventures have extended through years of birthday gifts: stories and books, and even once a full two act musical. Antonia and Cleopatra goes a step further: it immortalises her badass mother (who in real life is actually an international globetrotting translator of ancient language, not a grave-robber, but call it artistic license.) Of all my stories this was by far the lightest, pulpiest, and so naturally was like pulling teeth to write (let nobody tell you otherwise: dense literary prose is easy to write, froth is HARD.)

You can find Matthew Bright online at his website.

 

Short Stories 366:121 — “Foie Gras,” by Charles Payseur

[image error]I think I’ve championed the joy that is a Charles Payseur short story on this story-a-day journey twice times thus far, and talked about his stories a couple of times during my Sunday Shorts regular posts, and also during the holidays I’ve talked up his supremely enjoyable holiday super-villain stories. There’s a reason for that: he’s always got a unique angle and uses it to strike an emotional result. Sometimes that result is humour. This is the case in today’s little gem, which you can read (or listen to) over at Fireside Fiction.

It’s a flash piece, so I’m not going to discuss more than the barest idea of the set-up, but it’s one you’ll immediately know if you’ve ever watched any of the various TNG-era-or-later Star Trek shows (or that episode in Futurama, come to think of it): Oh Noes! A hologram has escaped, and it is trying to take over the ship! And this particular hologram is a Napoleon.

The solution to the dilemma of the holographic Napoleon who would be ruler of the galaxy via taking over a starship is just… I mean… air-kiss. And the cute little twist in the last few moments of the piece made me cackle out loud. I already knew I loved Payseur’s wit and humour, but “Foie Gras” is a perfect example of why.

Short Stories 366:120 — “Sometimes You…” by Tonya Liburd

[image error]I’ve talked before about how rarely I find survivors of violence in fiction dealt with in an emotional sense that leaves me feeling—for lack of a better way of putting it—included, but Tonya Liburd’s “Sometimes You…” from Nothing Without Us filled me completely with the opposite. This, I thought, once I finished the story, this. “Sometimes You…” begins with an act of violence against someone targeted specifically because he is obviously showing signs of mental illness, and then follows him through a few phases of his life thereafter.

We are with Robin when he is attacked, and then again in a shelter, and then again as he weaves toward help, community, medication, creativity, and ultimately left in a “starting again” position that is full of a lot of things, not the least of which is promise, but what was absolutely not present in the story was any sense of forgiveness, nor “everything happens for a reason,” or the like, which is where I felt myself slide so easily into the narrative and flow along with Robin on his journey to a potentially better situation. Nothing hinges on facing down his assailants, nor on blithely “letting it go,” but rather on forward momentum and a particular vow that had tears in my eyes.

It can be all to easy to forget there are different paths to wellness. Often the most commonly told narratives about thriving and surviving paint too narrow a picture of those paths. Finding stories like Liburd’s “Sometimes You…” feels like catching the flicker of a streetlight turning on out of the corner of one’s eye and seeing another way light up. I loved it.

 

Short Stories 366:119 — “A Streetcar Named Death,” by Greg Herren

[image error]There are some topics I try to avoid reading in fiction of any kind, unless they’re written by people who I know and trust to handle it well—most often, that has to do with “ownvoice” or knowing something about their lived, breathed experiences—and surviving violent crime is one of those topics. In the hands of Greg Herren, I knew, going into “A Streetcar Named Death,” that he’d balance the reality of someone who has survived a loved one’s bashing with telling a story that doesn’t just play off the violence as a plot point, or wish fulfillment, or anything of less impact than it is. Knowing that, I managed to slide into the mind of Barry very quickly, and even had a parallel or two of my own.

Barry is having a rough hot day in New Orleans. His car is in the shop, so he’s forced to take the streetcar in the high heat, and he’s trying to keep himself calm and collected despite the heat and the press of people. And then someone else gets on the same streetcar, and Barry recognizes who it is: it’s a man who should be in jail. A man who someone should have told Barry is no longer in jail. A man who destroyed Barry in a very real way. A man who is now living in Barry’s neighbourhood, and who Barry keeps bumping into, and most galling of all: a man who keeps not noticing Barry at all, no recognition even when they catch each other’s eyes.

What follows feels like a long, dark fall. Everything comes across with the weight of the inevitable, and as fate continues to put Barry in the same room with this man, the tension rises a little at a time. Face-to-face, what can Barry do? What should Barry do? What would any of us do? When I got to the end of this story, and remembered my own moment of cold shock in a similar situation, I set Survivor’s Guilt and Other Stories down for a little bit to ponder. What if my own glimpse hadn’t just been the once? What if, like Barry, I’d had to bump into someone who’d done that much violent damage to my life over and over again? It’s probably best I’ll never know, really, but it’s to Herren’s credit that this short and brutal story left nothing so simple as a sense of justice, or regret, or vengeance, or even resolution, but rather the question: what would you do?