'Nathan Burgoine's Blog, page 69

#ShortStoryMonth Day Seven — “A Fear of Flying” by J. Allen Scott

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The Cheese Stands Alone

As a huge, huge fan of linked short fiction, it occurred to me that at least once this month I should look in the other direction. Today is that day.

There was an anthology I found through Bookcrossing called Red a few years ago, and it had a really curious (and interesting) premise: the editor, driving home, saw a red scarf hanging on a sign, and gave that image to the writers as a prompt. What resulted was Red, an anthology of stories with that simple premise, and I ended up quite enjoying the collection, and one story in particular.

“A Fear of Flying,” by J. Allen Scott joins two men on a plane flight while things are going very, very poorly on the flight. Like, it’s possible this flight is going down poorly. And the two men, who are very much in love, are having an odd argument: one of them is telling the other he should go. The other is refusing, there’s no way he could leave the first man behind.

But they’re in the plane? How does this even make sense?

Like most of my favourite stories, this one has that dash of something other at play, and the ultimate resolution of the story left me sniffling a bit, but loving the idea of the character and the world and, yet, satisfied at this one glimpse into it. It’s a story that begins and ends and is self-contained. I’d revisit it, of course (I always want to do that), but it struck me as a great example of a story I really enjoyed that stood by itself.

Other stand-alone stories I enjoyed? From This is How You Die, the second Machine of Death anthology, “”LAZARUS REACTOR FISSION SEQUENCE,” by Tom Francis (Supervillainy, the lair of a genius, and the admixture of a machine that is never wrong in predicting how you will die when offered a blood sample. So good.); also, David Puterbaugh’s “Save the Last Dance for Me,” from Best Gay Romance 2014 (but bring a tissue, because this romantic tale is also kind of sniffly).

What about you? What’s your favourite short story that is self-contained, satisfying, and set apart from the other fictions of that author?

#ShortStoryMonth Day Six — “Crystal Halloway and the Forgotten Passage,” by Seanan McGuire

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Is This Just Fantasy..?

Okay, so I’m not normally one for sniffle-inducing stories, but “Crystal Halloway and the Forgotten Passage,” by Seanan McGuire was a standout in Other Worlds Than These, and (even better) you can read it here.

It takes the premise of so many stories of visiting other-worlds (Narnia, Alice, etc.) and plays out the conclusion. What happened to these children who could come-and-go? What happened to the children before them? Did they grow up? If they did, how did they reconcile everything?

In a way, this reminded me of “The Problem of Susan” from Neil Gaiman (oddly enough,  also a character who’s cannon ending left me sniffling).

McGuire’s Crystal is tenacious and a fighter and trying to balance becoming an adult with her adventures in another realm, and that makes the ending all the more impactful. This decision was coming—as it comes to all kids, really—and she wasn’t ready to deal with it. But the time for that choice ends up being not hers to control.

Some other wonderful fantasy you should read? How about an entire collection about pirates. Scourge of the Seas of Time (and Space) edited by Catherine Lundoff was packed with fantasy (and sci-fi) takes on pirates and so, so good. Also, it’s from years and years ago, but Bending the Landscape: Fantasy, edited by Nicola Griffith was a favourite, too, full of fantastic queer fantasy shortfiction.

Sunday Shorts—Plant Children, by Jessica Yang

[image error]Qiyan sort of immediately jumped into my heart as I started this story, by sleeping in, being a bit of a mess, and missing her appointment with her Senior Thesis Advisor. I had empathy from the get-go, and her amusing back-and-forth with her roommate over both their living situation and Qiyan’s really, really due thesis idea was a great instant connection for the characters.

What follows is a lovely uptick in what can otherwise be a bit of an onslaught of pretty dark and dismal stories in the audiobook of Queers Destroy Science Fiction. Don’t misread that as me panning the collection at all (I’m not!) but more that the Davin and Lemberg stories were both pretty raw and depressing, and the ones prior to that weren’t chuckle-fests either, so this story was a welcome respite, tonally speaking.

Qiyan finds a way to balance an old request from her great-grandmother—to be sure to have children—with her thesis by nudging the genetics of any and all plants she can get her hands on to be more, well, like children. It starts off a little tongue-in-cheek, and as a quick solution to the thesis problem, but it evolves over the story into something sweet, and sometimes bittersweet, but the ultimate resolution, and the discussion between Qiyan and her roommate, left me smiling and warmed. It just charms on every level, especially through Qiyan’s eyes.

#ShortStoryMonth Day Five — “Moments,” by Brandon Crilly

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He’ll Save Every One Of Us

Flash Fiction is something I came to late in the writing game, though I did used to write what I called “snippits.” Snippits were funny scenes or character moments from our various RPG game sessions I’d play with friends when I was in a teen. Be it Dungeons & Dragons, Heroes Unlimited, or Beyond the Supernatural, I filled a one-inch binder over a few years as I moved from place to place and swapped from one game to another, and it was a treasured object of mine for quite a few years. But they were often as long as two thousand words, which definitely puts them beyond the range of flash fiction.

Super-concise, but also super-impactful, Flash Fiction is a really fine line to walk. And Brandon Crilly does exactly that with his wonderful “Moments.” Here we get a story about a time traveler, someone they love, and a relationship quite literally for the ages. And, since “Moments” was released on Daily Science Fiction, you can read it at the link above, which is all the win for you. (Even better, for those of you who are able to vote for the Prix Aurora Awards, “Moments” is a eligible to be a finalist for short stories this year. Get on that.)

Got any Flash Fiction you love? Sound off in the comments.

Another bit of Flash Fiction I can toss your way is self-indulgent, but last year I did a draw every month to create a random combination of genre, object, and setting and wrote a 1,000 word flash fiction piece from the prompt. I popped up the results on WattPad, Tinder and Other Tales. And quite a few other authors took part in the challenge, too! You can find the December Round-Up (which links to all the Round-ups that came before) here.

#ShortStoryMonth Day Four — “Matthew, Waiting,” by A.C. Wise

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More Cowbell!

I have a friend I’ve known and worked with for years. She, like me, worked the horror that was Christmas Retail every year and made it through more-or-less mentally unscathed. One year, her mall hired a guy with a whole bunch of musical instruments (read: noisemakers) that he would hand out to a bunch of bored and over-sugared kids, and then head lead them through making music (read: noise). This happened in front of her store, while she was working, and it was torture.

To this, my awesome friend walked to the front of the store and called out, “Needs more cowbell!”

So why do I bring this up?

Some people can take something awful and still have fun with it and think about it in a new way. A.C. Wise took an apocalypse and added Anne of Freaking Green Gables! Seriously! Like, this is someone who looks at the end of the world, walks up to the front of the story, and calls out, “Needs more Anne!”

I want to be A.C. Wise’s friend. You should, too.

I don’t want to ruin any facet of this story, which is so clever and grounded in a psychology that is as devastating as it is realistic. Taking an iconic piece of Canadian culture and twisting it “just so” into this dark (and yet darkly moving) post-apocalyptic story was a small stroke of genius in the already solid anthology that is Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse. It was by far my favourite, and has been the “selling point” I’ve been using with all my friends.

“Post-apocalyptic Canadian Fiction,” I say.

“Huh,” they say, interested, sure, but not sold yet.

“There’s a post-apocalyptic Anne of Green Gables story.”

“What? Really?” Their eyes widen and their fingertips shake, already wanting the book. “What’s the collection called again?”

How about a couple of other Sci-Fi short stories I’ve loved? “Pas de deux” by Stephen Graham King in North of Infinity II (a brilliant short about a man with cancer, a man on death row, and how one life can be traded for another thanks to a leap in medical technology); and “Elsewhere, Within, Elsewhen,” by Cat Rambo in Beyond the Sun (A man about be a colonist for a  new planet; a technological advancement makes him redundant; but regains his spot when his husband qualifies for the position, and spouses are included—and their relationship is as key as the sci-fi/planet/story).

What about you? What are your favourite sci-fi shorts?

Friday Flash Fics — Solid Ground

Today’s Friday Flash Fics reminded me of a previous one I’d written a while back, “Treading Water,” and before I could stop myself, I wondered if it was worth checking back in with Yves, and then this happened.

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Solid Ground

On the flight, his sister’s words had snuck their way into Yves’ brain like they always managed to do. The same place? It won’t feel as magical the second time. Why not go somewhere new? By the time the seatbelt sign had pinged off and he rose, he was in full-on regret mode, and hoping to just have a passable time.

Then he’d stepped out of the airport, and there was sunlight and warmth and greenery and his sister’s voice vanished without so much as an echo. This place. This place was never going to be anything but magic.

He took the shuttle to the resort hotel, got himself checked in, got a new plastic wrist band—not green this year, but yellow—and unpacked his single carry-on and backpack in his room. Time zones were doing their usual thing to his head, but he didn’t care if he slept tonight or not. He had two whole weeks here to adjust, and there was a beach and sand and surf and he was alive.

Yves kept waiting for the moments of shock about that to pass completely away, but they didn’t. When he’d been given the all clear and his final treatment, it felt like every thirty seconds or so something would remind him: you’re not dead, you’re alive, you survived. His therapist had used the metaphor of a button in a box with a ball. The ball was the trauma, the button was being reminded, and the ball started off big and heavy. The slightest jostle to the box would make the ball hit the button.

And the button would blare out one of the varying messages: You nearly died! Why did you survive when other people don’t? What if it comes back at your next check-up?

Over time, Dr. Macedo said, the ball would shrink. It would take more of a jostle to make the ball hit the button. But the ball would never go away. There would always be the button, and always be a chance that ball would bounce just-so in the box when life knocked it and hit the button.

In a way, this trip felt like leaning on the button, but in a good way. Saying Yeah, I know, I’m alive, isn’t that awesome? to the button.

A year ago, he’d been so nervous. Not to mention having lost more weight than he could afford to lose thanks to the treatments. His hair had barely begun to grow back, and he was pale and shaky. He hadn’t been ready for the trip, he’d been shocked. Stunned into having the opportunity.

And it had been one of the best rash decisions of his life.

This time, he was pale because he’d come from Ottawa winter, but other than that? He was probably in better shape than he’d ever been before he got sick, and his hair had finally recovered enough to get a hair-cut.

“Screw it,” he said, and changed into shorts and a white T-shirt. He noticed the scar across his abdomen in the same way he always did now: in passing, a part of him. It was still capable of sending the ball ricocheting against the button, but it didn’t happen every time. He’d even had a few dreams now where the scar was present and he hadn’t woken up immediately.

Yves hit the beach. The sun was low on the horizon, but he didn’t care. It was so warm, and the wind was beautiful, and it smelled so wonderful. He walked, soaking in the warmth, and smiling at the people leaving the beach for the day. He couldn’t help but glance out into the water, and maybe he was looking for five handsome men he’d met before—or, okay, one in particular with the curliest hair and a soft-looking goatee—but the ocean was more or less empty, and he hadn’t really thought about the men—or that man—that much.

By the time the sun kissed the water, Yves finally felt some fatigue. Walking had been a great idea. He turned around, spied the hotel off in the distance, and smiled. He felt grounded. Connected. Stable. Then, on a whim, not even sure he could still manage the feat, he did a handstand.

He fell almost immediately, but in the sand it didn’t bruise. He laughed, then eyed the mess he’d made on the beach, and considered.

He tried again. And again.

The fourth time, he got his balance right, and with his feet curling just-so in the air above him, Yves laughed and held himself upright. His arms shook just a little, his shirt was falling down, and he felt fantastic.

Someone applauded.

“Thank you, thank you,” Yves said. He tried to glance—but the world was upside-down—and then managed a mostly-graceful end to his handstand. He rose, wiping the sand off his palms, and then froze, his laughter fading.

Brown eyes regarded him with a similar surprise. The curly hair was a bit longer, and the goatee was now a full beard.

“Canada,” the man said. He looked at Yves and then nodded. “It is Canada, yes? You’re from Canada?” His English had improved. Yves felt terrible that he hadn’t so much as opened his own little dictionary from the last trip.

“Hi,” he said instead. “Yes. It’s me. It’s been a year, so…” He shrugged. “I wanted to celebrate. So I came back.”

“I should call my friends,” the bearded man smiled all the wider. “We can go swimming again.” He was dressed in a blue button down shirt and shorts, something that looked more like a working uniform than casual wear. And he was carrying his shoes and socks.

“I just got in today,” Yves said. “And I didn’t have dinner. I have no idea what time it is, or if you’ve eaten, but…” He felt the ball hit the button. You don’t deserve this! He swallowed, and forced himself to keep going. To hell with the ball. “I never got to thank you for last year, and I’d love to treat you to something.”

The bearded man nodded. “I would like that.”

Beside them, the sun dipped below the horizon. Yves reminded himself, like he did most nights, that it was okay. The sun would be back in the morning.

 

 

#ShortStoryMonth Day Three — “The Green Sweater,” by Mark G. Harris

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Meet-Cutes and Meet-Disasters

I have a weakness for meet-cutes. I also have a weakness for meet-disasters. There’s a Venn Diagram you could draw there, where the two circles overlap, and in the middle of that circle you could find “The Green Sweater” by Mark G. Harris. And also me, smiling like a happy git, making “gimme” hands motions for more of those sweet-spot “this is the best worst thing ever!” short story moments.

Ahem. Day Three of my #ShortStoryMonth prompts is romance. (Also, if you want to join in with this celebration of all things short, click here to visit the pinned tweet with all the images and prompts.) Between romance and meet-cute/meet-disasters, “The Green Sweater” popped immediately to my mind. You can find it in Foolish Hearts: New Gay Fiction, edited by R.D. Cochrane and Timothy J. Lambert, and full disclosure: I, too, have a short story in that collection but I swear this isn’t about me, it’s about that green sweater.

The hero of “The Green Sweater” is at a party, and he’s met a nice guy, and there seems to be chemistry and flirtatiousness and everything that makes the stars twinkle seems to be set on, uh, full-twinkle. He takes a moment to head to the bathroom, and while washing his hands, he finds a note written by an anonymous party guest basically saying “OMG, there’s this guy with a green sweater and he just won’t leave me alone, please help!” Then he looks down and spots the green sweater he’s wearing. Uh oh.

It’s romance, so of course things work out as they should (romantically), but that moment was so freaking pure, man. That moment of “Oh no, have I misread the guy, the conversation, the signals, my own brain, and the very inherent twinkle of the stars? I have, haven’t I?” Mark G. Harris, genius of the romantic cringe.

Other romantic short stories I’ve loved? Super-partial to Jeffrey Ricker’s “At the End of the Leash” (where a dog-walker falls for a client, but it’s awkward because he got fired; you can read it right here if you sign up for his newsletter), Hank Edwards’s “Thaw” (a post-apocalyptic story, no less, which is a category of fiction where I love to find hope and romance, from Bears of Winter), and “World’s Greatest Dads,” by David Puterbaugh (from Best Gay Romance 2010, where the fellas in question are stymied over choosing a name once it turns out their expectations of baby Julia have turned into needing a name for a little boy instead).

#ShortStoryMonth Day Two — Lava Falls, by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

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Collections You’ve Loved

Okay, confession time: it took me a really, really long time to remember the difference between a collection and an anthology. Collections are single-author volumes of short fiction, and anthologies are multi-author volumes of short fiction. This means my “Single author short story collections” above there is redundant, but whatever, I have a hard enough time remembering my keys in the morning, let alone what to call which kind of short story book.

[image error]Let’s talk Lava Falls. The most recent collection I’ve read that stayed with me for days after I finished it, Lava Falls is a journey. My favourite collections do this: begin with the first tale that sets the stage for the collection on a thematic or narrative sense (in this case, that’s Girl with Boat, which I talked about way back in January as one of the best opening tales in a collection I’ve ever read) and then take you on a journey throughout all the other stories in the collection, ending with another tale that caps everything off in a whole greater than the sum of its already wonderful parts.

I always have favourites, but beyond the first and final stories, there was also “Wildcat,” “The Found Child,” “The Antarctic,” “My Beautiful Awakening,” and “The End of Jesus,” and that’s a lot of stories to really have enjoyed in a single collection. Lava Falls (the collection) and “Lava Falls” (the novella) accomplish that “whole greater than the sum of its parts” thing. I sat back and inhaled after reading Lava Falls, and my spec-fic heart was really, really happy. Such a fantastic book.

If you’re at all a lover of short fiction, do yourself a favour and pick this up.

Other collections I’ve really enjoyed (with links to reviews)? Desire & Devour by Jeff Mann (gay viking vampire through the ages); Bobcat and other Short Stories by Rebecca Lee (a literary mix with a brilliant voice); Eros & Dust by Trebor Healey, (queer, a dash of magic, desire, and aging); and That Door is a Mischief by Alex Jeffers (gah! linked short stories about a fairy named Liam and just trust me go get it).

#ShortStoryMonth Day One — Jack London’s “To Build a Fire” (and my “Heart.”)

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Short Story Month

It’s May, and May is Short Story Month, and I threw together a quick month’s worth of prompts to discuss short fiction all month because—as is likely well-known to those of you here—I freaking love short stories.

If you want to play along, by all means please do! On Twitter, I’m gonna use the hashtag #ShortStoryMonth, and I’ve pinned a tweet for the month with the schedule and the images.

So. First up. “My first short story was…”

As a reader, I really had to step back and think here, but I think the short story I remember having the most impact from when I was younger was “To Build a Fire,” by Jack London, which I probably read way, way earlier than I should have. It’s not a cheerful story. It’s about a man who gets lost in the snow with his doggo, and his desperate attempts to get warm before it’s too late. The good news is the doggo is totally okay at the end of the story. The bad news..? Well, you can read it here if you want.

Now, to answer this as a writer? My first short story was “Heart,” in Fool for Love: New Gay Fiction. Or at least, it was the first short fiction piece I got published. Technically I wrote many, many short stories before that but they’re mostly lost to the ages, broken computer drives, and long-lost journals.

“Heart,” is told from the point of view of Aiden, a guy who has a gift for seeing the health of others, and who can also be a source of healing up to a point. He starts dating Miah after they bump into each other at a club, and as their relationship progresses, Miah confesses an ongoing health problem, and Aiden admits he’s been helping. When things take a turn for the worse, Aiden has to make a choice.

I reprinted “Heart” in Of Echoes Born, too, by the way.

Sunday Shorts—Each to Each, by Seanan McGuire

[image error]My audiobook of Women Destroy Science Fiction opens with this powerful story, which doesn’t pull any punches: colonialism, classism, transphobia, sexism… all covered brilliantly and beautifully with world-building and character, and spun into one of the best sorts of science fiction out there: one that tells an amazing tale even as speaks to a few truths.

“Each to Each” visits a future where we’ve unlocked much more capability to adjust and alter the human body, and specifically doing so with undersea intentions. Project Amphitrite has led to women in the Navy becoming the perfect choice—in many senses, not all of them positive—to be modified in this way. “Mermaids” in the vernacular, they’re soldiers underwater scouting out resources for an ever more starved planet, a United States deciding the next place to colonize is the ocean itself.

The story stays in the voice and character of a woman very much half-way—her progression toward mermaid isn’t as advanced as many on board; she can still breathe air and speak and walk, though all are uncomfortable (or borderline torture). There’s more than a little nod to ‘The Little Mermaid’ in her, but there is no great love in the balance here—rather, there risk is about something much more important, which I won’t spoil, but I will say I freaking adored, right down to the closing moments of the story.

(I’ll also note the audiobook performer did a fantastic job.)