Nightmare Fuel Day the Fifth - WIsh

I love wishes. I love deals with genies and the devil and any supernatural being with the ability to give us the very worst thing it possibly could - exactly what we want.

At the very least, we get lovely little puzzle stories of humans trying to outsmart a virtual god. Here's a quick tale of someone who thought he won the wishing game.
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The Third Wish

 “Your wish is my command, and very well-phrased, if I do say.”

I’ll admit that I was pleased with myself. Yes, I know I wasn’t the first to wish for immortality, but I’ve read enough stories to know that wishing was a fool’s game, unless you’re clever and careful. I studied first. I read up on contract law. On fairy tales. On myths.

I was going to get this right, and carefully so. Avoid disease or senescence or an eternity of pain. And this was just one wish, carefully worded. I’d keep the other two in reserve, as an emergency measure.

Image by Andrea Trask

“It’s just… well, nevermind. I’m sure you’ve thought of all of it.”

It doesn’t matter how I found the genie or bound him to do my bidding, but that I did. And this one was clearly impressed, and respectful. I’m not so arrogant as to not listen; after all, I DID still have two wishes left, and haven’t even created myself a fortune.

Yet.

“It’s just that the wish was perfectly worded for all natural or supernatural illnesses, all age related failings physical and mental, all germs, diseases, curses, afflictions.”

I nodded, impatient. “Yes, Genie. I know I what I wished for. It’s very careful and very much ironclad.”

“Only… did you not think of accidents? A fire? A car crash? Lightning?”

“I thought those fell under aflictions?”

“No… you’re not protected from misadventure or disasters.”

“OK.. so for my next wish, I wish to be protected…” I continued very carefuly and quickly, modifying the language from my anti-illness wish to include all natural and man-made disasters, accidents, misadventures, and acts of god. It’s good to be smart, and to have earned the respect of the genie.

Ten years later I’d still not used that last wish. I had a house, a wife, a baby, a car. The secret is to find a way to live comfortably, with the security that you’re taken car of and it’ll all work out. It isn’t hard to win the wishing-game if you aren’t greedy.

The fire alarm didn’t wake me at first, but that’s OK. After all, I was protected, and protected well. The smoke smelled like a campfire, the flames a gentle warmth. I smiled until I heard the screaming from my daughter’s room, then jumped out of bed in a panic, running through the smoke-filled rooms. It didn’t even sting my eyes, but obscured my vision.

You don’t need to hear the rest. I found them, my wife and the baby, in the nursery. Ran them outside, but it was too late, much too late. Cradling my baby’s lifeless body, I looked up at the house. The protection had held, with even the siding around my bedroom window clean and unmarked.

“Oh… I wish it had been me.”

Those are the last words I ever spoke. As the world faded away I heard the baby’s laughter and realized something.

I’d won the wishing game after all.

Nightmare Fuel, 2017 Prologue - In the Care of the Fourth Sister

Welcome to October! Old internet friend Bliss Morgan hosts an annual flash-fiction project, in which anyone who so chooses can write a poem, fragment of a novel, flash-fiction piece, or whatever else strikes their fancy. Unlike me, Bliss is not an early riser so we don't yet have the first image. I'll start then, with a trifle - a prologue to a month of fiction based on an image I borrowed from her. If you like this little crocheted skull  you can, of course, buy an entire shawl or headscarf of it from her Etsy shop.

 In the Care of the Fourth Sister

From Hell's Heart, I stab at thee

In a distant cave lived three sisters. This we all know.

One spins.
One measures.
One cuts.

And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?

Few are aware of the third sister, for few care to think of what happens to the thread after it is cut.
                                         

                      Then fall Caesar!

Our fear of Atropos and her shears, though neither she nor her tools are cruel. Those sheers have honed on a steel, on spidersilk, on the dawn's light until they are sharp as thought, that many never feel the cut when it comes. Yes, we fear the flashing blades so greatly that we don't look beyond to what comes of the threads once cut.

To she may gather them.

Yfantis is not well-well known, and is not cruel.

                                                                 The horror! The Horror!

Not intentionally.

They say that something of us remains after the thread is cut, an echo. That what comes after is like a dream, one without end.

That's what they say.

                           "I'd hate to die twice. It's so boring"

And now you know that it's true.

You didn't feel the cut, of course. Atropos keeps her shears sharp. It's OK, really, because you were tired. So very tired. Breathing had become a chore until/
                                                                                           she cut/

                                                                                                         and it stopped.



  And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey. Are you coming?

And just darkness. Awareness without breath.

Time passes.

It was fun

You think you hear voices as you're taken, twisted. In the darkness, voices.






                                                                                         "I AM Isaac Asmiov"
                       


"Last words are for fools who've not said enough"


The voices fade. You hear yours, indistinguishable from theirs.


The last sister continues her work.

                                   The voices echo without breath, without thought.

Forever.

And now, I think I am quite ready to go on another journey.

 Are you coming?

Actions to Take Regarding the Changeling Hunt

Following are some actions you can take in response to the Fey hunt laws, even if no fairy blood flows in your veins. While actual fey and changelings will, of course, have their own ways to fight back, they are few and we are many.  Already we see walls of iron built in the the wild places, with more planned.

1. Plant a hedgerow. They're pretty, if nothing else. And the thin places between this world and the fey realm often look like hedgerows, so you might confuse a hunter. Besides, if you're lucky enough you might actually create a new door.
2. Learn an instrument. Changelings are recognized for musical talent, so the more music there is in the world, the less they'll stand out. Something portable like pipes or even a harmonica is best, but anything will do. Try making yourself a home-made banjo.
3. Let your children be wild.  Let them play loudly, let them play in public. Changelings have a reputation - earned or not - for wild behavior.  Forcing your children to be quiet isolates actual and perceived changelings. If everyone is a little wild, the truly wild will be able to hide in plain sight.
4. Let your spaces be wild.  Aside from the aforementioned hedgerows, fey folk like wild places, untamed places. Let a corner of your lawn grow wild. Let all of it grow wild. Let moss grow, let dandelions grow. Tear dandelion leaves up with your hands, mix them into salads, brew them into wine.
5.  Listen. This is most important. You'll hear their voices, and hear their music. You'll hear them tell you which places to set free, when to dance and when to laugh. Remember, the world is not yours alone, nor the fight.

Copy and repost this. Join the resistance. 

Nightmare Fuel, Day the Sixteenth - Back to Nature

Happy Monday. I've been asked why I always use fantastical elements in my fiction; it isn't a need, but it IS something that lets one speak to the world more clearly and with more flexibility.

That said, there's may not be a fantasy element in the piece below. You can decided if it still works.

Back to Nature

"Let's go back to nature."

That's how it started. Henry's idea. Things like this were always his idea.

And it's isn't like I minded. Seven years after welcoming Billy to the world, live had fallen into a comfortable rut of getting him off to school, getting him back from school, and the blur of activities between. "Back to nature" could be fun. For all of us.

And so what if nature meant a nylon tent in a grassy clearing just ten feet from a parking spot? It was still a break in the routine, even if the hours you would have spent cooking were spent as even more hours rinsing lightweight tin plates with biodegradable camping-soap after spending an embarrassing amount of time trying to cook over an open fire before giving up and taking the portable propane stove from the trunk.

And so what if Henry couldn't make it, called out of town at the last minute? At least Billy and I would have a moment's peace together. Away from school and home and dishes and the damn vacuum cleaner.

And so what if Billy barely picked at the hamburger it took far too long and too much effort to cook, and whined for Mac and Cheese and that we COULD have made Mac and Cheese if we'd only brought it. After all, we had a stove.

And so what if I left Billy in the tent for a bit when I ran off into the nearby wood, after the sun had set. After all, that's what I needed, right? And I wasn't too far.


Yes, I knew that last part was wrong. But really, it wasn't so far.

My heart froze in my chest as the car's headlights pierced the moonless night, a beacon back towards our site. I ran, footsteps crunching on the thick carpet of dry leaves. My stomach dropped as I saw Henry silhouetted in the light. Yes, I'm sure it was him. Yes, he was over a thousand miles away. And yes, he was so backlit that I couldn't see his face, but you know how your husband stands. It was him.

As I neared the site, the lights die, leaving you in darkness, the afterimage lingering in your eyes.

Henry, of course, isn't there. Billy is lying awake in his sleeping bag, staring at the roof of the tent.

I zipped myself into my sleeping bag by his side, never again to leave.

Image via Buzzfeed
https://www.buzzfeed.com/craigsilverman/creeps-hack-baby-monitors-and-say-terrifying-thing?utm_term=.ecgNml98a#.gbnbYXzwN

Nightmare Fuel 2016, Day the Zeroth: "Not That Kind of Monster"

Write horrible things with me.

With these words, Andrea Trask began the annual "Nightmare Fuel" project, in which every day of October,  whomever chooses to do so writes a story inspired by the same image prompt. It's a tradition which now enters is fourth consecutive year. It's a tradition which began as a way for Andrea to deal with ill dreams which plagued her as the calendar turns towards All Hallows Eve and a tradition which I've continued sporadically.

This year I'm writing before the prompt was prompted, so I'll open with a brief poem inspired by one from last year that I didn't get to. We'll see how we round out the year.

So come, listen, join in.

Write horrible things with me.


These will all be potentially unsettling, but this one comes with a trigger-warning for street harassment.
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"Not That Kind of Monster"

Date night. Not long planned, just a guy from Tindr.
Though moon is full, no hair grows on my face,
no howl escapes from my throat.
My legs are as smooth as a razor can get them, no pack awaits me.
I'm not that kind of monster.

He's cute, in a geeky kind of way.
Dinner,  a small table for two, he leans forward as I talk,
catching every word, or catching a peek down my blouse? No matter.
 My voice, though fair, doesn't hypnotize him,
                                                      doesn't steal his thoughts,
                                                                    doesn't curse him to follow me to his doom.
I'm not that kind of monster.


The movie ends sometime past midnight.
On the darkened streets, my teeth don't stretch into fangs.
I don't sensuously lick my lips before sinking my teeth into his neck
before drinking my fill
and leaving his drained husk behind.
I'm not that kind of monster.

When the men at the corner call out,
when they yell, "Hey sexy"
                    and "nice ass"
                      and "wanna share her, bro?"
I don't grow claws, don't break their bones
don't devour their flesh.
I'm not that kind of monster.

I do see him, my date, puff up with something like pride
even as their comments become more lewd
even as one starts to approach.
He speaks once to them,
                                   "she's mine".
I know that even if I take him home,
even after we fuck,
there will be no second date. No happily ever after.
I'll not kill him, tear his skin from his body, and wear it as a suit.
I'm disappointed in him, but
I'm not that kind of monster.


In the dark of the next morning I'll take the knife.
Again.
I'm practiced at this now. Two slices, and they're gone.
I string them up with the others as blood runs down the side of my head.
Knowing that it's useless.
Knowing that they'll only grow back again.
Knowing that I'll still hear the next time anyway.
But noticing that each time they seem to grow back slower.
That's the kind of monster I am.
One who is slowly
inevitably
one ear at a time
being killed.

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I lied in the intro; this poem IS inspired by the attached image, but also by a real life event. Last month, the aforementioned Andrea Trask was subject to a nasty and frightening bit of street harassment. While she was not injured in body, the circumstance and actions [a late night, an empty street, drunk sports fans in a car] were deeply unsettling and left her rattled for quite some time after.

Thus the opener, and this year's theme: Harm. The ways in which we harm each other, the ways in which we harm ourselves, the ways in which we allow harms to come to pass.

Flash Fiction Monday - The First Pitch

Good morning everyone! I missed flash fiction friday last week, so I'm giving it to you on a Monday. Once again, it's an image prompt from Bliss Morgan's "Prompts and Circumstance" project - this time without attribution because the source is unknown. So far as I can tell, nobody else has done anything with this prompt yet.

The First Pitch

by Leonard C Suskin

"Never swing at the first pitch."

That was the first  lesson your father drilled into us in little league. It's the lesson his father taught him, that his brothers taught your cousins. And your learned it.

After a time, you came to never swing at the first pitch.
Ever.

When you were very young, it was take a pitch or face the belt. After a while it wasn't even about the belt anymore. It was about how if you got a fat fastball down the middle of the plate and smoked it into the gap for a double you'd come back to the bench to see a stern frown. The next day, the crack of the bat would still be echoing in your hears,  your father would cooly say, "We need to work on plate discipline", and that was that. The joy

It was as if it didn't count, not to them. Not if you didn't follow "process".

There were other lessons, of course.

"Count your change twice."

"Always push for a better offer. Even if it means losing the deal."

"A steady job with a steady paycheck is better than chasing a dream."


It took you years to realize that all of the lessons were the same lesson.
That all that mattered is not to take the first pitch.

Years later you'd read about the new focus on statistics in baseball, as opposed to instinct. About the value of on-base percentage. On seeing more pitches. You'd realize your father was right.

Now that you have kids and a house and suburbia with a white picket fence it's time that you get to be a little league coach.

The first lesson you teach will be on plate discipline.

Notes from a reading: An Evening at the Brooklyn Museum

Yesterday the Brooklyn Museum (in Brooklyn New York, of course) kicked off May with their "first Saturday" program, in which the museum features free readings, entertainment, cultural programs, and even museum admission. This also happened to be a Saturday when I was already to be in Brooklyn for my niece's fourth birthday party (at a wonderful old carousel in Prospect Park, giving me an easy opportunity to wander to the museum for the one free event which caught my eye: a reading and discussion with Nnedi Okorofor, N.K. Jemisin, and Ibi Ozoi. This event consisted of brief readings followed by a panel discussion and Q&A. Members of the Brooklyn-based multi-media arts collective BKLN ZULU shared the stage with the writers, proving background music and video for the reading portion.

Nnedi Okorofor

I've mentioned Okorofor earlier on these pages for her younger readers' fiction. She's also written some very smart and very different adult SF novels, including the "aliens invade Nigeria" novel Lagoon from which she read yesterday evening. Her work is hard to classify, straddling the lines between science fiction, fantasy, and "Afro-futurism" (more on that label later). I honestly found the inclusion of the supernatural in what was otherwise a science fiction novel to be jarring at first, but fiction SHOULD be jarring. If it isn't, then it's likely not that interesting, or at least not taking any chances or risks. In the following conversation, Okorofor called out the sharp division between fiction dealing with the supernatural and fiction which is strictly "realistic" to be a peculiarly Western phenomenon, while other cultures have more comfort weaving the mystical and the mundane. The chapters she read involved an encounter between an internet scammer and Ijele, a supernatural  Igboo entity called a Masquerade, reminiscent of street performances but, in this context, all too real. Okorofor had quite a commanding reading presence, and the multimedia dovetailed very well with her work, abstract colors interspersed with the computer-generated text of classic email scams.

N.K. Jemisin

Next to read was N.K. Jemisin, who did not read from her ongoing Broken Earth series of novels because she thought - perhaps rightly - that secondary-world fantasy is tough to introduce in this format. Instead she went to an older work, a piece she wrote for a lesbian steampunk anthology. Hers was the most playful of the three, dealing with the perfectly absurd (yet undeniably fun) assumptions made in Steampunk settings. Eschewing the more traditionally Steampunk Victorian England or American West, Jemisin proposed a world in which Haiti grew to superpower status following a successful slave revolt, defending itself with rum-fueled Dirigibles. Yes, it's insane on its face, but no more so than any other Steampunk futures. Her  reading was the most playful, but there was an edge behind it in the wish-fulfilment of an oppressed people fighting to keep their freedom - and a character recounting the horrors of how slaves were tortured following an earlier, failed revolt. It toed the line between "fun" and "serious wonderfully. Sadly, Jemisin is getting over a bit of a bronchial infection, interrupting an otherwise wonderful reading with periodic coughing. Like the other two women, she commanded a strong presence on the stage. She's quite active and vocal on Twitter (about writing and about politics), but uses the image of a housecat as her avatar, so I've never had a mental image of her. I can report that in person she does not look like a housecat.

Ibi Zoboi

The final reading was Ibi Zoboi, the only one of the three writers I didn't already know. The work from which she read is YA novel taking place in Detroit and featuring a young Hatian protagonist in an encounter with Legba, a mystical person who, like the devil, stands at crossroads and has presence in this life and the next (part of me wonders if the image of the devil at a crossroad is borrowed from this tradition, if they developed independently in parallel, or if the Haitians borrowed from Christians. Either way, the two images are similar, but different). She did a lovely job with the voices of her different characters, and again was supported by multimedia. I found it interesting that Zoboi and Okorofor used similar elements to very different effect - Okorofor's Ijele was powerful, alien (not in the literal "from space" sense, but in the "not like us" sense) and unknowable. Papa Legba, on the other hand, walked in the guise of a homeless man, answered questions, and sang cryptic little riddle-songs which I'm sure will serve to answer challenges her protagonist will have in her journey.

Following the reading was a discussion on writing, on the place these writers hold as African-American women in the SF world and publishing at large, and a bit on classification. Okorofor gave the most personal about herself, opening the discussion with a digression to recount masquerades in Nigeria where, as an American-ibo  visitor, she was often a target of the masked figures chasing kids through the streets. She pointed at one of the members of BKLN ZULU (the one in the grass-looking outfit) and said that the one she remembers looked just like him! There was also a personally (to me) shocking moment when she recounted the beginning of her life as a writer as needing the activity to keep herself sane after being (temporarily) paralyzed following spinal surgery to correct severe scoliosis. Those of you who've followed me know our recent history with that issue; while our experience wasn't hers and I don't know first-hand what it is like to live with back pain and surgery, I DO know something from seeing it up close. It gave me the absolute deepest sympathy for Okorofor and left me thankful that she was able to channel that difficult experience into a flourishing career as a successful and acclaimed writer. Jemisin told of being sent off on "adventures" when she was a child, with a subway token, a few dollars, and a destination. Later, in the Q&A section, she discussed "living a life" as the one thing writers don't discuss enough. She thinks "write what you know" is poor advice, especially for a fantasist writing about a world in which there are people who can control earthquakes. Her advice is to live, experience, and learn what you want to write about. Unlike Okorofor, she's always seen herself as a writer, binding little books with cardboard and yarn as a grade-school student.

In another note from the discussion, the panelists didn't much care for the term "Afro-futurist". Jemisin isn't that interested in labels overall, and wants people to read her work regardless of what it's called (and would write whether or not anyone read her). For one thing, it's a term which predates "Afro-futurist" literature, originally applied to a musical genre. For another thing, it's seen by some as an American term, marginalizing actual African artists. I'm in agreement with Jemisin on this, in that I'm not a huge fan of genre labels. I'm an unapologetic fantasy and SF fan, but I'm fine getting literature in my SF and SF in my literature. That Okorofor mixes fantasy elements in her SF and that Jemisin's work has fantasy elements but can be read as SF are not only fine with me, but really positive developments. We should think about how fiction makes us think and how it makes us feel rather than squabble over which box into which it should be put.

Finally, there was a Q&A. I'd like to speak to my fellow audience members for a moment. First, "I have a comment...." isnt' a question. It's a comment. I showed up to listen to the panelists, not random audience members. Second, "I have three questions...." is not a question. It's three questions. If there's a line of six people at each of two microphones then you're not doing anyone any justice by asking three questions at once. Finally, I know that the panelists were African American SF writers. I know that Octavia Butler and Sam Delaney are African American SF writers. That doesn't mean you have to ask about them! It strikes me as slightly reductive to bring in Butler every time there's a discussion of African American women in SF. (That said, all three writers had interesting answers regarding Butler, so what do I know? I was especially intrigued by Zoboi admitting her disappointment on finding that the Butler  was not as  "black liberation" focused as she expected her to be. I still think it was a silly question).

Quibbles about the Q&A aside, it was a wonderful evening and a great chance to hear from some of the most interesting writers in SF today and, as an added bonus, have a few free moments to tour the museum. I've not talked about "diversity" in this piece, but it IS noteworthy that these are not only three African-American women, but that two of them are among my favorite writers. Without taking some effort to do otherwise, many of us only read those who echo our experiences, who fit what we expect, who feel easily relatable. This is a disservice to ourselves more than to the community at large, and a trap into which I've fallen at some points in my life. The point isn't that you should read these women because they're African-American women; it's that you should read a broad section of everything available to broaden your context and your experiences. To be a complete person, we need to experience more than one kind of book, more than one kind of thinking, more than one culture. 

As I said, this was a wonderful and special evening. Hats off the the Brooklyn Museum for hosting this event and to Okorofor, Jemisin, and Zoboi for their participation.

Flash Fiction Friday - The Price of Oranges

"Disgusting, isn't it?"

Just a vignette today, with commentary beneath. There will be more on this later.
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"The Price of Oranges"
by Leonard C Suskin

Like a slap across the back of my aching hands, the her voice jarred me to sudden attention, my back painfully snapping straight. I nearly dropped the object of her scorn: a peeled orange packed in clear plastic.

The stranger pointed her cell phone at the thing, snapped a snap of it. "I didn't even think this madness was real. How stupid and wasteful can people be? Right?"

She didn't seem to expect more than the mumblenodnodshrug I gave him as I held the thing awkwardly, my face a mask of the disdain I didn't feel. I casually set it aside, made a show of inspecting apples, turning each over and over, inspecting for bruises until the muscles in my hands and forearms burned. Who am I kidding? They were already burning when I started.

They always burn.

When he was safely around the corner to the dairy aisle I reclaimed my orange, stowing it discreetly beneath an economy-sized back of prewashed spinach that I didn't particularly want. And then slowly follow him to the dairy aisle, taking two half-gallon cartons to her single gallon. 

"The gallon's cheaper. Wasteful to get to halves".

I knew this. I remembered the last full gallon I'd bought, remembered the struggle each morning until it was half-empty. The mornings I skipped coffee because my wrist hurt too much to lift the gallon container.

I knew I was too pathetic to deserve the ten cents a gallon savings.

My shadow followed me the rest of the trip, saw everything. Gave me a withering look when I stopped to examine a bag of frozen peas, letting the cool plastic rest against the back of my hand for a long time as I pretended to read the label.

Some days she'll go away if I focus hard enough on the background music, on the sounds of my footfalls on the hard tile floor, on adding my current expenses in my head like a mantra. Today is not one of those days. Today she's there with me, every step, every breath. Focused on the damn orange.

When we get to the checkout, the cashier gives the little packaged orange a withering, hateful look, starts to say something as she rings it up but stops. My shadow is gone now, off to nowhere in particular. Just me and the cashier and my big bag of camouflage spinach and my orange and my two half-gallons of milk. And the other stuff. I waited while the cashier bagged my stuff, making the bags too heavy and putting the soft squishable things on the bottom. They're never good at this.

Next time I'll skip the damn orange. I'll just buy a bag of chips and nobody will say anything.

Perhaps I'll skip the milk too. Maybe that will be enough to have my shadow leave me alone for once.

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As I said, just a slice of life vignette. There was going to be an overt SF element herein about the spread of a smartphone "shaming" app used to track people doing things like purchasing pre-packaged oranges, but it added lots of expositionary weight to the story and very little of actual value.

The concept here, of course, came from the photo the prepackaged oranges which was circulating on social media a few weeks back. I was ready to join everyone else in scoffing at it when Ana Mardoll pointed out (in a series of tweets storified here) that this IS a valuable service for those with disabilities. That lead me to think about how we shame people who take what we see as the easy way out and about how it leads too many to carry their shame with them, a judging shadow who just won't fade away.

I'll have more to say on this topic next week in a technology-centric post as we examine the cost - and benefits - of designing systems in ways which accommodate those needing accommodations.

See you next week on rAVepubs. And thanks, as always, for listening.

Tracks - The Return of Flash Fiction Friday!

Let's re-start Flash Fiction Friday with a brief sketch of life in suburbia.

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"Tracks"

by Leonard C Suskin

What the child liked best about the house is that there are places you can't go. No forbidden rooms, no hidden stairs, but small spaces encompassing tiny mysteries. The child had wished for a hidden room since the father had recounted the tale of Blackbeard the pirate one bedtime (and what a row that had lead to when the child refused to sleep for nights after, coming to the bedroom. The mother scolded the father for sowing nightmare seeds, but that wasn't quite it; the child awoke each night searching the tiny two-bedroom apartment for a hidden door, and was always brought to tears when none was found), but really knew that a forbidden door and a hidden room was a grown-up secret. The child was far enough from the threshold of adulthood to find joy in tiny child-size secrets. The space behind the boiler. The rusty metal floorplate in the basement closet which the mother said lead to a trap - not just a mouse-trap, but a house-trap. The child wondered if what was inside was somehow what had captured this house, anchored it hear.

The point, of course, isn't mouse-traps or house-traps (which you know is just plumbing because you traded away mystery for knowledge), isn't what's really in the spaces behind the walls or under the floor. The point is that there are hidden spaces and forbidden spaces. The point is that while the mother and father sanded and painted and carpented and plumbed the child could stand at the very edge of a mystery, the child-brain a radio searching for the frequency of whatever broadcast came from beyond the walls. Or a whatever the modern metaphor for "radio" would be now that everyone streams music over wi-fi and radio is just a lumbering RF dinosaur clogging a part of the spectrum. But I digress. Where were we?

Yes. The child.

The stair is wooden with those little square of carpet to keep one from slipping, dark-brown paint stained dusted with thick layers of plaster dust (remember, the mother and father are renovating). It was in this dusty corner that the child first saw the tracks. Tiny things, the sort a mouse would make, or perhaps an undersized rat. Tiny whispers in dust which, seconds ago, the child was sure had been pristine. The tracks started at that little carpetsquare in the center of the stair tread and ended... at the wall. The child marvelled at this, wondering where the creature which made them could have come from, where it had gone.

When the electric sander upstairs fell silent, the child wiped the tiny tracks away with a carelessly dirty sleeve, gathering both the dust and the empty spaces within. Even a child knows that an adult, seeing mousetracks in the new house, would hunt and kill, would lay mousetraps and not housetraps and whatever mysterious housemate they had would be gone.

The next day the child returned to the stair when the coast was clear. Again the skitchskitchskitch sound of sandpaper (not the electric one today). Again, a white dusting on darkwood stair. And again a track, but this one was different.

One print, right where the last had been. One print, midway up the stairs. Nothing below, nothing beneath. No mouse-tracks, this one. Even a child reared in the city knew this for what it is: a single cat's paw print.

The family did now own a cat.

Was it a stray? But how did it get in, and why no more prints? Where was it?

Do mice grow to be cats out here in the suburbs? The child wondered if some different logic was at work than there had been in the city.

We've already said that the best thing about the house is forbidden corners. The other best thing is the space, the empty parts of the day when the father and mother were sanding, were painting, were (though the child wouldn't have thought of this word) nesting. It made the whole world a secret corner, one in which a gentle-hearted child could steal a saucer from the kitchen, spill some milk into it, and hide it in that little cobwebby spot behind the boiler. The child did this quickly, eagerly, a touch frantically for fear that whichever cutecat (because in the child's mind the cat was never anything but cute) had left its mark was hungry, perhaps even starving.

Maybe a saucer of stolen milk (still three days before the expiration date!) would be enough.

Maybe.

The next day was a Monday. The child went to school, the parents to work.

The schoolbuilding was all shinynew, walls meeting neatly at sharp corners, no secrets, nothing hidden.

The child is usually the first to awaken, has a hidden moment for the cooldark of the basement.

The saucer is empty, sticky. No more milk. The child hopes the cutecat is happy. But then on the stair...

..a dog print. You saw it coming, didn't you? The child didn't. Just the one footprint.

A long time pondering, in the halflight spilling to the stairway from the old incandescent bulb in the kitchen. A trickle of light, a warm dusty light. Not the antiseptic fluorescent which makes everything too real, but the kind of old spilled half-light in which a monster can still hide.

The child pads to the kitchen on quietmorning feet, as the rest of the house sleeps. A tiny scrap of meat from last night's dinner, nobody would miss it. Right? Onto the secret saucer with it. Maybe it would make the ghostdog happy and it would leave the cutecat alone. Maybe the ghostdog IS the cat, grown up again.

Whatever it is, whyever its there, it is.

An invisible pet.

Or a parade of invisible pets. It doesn't much matter.

In what is already become ritual, the child dutifully gathers up the footprint onto a sleeve.

And leaves the secretshadows behind as the parents stir to wakefulness,

Through the day, the child carries the mystery, wondering what shape I'll show tomorrow.

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The picture was mine, and kickstarted this story. How did you picture the child? As a boy or a girl? How old? Much in this sketch is left intentionally vague, some ambiguous. There's a touch of an influence from Terry Bisson's "Billy" stories, but just a touch.

I'll be flexing the flash-fiction muscle more over the coming months, perhaps striving to return to at least one per week. If you have images, themes, or anything else you think would make an interesting story inspiration, feel free to share. Perhaps I'll see what I can do with it.

Nightmare Fuel, Day the Third - the Nail

A cheat today; I'm up ahead of the daily prompt, so selected one of my own from the archives.

The image was from March of 2003 in New York City. 

If I like today's post image, I'll write another later or another day.

Enjoy!

"The Nail"

The kids left another nail in their garden patch.

It still bothers them that I look when I come to visit, the same way that it still bothers them deep inside that I call them kids. No matter. I raised him well enough to not say anything, and she's too scared to. There is politeness, but the nails.

The nails make me mad. 

Photo by L.C. Suskin

It's not just that they keep the little folk out, or hurt the ones that come. Little spikes of iron, carelessly sown amongst the roses and rosemary, the earthloving tulip bolds and bold daffodils, trumpetiting the arriving season. It's that it's come to feel deliberate. After I talked them into pulling the nails out of that little wood picket fencelette (too small to be a real fence. Oh, how I loved wordplay when I was a young girl! I should have been a writer) and tie it up with twine all properlike the nails kept appearing. The kids tell me they must of dropped when they pulled them from the fence, that they fell there by accident, but there's too many, too many different sizes and shapes. Where do so many nails come from?

No, the nails are there for spite. 

It's the same kind of spite that moves the flat bowl of salt from the east window to the west window, that swept away the line of salt I'd drawn on their rear doorsill and replaced it with sharptasting cinnamon. For the ants, they say, but I know different and they know I know different. 

She knows. I can see it in her eyes.

It's hard to pick up tiny nails from soft earth, the iron dirtyblack against the soil. If I had my gloves I'd do it now, but I don't want to risk burning my hands.

It is easy, as an old woman, to shuffle my feet. To stumble a bit on the way in, to break that damn line of cinnamon. Tomorrow I'll replace it with honest salt. As it should be.

As I go to the wrong side of the kitchen window to fetch the salt, I see it out of the corner of my eye: a single ant already crossing the threshhold

Soon there are more. Not the black ants I know from my youth, but tiny and dustyred, the color of rust. 

The kids won't appreciate it, but I shuffle to the door, ready to protect my child's home against the coming iron.

Seamstress without A Needle - Review of Elizabeth Bear's Karen Memory

It's book recommendation time! This week we'll be talking about Steampunk which, for those who don't know, is a science fiction subgenre based on fantastic (and usually impossible) reimaginings of Victorian-era steam-driven technologies. At its worst, Steampunk falls into an obsession with Victorian and imaginary-victorian trappings - corsets and tophats, airships and brass monocles, the odd babbage engine. At its best, it uses these trappings to examine a point in history when old social orders were being overturned and, in the divide between rich and poor, look at today's world through a funhouse mirror. In fact, I'd say that the best science fiction is always a funhouse mirror through which we can view our own world.

Regular readers of this blog should know that I adore the writing of Elizabeth Bear; her work is always compelling with a great eye for character and for detail. I greatly envy her talent. Her Karen Memory is a "Wild West Steampunk" novel, taking place in the imaginary Alaska town of Cedar Rapids during a gold-rush in the late nineteenth century. Before we see any fancy steampunk trappings we meet our protagonist and narrator, "seamstress" Karen Memery:

Yes, she does what you think that she does, and it's handled as well as you'd expect; the work colors Memery's perception of men, but hasnt' twisted her into a misogynist. The work plays a significant role in the novel, both in terms of plot and theme, but it's never played for titillation. In fact, while the characters have plenty of sex (as they are working in a brothel) there are no explicit sex scenes. While there is empowerment in Memery and her peers earning a living and while they do have the good fortune of working at the Hotel Mon Cherie (the French is deliberately wrong),  the "good" brothel owned and run by a Madame Damnable - a  woman with an interesting past of her own -  it's not quite sugar-coated or sentimentalized. In fact, one important character refuses the chance at joining Madame Damnable's "sewing circle", even having few other choices. While she keeps a measure of her dignity, it remains clear that Memery's choice to earn a living on her back was no choice at all in reality; institutional sexism leaves few other choices for a young woman on her own.

The action begins with a girl rescued from a rival house of ill repute (this one of truly ill-repute, in which the girls were treated as literal slaves), brought to the Hotel Mon Cherie, triggering a major flare-up in the rivalry between Madame Damnable and her counterpart the odious Peter Bantle. Soon there's a Jack the Ripper style string of murderer persued by  a far-traveling US Marshall, literal rooftop chases, daring escapes and, yes, an airship. Wouldn't be a steampunk novel without one. There's not much sex but there IS a same-sex romance (oh, how I long for the day when such things are common enough that I can just say "romance". Alas, that day is  not today). This is not high-tea and top-hat style steampunk; the characters about whom we come to care are always on the peripheries: an (Asian) Indian woman saved from sex slavery by a Chinese-American freedom fighter of sorts (real-life sex-worker rights activists  would be glad to know that she has a perfectly healthy relationship with the voluntary seamstresses of Madame Damnables and does not equate all prostitution with slaver), an African-American marshall with his Native-American posseman. The latter character - Marhsall Bass Reeves - is based, according to the author's note, on an actual historical figure on whom the Lone Ranger myth was quite possibly based -- a myth which quite literally strips him of his actual skin.

For anyone who loves the wild west, who loves Steampunk, or simply loves a good tale Karen Memor is well-worth the reading. Very highly recommended. 

About that Slave Leia figure; When All Women are Pin-Ups.

Earlier  this month, a concerned parent complained to Hasbro that the easiest to find Princess Leia action figure was the "Slave Leia" costume from her brief imprisonment by Jabba the Hutt at the beginning of Episode VI. The complainant has been praise for caring about female depiction and empowerment, ridiculed for not understanding the source material, and ignored from various corners of the internet. Coincidentally, this kerfuffle comes on the occasion of my daughter's first watching of the films at the age of eight. Last night we watched the first film, A New Hope. (For the purpose of this discussion, there are a total of three Star Wars films, which were released in 1977, 1980, and 1983. This isn't prequel-bashing, but an acknowledgement that the "classic trilogy" has a place of cultural important and influence which the later ones do not share). It's worth looking at what Star Wars says about women, why "Slave Leia" is so problematic (as I believe that, to an extent, it is), and how things could be better.

First, re-watching Episode IV with my daughter was overall a wonderful experience. The acting is, of course, abysmal as is much of the dialog, the plot is fairly predictable and the villains range from cartoonishly pure-evil (Darth Vader and Grand Moff Tarkin) to cartoonishly stupid (the Stormtroopers). That said, the film has a distinctive look,  some great (for its time) action sequences, and is great fun overall. Getting to the topic of the depiction of women, one can't help but smile at Princess Leia, especially in the moment where she takes control of her rescue after Han and Luke have gotten themselves cornered. Throughout the movie she's depicted as strong, dignified, and honorable. Given this portrayal of overall strength, why is it a problem for her to be very briefly stripped of her clothes and dignity only to turn around and literally use her chains to strangle her captor? Two reasons.

First, and most importantly, is that anything which happens to Leia happens to all women. Why? Because Leia is very nearly the only named female character in the trilogy (yes, there's Luke's Aunt Beru who gets perhaps four minutes of screen time and about six lines of dialog. We barely get to know her and barely remember her when the final credits roll). This gives her depiction a gravity which isn't there for male characters. Han Solo appears selfish and arrogant? He's counterbalanced by the naive, good-hearted simple farmboy. Lando Calrissian acts cowardly and dishonest? Not, as they say on Twitter, all men; there are plenty who are honest and honorable. Han Solo is taken prisoner, frozen in carbonite? Another man is there to lead the rescue effort. Princess Leia is captured by Stormtroopers, captured by Jabba the Hutt, forced to wear a metal bikini? That's every single woman we know in the Star Wars universe. Watching Episode IV, I noticed that the background characters don't even  include women - and that's a shame. Why not have some female soldiers fighting alongside the men in the Rebellion? Why are there no female officers on the Death Star? The more women present, the less representation becomes a statement on women in general and the more it becomes about the single character.

How female fans depict to Leia

More Leia cosplay

The second issue is that the Slave Leia costume is blatant sexualization which teaches girls that participation includes showing off female bodies. Take these Google Image Search results for "Princess Leia Cosplay"; I took the very first images which came up and see that, of the first dozen, ten are the "slave" outfit. Yes, women are within their rights to show off their bodies if they want and no, I don't consider such displays shameful.  What it DOES remind us is that messages - even unintended ones -  echo and that sex, as they say, sells. Throughout the films, we see Leia as a warrior, a leader, and a hero in her own right. We see her defiantly stand up to her captors, including the imposing and intimidating Darth Vader. We see her in battle, blaster in hand. We see her dressed in long white robes, in cold-weather gear, in jungle camoflauge. And, for a few minutes of one film, we see her in a metal bikini. Sexual displays of female bodies get so much attention in our society that the one glimpse of her body takes a disproportionate share of our consciousness, and is elevated to an iconic status which, to be fair, the source material does not deserve. As I said, Leia is a hero and a strong character whose focus is NOT her sexuality.

How female fans depict Hermione Granger.
Note that she is wearing clothes. 

When we sexualize the only female character in a franchise, we encourage sexual engagement from fans and send a message that fandom is about sex. When we only have one female character, that character represents ALL women. Compare, for the sake of discussion, the Harry Potter books and films. While the main character is a boy, we have multiple important women and girls (Professor McGonagall, Hermione Granger, Luna Lovegood and, arguably the most important villain of the series, Dolores Umbridge). This means that Luna's flightiness tells us that Luna is flighty, not that girls are flighty. 

It's also noteworthy that, even as characters mature and fall into relationships, neither Rowling nor the various filmakers involved "sexed up" any of the female characters. If you look at cosplay of Hermione Granger, for example, you'll see the same kind of dress-up as Harry Potter cosplay; representations of the character as they are. The Potter characters aren't sexless by any means; one could argue that the Harry Potter books are a more adult-oriented work than Star Wars, certainly with a more interesting a varied take on romance. That they could do this without turning all females into pinups is a good thing.

So yes, while I understand that it's part of canon and that many fans have affection for it, the Slave-Leia depiction is a big negative in portrayal of women and in giving them a broad welcome into fandom. We need to do better. 

Agree? Disagree? Let me know. Watch this space for more flash fiction later this week, and check out my AV-related posts over on rAVepubs.

At the Station

Big change on the blog: there will no longer be audiovisual content here! Don't worry, I'll still be writing it, but the bulk of my AV-related writing will appear exclusively on rAVepubs. 

We'll still have flash fiction here, the occasional book review, and more. 

Today's flash fiction comes courtesy of a prompt from Andrea Trask. You can read Andrea's fiction here, or find her various places on social media.

At the Station

by Leonard C Suskin

We are all creatures of habit. Every morning the same drive to the station, the same parking spot, the same car on the same train. Every morning the same faces. Every morning another sand falling in the hourglass, another tick of the divine clock. Every morning the same, but a day older.

I always park, as I said, in the same spot,  next to the same car. A big white SUV type with a set of those stick-figure family decals on the rear window. Father, mother, boy, girl, two cats. The complete set, minus a dog. I have a wife, a boy, a girl, two cats. Never got the dog either; they're tough for commuters. Get home late one day, come home to a rugfull of dog poop. No thanks. So, parking next to the big white SUV feels like parking next to a secret twin brother. Or something. Until it doesn't.

Another Monday the same routine, another day pulling in next to the big white car, but this time there's a difference, and a sad one. One of the little cat decals has a set of angel-wings on it, the kind they put for the departed. I wonder what that's like, how you decide to do it. Do you get the little wing decals the day the pet dies? A week after? Does affixing those seem like a little funeral rite? I can't imagine seeing the little angel-cat on your window every day, but I also can't imagine the heartbrake of scraping the sticker off, as if scraping the creature out of your life.

I scan the crowd on the train platform; they all seem the same. There's the neatly buttoned-up guy in his suit, as always, the couple of rumpled-looking construction-types, the ladies in their smart business dresses. Nobody looks extra-sad, as if they lost a pet. Maybe he's on the train before this one.

Tuesday, the same routine, another day pulling in next to the big white car, but there's a difference. Again. A second set of angel-wings, on the second cat. I wonder. Did the pet die of loneliness, or heartbreak? Did they die together, and it took until the next day for the owner to find another pair of wings? I trail my fingers along the boy and girl decals as I walk past the car and toward the train platform. White-car-guy (and I've always assumed it's the guy's car) is like a person to me, but his family has always felt abstract. I wonder how the kids are dealing with losing both pets? Today I ignore my newspaper and scan the platform as I wait for the train.

Tuesday evening I persuade my wife that we should sleep with the bedroom door open, so the cats can come and go.

Wednesday, I awake to find one cat curled up at my feet and the other snuggled into the crook of my arm. Then, the same routine, another day pulling in next to the big white car, but there's a difference. A big one. The girl has angel wings.

I sit in the car for a long time, staring straight ahead. Losing two pets felt heartbreaking, but this is something else. It's tragedy. I'm a bit surprised that the car is still here in the parking lot. Shouldn't he be arranging the funeral? Shouldn't he be with the surviving family? I feel a surge of anger at white-car-guy, a surge of pity. I'm still in the car when the train whistle jars me out of my reverie. I have to sprint across the parking lot, and arrive out of breath as the train doors open.

In the evening I give the cats extra treats and try to get the kids to play with them, but they're too interested in wasting their time with some stupid TV show.

Another day, the same routine. I feel physically sick as I pull into the parking lot, sure of what I'm going to find. After all, what's a routine but a repeating pattern, and this one is clear.

The boy now has angel wings.

I run up the stairs without my briefcase, walk the platform from one end to the other, giving a close look to all of my fellow commuters. They're all newspapers and iPhones and casual chit-chat, as always. Nobody appears grief-stricken, nobody appears shell-shocked.

Nobody but me.

I ride the train in silence, without touching my newspaper or my phone. Nobody notices anything amiss, nobody says anything to me.

For dinner I order a pizza, let the kids choose the topping. They bicker over who got the slice with more pepperoni, get grease all over the chairs. It tastes like cardboard in my mouth. We again leave the bedroom door open, let the cats have the run of the house.

Another damn day, the same damn routine. Parking next to the same damn white car is like picking at a scab, like probing an aching tooth with your tongue. This time it's not what I expected.

Yes, there are still angel-wings on the two cats, on the girl, on the boy. And yes, there's another pair of wings on the wife. Just as you knew there'd be. But that isn't it.

There are also wings on the man.

The car  is parked just as neatly as ever, in the same spot. Again I run my hand along the back window, reading each decal with fingertips. Man, woman, boy, girl, cat, cat. All winged.

Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision as I stumble up the stairs to the train platform. Minutes after the traindoors close I'm deeply asleep, my head leaning against the cool window.

I don't know how long I sleep, but it takes me past the last station. I awake to an empty and dark train car, someplace underground, the doors locked. Here I wait alone for someone to bring up the lights, for someone to start the train running and bring back the routine, back to the habit. 

Back on track. 

Flash Fiction Tuesday - Play Ball!

It's your twice-weekly dose of flash fiction! Please, no biographical fallacies here: the only similarity between myself and the character in the story is my complete and utter inability to throw a baseball. Well, that and sometimes achy knees. 

"Play Ball"

by Leonard C Suskin

"My father never taught me how to throw a baseball."

"And do you want to be your father? Do you want him to be you?"

We were looking out the big bay window towards the lawn across the street, watching Eddy, our oldest son, with the neighborhood kids. At five he was't the youngest, but not quite the oldest either. When he caught the ball - or, more accurately, picked a dropped ball up from the ground, his throw was weak and awkward, stiff-wristed, all arm and no body.

It was Sunday afternoon.

I didn't answer her last comment. There wasn't much to say. She looked from the game to me. "You watch enough baseball. Don't you see how they throw?"

"I know it isn't like that. I don't know enough to teach."

With a quiet "hrmph" noise she turned back to the window.

The modern world is a miraculous place; we carry the answers to nearly any question literally in our pockets. How to patch drywall. How often to water the lawn. What to expect in couples' therapy. How to get rid of gypsy moth caterpillars. How to tell fortunes. The many names of god, and of the devil. And, of course, how to throw a baseball.

Those sidearm, jumping, half-spinning throws you see from a major league shortstop fielding a hard grounder in the hole? That's not how you learn. Everyone on the internet seems to agree: grip, comfortably across the seams, hold the ball chest high. You don't throw with your arm and your shoulder. You throw with your wrist, your hands, your elbow, your shoulder, your hips, your legs. It's two steps of a dance; grip position on the upbeat,  pivotstepreachrelease on the downbeat.

It isn't an easy step. And I'm not a good dancer.

The previous owner had installed outdoor floodlights in the backyard. The kind with the bluewhite glare that make sit look unnatural, not artificial daylight but an oversaturated, paintedover night. I had a hard rubber ball, the side of the house. A YouTube "How To" on my phone.

Grip,lift, turnpivotthrow, thunk.
Grip,lift, turnpivotthrow, thunk.
grip, lift, turnpivotthrow, thunk.

The smack of rubber on brick played counterpoint to the voices on the AM radio, painting a word-picture of a young local kid pitching a gem for the home team.

Grip,lift, turnpivotthrow, thunk.

The blue rubber ball blackish in the nighttime light. Perhaps someday I'll watch Eddy pitching on the radio? 
I come to bed after she's fallen asleep, silently slipping under the sheets beside her.

It was Tuesday.

I awake to a dull ache in my shoulder, a persistent throbbing in my hip. Callouses on the inside of my fingers. I'm not accustomed to this. Not one bit.

In the floodlight, I chalk a square on the back of the house. Chest-high, three feet across.  Sometimes I hit it, but not many.  Again, the word picture on the radio accompanies me. The home-team's pitcher is a veteran, nearly my age. Too old to be pitching in the big leagues, really. Way too old to be starting out.

He leads the team to a win, 2-0. I catch the edge of the target, sending puffs of chalkdust into the air.

She's up watching a late movie when I come to bed, but I'm too tired to talk. I drift to sleep to the flashing lights and whispered dialog of the TV.

It was Wednesday.

Thursday is a travel day for the big league club, a late day at work for me.

Friday I get home early. It's one of those nice early summer days before it's too hot to be outside. I take Eddy out into the backyard, show him the target on the wall. It looks different in the daylight. Sharper, more real. As if the place I practiced at night was from a movie, or a dream.

I demonstrate once, and it's my best throw yet. Arms, hips, legs together, and a perfect strike in the middle of the target.

His eyes are wide and eager.

"How'd you learn to do that? Did your daddy teach you?"

I ignore the stabbing in my knees as I kneel beside him, bend my lips into a smile. "Yeah. And now it's your turn. Let me show you what he showed me."

I take his hand in mine and wrap his fingers around the ball, fingers across the seams.