Welcome to Fantasy Friday! Every week, you are invited to write and post anything having to do with fantasy, science fiction, etc., right here in the comments: a crazy idea for a new subgenre, a bit of a story you’re trying to write, your unbridled opinion of the last novel you read or the last SF convention you attended. At 5 p.m. PST today, if we’ve got at least ten participants, we’ll choose the day’s most entertaining writer and PayPal them $10 on the spot. Go start your weekend off with a cold one on us! (Minors, make that a couple of hot chocolates.)
Over Thanksgiving, my boyfriend’s father was in town.
He likes to argue. I do not particularly enjoy it, myself, but I often gets sucked in when he strikes at something close to my heart. While he was here he struck at something I greatly value.
I had just come home from my science fiction and fantasy writing workshop and I was hashing out the experience with lots of soap-boxy speeches and general anecdotes, as is my wont. I forget exactly how we came around to this, but at some point he said that if I worked hard and became a great speculative fiction writer it would be a waste. His reasoning? Science fiction and fantasy are a waste of time.
Lots of argument about Tolkien (who he has read and likes a lot), Vonnegut, Octavia Butler and Beowulf ensued. My position was that the genre of science fiction and fantasy was a lot broader than he wanted to believe. His points included a healthy dose of “why must we classify fiction?” and generally boiled down to: if it is good, it is not speculative fiction.
He spent the rest of his visit occasionally bringing up novels with speculative elements or devices and asking whether I thought they fell under the umbrella of speculative fiction. I hadn’t read most of them. I spent the rest of the weekend just generally frustrated with him and finding it increasingly difficult to argue with logic, sense and aplomb. When someone decides that a novel with speculative elements is automatically not speculative fiction simply because of their preconceived notions of what spec-fic is, it is prejudice.
It is human nature to classify things. I realize that every novel (and every person) really would be a complex Venn diagram of overlapping characteristics. But we almost never get to understand all those characteristics, so we put fiction (and, sadly, people) into boxes.
It’s not that different from calling a woman who is confident and loves to play sports “one of the guys”. If you do this, you’re ignoring a big part of who she is just because she doesn’t fit into your categories. And, if you deny that fiction you love is genre fiction just because that notion makes you uncomfortable and goes against your ideas of what genre fiction is, you’re missing out on levels of appreciation of the story. And you’re also missing out on other authors who might write similar and equally good stories and on a community of fans who appreciates the same things that you do.
That’s my soapboxing for today.
-Ericka
Well, that could have gone better.
I downloaded Ada Lovelace’s spirit in my new bride’s body. This went well. She was appreciative and agreed to be my assistant and spouse in exchange for new life. It only took a little… coercion.
Unfortunately, my draw upon the local power supply in the revivification process caused black-outs in a three state area. It didn’t take the authorities long to pinpoint my lair.
In the old days, we mad scientists dealt with the two ps: peasants and pitchforks. Now, when we upset the balance of things, SWAT teams armed with semi-automatics kick in your heavily barred doors.
My automated defenses covered our escape, but just barely. While scurrying down my escape tunnel, I twisted an ankle, and Ada had to carry me to the exit, some several miles from my former home.
Transportation awaited us in the form of a submarine, tethered to the bottom of the river. I summoned it to the surface, and we climbed inside. It was cramped, but acceptable. I set the submarine to dive once again, and we rested on the bottom while I contemplated my next move.
I have been checking the internet all morning, and it seems they are claiming that weather was the cause of the blackout. I can be sure that the authorities have accessed my files and know about my alternate hiding places, possibly even my submarine.
So here I sit, wondering what my next move should be. Ada is getting impatient with me. I promised her glorious scientific research–not a lifetime trapped in a submersible built for two.
I had better come up with something soon.
Tempest’s six-word story challenge intrigued me. So here goes!
*
Died, and didn’t notice anything different.
Left dying girlfriend, found bloodsucking fiend!
Wizardry, unparalleled universal dominance … kinda boring.
Mermaids kill. So did Prince Charming.
Never sleep with a Greek goddess.
Tell me quietly why you’re loud.
My roasted turkey turned into my brother. This makes things terribly inconvenient because, after all this is Christmas Eve and the turkey was supposed to be the main course. Not only that but my uncle and aunt have silver service for eight and now there will be nine. Plus, there are no nephews in the family so the conversation at the table will be rather awkward.
I don’t know if he is an older brother or a younger brother yet, much less his name. He is actually quite handsome though, and very polite. Mother is beside herself, father is pretending this never happened, but uncle is getting along splendidly. They are talking about such things as uncle knows like clock-works, construction machinery, automobiles and weaponry.
Every one seems to be blaming me for this since I was the one to prepare the turkey. But, do you suppose? Oh my! Is it true? Could it be that this was my uncle’s Christmas wish?
Ghost blogs for beer. Wistful thinking.
Decking halls with egg nog. DRIP!
In a peculiarly chagrin-inducing concordance, two of my worst spec-fic efforts have actually been about beer.
As such, I have turned to drinking it, rather than writing about it, and will not inflict these atrocities on the editorial public any longer.
Six-word haiku time:
Troublesome minions,
Impossible scenario;
Hooray, denouement!
I’m in the bookstore and notice former Buffy star, Sarah Michelle Gellar on the cover of Maxim Magazine. In the magazine she talks about her role as a pornstar in an upcoming movie (Southland Tales).
I also see another Buffy alum, Eliza Dushku, has a new indie film coming out (Sex and Breakfast). What’s that one about? A couple’s descision to get involved in group sex.
The Vampire Slayer Cast has gotten very naughty.
What’s next, Xander in The Ron Jeremy story?
Willow in Doctor Ruth! The Musical?
I’d pay good money to see one of those.
Patty fainted at work today.
She was at the fax machine before she wandered over to Linda’s cubicle and stumbled in the doorway. I made an offhand comment suggesting she blame her clumsiness on the stinky new carpet. Linda shouted a rebuttal over the wall, but there was only a moan from Patty as she fell into a chair.
That’s when we got scared.
Linda ran to get our Director and call 911. Stephanie stood in the hallway, staring pale-faced at Patty’s neck lolling back like a newborn baby, her eyes rolling up into her head. I wondered if I shouldn’t at least hold her head up when everyone came running.
She was lucid soon enough, but she had lost a minute of so of her life. She didn’t remember the joke about the carpet. She only remembered feeling dizzy at the fax machine and then coming back to reality in the chair, sweaty and nauseous and curious as to how long she’d been sitting there.
She was shuffled off to the Director’s office, where the paramedics met her several minutes later to take her vitals (and clear the corporation of any possible wrong-doing). The ambulance left without her, someone volunteered to give her a ride home, and apart from that exceptionally bizarre episode she seemed fine.
The aftermath in the office lasted quite a while longer, of course. The buzz of what happened spread as quickly as the mutters of concern and the speculations over what might have been the cause.
“Well, I know she’s diabetic.”
“Yes, but she’s got that under control. She was just at the doctor’s a couple of weeks ago and everything was fine.”
“Maybe she’s pregnant.” (laughter)
“She said she ate breakfast this morning, so it couldn’t have been that.”
“George said she was hot to the touch and sweaty. Maybe it’s a bug.”
“Maybe it’s a deadly new strain of virus and they’re all going to come back in contamination suits and tell us that we’re quarantined here…forever.”
My comment was met with many blank stares, and a very long pause.
You know, after seven years you’d think they’d be used to working with a fantasy writer.
Petrified puddings, stone Santa… Gorgons AGAIN???
I met my wife one moonlit spring night along the southernmost sea wall of Old Acre, the gentle waters of the Bay of Haifa slopping against the stones meters below and scattering the twinkling lights of heaven in the foam. New Pairs always meet there, as close as the Order can get to the submerged portions of the city that had once been their own – this despite the necessity of standing on works raised by those who destroyed their world. That is where the bonding takes place – where the gateway of dawn awaits for petitioners like me.
On a bridge between the past and the present and with the keeping of an ancient promise, that is how a daywalker is created.
Two-word Stories in Six Genres
Epic Fantasy:
Prophecy.
Victory.
Urban Fantasy:
“Vampire?”
Smooch.
Mystery:
“Who?”
“Him!”
Horror:
“Uh-oh.”
Chomp.
Science Fiction:
“Aliens!”
“Cool!”
Science Fiction Horror:
“Aliens!”
Chomp.
The Scrimshaw Knife
I sat in a burgundy leather armchair in the study of my parents’ Norwood house, drinking tea and shuffling through old magic cards that had never existed. It was Christmas Eve.
My father came in. “Merry Christmas,” he said, tossed an envelope into my lap, then headed off to bed. A letter? Who knew I was here? Someone named Okami, apparently. The letter contained a single, typed sheet of notepaper in which Okami invited me to submit to a new magazine he was starting. He wanted something quick and dark, and he wanted it soon.
I had just the thing!
I turned the envelope over, and realized I knew the return address. It belonged to an anime, comic and gaming store in an underground mall. It closed at midnight. If I hurried, I could make it. I shuffled through papers, found the story, pulled on coat and scarf and took a last look at the address.
Along the bottom of the page, I noticed a line of writing in a thin, feminine hand: a warning. “Don’t come after dark.” I shrugged it off, tossed the envelope onto the chair and headed out. I was just going to drop off the story and leave.
Danielle was sitting on the kitchen counter in her PJs, playing with her laptop. “Where you going, Boon?” I told her. “Can I come? I’m bored.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go.”
#
The mall was a series of angling, claustrophobic corridors connected by stairwell after stairwell leading down, then up, then down again. The walls and the floor and the ceiling were all white, all windowless. Who knew how far we were underground? Every shop window was dark. We hadn’t passed a single person.
“Where is everybody?” said Udi. “The mall doesn’t close for half an hour. It’s Christmas Eve!”
She was right. I was beginning to worry about that warning.
I shoved the story under my arm, fumbled in my pockets for something reassuring.
My fingers found the smooth, textured handle of my scrimshaw penknife. I wrapped an arm around my sister’s shoulders. We walked faster.
We were almost to the comic store by the time we noticed the two white cats following behind us.. It wasn’t clear how long they’d been there, but all of a sudden they were desperately friendly, pawing at us, rubbing against our ankles as we walked. I stopped to pet one and it jumped up into my arms. Udi tried to ignore hers. It was freaking her out.
At first glance, Okami’s was as dark and dead as all the other stores. Ultra-violent, ultra-cute anime girls on comic covers lined the walls from floor to ceiling. A cardboard stand-up of a cartoon dragon. A glass case, where they kept all the really rare and valuable stuff. More magic cards that didn’t exist. And behind the glass case, blending in so well with her surroundings I hadn’t noticed her until I looked her in the eye, a skinny asian girl in a ponytail, dressed all in black, with an expression of blank astonishment on her face.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I got your call for submissions letter. I was in town. I just came to drop this off.” I slid the story towards her across the glass.
She stopped it, turned it around and slid it back. “I can’t take this now.”
“What? But your letter said–”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t take it. We closed early today. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to come here at night? You can bring it tomorrow. During the day. Now I think you’d better go. Quickly, all right? Get out of here.”
I was confused. I wanted to protest, to ask her to explain. I wanted to give her my story. “The Nine-Tailed Cat”. I knew they’d like it. I knew it was right up their alley. But the look on her face made me back away, grab Danielle and rush back the way we came.
Luna (for the cat in my arms was surely Luna, Singing Brook Farm’s fuzzy white female demon) yawned and pawed at my chest, claws poking gently through my shirt and into my skin, her unmistakable, eerily humanoid fifth claw sticking out like a thumb. It was like she wanted to reassure me, convince me things would be fine. I wasn’t convinced. Udi’s cat kept pawing at her, meowing plaintively.
“God,” she said finally, after the white mall corridors had blurred past us for who knows how long. “Aren’t we at the end yet? Why does this mall have to be so big?”
“We’re getting close,” I said. “Five more minutes.”
“Oh, fine!” Udi gave an exasperated sigh and scooped up the second white cat.
We were almost to the entrance. One more flight of stairs…
She screamed and dropped the cat. It must have clawed her or bit her. It ran into a corner and sat down licking its paws. “Ohmigod, Boon. Something’s happening to me! Help!” She held up her arm. It was thinning, elongating before my eyes. White tufts of cat hair sprang up out of her skin. Her hand was shrinking. She was turning into a werecat.
I put Luna down with an accusing look. Her green-white eyes were reproachful.
I fumbled in my pockets for the scrimshaw knife. A sailing scene carved in the handle, a ship and a rocky shore. I’d bought it on a stupid impulse at a tourist trap in Newfoundland. In the real world, it was already many years lost.
I flicked it open, locked it in place. The blade was a warm, clean gleam under the mall’s ghastly pale fluorescent lights. Pure silver.
I gave it to Danielle. “Prick your finger with this. It’s silver. It might help.”
Her hands were shaking. She crouched down, put her hand on the floor, palm facing up, and raised the knife. I was afraid she couldn’t do it. She wouldn’t press hard enough.
She grimaced and brought the knife down. It pricked her finger. I saw a little smear of blood.
“Did it cure you? Did you feel anything?”
Udi nodded, face pale, lips hanging open. “Bliss. Relief. Understanding. Complete understanding of everything in the universe all at once.”
I thought she must have been joking, playing bitter sarcasm for all it was worth. Maybe the catness was already taking over her mind. But the way she said it sure didn’t sound like it. And her finger looked better. Pink and healthy.
“Then do it again,” I said. “Harder. Cut deeper.”
She shook her head. “You do it,” she said. She gave me the knife.
Five minutes away from the exit.
I ran my thumb across the blade. There was a catch at the very tip, a tiny, sharp burr I could never get out no matter how many times I tried to burnish it away with file or stone. That burr was what had pricked her. But I needed more than that now. I got a good grip on the handle. I held her wrist tight against the floor, positioned the knife just over the marks of the bite, right along the meat of the palm.
I gritted my teeth and tensed my muscles to slice–
And I woke.
We have a winner, with Alethea’s contribution, which put a smile on our faces; and a special shout-out, too, for both Ericka’s and Nivair’s pieces. Alethea, look for an email in your inbox, and we look forward to next year’s Blog for a Beer!
Thanks, Sean!
I think I’ll go buy Patty some flowers. And put then in a beer glass.