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 commemoration of , a bit of a story you’re trying to write, your unbridled opinion of . 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.)
The future is now. One of the things I like about what Fantasy Magazine is doing here is trying to provide a community for it’s readers- and I really think this is the way F/SF will be heading in the future.
It’s why those stuffy old F&SF, Analog and the like are loosing ground fast. F/SF has always been about community, about fandom. And the next generation of the internet is facilitating that even moreso than the days of usenet.
And we need more places like this. We need virtual conventions. We need a MySpace for F&SF fans.
MySpace for F&SF that isn’t ugly, filled with self-obsessed teenagers, and allows no layout with things that blink, move, or sparkle.
Fairies,
Everywhere,
Fairies,
Even in my underwear,
Fairies,
Fly around,
Fairies,
Even above pooh mounds,
Fairies,
How I wish you dead,
Fairies,
I want to chop your heads,
Fairies,
With pretty sparkling lights,
Fairies,
I want to strangle you tight,
Fairies,
You are from hell,
Fairies,
You’d taste good in taco shells,
Fairies,
I want you deep-fried,
Fairies,
You need to die,
Fairies,
Dummies,
Fairies,
Yummies.
“Why is so much old SF canon in print and on shelves, competing against new?” – Jay Lake, paraphrased
Because so much SF is reactive – to the present, as well as to the past – there’s a lot more impetus to be at least somewhat aware of the canon (independent of the fact that most of what’s stood the test of time to remain popular is still damn good writing). For example, Hardwired is decent enough on its own, but having read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress suddenly reveals a level of world history that’s simply not present in the text of Hardwired itself.
This is very common in the genre, whether by design or osmosis; more common, I suspect, than in most others.
As much as I enjoy stories that can exist in a vacuum, it’s almost impossible to attain this state.
Thus, as a SF reader, you’re encouraged, directly and indirectly, to dig into the genre’s history in a way that, to make a flippant example, readers of romance novels aren’t. This means that more older works will be in print, to cater to folks discovering the genre.
This, I think, is fundamentally very different from the trend you’ve noticed in the auto industry – in that case, auto makers are tapping into a long-gone passion folks once had for their cars – you’ll notice that the models being revived are either the classic muscle cars, or ones that had an acute emotional or social reaction. Nobody is clamoring for a 2008 Reliant or Chevette.
Detroit automakers, much like Hollywood producers, are strip-mining the fertile past to make up for a grotesque lack of fresh creativity within their ranks – witness the chain of remakes of movies that were JUST FINE THE FIRST TIME, THANKS (I’M LOOKING AT YOU, SANDLER, AND THAT GODDAMNED TRAVESTY YOU MADE THE LONGEST YARD INTO…) *ahem*
SF, on the other hand, continues to come up with new and exciting stuff to build on the legacy of the past, or offer a new take on old ideas, or challenge them, or turn them on their ear.
-When Experiencing an ‘Unreal’ Experience-
In the unreal,there is the real. We see it staring back at us and so many just turn away. Not wanting to face it. If you look to hard into the mystery, you are likely to get pulled into it kicking and screaming. Some of us going willingly though. See that infinite mystery and want to be a part of it. Some just kind of fall into it. Are walking along one day and just…kinda…are there in the lands of faerie or in otherworldly plains of existence, thinking: “Now how did I get here? I know I was supposed to take that exit off of I-95 South…”. Not everyone admits to these forays into that-which-is-NOT-real. I mean who would want to tell their boss, “Sorry, I did not make it on time to work today, not because I had a flat tire, but because I fell into a map-hole in the time-space continuum and had to save an alien world and find a way back home. Luckily for me their time goes slower than ours, right?” This is not to say that this really could happen, it is just a hypothetical example. But if you happen to fall into a map-hole that has a world of butterfly people that love Alternative music, please tell them to give me my MP3 player back. When touched by this mystery, people are given a choice. They can either embrace the goodness and try not to mess up the order of things, or they can embrace the dark and chaos and do as they please. There is another path, that only a few people ever think about taking: the path of gray. Neutrality. Not being the ultra good hero type or the evil villain, but the wanderer, observing, making vague comments to the hero that may or may not help. That is always pretty fun. Good guys always get so flustered and confused. The ‘bad’ guys get upset and might just kill you though…so make sure to have a quick route of escape from them. Sometimes the lines of good and bad blur. Some heroes are not always heroes. Some villains are not always villains. The fair princes might be a demon in disguise and the evil queen who is trying to kill her might just be trying to save her kingdom. Before you go jumping into things that you have no idea about, find out all the facts. Talk to everyone, kind of like in those old RPGs. Above all just be open to the experience. If you get a chance to be a part of something beyond the real, take it. You never know when you might get another chance, even if it might mean you are changed forever. If you don’t try you may go your entire life wondering what would have happened. It’s enough to drive someone a bit bonkers. Also, just be you.
I think the fairies should win.
I was going to submit something, but…the ode to fairies should win.
-When Walking the Paths of Faerie-
1.Do not stray from the Path you are told to walk on…ever.
2. Do not take advice blindly. Think about it first.
3. Do not talk rudely to other people, creatures, plants, or inanimate objects. If you do expect that you will be cursed with some sort of unpleasantnesses or have to go so something to make up for it.
4. Just cause someone might seem old, ugly, or dumb, does not mean that they are.
5. Make lots of friends.
6. Never offer to owe anyone a favor
7. Never accept something for nothing. You will end up owing a lot more than you might have bargained for in the end.
8. Do not take without asking.
9. Do not pledge to do something out of hand. Make sure there are no hidden loop holes and that you actually think you can do it.
10. Be careful with the words you say. The fay will take everything you mean literally even if they know you don’t mean it that way.
11. When making wishes do not be greedy…also remember that whatever is granting you a wish will probably try and twist it so it ends up bad for you. Be careful with what you wish for.
12. There are rules to anything. Make sure you find them out before you break one.
13. Do not eat or wear anything you are not sure of.
14. Before you trust anyone or thing make sure they have either sworn loyalty to the death for you, or have saved your life out of the kindness of their heart (gaining nothing for them).
15. Above all go with your gut feelings. Your head will only confuse you and your heart will lead you to blindly sometimes.
16. Also…remember all the fantasy books, movies, games, etc. you know and think of all the times you were like: “Why did they go and do that?” Do not do those dumb things that you got upset at fictional characters for doing, such as touching the evil looking tree, drinking the obviously poisoned drink, or trusting the bad guy to keep his promise.
Here’s a little snippet from something I’ve been working on for a while, and was fiddling with last night:
I quietly tore off a little strip of paper and printed a note in my best handwriting, using an easy replacement cipher.
“Hello,” I wrote. “Do you like cats?”
I folded the note up into a triangle, and floated it across the room at ankle-height. Jerzia was always doing flashy things with hers, making them flip around at head-height or even higher, but I knew that if I tried that, I’d only mess it up. So my notes always drifted about close to the floor, where I could keep a better grip on them.
I bumped it against Elain’s ankle three times before she finally looked down and picked it up. I watched while she read it. When she looked up, after frowning at the note for way longer than I would have thought it would take to decipher it, I smiled a little and wiggled my fingers. She didn’t smile back, but she did look right at me, holding the note up between her thumb and forefinger and raising her eyebrows. She seemed to be asking if I’d written it, and I nodded, and smiled some more.
She scowled, and the note suddenly caught fire, crumbling to ash between her fingers so fast that by the time Val Correli looked up at the faint whiff of smoke, there was no evidence left.
The opening to a story I will likely never write:
“We got to get more of those whatsits.”
Jorge let out a sigh. “You know, for a machine, you’re not terribly precise.”
If his ship was bothered by Jorge’s comment it gave no indication. “You know what I’m talking about, those things the guy was telling us about.”
“What guy?”
“The one who… hm.” The machine paused for a moment. “Maybe that hasn’t happened yet. That would explain why I can’t remember it very well. But we definitely need some of those things.”
“You’re telling me you can remember things that haven’t happened yet?”
“Apparently.”
“Uh, huh.” Jorge hadn’t owned this particular ship for long, but he was starting to see why the asking price had been so low.
The ship’s computerized voice took on a tone of urgency. “Come on, help me think. If we don’t figure out what those whatsits are, we’re in big trouble.”
“Now you also expect me to remember things that haven’t happened.”
“Well, I just did, which means it’s possible. Think. We were both there. The man with the hat? The fires? Screaming? Some of that must ring a bell, because there sure will be a lot of it.”
Practicality in the Face of Destruction
In the woods, dark and choked with clutter as though long abandoned, a brown clapboard house, low to the ground, but many-gabled.
I’m lost, wandering, with no idea where I am or how I got here. I find the door hanging loose from the hinges, clear myself a place on the floor in the living room and take up residence among the mice and spiders.
I’m careful. I know that people in this age (whatever age it may be) don’t take to strangers. I only go out at night. In the woods, in the dark, in some abandoned ruin, I figure I ought to be safe.
But I get caught. A fat bald guy with a shotgun and a giant flashlight warns me off his land, suggests I get out of town altogether. I’m ready and willing to take his advice. It was a nice place, a relief from wind and waking up with frost on my clothes. But these things are temporary, as are all comforts. I walk on–or I start to.
My dad steps out of the wooded shadows and stops me before I get 20 yards. He points out an even more ramshackle, even more ruinous outbuilding to the dark ruined house–just a shack, really. A single room. Inside, however, is a stairway leading down into a vast, high-ceilinged basement. A gas lamp casts unsteady light across drifts of abandoned crap. My dad shuts the door, leads the way down, and gets back to work.
I find myself helping him to clear space, to clean and organize and forge some kind of living space from the chaos. He has found an old upright vacuum cleaner and is tinkering with it, trying to make it work.
“So what happened here?” I ask him. “Is this supposed to be some kind of post-apocalypse?”
He gives me a look that says “No kidding,” and sends me off scavenging for power cord.
The fluorescents cast a chemical glow that churns Bill’s gut, nothing like the elaborate gasoliers that lit Victorian dining rooms, or the ruddy torchlight stretching back into his memory. Row on row of pulp fill the building, and the emerald carpet is like a stack of long-closeted porno reels, offgassing a mixture of trash and tawdry that doesn’t belong in a bookstore. Rumors of Bosch and Fuseli fill the covers in the horror section. Even Dracula, once the most proper of gentlemen, has been stripped of his finery and reduced to a cartoonish come-hither.
“Isn’t it just shameful,” says a voice from behind, “what they’ll do for money?”
He turns and sees a woman, fishbelly skin, hair as gray as her cardigan. After a moment of faint, puzzling familiarity, he catches it–a subtle greenish tinge under her skin that curls up into the roots of her hair. The old ways are hard to let go of, even at this late date, so he turns to face her squarely, right hand free, chin jutting.
“You’re far from home, water woman.”
“Ohhh,” she coos, “carrion boy can still swagger. Wants to play, does he?”
They stand there with cherrywood bookcases massed on either side like armies come to spill blood. Silence for a moment, and Bill can’t help but feel the hand of Time in the needle-sharp twinges around his spine, trying to force him back into his customary hunch. A drum begins to pound in the background like the beginning of a battle song, then the harp comes in… and then the synthesizers. The acid starts to churn in Bill’s stomach just as the old woman winces.
“The Fir Bholg were bad,” he mutters, “but they never met Enya.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The ink burned into my skin.
Tap. Tap.
A murmered conversation behind me. The old man’s apprentice wiped the blood from my back with a soft cloth.
Tap.
A curving sigil, a wreath of flame, ancient patterns that writhed up my spine, circled my arms, and climbed past my throat to my face.
Bloodsinger.
A warning. A threat.
Tap.
I was marked.
As you may know, today is the anniversary of Amundsen reaching the South Pole, but for my money, the best story is that of …
THE GALLANT CAPTAIN OATES
Titus hesitated before committing himself to the blizzard.
He knew what he had to do. It was his destiny. But knowing his fate did not make it any easier. He even knew how they were going to interpret this last act of his.
He would go down in the roll-call of human history as a brave man. A selfless hero, who knew that he was slowing down his comrades. He was going to sacrifice himself so that the others might have a chance to make it to the next supply depot. He could see it now, as if he was reading accounts of it years later.
The wind moaned in the force four gale, lashing the snow like sand against the bruised canvas of the tent. The snow had crystalized when the temperature dipped below minus forty. Dragging the sleds through it had been murderous, excruciating, and Titus could not stand the pain in his feet any more. They were frostbitten, and going to gangrene.
Scott was a foolish explorer, but it had been the weather that killed them as much as his bad planning. Titus understood that now; he could not blame, or resent, Robert Falcon Scott. But there was guilt. Enormous guilt. He staggered to his feet, and walked to the exit.
“I am just going outside and may be some time,” Titus said.
The others did not say anything, though the look in Wilson’s eyes was haunting. They were open, luminescent with fear, and liquid with admiration. Titus felt like a coward, and would carry it with him to the end.
Read the rest of the story at:
http://markarayner.com/blog/archives/828/
Long, long time ago Hollinger and Gwendolyn were on a 50 ft scarab cruising off Miami Beach while they were on spring break. They were taking shots of Tequila the appropriate way with a squirt of lemon juice and a shake or two of salt. Little did they know or care, that the salt shaker they were using was a magic salt shaker with special power given to Hollinger by a mermaid the night before when he was doing “Margarita Marathon”. Nevertheless, this night Hollinger was on five or was it six when the salt shaker clogged up, probably from the moist ocean breeze. He looked disdainfully at it and in his inebriated state said, “You stupid salt shaker, you keep pouring until I tell you to stop!” With that he leaned back and consumed the salt, tequila and lemon juice in the proper order. Then falling backwards, he hit his head on the gunwale of the boat, was knocked out, fell overboard with the salt shaker and drowned. Gwendolyn was picked up hours later, unconscious, by the Miami-Dade Coast Guard at the helm of the boat as it cruised in circles off the coast. She couldn’t remember a thing. Yet the magic salt shaker is still to this day at the bottom of the Atlantic two miles off the coast pouring out salt awaiting the command from Hollinger to stop. And that boys and girls is why the sea is salty.
Opening from current WIP:
“I love you like five,” Rob says, grinning, so very proud of his answer.
“Oh,” I say back, and his smile falters, recovers as he brushes floppy, swoopy Flock of Seagulls hair away from his eyes.
“Six?”
I shake my head no, scratching at the stubble on my chin, and watch the color of his eyes shift from blue to gray. I don’t really want to fight right now, not over this, so I muster up a lop-sided grin and tell him what I think he wants to hear.
“Five is good,” I say, and I think he buys it.
I just wish I could. But life enjoys its little jokes and likes to yank the rug out from under you when you least expect it, and only eight is proof against such shenanigans. Eight turned sideways and dropped on its ass is forever, but five, well, five turned sideways is just a mess.
I want to tell him this so very badly, that there’s really no way to come back from a broken five, but I lean up and kiss him on his cheek and nuzzle the side of his neck instead. It’s just a little sweep under the rug, but there’s been a lot of that lately and I think maybe the lumps are finally starting to show.
“It’s a nice night,” he says, wrapping his arms around me, and everything is blue again. “You want to sit out on the back deck and drink a beer?”
I don’t really, but happiness on Rob smells like vanilla, and truth is, I could use a little bit of vanilla happy right now. My second shadow swings around to the right, the hand of a clock reminding me it needs to be fed soon, but I pretend not to notice.
“A beer would be just fine.”
We have a winner! ChiaLynn’s contribution really intrigued . . . tap tap tap . . . along with Gloria Webster’s ode to faeries. Yummies :p
Check your email, ChiaLynn, and for the rest of y’all, try try again next Friday!
Congratulations ChiaLyn! And, ummm, Sean… it is Weber
Eeeeeee!
Thankyouthankyouthankyou!
But… I didn’t get an email. And I think it’s because I stupidly gave you an email address I hadn’t registered with PayPal. I’ve fixed that now. (Can you see me blushing?)
Thanks again!