Strangelet Volume 2

By Strangelet Press

Celebrate Year 2 of Strangelet by getting all of the stories from the past year in one volume.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Strangelet Press
• Release date: Nov 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370721801

Strangelet Press

Strangelet is a journal of speculative fiction that publishes fiction, poetry, nonfiction, graphic stories/comics, and artwork six times a year with an anthology at the end of each year. We showcase the intersection where genre and literature collide. We want works to reveal compelling, universal truths that speak to us—from starship computers, from dragons’ mouths, and from everyday worlds tinged with miracles. Genres Strangelet primarily publishes short fiction but we also want exceptional artwork, essays, graphic stories, poetry, and reviews that explore the same space. We are looking for works of science fiction, fantasy, magical realism, and anything else that takes the reader to new worlds (or a shadowy corner of ours). Visit our submissions page for more information if you would like to be included in the journal. Visit our store and check out our subscription rates if you would like to purchase an issue. Inspirations Our inspirations include authors and artists like Ray Bradbury, Octavia Butler, Philip K. Dick, Emily Carroll, Madeleine L’Engle, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Rod Serling, and Ralph Steadman, who have broken the bounds of genre and literature (and even form) to keep us transfixed. To find out current news about submissions, upcoming issues, or to see what’s inspiring us right now, sign up for our newsletter, follow us at Twitter, Facebook, and our Goodreads page, or use the contact info below.

Book preview

Strangelet

Volume 2

Published by Strangelet Press

Boston • Chicago • Indianapolis

S

Volume 2, Issue 5 of Strangelet is a production of

Strangelet Press

[phone]

strangeletjournal.com

[e-mail]

Strangelet is a new journal accepting speculative artwork, fiction, graphic stories/comics, nonfiction, and poetry. Strangelet is published 6 times a year.

We want to showcase works where genre and literature collide. We want pieces that situate the gravity of living amid the high energy of imagination to find compelling, beautiful, universal truths that speak to us—whether from starships, from dragons’ mouths, or from an everyday world tinged with miracles.

Published works appear in both the print and ebook editions of Strangelet. We may occasionally publish excerpts from accepted and/or published pieces on our website and social media platforms.

Book design and production by Franco A. Alvarado

Ebook edition by Franco A. Alvarado

Cover art © Weston Thompson

© 2016 by Strangelet Press. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations within critical articles and reviews. Rights revert to authors and artists upon publication.

Strangelet

Volume 2, November 2016

Executive Editor

Casey Brown

Guest Editor

Bill Campbell

Business Manager

Leah Alaani

Design and Production Editor

Franco A. Alvarado

Content Manager

Andy Dost

Advisory Editors

Chelsea Cohen, Andy Dost, Timothy Ellison, Aaron Krol

Readers

Anita Felicelli, Rebecca Jones, Dana Mele, Kurt Newton, Christine Young

Star Patron

Cathy Swanek

Founding Partners

Chandra Asar, Tami Marie Lawless

Contents

All that Remains of Civilization by James Valvis

Gox by Boona Daroom

Ada, Awake by L.S. Johnson

Double Dream by Bryanna Licciardi

The Natural Habits of Nesting Men by Salena Casha

Horror Alive by Cait Cole

The Heart Guardian by Amanda Miska

Wishes, Loosed by Robyn Groth

On a Diet of Souls by Lynn Wohlwend

Beneath the Skin by Matthew Chamberlin

Microchip by Laurin DeChae

Living as Phineus by Katherine Heath Shaeffer

The Ama, The Ningyo, and the Shark by Robin White

Comeback by Holly Schofield

Roots and Bones by Anton Rose

Mildew in the Morning by Steve Toase

Cloud Mountains—

How to Climb Them by Michael J. DeLuca

The Woman in White by Cyn Bermudez

Practical Fairy Tales for Girls Like You by Lauren Spinabelli

Rustles From Within by Victorya Chase

Concepcion by Adam Breckenridge

After They’ve Gone by Karen Heuler

The Soulless by Walter Dinjos

The Evening Laxmi Danced by Sunil Sharma

All the Fishes, Singing by Hester J. Rook

For the Love of a Minotaur by Melissa Gardner

The Time Keepers by Jean Gillingham

Editor’s Note

Year 2 was a very interesting year for us here at Strangelet—we put out five issues (backing off from our planned six as we wanted to give this omnibus some space); two of which were special issues (2.1 Women Writing Women: Transformations and 2.2: The British are Coming!), and one which was guest edited (2.5, guest edited by Bill Campbell of Rosarium Publishing). In doing so, we settled into a rhythm that I think we will stick with going forward.

Less than a month after 2.5’s release, Marvel’s Luke Cage dropped on Netflix. For too long, non-white males, both authors and characters, have been denied agency in comics, fantasy, science fiction, and television adaptations of those genres. We all know the tropes: there’s usually only one (the Token), and, despite education and training, they tend to be worse at their own jobs than some random white male protagonist (the Incompetent), and they tend to die first (the Tragic Warrior). A black guy couldn’t even co-star in a genre television show without being turned into an android! (see Almost Human, a J. J. Abrams-produced show which lasted only 1 season on Fox) As we repeatedly learned during Simon Pegg’s film The World’s End (brilliant, btw, but about as white as British people can get), robot equals slave. What the hell are we to make of the fact that the android in Almost Human was black and the human was white? Would it have really killed them to reverse the castings? Thank the FSM they got Luke Cage right.

It is for the above cultural failings that we here at Strangelet thought it was important that 2.1 be a special issue devoted to female artists, authors, poets, and protagonists. It is for those same reasons I thought it was important that we reach out to Bill Campbell of Rosarium Publishing (rosariumpublishing.com) to ask him to guest edit 2.5. Bill, despite being amazingly busy growing his publishing business, raising a family, holding down a day-job, and being a loving husband, was kind enough to agree; he read 25 stories/graphic works submitted specifically for his issue in order to select just the five that he wanted us to publish. Working with Bill was a privilege and, in doing so, we learned a lot about how we, and our screeners and advisory editors, had started slipping into the trap of literary homogenization. Moving forward, we will continue to push ourselves out of our comfort zones in order to find the really strange stuff that needs to be published.

I also want to take a moment to congratulate Jarod Anderson (The Better Angels of Parasites; Strangelet 1.1) and Evan Mallon (The Man Who Lived in My Hair; Strangelet 1.2) for having their works chosen for the second annual Write Well Awards!1 This is the second time that two stories we published have been chosen for inclusion in that anthology. If you liked these stories, we encourage you to pick up a copy of the 2016 Write Well Award Anthology.

May your day be just a bit strange.

Casey Brown

Ashland, MA

October 2016

1. http://writewellaward.com/

Melissa Gardner

For the Love of a Minotaur

I.

Perhaps I am a wicked child.

That is why I never listen to my mother, or my grandmother, or my great-grandmother. Every morning before school, my mother packs my lunchbox—peanut butter and strawberry jam on wheat, an apple, and a thermos of grape juice—while my grandmother scrubs my face until my cheeks are rosy—Ivory soap and a cotton facecloth she knitted herself—and my great-grandmother brushes my hair and plaits it into two braids—boar bristle hairbrush and braids so tight it hurts my head.

And at the door, they send me off to school. A solemn composition in shades of gray—my mother in an ashen muumuu, my grandmother in a graphite shift, and my great-grandmother in a dress so black it creates a void. In unison, the same warning everyday, Go straight to school! Don’t take the alleys or the back streets! Watch out for the minotaurs!

On the sidewalk, with the other girls, with their lunchboxes, rosy cheeks, and tight braids, we wave good-bye and make our way to school. Around the corner, out of sight, I undo my braids—because I am a wicked child—and let my hair do as it pleases. But the other girls, who are not wicked, keep their tight braids and migraines intact.

II.

There are minotaurs along the way to school. They drive by in their cars, their big, bovine heads sticking out of the windows—ties flapping in the breeze. Others back out of driveways while waving in the rearview mirrors to their wives. In the doorway of their houses stand their normal wives, in curlers and robes with coffee in hand, waving back. My mother and grandmother and great-grandmother always say that only a very wicked woman would love a minotaur.

In front of the Five and Dime, other minotaurs—great shaggy heads gray with age, eyes dull with cataracts—sit in rocking chairs. They chew their cud, ruminate, and rock as a herd. One lifts his head, sniffs the air, and something like a memory flashes in his eyes. This moment passes and he resumes rocking.

Right before we reach school, we pass the pool hall. The minotaurs there, young and swift, emerge. They stomp the ground, snort great billows of air, and charge at us while grasping at our skirts. The other girls shriek and stampede towards the school. Nimble, I flit past them. Only the hem of my skirt brushes their fingertips.

III.

At the back of the school, past the swings and across the span of grass, stands a maze of hedges. It is called a labyrinth. I know this because it was a spelling word. I misspelled the word because it was too nice outside, and, honestly, if you’re wicked, what is the use of being a good speller? At lunch, I go outside with the other girls and we sit under the giant oak tree that spreads its shade over the span of grass between the swings and the labyrinth. The girls chatter as I watch the little children on the swings.

IV.

Randy stands in front of the entrance to the labyrinth. He is not a minotaur, though his hair is black and wild and hangs over his smoky eyes. The little girls stay far away. The little boys venture near to test their courage, but Randy throws stones at them. Thock, thock, thock! The stones hit their marks and the little boys run away, crying, and seek comfort in the bosom of their teacher.

Under the shade of the tree, we watch. The other girls conclude that Randy is wicked. They whisper behind their hands and steal frightful glances in his direction. I believe he is just hungry. The other girls cry in unison, No! Don’t go over there! He’ll devour you!

Randy’s jeans hang low on his hips and his shirt is tight across his chest like a second skin. I lift the lid of my lunchbox—an offering of peanut butter and strawberry jam on wheat, an apple, and a thermos of grape juice.

Randy holds my hand as we walk through the maze. His hair grows shaggier as we venture deeper into the labyrinth. Horns grow from his head. This would be more exciting if you’d run, he says and drops my hand. Nimble, I scamper away from him, allowing the hem of my skirt to brush his fingertips.

V.

In the middle of the labyrinth, I wait and watch my minotaur through the hedges as he circles his way toward the center. A rustle of leaves and Randy stands in front of me, his great, horned head towering over me. I brush his hair aside to find his lips—they are soft and taste briny.

In the center of the maze, in the center of the universe, the minotaur’s breath warm and moist on my neck, he pushes through the undergrowth, into the labyrinth, toward my center. I am consumed.

Melissa Gardner

Melissa Gardner lives on the Gulf Coast of Alabama, where she works as a reference librarian at a local community college by day and teaches online creative writing classes for Southern New Hampshire University by night. She also conducts adult fiction workshops for Inked Voices and holds degrees in Studio Art (BFA, Austin Peay State University), English/Creative Writing (MA, University of South Alabama), and Creative Writing/Fiction (MFA, Seattle Pacific University).

Lynn Wohlwend

On a Diet of Souls

We are waiting for a call from the kidnapper that I know will never come.

Three officers sit at our kitchen table taking notes whenever they think my daughter Inisha has said something important. It is bitter cold outside, and the frost on the windows muffles our voices.

Myobi has been taken to the ice, I say for the third time since the police have arrived. She will be lifted into the sky. We must tether her before she falls.

The woman officer reaches across the table to pat my hand as if I were a child. The police do not think I understand that my granddaughter has been abducted. To them, I am only the crazy old woman who lives in dreams.

That makes no sense, Mama, Inisha says, sounding exasperated. I worry for a moment she will teeter over the edge into sobs until I remember she has always been exasperated. As an infant, her mouth would form a sour frown after tasting my breasts.

She must be found, I say louder. Or we will lose her tonight.

You are not helping! Inisha says, standing, bumping the table, and spilling coffee from the officers’ mugs. "Go to bed.

Excuse us, she says.

She grabs my wrist and pulls me down the hallway to my room, where she removes one of my old lady nightgowns from the dresser. She buys me these ugly things.

Put this on, she says.

I take off my sweater.

I’m sorry, Mother. I just can’t think with you in the room tonight. Myobi’s only fourteen. She could be—

I reach for her, wanting to smooth the furrow from her brow, but she pushes me away.

Why couldn’t you be normal just this once, Mama?

I bite my cheek as she shuts the door behind her. I’m trying to help, I want to tell her. I have always been helping. But it was she who invited the wolfwalker into our home. Cooking dinners for Inisha, buying jewelry and dresses, he masked the spirit inside him. I warned her that he was stalking Myobi, but she wouldn’t listen until it was too late.

I hear Inisha talking as she reenters the kitchen and open my door as she apologizes. The cop tells her not to worry. We all have eccentric ones in the family.

I shut the door and put my sweater back on. I fold the nightgown over the chair in the corner of the room. There is no need for it tonight. I sit on the bed and wait.

Nine o’clock passes, the appointed hour. The note was written in Myobi’s own hand. The wolfwalker cajoled her into leaving. He would call, she had reassured. They would only be gone for a few hours.

Until today no one had heard from the wolfwalker in two weeks. He’d disappeared from the house without a word to Inisha. He waited to take Myobi until this afternoon while I was in the back greenhouse and Inisha was still at work.

Ten o’clock.

The call has not come. Thick ribbons of silence fill the house.

Eleven.

They are still waiting. The clock on my end table ticks louder. I must find Myobi. He will take her soul if I do not find her soon. A trickle of fear drips along my spine. What if I’m too late? I stand and then shake my head. Fear will not help.

Inisha is talking to the officers.

I move closer to the door.

Chairs scrape against the floor as the police reassure her that they will find Myobi.

The front door closes, and Inisha begins to sob. She hurries through the hallway to her room and falls onto the bed. I ache to put my arms around her until the crying stops.

I dare not go. Not yet. The risk is in leaving. If Inisha discovers what I’m doing, Myobi will be lost.

I count to five hundred and then a hundred more.

I creep closer to the wall that separates her room from mine and listen.

She is quiet.

It is time.

I turn my clothes inside out, then put them back on and slip from the room. No light seeps from under Inisha’s door as I pass.

The car keys are on the kitchen table. I grab them and pause. A gleaming knife stands in the dish drain.

I go outside.

Gently, I close the car door in the driveway.

I place the knife on the passenger seat and start the engine, watching Inisha’s window.

The room stays dark.

I drive.

My breath fogs in the car as I shiver and turn on the heat. I have forgotten my coat, but it’s too late to return.

The wheel feels strange in my hands. It has been many years since I have driven. Inisha doesn’t allow it. You are always dreaming, she says. You could hurt someone.

I check the sky.

The great northern lights have yet to come. They will scatter across the heavens in streaks of red and green velvet. I have seen this moment in dreams since Myobi was born.

I pull onto the highway. The road is black and icy, but I am not afraid. I have traveled this way in the night so many times that I could find the ice plain while blinded.

This was the wolfwalker’s mistake.

I was in the living room, dreaming in my rocking chair, when he spoke to Myobi, as he often did when Inisha left the room. He whispered of the mystical place he would like to show her, of the cabin near the blue, blue waters, the cold ice fields, and the skies that opened into magic, billowing with the souls of the dead.

He did not know what I knew.

When I was a child, my spirit often left the bed, rising toward the ceiling, my dreaming body still warm under the covers. In spring, I would open the window a crack and slip out among the apple blossoms. The petals would rain under my soul. In winter, I would soar along the tops of the pines to the great ice plain and dance in the northern lights near the cabin in the woods. The wolfwalker did not live there then.

I grip the wheel tighter. I have not soared in many years—old age punctures the spirit. But Myobi is young. The wolfwalker can devour her soul and rise.

The road is ahead.

I slow the car.

A streak of green is in the north as I turn.

The road is gravel, and the car moves slower, though my foot keeps pushing on the gas. There will be another driveway soon.

There.

I press on the