Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 35

By Small Beer Press

Three million years from now a thought form called oufaobf will randomly coalesce into LCRW 35 at the same time as 1.2 million monkeys type it out. Which means there will be 2 copies out there in that there far future galaxy. Will Nicole Kimberling's recipe blow them away? Fiction by Danielle Mayabb or James Warner? Could be.

Table of Contents

Fiction

Danielle Mayabb, "People Are Fragile Things You Should Know By Now"
James Warner, "The History of Harrabash"
Clinton Lawrence, "The Peach Orchard"
Kate Story, "The Ghost of the Cherry Blossom"
Jessy Randall, "Anonymized Orgies, Inc."
Andrew Ervin, "Presently Engulfing the Mid-Atlantic States"
Jack Larsen, "The Equipoise with Lentils"
Diana M. Chien, "Maria Taglioni and the Highwayman"
S. E. Clark, "Genius Loci"
Henry Wessells, "Extended Range; or, The Accession Label"
Emily Jace McLaughlin, "Above the Line”

Nonfiction

Nicole Kimberling, "Holiday Treats: Believe the Dream"

Poetry

Catherine Fletcher, "Four Poems from Spook Speak, A Tale of Espionage”

Cover

Aatmaja Pandya, "A Wizard of Earthsea"

About the Authors
Eleven stories, 4 poems, a column. A zine. An occasional outburst.

History is written by the people who write.

These are not usual days.
These are not the usual times.
This is a time of grief.
This is a time of gloominess.
This is a time of anger.
This is a time of witnessing.
This is a time to stand up and be counted.
We will support the ACLU.
We will fight for equality, inclusiveness, for health care.
We will fight racism, misogyny, hatred, and intolerance.
We will write the history of our times together.

Gavin J. Grant
Kelly Link

• Language: English
• Publisher: Small Beer Press
• Release date: Dec 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781618731388

Book preview

People Are Fragile Things You Should Know By Now

Danielle Mayabb

Your name comes from a word that means ‘the sea.’ Fitting, for a siren.

Let me stop you there. I hope the next thing you say isn’t that I am as mysterious as the sea, or other such nonsense. You took a deep drag on your cigarette and exhaled the smoke through your nose. I wish I could tell you how hard it is for people to see me, really see me, and to tell me the truth.

I watched you smoke for what seemed like a long time, the smoke swirling away from your face and disappearing into the twilight. Away from the strange atmosphere of the bar, your presence was stronger; this obscure corner of downtown Reno became the only place I wanted to be. I had only been to the sea once, when I was a child. It was a blustery day filled with dark clouds, but my father insisted we go to the beach. The sea undulated with feral energy and a persistence that made it seem alive. I held my father’s hand tightly as we walked, and stayed on the side of him that was farthest from the water.

You are as dangerous as the sea, I said finally.

You smiled. Now we’re getting somewhere.

My head is thick with whiskey and the echoes of music, your scent, and the spell of your steady breathing. Time is beginning to settle into something less frenetic and disoriented. The pale light is slick on your skin, and I want so badly to touch you, to curl my body around yours and drift back to sleep with you, to find you in the land of dreams where forces such as gravity and jealousy and magic have no hold, and everything, no matter how twisted, makes sense. But I suppose it always had to go this way.

I ease out of bed and move carefully about the room. I pick through the clothes on the floor; this underwear could be mine—hard to tell in this light. There’s my bra. I find the rest in a disheveled trail leading out to the main room. The clothes are cold when I slip them on; I haven’t noticed the cold until now. I take a last look through your apartment to be sure I haven’t left anything and walk out the door before the silence escapes.

Your aunt was sorting the laundry and chattering about some romance novel she’d been reading. She fancied that because I was well-read I had the same reading tastes she did. I was nodding and making sounds to show attentiveness, but I was really listening for the shower in your bathroom to stop; we were going to get on the road once you were ready. My first road trip with you—camping on the beach. I’d already packed the car.

She shook out a towel with a snap. Sweetie, you haven’t heard a thing I’ve said.

Sorry.

She met my gaze and smiled. I’m sure I know where your mind was. She looked at the doorway to the hall where your bathroom was, then back at me and winked.

She told you?

No. You have that look they all get. We’ve suspected for a while now—that blush confirms it for me.

Oh.

We think you might be good for her—don’t fuck it up. Before I could blink at that, she tossed a t-shirt to me. I recognized it. Jonah’s. She waited.

What is it with him? And her?

All I know is that it’s messy. I know parts, and can only guess at the rest.

I nodded and set the shirt on the arm of the chair. I should have known that your aunt would be the last person you’d tell about him.

I can tell you that he did it to himself—sold his soul, or whatever, and put a demon in its place. Those scars on his body are from when he tried to cut and burn it out, in the early days.

Is that why he isn’t allowed in your house?

She came over and took one of my hands, serious as I’d never seen her. He’s unpredictable and dangerous; it’s her fault, and she won’t end it or him. And no matter what she tells you eventually, that is what you must remember.

The moment passed. She tugged on my hand. Come here; be a dear and help me get these sheets folded.

The central California fog softens the city’s edges, giving it an unfinished, dreamlike quality; I might dissolve into it if I don’t keep moving. I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans, trying to keep some part of me warm as I find my way to the coffee shop up the block. I buy a large cup of coffee and sink into the loneliest armchair in the place, letting the coffee warm and wake and sober me.

By the time you call, I am almost finished.

Hi, you say. I hear a rustling noise in the background. I picture you stretching in bed, reaching for the pillow I slept on. Desire stirs in me. Maybe you will change your mind about going to see him.

Hi.

Where are you?

Out and about. If you hear the espresso machine, you will know. You may already know.

You yawn. Thanks for making sure I got home last night. Did you drive me?

I should have known you’d forget, or pretend to. Yes.

I don’t remember drinking that much.

I don’t want to rehash last night, but your voice is pulling me there and I’m tempted not to resist this thing you do, this bending of time and desire and memory the way a mirror bends light. I’m already in knots. You want to get some coffee or breakfast somewhere?

I’m still going. I hear a zipping sound. You must be packing a bag. I wait. Look, you say, I don’t want this to be any more awkward than it already is. You’re making me feel like an asshole, and I don’t think that’s fair.

I can’t make anyone feel anything. You’re the one who can do that.

There’s a new winery opening in San Luis Obispo next week. Why don’t you plan on coming? We can talk.

I can’t do this right now. Sure. Let’s do that. I chug down the last gulp of coffee. Need me to check on anything at the apartment while you’re gone?

No, that’s okay. I’ll have my aunt look in on the place.

I don’t mind. I know your uncle hasn’t been feeling well.

When did you talk to them? Your tone is guarded and sharp.

Yesterday, before I came to see you at work.

Why?

Your aunt has told me she doesn’t like it when I, as she puts it, sneak in and out of town; she told me I’m as welcome as family. I thought I should go by the house and say hello, let them know I’m in town. That’s all.

You know that she is toying with you, don’t you? They make bets on how long the people in my life will stay around.

They don’t seem that dubious to me; they are quirky and protective just like everyone’s family is. The only thing different about them is that they know how these things go with your kind.

Honey, I don’t want to fight. I’m gonna go, you say, It’s already later than I had planned to get on the road, and I have an awful hangover. Your voice is softer, almost apologetic.

Okay. Have a safe drive. Have fun fucking him.

I hear what I think is the door closing in the background followed by the clacking of your shoes. Please, just hang up. You must know that I won’t. I don’t want to be on the phone the whole drive with you.

I love you, you say. We’ll talk soon.

Yes, I know. I believe you.

I love you, too, I say.

Finally, you hang up. I’ve never been so relieved.

You were working as a cocktail waitress in a casino bar when I met you. The bar had been crafted to look like a shanty on a deserted island and was made up of artificial driftwood and palm trunks, the roof thatched with artificial leaves and grass. The inside of the bar was festooned with remnants of a tropical cliché fever dream—tiki torches and bamboo and tacky, brightly colored costumes, umbrellas in the drinks, and dismal pink-and-orange-tinted lighting that didn’t convey sunset so much as a sense of being trapped in a glass of bad rum punch.

I had come to this bar with some friends late one night after we’d already made the rounds of downtown Reno. It was the second visit when we first encountered you. My male friends had a thing for you instantly, and started a competition to get you