I was forwarded this sneak preview of the Quill & Quire review of Tesseracts 9, in which (YAY!) "The Coin" is mentioned:
"Nalo Hopkinson and Geoff Ryman selected 23 of the best recent works of Canadian speculative short fiction and poetry, from both established and emerging writers, moulding an anthology that places the genre firmly alongside fantastical satirists such as Gogol and Bulgakov while also pushing the genre's boundaries.
"Ryman opens the anthology with a spirited essay that rejects notions of national identity in favour of the argument that Canada has become a universal, and therefore useful, venue for speculative fiction, concluding that Tesseracts Nine proves that there is no such thing as Canadian fantasy and science fiction. Hopkinson closes the book pondering what makes this speculative fiction Canadian and concludes that it's the work's diversity, concern for community, and abundance of humour.
"Many selections are enthralling: the fairy-tale quality of "The Coin" by Casey June Wolf, the suspense of Elizabeth Vonarburg's "See Kathryn Run," the touching hilarity of Candas Jane Dorsey's "Mom and Mother Teresa." But the fashionable modern excerpts from "Fugue Phantasmagorical," by Anthony MacDonald and Jason Mehmel, dispersed throughout the anthology left me cold. So, too, did the poetry selections.
"But no piece in Tessearcts Nine misses its mark completely. Artist and comic writer E. L. Chen's "Fin-de-siecle" is a well-crafted and entirely humane vampire story, while "The Writing on the Wall," by Steve Stanton, tells the tragic tale of the unexceptional midlife crisis of an exceptional man. on a similar Kafkaesque note, Claude Lalumiere's "Being Here" takes the theme of the man estranged from his partner to a thought-provoking and heart-wrenching end.
"Particularly touching is Newfoundland musician Dan Rubin's "The Singing," a beautiful and vivid account of an elderly woman inadvertently saving the planet by drumming and singing as she nears death. Aliens, poised to demolish much of the Earth of make it fit for colonization, are so moved by the song that they leave peacefully, while broadcasting it to all known frequencies in the universe. I wish no less a hearing for the Canadian writing presented in this delectable anthology.
" --Tracey Thomas, a writer and reviewer in Toronto. Page 36, Sept 2005"
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Monday, August 22, 2005
Those Lazy, Hazy, Science-Fictiony Days of Summer
As promised, I have concentrated on reading more than writing this summer but, hey, some stories can't be stopped.
Two weeks ago, "After Hours at the Black Hole" came to be (from out of a White Hole, as far as I can tell). It seems like science fiction but I was in too playful a mood to worry about it too much—you can trust the info on black holes but forget details such as how spaceships function in space and how can you get close enough to do that anyway, and so on. I really had fun writing this one, and it's begun making The Rounds. Eileen Kernaghan tells me it is metaphysical and I believe her. She also tells me that a lot of what I write is slipstream, which she further informs me is fiction that slips between genres. Sounds accurate. By the way, Eileen's wonderful book, Winter on the Plain of Ghosts (one of my favourites last year), has been mentioned at length on Challenging Destiny in James Schellenberg's article on Jared Diamond's Collapse, about collapsing civilizations. Very interesting article all round. (See his review of WoPG, also in C.D.)
No sooner had "After Hours at the Black Hole" taken care of itself when I found myself writing another, then unnamed story. "Equals" is pure science fiction, drawing on my interest in biology and ecology, with a lot of boning up on the specifics to carry me through.
Although I do draw on science in my writing at times, I don't often write a story that would be zilch without the science. "Equals" is one, and it is for me a very weird way to write, yet extremely satisfying. I am itching to give everything away but I'll control myself. At the moment, it's off with the experts—a biologist with a special interest in the field covered (Terry), and my favourite literary advisor (Eileen). We'll see what they say and then fiddle with it a little more before sending out. (30 Aug.: got the thumbs up from the pros--off she goes, then.) For sneak previews of these and other stories, click here: Traversing the Wilderness: Works In Circulation
The next couple of weeks will have to be about reading more than writing, especially considering a five-day jaunt to Atlanta. I have a sliver of Jack Whyte's Skystone left, and then on to Andre Norton's Catseye and this pile of neglected short stories--Neo-Opsis Magazine, which I've just subscribed to, Asimov's, and a heap of F & SF.
When I was twelve years old, I had been avoiding reading science fiction despite my mother's interest in the genre (she gave me Tom Swift and His Jetmarine when I was eight or so) because I had heard disparaging things said about it and didn't want to be seen to be unsophisticated. On the other hand, Pippi Longstocking and so on were not really turning my crank, as I was led to believe they would.
One day, I saw a book called Catseye—I was already wise enough to be deeply fond of cats—and my resistance was gone. I slid it off the school library shelf, brought it home, and was ushered wide-eyed into a world I have never since wanted to leave. (Although, for a time I did. Within a few months of Catseye I had read Les Miserables, and went on to various other depressing tomes for several years until I finally realized literature was Not Much Fun, and I'd rather be unsophisticated. At seventeen, it was Andre Norton again, with her Witch World series, that booted me back to where I belong.)
As you probably know, Andre Norton died this past St. Patrick's Day. I decided, as a tribute to her and in celebration of my renewed writing of speculative fiction and re-energized joy in reading, that I would reread the book that started me off. So Troy Horan and his special animal sensitivity are waiting beside my bed, and I am greatly looking forward to leaping in. To the book. Not into bed with Troy. Don't misunderstand me.
The last Must Read this summer is Mike Coney's I Remember Pallahaxi, which I have downloaded from his site. I read and much enjoyed Pallahaxi Tide (also known as Rax in the U.S. and Hello Summer, Goodbye in England) and am looking forward very much to reading the Long-Awaited Sequel. I accidentally named the planet in "Equals" after creatures in that book—the lorin—and when I made the connection, was pleased and let it stick.
For those who are aware of Mike's illness, the word is that he is doing well at the moment and things are progressing more slowly than they might. Which is good news all around.
Happy reading and writing!
casey
Two weeks ago, "After Hours at the Black Hole" came to be (from out of a White Hole, as far as I can tell). It seems like science fiction but I was in too playful a mood to worry about it too much—you can trust the info on black holes but forget details such as how spaceships function in space and how can you get close enough to do that anyway, and so on. I really had fun writing this one, and it's begun making The Rounds. Eileen Kernaghan tells me it is metaphysical and I believe her. She also tells me that a lot of what I write is slipstream, which she further informs me is fiction that slips between genres. Sounds accurate. By the way, Eileen's wonderful book, Winter on the Plain of Ghosts (one of my favourites last year), has been mentioned at length on Challenging Destiny in James Schellenberg's article on Jared Diamond's Collapse, about collapsing civilizations. Very interesting article all round. (See his review of WoPG, also in C.D.)
No sooner had "After Hours at the Black Hole" taken care of itself when I found myself writing another, then unnamed story. "Equals" is pure science fiction, drawing on my interest in biology and ecology, with a lot of boning up on the specifics to carry me through.
Although I do draw on science in my writing at times, I don't often write a story that would be zilch without the science. "Equals" is one, and it is for me a very weird way to write, yet extremely satisfying. I am itching to give everything away but I'll control myself. At the moment, it's off with the experts—a biologist with a special interest in the field covered (Terry), and my favourite literary advisor (Eileen). We'll see what they say and then fiddle with it a little more before sending out. (30 Aug.: got the thumbs up from the pros--off she goes, then.) For sneak previews of these and other stories, click here: Traversing the Wilderness: Works In Circulation
The next couple of weeks will have to be about reading more than writing, especially considering a five-day jaunt to Atlanta. I have a sliver of Jack Whyte's Skystone left, and then on to Andre Norton's Catseye and this pile of neglected short stories--Neo-Opsis Magazine, which I've just subscribed to, Asimov's, and a heap of F & SF.
When I was twelve years old, I had been avoiding reading science fiction despite my mother's interest in the genre (she gave me Tom Swift and His Jetmarine when I was eight or so) because I had heard disparaging things said about it and didn't want to be seen to be unsophisticated. On the other hand, Pippi Longstocking and so on were not really turning my crank, as I was led to believe they would.
One day, I saw a book called Catseye—I was already wise enough to be deeply fond of cats—and my resistance was gone. I slid it off the school library shelf, brought it home, and was ushered wide-eyed into a world I have never since wanted to leave. (Although, for a time I did. Within a few months of Catseye I had read Les Miserables, and went on to various other depressing tomes for several years until I finally realized literature was Not Much Fun, and I'd rather be unsophisticated. At seventeen, it was Andre Norton again, with her Witch World series, that booted me back to where I belong.)
As you probably know, Andre Norton died this past St. Patrick's Day. I decided, as a tribute to her and in celebration of my renewed writing of speculative fiction and re-energized joy in reading, that I would reread the book that started me off. So Troy Horan and his special animal sensitivity are waiting beside my bed, and I am greatly looking forward to leaping in. To the book. Not into bed with Troy. Don't misunderstand me.
The last Must Read this summer is Mike Coney's I Remember Pallahaxi, which I have downloaded from his site. I read and much enjoyed Pallahaxi Tide (also known as Rax in the U.S. and Hello Summer, Goodbye in England) and am looking forward very much to reading the Long-Awaited Sequel. I accidentally named the planet in "Equals" after creatures in that book—the lorin—and when I made the connection, was pleased and let it stick.
For those who are aware of Mike's illness, the word is that he is doing well at the moment and things are progressing more slowly than they might. Which is good news all around.
Happy reading and writing!
casey
Friday, July 29, 2005
VCon 30 Reading for Tesseracts
i'm organizing a Tesseracts reading for VCon 30. if you have participated in any of the previous volumes in the series, or are in Tess9, and would like to be a part of this reading, please let me know by leaving a comment here.
see you at VCon!
see you at VCon!
Sunday, July 03, 2005
Wondrous Words of Summer
i have been writing fairly regularly lately, but to be honest, i am kicking back a bit, as it is summer and the big push to Get Things Done is over for a season. so i am focussing on reading instead (yay!).
i'm a bit of a read-around sue. i have at present nearly 20 books going although some get much more attention than others, and right now fiction is getting the most. so i want to report a couple of recent pleasures in the fiction line.
i confess, i have never (till now) read robert charles wilson. why not?! shameful! my countryman and friend of friends. i went to see him read a couple of months ago at white dwarf books (with rob sawyer) and enjoyed the afternoon very much. not having the twenty bucks to buy bob's new book, Spin (though i will get to it eventually), i hung on and instead bought a second-hand copy of a much older offering: Harvest.
at first, i wasn't so sure i was going to like it, although the actual writing was a pleasure to read. but i am not into disaster fiction, even disaster science fiction, and it did shape up in that direction at first.
but, lo! there is so much more to this novel than that. never one to give away plots—i hate knowing what is going to happen before it does—i will say very little about the book except this.
there are a few things i value most in a writer:
carol emschwiller (wife of sf illustrator ed emschwiller) is someone i knew as an sf writer. so imagine my surprise when i was handed a pile of books to pick through (bless you, terry, bless you!) and there was a "western" by her in the mix: Leaping Man Hill.
it turned out to be the second in a two-volume set, but the stories were stand-alones so i went for it. The main characters are a young woman who is the daughter of a prostitute, and a not-so-young man who is damaged in heart and body by the first world war. it is not a western in the sense of shoot-'em-up or save the ranch, no.
what a wonderful book! all of the above wish-list (well, okay—not an awful lot of science there) and more. this woman can write, and plot, and get inside characters in a way few others in my experience can. after quickly inhaling the book, i ordered Ledoyt from the library. Ledoyt tells the story of a character who is secondary in . (note: this is something i never do. i like to get on to another author right away, for some reason. read-around-sue...)
i have to admit i went a little cautiously into the reading of Tesseracts 9, which includes my own First Published Story. i love short speculative fiction, but i tend to read "Best Of" anthologies and often find that first-run collections have a very lopsided set of good, not-so-good, and out and out annoying stories. since i wanted to think well of this book, i was a little nervous setting out.
i'm only about half-way through, but i am enjoying it. not all of the stories appeal to me—i can't say i entirely even get one or two—but several have really entertained me and some i like a lot. i don't think it is because i just finished it that dan rubin's story, "The Singing" stands out. (dan—i don't know if you were trying to be funny in this basically straightforward and poignant story, but that alien's name is a total unpronounceable hoot! i appreciated the counterpoint to solemnity.) i am relieved to find that my story still seems okay to me. shew. jerome stueart's "Lemmings in the Third Year" is a wonderful combination of good science, nuttiness and strong story-telling. and alette willis's "Thought and Memory" is outstanding. the list goes on.
i'm not the only one who likes the book. Challenging Destiny's james schellenberg says: "(T)he series is in pretty good hands with Hopkinson and Ryman, who are the editors this time out...Tesseracts 9 is a solid collection of short sf works, and I'll be curious to see where the series goes next." geoff ryman, by the way, is short-listed for the prestigious new Sunburst award, for fantastic literature published in canada. his book is called Air.
so, this is what i'm doing for my summer vacation. read for half an hour, get up and write for half an hour, go mindless over email for a little while, then get on with the general functions of life. i look forward very much to the books i have waiting for me.
next novel, after Ledoyt, is mike coney's Hello Summer, Goodbye!, also known as Rax and, in yet another country, as Pallahaxi Tide. Got to read this so i can get to his just-published-on -the-web sequel, I Remember Pallahaxi.
happy readings and writings, my friends!
casey
i'm a bit of a read-around sue. i have at present nearly 20 books going although some get much more attention than others, and right now fiction is getting the most. so i want to report a couple of recent pleasures in the fiction line.
i confess, i have never (till now) read robert charles wilson. why not?! shameful! my countryman and friend of friends. i went to see him read a couple of months ago at white dwarf books (with rob sawyer) and enjoyed the afternoon very much. not having the twenty bucks to buy bob's new book, Spin (though i will get to it eventually), i hung on and instead bought a second-hand copy of a much older offering: Harvest.
at first, i wasn't so sure i was going to like it, although the actual writing was a pleasure to read. but i am not into disaster fiction, even disaster science fiction, and it did shape up in that direction at first.
but, lo! there is so much more to this novel than that. never one to give away plots—i hate knowing what is going to happen before it does—i will say very little about the book except this.
there are a few things i value most in a writer:
- the ability to plot well and use words in at least an unobstructive way;
- in sf, the creative use of science to make it an enjoyable and not a burdensome part of the book
- a deeper perceptiveness of human nature and a shaded, as opposed to a B&W, way of viewing persons, problems, and outcomes;
carol emschwiller (wife of sf illustrator ed emschwiller) is someone i knew as an sf writer. so imagine my surprise when i was handed a pile of books to pick through (bless you, terry, bless you!) and there was a "western" by her in the mix: Leaping Man Hill.
it turned out to be the second in a two-volume set, but the stories were stand-alones so i went for it. The main characters are a young woman who is the daughter of a prostitute, and a not-so-young man who is damaged in heart and body by the first world war. it is not a western in the sense of shoot-'em-up or save the ranch, no.
what a wonderful book! all of the above wish-list (well, okay—not an awful lot of science there) and more. this woman can write, and plot, and get inside characters in a way few others in my experience can. after quickly inhaling the book, i ordered Ledoyt from the library. Ledoyt tells the story of a character who is secondary in . (note: this is something i never do. i like to get on to another author right away, for some reason. read-around-sue...)
i have to admit i went a little cautiously into the reading of Tesseracts 9, which includes my own First Published Story. i love short speculative fiction, but i tend to read "Best Of" anthologies and often find that first-run collections have a very lopsided set of good, not-so-good, and out and out annoying stories. since i wanted to think well of this book, i was a little nervous setting out.
i'm only about half-way through, but i am enjoying it. not all of the stories appeal to me—i can't say i entirely even get one or two—but several have really entertained me and some i like a lot. i don't think it is because i just finished it that dan rubin's story, "The Singing" stands out. (dan—i don't know if you were trying to be funny in this basically straightforward and poignant story, but that alien's name is a total unpronounceable hoot! i appreciated the counterpoint to solemnity.) i am relieved to find that my story still seems okay to me. shew. jerome stueart's "Lemmings in the Third Year" is a wonderful combination of good science, nuttiness and strong story-telling. and alette willis's "Thought and Memory" is outstanding. the list goes on.
i'm not the only one who likes the book. Challenging Destiny's james schellenberg says: "(T)he series is in pretty good hands with Hopkinson and Ryman, who are the editors this time out...Tesseracts 9 is a solid collection of short sf works, and I'll be curious to see where the series goes next." geoff ryman, by the way, is short-listed for the prestigious new Sunburst award, for fantastic literature published in canada. his book is called Air.
so, this is what i'm doing for my summer vacation. read for half an hour, get up and write for half an hour, go mindless over email for a little while, then get on with the general functions of life. i look forward very much to the books i have waiting for me.
next novel, after Ledoyt, is mike coney's Hello Summer, Goodbye!, also known as Rax and, in yet another country, as Pallahaxi Tide. Got to read this so i can get to his just-published-on -the-web sequel, I Remember Pallahaxi.
happy readings and writings, my friends!
casey
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Cauldron for Writers Ancient & New
i recommend to anyone writing who has an interest in Celtic pre-Christian religion or in writing as a spiritual discipline the following article by Erynn Rowan Laurie.
the Cauldron of Poesy discusses a 7th century C.E. Irish manuscript which introduces the three cauldrons found in each person which govern and nourish our living and our art and our wisdom. wonderful stuff.
http://www.obsidianmagazine.com/Pages/cauldronpoesy.html
the Cauldron of Poesy discusses a 7th century C.E. Irish manuscript which introduces the three cauldrons found in each person which govern and nourish our living and our art and our wisdom. wonderful stuff.
http://www.obsidianmagazine.com/Pages/cauldronpoesy.html
What's Chewing--
hello!
long time no post. but lots is happening in its slow and quiet way. i am working on a variety of stories--too many wonderful things keep coming to mind to just write ONE! and of course they all seem to require lots of supplementary reading. i sometimes think i write to justify research. especially when i get to read and reread and rereread some wonderful bits to get them really straight in my head, to put them into the context of all else that is going on in the story, even if it never actually hits the paper. very much like getting to spend all day in the sandbox, if you ask me.
one story is nearing completion that i am quite happy about, because of the opportunity it has given me to explore Celtic myth and pre-Christian religion and tell a tale i enjoy, to boot. It's called "Fionn McCumhaill and the White Worm of Dun na Gall", and we can but hope it gets into circulation soon. watch for a preview here when i am quite happy with it.
another fun thing is that at the urging of Eileen Kernaghan i approached Fran Skene of V-Con 30's con-com and have been invited as one of the minor minion-type writers to the con in Vancouver on 7-9 October 2005. very much looking forward to that. i always love the cons anyway, and it feels very encouraging to have taken this tiny but pleasing step in My Writing Life. besides, i've always envied the panelists because they are the only ones who have access to the water jugs during those long dusty talks.
i hope if you are in the area you will come to visit me at the con (guests of honour Robert Silverberg & Karen Haber) and have a look at Tesseracts 9, which should be out in just a couple more weeks.
long time no post. but lots is happening in its slow and quiet way. i am working on a variety of stories--too many wonderful things keep coming to mind to just write ONE! and of course they all seem to require lots of supplementary reading. i sometimes think i write to justify research. especially when i get to read and reread and rereread some wonderful bits to get them really straight in my head, to put them into the context of all else that is going on in the story, even if it never actually hits the paper. very much like getting to spend all day in the sandbox, if you ask me.
one story is nearing completion that i am quite happy about, because of the opportunity it has given me to explore Celtic myth and pre-Christian religion and tell a tale i enjoy, to boot. It's called "Fionn McCumhaill and the White Worm of Dun na Gall", and we can but hope it gets into circulation soon. watch for a preview here when i am quite happy with it.
another fun thing is that at the urging of Eileen Kernaghan i approached Fran Skene of V-Con 30's con-com and have been invited as one of the minor minion-type writers to the con in Vancouver on 7-9 October 2005. very much looking forward to that. i always love the cons anyway, and it feels very encouraging to have taken this tiny but pleasing step in My Writing Life. besides, i've always envied the panelists because they are the only ones who have access to the water jugs during those long dusty talks.
i hope if you are in the area you will come to visit me at the con (guests of honour Robert Silverberg & Karen Haber) and have a look at Tesseracts 9, which should be out in just a couple more weeks.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Traversing the Wilderness: Works In Circulation
a few characters are out and about right now, hoping to pick up a warm trail. these include a team of alien scientists studying a miniature jungle, a girl named Aggie who plays vivid and disturbing games of imagination, a space-trucker with a problematic cargo, St. Francis and the creatures of the Italian woodlands, a lonely little girl who meets a very strange horse, and a Celtic warrior named Fionn mac Cumhaill. three new stories begin the entry--an elderly man discovers an alien in the woods of northern Canada; an aging guard protects an abandoned alien palace; a Haitian spirit intervenes in the life of a woman in despair;
here are a couple of samples from those:
Refugee
Norman was walking slowly homeward when the explosion sounded. He stopped in confusion, looking around for a flash of lighting. To his mind came the sharp image of the Thunderbird, wings the length of a longhouse, her eyes clapping open and shut and flashing light across the sky. His heart pounded. For a second he was sure that she was there.
He stood quietly, listening, scanning what he could see of the sky. At that moment, distant smoke began to rise above the trees. Somebody was in big trouble, and they were far enough out that probably no one else had seen. He made up his mind without stopping to think about it. He found a good little fir tree and hung up his bags of groceries as high as he could, then headed through the woods in the direction of the crash.
Norman walked, and he walked. His hip began to ache where the logging truck had hit him years before, sending him spinning off the highway where he was working. He paused for a moment and rubbed his hip awhile, then carried on through the bush. Soon he would meet up with a trail that led to the river, and he could follow that a ways, but the last bit would be tough, and it was already late. He wasn't going to make it there tonight.
It was hard hurrying along in this old body. Once it had not been so difficult. That was so long ago he didn't worry about it anymore. He just carried on, puffing a little on the hills and moving steadily through the growing evening. He joined with the river, picking his way through brush along the bank, making it at last to a deer trail that headed for awhile in the direction he wanted to go. But the light began to fade finally and long before the moon was in the sky, he wasn't able to go on. He needed rest, and his hip was throbbing mercilessly.
Norman smiled to himself as he found a little spot to make a bed. He remembered those old days with his Dad when a hunting trip with no bed but his jacket was no big deal—he could sleep anywhere back then. Now, well, he would be a little stiff in the morning, he bet.
He pulled his bedding together from the trees and brush around him. He lay down carefully under the boughs of a fir, after brushing the cones and sticks away. He used his arm for a pillow and more boughs as a blanket, and curled up on his side, hoping he wouldn't get too cold.
Claude and the Henry Moores
As time went on Claude got used to the fact that people didn't see him, and he started not to see them, either. He'd "Please don't touch, Ma'am," whenever necessary and leave it at that.
He read all the labels by all the paintings he guarded and he picked up the guided tour things, too, when they were available, and listened to them. He took to ducking in to the members' lounge when a certain girl was working and getting her to make him up a lox and cream cheese sandwich with a little crème caramel on the side. (Never ate like that at home!)
He went for smokes with an older lady named Hannah out in the park on his lunch breaks and listened to her talk about her kids and that crap husband of hers, Kim, or sometimes he would eat his lunch with Benny Chan. Chan even invited him out to drink brandy and play cards one night, but Chan was a hard-living guy, and Claude didn't even like to stay up past ten, so that never really panned out. But the long and the short of it is, he got used to the place, and stopped worrying about feeling more special than he ever had.
He read all the labels by all the paintings he guarded and he picked up the guided tour things, too, when they were available, and listened to them. He took to ducking in to the members' lounge when a certain girl was working and getting her to make him up a lox and cream cheese sandwich with a little crème caramel on the side. (Never ate like that at home!)
He went for smokes with an older lady named Hannah out in the park on his lunch breaks and listened to her talk about her kids and that crap husband of hers, Kim, or sometimes he would eat his lunch with Benny Chan. Chan even invited him out to drink brandy and play cards one night, but Chan was a hard-living guy, and Claude didn't even like to stay up past ten, so that never really panned out. But the long and the short of it is, he got used to the place, and stopped worrying about feeling more special than he ever had.
Whenever he had the opportunity, though, he would hang out with the Henry Moores. The more he did, the more he felt he knew about them. He came to think of them by various names. Carla was the big honking blonde (well, okay, in his mind she was blonde) known as Draped Reclining Woman. By her date he could see she was old enough to be his mother but he knew in fact she was old enough to be his ancestor, back in the caves, if you know what I mean. Yet among the Giants, she was actually pretty young.
And the butt biter, well he turned out to be a real old yeller, maybe a light year or so old, maybe older—what could Claude know about a thing like that?—but way older than anything he could imagine, and yes he was a bit testy, old butt biter, whose real name, it came to Claude one icy winter morning, was probably Frank.
Standing Guard: a Vignette
As it cooled, Riddala went to the open door and out to the balustrade, to look across the vast lawns. There, once, on the far side of this great square courtyard, had been scented gardens that had so fascinated her when she was a young guard. Then, the Palasains were here in great numbers—not just in this building but everywhere, living their grand and boisterous life, building endlessly, exploring the land for its riches, sharing their wealth of culture with the people they'd discovered here. People who now proved themselves only thieves. People who would grin at her cynically when they glimpsed her at a window or a gate. Their hovels reaching nearly to the palace doors.
Riddala released a deep breath that might have been mistaken for a sigh, and returned to her cooled mush. She seated herself at the table where once such delicacies had been prepared—she smiled so slightly at the memory—vast quantities of Palasain foods, exotic fruits and animals, piled in impossible ways to resemble creatures from their world, jellied archways over crystallized cakes, tureens of satiny broths where living creatures swam. It dazzled the people—dazzled her, but the dignity she wore never let the wonder show. Yet even a guard could not help but glance at the marvels created in those days, and be amazed.
The gruel satisfied. The meatier chunks sustained. She rose and rinsed the bowl and pot and poured the water down a rusted drain, poured a few fingersful more of water after it to send the last bits away.
Standing, she folded the paper once more and put it back into her tunic, straightened her uniform again, and proceeded with her rounds.
Kouzen Zaka
He had laughed. A spirit he was not, but he knew a few, if she ever wanted to meet them, and strangely, although she desperately wanted to, she always declined. She would bring the question up, then dance evasively away, and he only smiled and moved on to other things. Denys was a patient man with only one agenda, and it was clear for anyone to see. It was clear in the early mornings and the late nights and the sleeves rolled up and the endless time to listen to any old man or child or work-worn woman who stopped him in his passage through their day.
Yet Denys was not a spirit after all. He tired and he might have wept, if weeping had been an option, but instead he poured a little kleren on the concrete and sipped the fiery drink, and wiped his hand across his eyes and finally slept.Until the day he rose from his bed and washed himself and dressed carefully as every day and stopped by the home of Rochelle to walk with her awhile.
As they stepped back into the street, he drew back to allow an urgent man to pass, and fell with a sickening cry beside her, his belly slit by an unseen knife.
Rochelle dropped to her knees and gathered him furiously, crying out, "No! No!!!" and pressing a helpless hand to his flesh in an attempt to hold it all together, a futile attempt to seal it back on itself, to roll back the seconds and unmake the attack, and as her own reality rushed violently away Denys, without a final word or glance, succumbed to a faint and on toward death.
Equals
ChiBraa sat with the slender, glass-clear jimns coiling and uncoiling around her body, her eyes set in the deep trance she could achieve in moments with the jimn, while I set about preparing their meals (a bit of slud and drunn) and, setting them aside, preparing hers and mine.
She was a tungdra emissionist, ChiBraa was, and serious in her work. She examined the emanations patterns of the vast but miniscule jungle we had come to study. By individual, by species, and in association with the emanations of other organisms and the environment—it was her job to tease out each and begin to make some sort of sense of it all.
It was a mind-crushingly complex and subtle field, from where I sat. A taxonomist only; that was me. Collect, dissect, and classify. Collect, dissect, and classify. Collect some more and return to the collection and redissect, reclassify. All the little informations were beautiful to me, from the molecular to the phenotypic, and balancing them one against the other was my favourite way to pass the time.
It was a soothing pursuit and far less ethereal than hers but I was well aware that there are many strands to Mother Dextra's Web. I could only cling to my own, while watching others somewhat bemusedly as they clung to theirs.
After Hours at the Black Hole
He would have thrown away his own mother (he liked to joke) if she hadn't thrown him away first, for a price, of course, and a handsome one. He had towed space dirt of every kind, from the rubble of abandoned colonies to the floating jetsam of war—living or very, very dead—to the entrails of planets that had somehow gotten tangled up in somebody's personal space.
Whatever—he didn't mind. But today's cargo was a whole nother thing, and it worried him.So, okay. Maybe those trusty black holes had swallowed everything so far without a burp. But he thought he'd spotted some energy shimmering where it ought not to last time circling Old Guzzler here, not just harmless vaccuum fluctuations, but something else. It was nothing he could pin down instrumentally and he let it go and puttered back for his next "desperately urgent" something that needed to be lugged away.
Now here he was, circling slowly at a distance of a handful of lightyears, a long trailer of ruinous lives in his wake, and he was nervous.
The White Worm of Dun na Gall
Fionn passed one last day in search of Sabha in the southern woods, but he dared risk no more time than that. When he arrived at the twilight hour no closer to her than before, he tore a strip of cloth from his tunic and tied it to the branch of a thorn tree and prayed. To Oengus the God of Love, to Brigit for protection, to his own dead mother, to light Sabha's way. With a fallen heart he took leave that evening, and set out for Leinster and his mother's command. He arrived at the plain of Almu as the sun slid behind a long tattered bow of cloud. When the cloud had departed, so had the sun, lost again beyond the far hills.
He didn't need to search for his mother's body. In a line with the setting sun he saw on the plain a small group gathered together round a platform, and on that bier he made out the low mound of a fallen soldier laid beneath her green cloak. He walked toward them slowly, Bran and Sgeolan not leaving his sides, their long loose-hipped gait measured against his own. Soon he could make out the figures around his mother's bier.
The Morrigna, three raven-black battle queens, standing like tall stones on three sides of Muirne's fallen form. Large, grey-bodied crows perched on their shoulders as they stood. The central queen had but a single, frightening eye, and a single powerful leg on which she stood without a quiver. As he walked closer he saw their eyes fixed hard on him, but he was not distracted. His own gaze was bound to his mother, and the upwelling of grief in him was even harsher than in losing Sabha, his wife.
When he came up beside her, his eyes were blurred with sorrow. "Mother," he said. He lifted a hand to her uncovered face, black on one side with matted hair and blood. At her throat was the golden torc she always wore. He pulled back her cloak, examining her wounds, many and grave. She still wore the plaid tunic and leggings she had fallen in. Her hair was limed and her mangled hands lightly grasped the hilt of her sword, whose point stood out beyond her straightened knees. Her flesh, several days dead, was a misery, and the colour of her garments indecipherable for the blood. As he beheld her, one of the crows drifted from a Morrigna's shoulder to the corpse, and settled on the cage of her chest. It slipped it's beak into a crusted gash and tugged on the crumbling flesh.
The Morrigna, three raven-black battle queens, standing like tall stones on three sides of Muirne's fallen form. Large, grey-bodied crows perched on their shoulders as they stood. The central queen had but a single, frightening eye, and a single powerful leg on which she stood without a quiver. As he walked closer he saw their eyes fixed hard on him, but he was not distracted. His own gaze was bound to his mother, and the upwelling of grief in him was even harsher than in losing Sabha, his wife.
When he came up beside her, his eyes were blurred with sorrow. "Mother," he said. He lifted a hand to her uncovered face, black on one side with matted hair and blood. At her throat was the golden torc she always wore. He pulled back her cloak, examining her wounds, many and grave. She still wore the plaid tunic and leggings she had fallen in. Her hair was limed and her mangled hands lightly grasped the hilt of her sword, whose point stood out beyond her straightened knees. Her flesh, several days dead, was a misery, and the colour of her garments indecipherable for the blood. As he beheld her, one of the crows drifted from a Morrigna's shoulder to the corpse, and settled on the cage of her chest. It slipped it's beak into a crusted gash and tugged on the crumbling flesh.
"You have tarried," said the one-eyed one. He looked at her.
"Morrigan," he said, taking a breath as he prepared to continue. "Do not waste her time," she hissed.
Neamhain and Badh stared hard on her either side. Fionn closed his mouth. Nodded, eyes lowered. To a Goddess, even a leader of warriors was but a servant. To a Goddess protective of her kin, even a man who was half-God had best pay heed.
The Morrigan pointed to a leather bag beneath the bier. "You have one night to rest in Almu hill. We will stand with your mother in final vigil. When you return in the morning, place her in this bag, and carry her with haste to Dun na Gall." She thrust her head low and forward on her outstretched neck. Her very cloak and mane of hair seemed to rise like feathers. "Do not delay."
He was a man torn in two. Yet she was right. He would no longer play this fidchell with himself. He bent his head beside his mother's and clutched her horrid clothes. In the darkness of her blood-stiff hair, he began to weep at last.
***
"Morrigan," he said, taking a breath as he prepared to continue. "Do not waste her time," she hissed.
Neamhain and Badh stared hard on her either side. Fionn closed his mouth. Nodded, eyes lowered. To a Goddess, even a leader of warriors was but a servant. To a Goddess protective of her kin, even a man who was half-God had best pay heed.
The Morrigan pointed to a leather bag beneath the bier. "You have one night to rest in Almu hill. We will stand with your mother in final vigil. When you return in the morning, place her in this bag, and carry her with haste to Dun na Gall." She thrust her head low and forward on her outstretched neck. Her very cloak and mane of hair seemed to rise like feathers. "Do not delay."
He was a man torn in two. Yet she was right. He would no longer play this fidchell with himself. He bent his head beside his mother's and clutched her horrid clothes. In the darkness of her blood-stiff hair, he began to weep at last.
***
Finding Creatures
This was worrying. She was far too big for me to make her follow. I could try to lead her, I guessed. She had no bridle or rope. I walked hesitantly back to her and looked at her glossy flank. I'd have to touch her. Pray God she didn't stomp me to death like I'd been warned horses might. I did a quick sign of the cross. "Hail Mary, full of grace," I whispered, the way Mom always did when she had to do something scarey. "The Lord is with thee...."
Then I reached a hand out, oh, so tentatively, and put it to her skin. It was very warm, wrinkly and finely haired, and it shivered under my touch as if I was a fly tickling it. Her long nose turned slowly toward me and raised to my hand. The great nostrils flared and sucked in my smell and blew out her own smell. She reached further and sniffed around my eyes, then opened her big lips to nibble my hair. I pulled back in surprise and she dropped her nose to look at me again. Then her head swung back to the weeds and the clippers of her jaw began tearing them, the tongue pushing them back in her mouth, the molars grinding, the plants moving back and forth as she chewed. I stared, fascinated, then remembered my goal. Before I could do one more thing, though, a voice rose from across the garden: my mother standing on the porch.
"Bernadette!! Come and get it!"
Lunchtime! She was looking around, her hand over her eyebrows to shut out the sun. I panicked, looking over at the giant at my side. There was no way to hide her. I was going to lose her, too!
Mom's eyes swept over us unseeing and carried on to the edge of the woods. She peered as if she could see down into the ravine and took a big breath, yelled even louder.
"BERN-A-DEEEEETTE!!! Come and get it!!! " Then she sighed, turned around and went back into the house.
I was stunned. I looked at the horse. The horse looked at me. I couldn't think of a thing to do. But a moment later, my body did it for me. There was just no way not to come when my mother called.
She was just coming out the door again, having put on her outdoor shoes, when I reached the end of the garden.
"There you are!" she said, looking relieved. "You had me worried. Come on in. Your soup's getting cold."
I couldn't resist glancing back at the horse. She was still there, watching our progress, munching. I was dizzy with surprise. To Mom, there was nothing unusual there at all.
"Were you in the ravine?" She asked. "See any dinosaurs?"
"Really?" she said, looking surprised. "You weren't at the road, were you?"
I couldn't resist. "No, Mom. She's right there." I pointed to the horse in the garden.
Mom looked quickly, then smiled. "You monkey!" she said, and started off down the hall. "Get a move on, Cheeky. I have egg sandwiches for you, too," she called back. "Now hurry up."
I got to the front door and wiped off my feet. I didn't dare look back another time.
St. Francis and the Green Man
...But the true Francis, the one who gradually emerged over years of trial and prayer and self-reflection, was a man bathed in God, who slept God, dreamt God, sang God to the creatures of the woodlands, who saw God in everything. To him, creatures, persons, elements of wind and water and fire, even death itself were his brothers and sisters, were himself, his universe—for his Lord had made them all. Despite his troubles with his brethren, who would pull against the ways that Jesus preached and Francis returned to, of owning nothing and following only Him, with the church elders who called for houses, land and a semblance of normalcy, despite the weakness and pain in his ailing body, Francis, though not at all carefree, was a happy man, utterly in love with the Christian God.
But at some point in his life a thing happened that could not be accounted for.
It was when Francis was living as a hermit in the hills not far from Assisi. Already he was personal friends with the hare of Greccio, who trailed after him like a loyal pet, and the wolf of Gubbio, the kingfisher and fish of Lake Rieti, the pheasant of Siena and the cicada of the Portiuncula, who would come when Francis called him to sing the praises of God while sitting in Francis' palm. At a time when he was weakened by years of troubles and the constant seeping of blood from the wounds of Jesus he miraculously bore, he met the Man of the Woods, the leafy Godling, the Green Man of ancient times, and this is the general unfolding of that thing...
***
Aggie's Game
Even now when I think back on my oldest sister and her childhood games, there is something about Aggie that can make my hair stand on end. It wasn't just the way she could act so remote, even the odd time when she invited me into her games. She would weave a tale around herself and maybe her best friend Lisa and I would fill in the supporting spots—the driver, the waiter, the innkeeper.
I would take my lead from her, with or without stage direction, and fill in the atmosphere the best I could. If Lisa was there, Aggie would give her a fair-sized role, and a fair amount of scope within it, but Aggie was always at the helm. She would interact with me only as the game demanded; she would stand delivering grand speeches or throw herself body and soul into her story, and yes, she was remote, unreachable by me.
But it was more than that. It was how deeply she plunged, and how, sometimes, quite without warning, I would be carried in with her, and it was where, in her terribly accurate way, she could drag us both.
Now when I look back on certain games I don't see her skinny self with bobbed hair and striped t-shirt and pale green shorts, standing in the front yard waving her arms around and spinning tales. I see instead the character she was playing, the room she was in, the misty headland or the silent sepulchre. My breath grows deep and slow and I am swept back to the wonder and danger of each place.
I would take my lead from her, with or without stage direction, and fill in the atmosphere the best I could. If Lisa was there, Aggie would give her a fair-sized role, and a fair amount of scope within it, but Aggie was always at the helm. She would interact with me only as the game demanded; she would stand delivering grand speeches or throw herself body and soul into her story, and yes, she was remote, unreachable by me.
But it was more than that. It was how deeply she plunged, and how, sometimes, quite without warning, I would be carried in with her, and it was where, in her terribly accurate way, she could drag us both.
Now when I look back on certain games I don't see her skinny self with bobbed hair and striped t-shirt and pale green shorts, standing in the front yard waving her arms around and spinning tales. I see instead the character she was playing, the room she was in, the misty headland or the silent sepulchre. My breath grows deep and slow and I am swept back to the wonder and danger of each place.
***
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Advice for a Writer, from Korea's Premier Living Author
from The Thoughts and Feelings of Korean People in
Literature:
There is an infinite universe beyond what we can see,
and we are all connected to it. Is creativity
possible in a world limited and framed by the certain
and the visible? Only copies would be produced. The
materialism which believes only the certain and the
visible has destroyed the earth. Living things,
abandoning themselves to the pleasures of hyper-
consumerism, are buried in garbage. Will writers
remain just as spectators of all this? Do they want
to enjoy the comforts of modern life, constantly
offered to us by civilisation? I am deeply grieved
by this. I assure you that there is no hope for our
times unless we respect other creatures. I told a
young person who wishes to become a writer: `Don't
try to write till you have overcome your narcissism
or self-interest, till you have been touched by
compassion for all living things.'
Park Kyong-Ni
Monday, March 28, 2005
Interview of Eileen Kernaghan Published
Hello,
Just a short note that Ms. Wolf's interview with Ms. Kernaghan is now live at Strange Horizons at: http://www.strangehorizons.com/2005/20050328/i-
kernaghan-a.shtml
Note that the only significant change to the text of the interview was the insertion of an editor's note at Ms. Kernaghan's request mentioning that The Alchemist's Daughter was shortlisted for the Egoff Prize. (Congratulations, by the by!)
We hope that you're as pleased with the final article as we are proud to be running it. Thank you once again for your hard work on this piece.
Kyle Niedzwiecki
Senior Articles Editor,
Strange Horizons
Just a short note that Ms. Wolf's interview with Ms. Kernaghan is now live at Strange Horizons at: http://www.strangehorizons.com/2005/20050328/i-
kernaghan-a.shtml
Note that the only significant change to the text of the interview was the insertion of an editor's note at Ms. Kernaghan's request mentioning that The Alchemist's Daughter was shortlisted for the Egoff Prize. (Congratulations, by the by!)
We hope that you're as pleased with the final article as we are proud to be running it. Thank you once again for your hard work on this piece.
Kyle Niedzwiecki
Senior Articles Editor,
Strange Horizons
Friday, March 04, 2005
News Release re: Tesseracts 9
well, the secret is out. we have a release date for
Tesseracts 9. i look forward to reading who i am
hanging out with between the covers.
cheers!
casey
EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy
Publishing Now Includes Tesseract Books
Box 1714, Calgary, AB, Canada, T2P 2L7
780-460-1756
janice@hadespublications.com
For immediate release
Contact: Janice Shoults -- 780-460-1756
National identity? No thanks, we're
Canadians.
(Calgary, AB) -- Canada's largest genre publisher of
Science Fiction and Fantasy will release, on May 1st,
2005, the very best of new Canadian short stories,
essays and poems from Canada's top Speculative
Fiction (Science Fiction and Fantasy) authors.
Introduced by award winning authors Nalo Hopkinson
and Geoff Ryman, Tesseracts Nine presents 23 unique
views on how Canadians are different enough to be
perceived as unique by the rest of the world.
"Nobody in their right mind wants a national
identity." says Ryman. "Canadians are lucky they
don't have one." Speculative Fiction is the perfect
medium for telling such stories ... because they are
fantastic, they are universal! "Does anyone in SF
care that writers like Robert Sawyer, Yves Meynard
or John Clute are Canadian?" "Contributors to
Tesseracts Nine have almost nothing in common. A
language perhaps. Not a genre or a geography.
Certainly not a greater sense of cold or big empty
landscapes; no particular politics or ways of being,
or even a delicious post-modern Gallic sensibility."
"Readers of Tesseracts Nine will find both familiar
and new authors in this new collection of short
fiction, essays and poetry. It showcases the very
best in Canadian literature (including French-
Canadian authors whose works are translated into
English)," says publisher Brian Hades.
Since the publication of Tesseracts One, edited by
the late Judith Merrill, the entire Tesseracts
series has presented works from over 150 Canadian
speculative fiction writers, many of whom have built
brilliant careers: Margaret Atwood, William Gibson,
Robert Sawyer, Élisabeth Vonarburg and others.
Every volume in the series has been edited by a
different team of Canadian writers, publishers and
critics. Tesseracts Nine's editors, Nalo Hopkinson
and Geoff Ryman, were themselves selected as
representatives of modern Canadian innovative and
futuristic fiction and poetry. They are, together
with the Tesseract Nine authors, the new leaders
and emerging voices of Canadian speculative fiction.
Tesseracts Nine edited by Nalo
Hopkinson and Geoff Ryman will
be available May 1st, 2005.
For more information about Tesseracts 9, its authors,
and the editors, please contact Janice Shoults,
marketing director, EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy
Publishing.
List of Tesseracts Nine Contributors:
Anthony MacDonald and Jason Mehmel, Jerome Stueart,
Yves Meynard, Candas Jane Dorsey, E. L. Chen, Sandra
Kasturi, Steve Stanton, Élisabeth Vonarburg, Timothy
J. Anderson, Daniel Sernine, Dan Rubin, Nancy
Kilpatrick, Alette J. Willis, Rhea Rose, Casey June
Wolf, Sarah Totton, Marg Gilks, Claude Lalumière,
Peter Watts and Derryl Murphy, Sylvie Bérard, Rene
Beaulieu, Pat Forde, Allan Weiss, Sheryl Curtis,
Howard Scott, Nalo Hopkinson and Geoff Ryman.
***
Publisher's web site:
http://www.edgewebsite.com
Books from EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy
Publishing and Tesseract Books are now
distributed by:
Fitzhenry and Whiteside (Toll Free 1-800-387-9776,
Fax: 1-800-260-9777, SAN# S1151444) and can be
found at Baker and Taylor and Ingram wholesalers.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Wandering the Woodlands: Currently Available Work
a couple of pieces are now published. (as of May and June '05)
one is a short story about a young street kid in Haiti who meets a very peculiar woman who won't go away. The Coin is included in the anthology of Canadian science fiction and fantasy, Tesseracts 9, edited by Nalo Hopkinson and Geoff Ryman. Published by EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing / Tesseract Books.
http://www.edgewebsite.com/index1.html
the other is an interview of Eileen Kernaghan, author of eight fantasy novels, including three which took the Canadian national prize for science fiction and fantasy, the Aurora. (Snow Queen, 2001, Sarsen Witch, 1990 and Songs of the Drowned Lands, 1985.)
the interview focusses mainly on one of her two novels released in 2004--Winter on the Plain of Ghosts--and will be published by Strange Horizons-- a free weekly online magazine devoted to publishing high-quality speculative fiction, poetry, art, and related nonfiction.
excerpt from The Coin:
"Ba m senk goud," he told her. She cocked her head. "Give me one dolla," he said in English. She understood.
Bouki and Benji were gone. She reached into her pocket, one she had turned inside out earlier, and pulled out a large, dull coin. She put it in his hand, closed his fingers around it, looked into his eyes. She pointed to the coin, pointed to his pocket, closed her fist. "Don't lose it," she was telling him. Then she stood up, gave him a little pinch on the nose, and walked away.
He stared at the coin, empty of feeling. It wasn't Haitian. Or American. He squinted. He couldn't read, but he knew them all. It wasn't Canadian or Belgian or French. He could barely make out the shape of a woman—-an American, he thought, by her face and hair—-and on the other side...perhaps a fish.
He heard a shout and looked in the direction she had gone. Ezo and Bouki and Ti Patrik, sparring and yelling as they wandered up the street. The blan was nowhere to be seen.
The coin was a disappointment. He looked at it numbly. He surprised himself with what he did next, without even thinking. He tossed it over the wall and into the muttering sea. The water swallowed it and it left his thoughts. Bending, he scooped up a nicely weighted stone.
Straightened and aimed at Bouki's shaved head.
Eileen Kernaghan is the author of seven novels, the most recent of which, Winter on the Plain of Ghosts, was released in June 2004. WOPG follows the life of a young boy in the Indus Valley in India, long before the cultures and religions found there now had come into being. The novel has a distinctive feel to it. The setting is intriguing, and Eileen is a careful researcher, permitting readers who are interested in not only a good story but in reliable interpretations of what is known to be true about a given historical place and time. From the WOPG author's note:
As a reader, I often prefer spare, undistracting language. Eileen's writing is lush, yet not distracting. It is poetic, yes, but a poetry that enhances the story rather than detracting from it.
WOPG moves slowly but sumptuously; imperceptibly a child becomes a youngster and then a man. In each stage of his life he has challenges to face, and yet there are rewards as well, joys, friendships, quiet times between the sometimes terrible difficulties. In other words, it reads like life — compressed, certainly, but rich, with an honest handling of matters that are all too often glibly dealt with in fantasy novels.
...CW: I don't want to give much away about the novel, but I wonder if there is anything about the story itself you'd like to mention before we go on.
EK: Something I realized as I finished WOPG is that in a way the language has the feel of a Victorian novel. Maybe that’s the influence of all the Victorian novels I read in my youth. And as well, I can see echoes of the Weird Tales writers of the twenties and thirties,who wrote of sorcery and spell-making in lost kingdoms and vanished cities of antiquity.
WOPG is in some ways very different from my other books. In another way, it’s part of a pattern. A friend pointed out that every one of my novels involves a journey. That will be the armchair traveller in me. One other thing I should mention. Those scenes of rebellion, mob violence, looting – Though they may seem inspired by the TV news, they were actually written fifteen years ago.
one is a short story about a young street kid in Haiti who meets a very peculiar woman who won't go away. The Coin is included in the anthology of Canadian science fiction and fantasy, Tesseracts 9, edited by Nalo Hopkinson and Geoff Ryman. Published by EDGE Science Fiction and Fantasy Publishing / Tesseract Books.
http://www.edgewebsite.com/index1.html
the other is an interview of Eileen Kernaghan, author of eight fantasy novels, including three which took the Canadian national prize for science fiction and fantasy, the Aurora. (Snow Queen, 2001, Sarsen Witch, 1990 and Songs of the Drowned Lands, 1985.)
the interview focusses mainly on one of her two novels released in 2004--Winter on the Plain of Ghosts--and will be published by Strange Horizons-- a free weekly online magazine devoted to publishing high-quality speculative fiction, poetry, art, and related nonfiction.
excerpt from The Coin:
"Ba m senk goud," he told her. She cocked her head. "Give me one dolla," he said in English. She understood.
Bouki and Benji were gone. She reached into her pocket, one she had turned inside out earlier, and pulled out a large, dull coin. She put it in his hand, closed his fingers around it, looked into his eyes. She pointed to the coin, pointed to his pocket, closed her fist. "Don't lose it," she was telling him. Then she stood up, gave him a little pinch on the nose, and walked away.
He stared at the coin, empty of feeling. It wasn't Haitian. Or American. He squinted. He couldn't read, but he knew them all. It wasn't Canadian or Belgian or French. He could barely make out the shape of a woman—-an American, he thought, by her face and hair—-and on the other side...perhaps a fish.
He heard a shout and looked in the direction she had gone. Ezo and Bouki and Ti Patrik, sparring and yelling as they wandered up the street. The blan was nowhere to be seen.
The coin was a disappointment. He looked at it numbly. He surprised himself with what he did next, without even thinking. He tossed it over the wall and into the muttering sea. The water swallowed it and it left his thoughts. Bending, he scooped up a nicely weighted stone.
Straightened and aimed at Bouki's shaved head.
Tesseracts 9
***
excerpt from interview:Eileen Kernaghan is the author of seven novels, the most recent of which, Winter on the Plain of Ghosts, was released in June 2004. WOPG follows the life of a young boy in the Indus Valley in India, long before the cultures and religions found there now had come into being. The novel has a distinctive feel to it. The setting is intriguing, and Eileen is a careful researcher, permitting readers who are interested in not only a good story but in reliable interpretations of what is known to be true about a given historical place and time. From the WOPG author's note:
"Archaeological evidence tells us that when the Indo-Europeans arrived, the Indus Valley cities were already dying. The invasion from the northwest, as described in the Rig Veda (if indeed it was an invasion) was simply one more event in a long process of decay. Many causes have been suggested—changes in the climatic conditions, a shift in the course of the Indus River, overgrazing, stripping of the forest cover, tectonic uplifting of the sea-coast, mud volcanoes. What is generally agreed is that some change took place which upset the delicate balance—ecological, sociological and economic—that holds a civilization together. This book presents a few of the possibilities."
As a reader, I often prefer spare, undistracting language. Eileen's writing is lush, yet not distracting. It is poetic, yes, but a poetry that enhances the story rather than detracting from it.
WOPG moves slowly but sumptuously; imperceptibly a child becomes a youngster and then a man. In each stage of his life he has challenges to face, and yet there are rewards as well, joys, friendships, quiet times between the sometimes terrible difficulties. In other words, it reads like life — compressed, certainly, but rich, with an honest handling of matters that are all too often glibly dealt with in fantasy novels.
...CW: I don't want to give much away about the novel, but I wonder if there is anything about the story itself you'd like to mention before we go on.
EK: Something I realized as I finished WOPG is that in a way the language has the feel of a Victorian novel. Maybe that’s the influence of all the Victorian novels I read in my youth. And as well, I can see echoes of the Weird Tales writers of the twenties and thirties,who wrote of sorcery and spell-making in lost kingdoms and vanished cities of antiquity.
WOPG is in some ways very different from my other books. In another way, it’s part of a pattern. A friend pointed out that every one of my novels involves a journey. That will be the armchair traveller in me. One other thing I should mention. Those scenes of rebellion, mob violence, looting – Though they may seem inspired by the TV news, they were actually written fifteen years ago.
***
Strange Horizons
Finding Our Pack: UpCominG PubLIcationS
my interview of Mike Coney has just been accepted by Strange Horizons.
my short story "After Hours at the Black Hole" has been accepted by On Spec.
my short story "After Hours at the Black Hole" has been accepted by On Spec.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
Ancestral Songs: Old Stuff I Wrote Back When
just so you know a little of what i was doing back in the Old Days. mostly i was interested in performing my poetry to live audiences.
this was for a couple of reasons. i got to see the effect the poetry had on people, which is a very powerful thing for me. i got to talk with them directly, and hear what they wanted to say in return. but also, i didn't always simply read. i liked to move, sing--especially Irish traditional music--act out certain parts, very occasionally shout, use props or electronic music--whatever a piece required. often when i would read several pieces together they were linked into a single performance.
i got used to getting a strong response from audiences--generally positive. this was a pleasant elixir indeed. so imagine my surprise when one time we did an afternoon of horror and the response i got from the audience was absolute silence. and a rather uncomfortable one, i thought.
vampires got laughs, ghouls got gasps--what did i do wrong?
well, i got into my role too much for my audience, i think. i asked myself, what is truly horrifying to me? and it came up easily--child abuse. so i wrote several pieces, set to my brother's electronica, about the horror of child abuse. well, people don't really like or know what to do with that.
an interesting experiment.
from time to time i did send things out for publication, though. one went from the magazine i sent it to to their online site, where it remains years later. it's called "Skeleton Dance" :
http://www.madstone.com/Pages/skeletondance.html
--and navigate from there to what remains of the magazine online at:
http://www.madstone.com/
this was for a couple of reasons. i got to see the effect the poetry had on people, which is a very powerful thing for me. i got to talk with them directly, and hear what they wanted to say in return. but also, i didn't always simply read. i liked to move, sing--especially Irish traditional music--act out certain parts, very occasionally shout, use props or electronic music--whatever a piece required. often when i would read several pieces together they were linked into a single performance.
i got used to getting a strong response from audiences--generally positive. this was a pleasant elixir indeed. so imagine my surprise when one time we did an afternoon of horror and the response i got from the audience was absolute silence. and a rather uncomfortable one, i thought.
vampires got laughs, ghouls got gasps--what did i do wrong?
well, i got into my role too much for my audience, i think. i asked myself, what is truly horrifying to me? and it came up easily--child abuse. so i wrote several pieces, set to my brother's electronica, about the horror of child abuse. well, people don't really like or know what to do with that.
an interesting experiment.
from time to time i did send things out for publication, though. one went from the magazine i sent it to to their online site, where it remains years later. it's called "Skeleton Dance" :
http://www.madstone.com/Pages/skeletondance.html
--and navigate from there to what remains of the magazine online at:
http://www.madstone.com/
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Running Mates--Others in the Pack
some books i've enjoyed by writers i admire:
Pallahaxi Tide AND I Remember Pallahaxi, by Michael Coney
Ledoyt AND Leaping Man Hill, by Carol Emschwiller
Native Speaker, Chang-Rae Lee
Winter on the Plain of Ghosts, Eileen Kernaghan
Alchemist's Daughter, Eileen Kernaghan
Dream Tribes, Mary Choo
Brown Girl in the Ring, Nalo Hopkinson
Stories of Your Life, Ted Chiang
The Fire Next Time, James Baldwin
Things Fall Apart, Chinua Achebe
East Van, Chris Walter
Land, Park Kyong-Ni
Every Earthly Blessing: Rediscovering the Celtic Tradition, Celebrating a Spirituality of Creation, Esther de Waal
Middle Passage, Charles Johnson
Passion Play, Sean Stewart
The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood
Ake, Wole Soyinka
Insects & Gardens, Eric Grissell
Peace is Every Step, Thich Nhat Hanh
The Age of Kali, by William Dalrymple
The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency, by James McCall Smith
great magz:
Guardian Weekly
Neo-Opsis Magazine
Fantasy & Science Fiction Magazine (especially the stories of Robert Reed)
everything by Bruce Gillespie especially The Metaphysical Review
a couple of movies i've really liked:
All or Nothing (Mike Leigh)
Hotel Rwanda (Terry George)
Gregory's Girl (Bill Forsyth)
Vera Drake (Mike Leigh)
The Way Home (Lee Jeong-hyang)
Scared Sacred (Velcrow Ripper)
a couple of comics i adore:
Wolff & Byrd, Batton Lash
Berlin, Jason Lutes
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