Fiction Vortex - February 2015

by Fiction Vortex

  “I’m going on a quick walk before bedtime,” he said, leaning over her.

  He kissed her sunset strands and freckled knuckles before closing the door behind him. Bear waited for him outside. He nudged Casper’s wrist with his wet nose and whined.

  “I missed you,” said Casper, stroking Bear’s ears.

  Above them someone sang in a throaty, bluesy voice that brought a blush to Casper’s face and left him aching. It was the kind of song Alex sang while showering or brushing her hair. He wanted to ignore the stone stairs, retreat into the warmth of Alex, but the threads wouldn’t let him. When he glanced at the end of the hall, the stone staircase lay before him. Casper and Bear took the stairs two by two and in the left-most room at the top of the staircase, shimmering threads gleamed through a half-closed door.

  The threads beckoned to him, calling his name. He could feel their light pulsing behind his eyes, tying his fingers in a hundred forget-me-knots. When he looked up, he saw Chloe silhouetted by light.

  “My sisters always say that if you don’t know what to do, you should head to the lake.”

  Casper’s throat felt dry. “I’ve been told that before.”

  “Must be paramnesia,” said Chloe.

  Casper frowned. He didn’t know what paramnesia was. And he was old enough to know that there were plenty of other things he didn’t know. He didn’t know whether he liked his job. He didn’t know whether he could make Alex happy. And he didn’t know any magic words because too many birthdays had stolen their power.

  “You don’t know what to do?”

  Casper shook his head and Bear barked happily.

  “Come in, but I warn you, I’m not like Essi. I don’t make bargains.”

  He nodded. Even if she did, he had nothing to give. The room had not changed. The threads that stretched across the room twinkled. A tightness in his chest loosened fourteen years too late. Casper’s knees almost buckled beneath him, but Bear nudged him forward, wagging his tail. Even as the threads shimmered and danced, there was only one that called to him. Russet gold and ruby-red. When he touched the top of the thread, Casper felt weightless. He saw Alex bicycling, her brilliant hair cropped to her chin. He saw Alex dancing, her tawny limbs stretched star-like. He drew his hand away, hesitating as he touched the middle. He saw the clumsiness of their first kiss. He saw her shaky smile when he asked her to the lake. He saw her love him. Casper looked at the end. His own thread, still pearlescent and white, lay closely entwined with hers. He smiled. Relief and hope unfurled in his body like a spool.

  “Don’t you want to touch the end? Don’t you want to see?”

  “No,” said Casper hoarsely.

   ~~~~~

  Age 80

  Casper sat in the passenger seat, while Olivia started complaining that no prom dress matched her hair.

  “Your grandmother had the same hair,” said Casper.

  “I know,” she grumbled. “But that doesn’t make it any easier to find a dress.”

  Casper shrugged and rubbed his hands together. His hands were gnarled and sometimes he had to massage them for twenty minutes before arthritis loosened its grip. He twisted his wedding band, kissed it once.

  “Why are we going to the lake?” complained Olivia.

  “I’m not going. You’re going because you don’t know what to do. And when you don’t know what to do, you should go to the lake.”

  “Why aren’t you coming with me?”

  “Because there’s a place I need to visit.”

  “Okay.” Olivia shrugged. “What is it? Some kind of geriatric shindig?”

  Casper laughed. He knew all too well what geriatric meant. In his head, he pictured an ever-old Geras leaning forward on his cane and staring out of his rheumy eyes like a mystic. Casper knew other things too. But those things were fleeting, like spider silk in the light. One minute there, the next minute — invisible. And the things that Casper knew didn’t always have names. Instead they had faces, freckles, teeth, muzzles, songs and shoulders. He looked out the window and saw bent magnolia trees alongside squares of daffodils, tulips, and stone gnomes. There were more people than he remembered.

  “Mee-ruh Sisters’ Inn?”

  “Moira Sisters’ Inn,” Casper corrected.

  “Isn’t that where you proposed to Grandma?”

  Casper smiled and nodded. Olivia — who usually had something to say — said nothing. Instead, she tied up her russet hair and helped Casper up the stairs. His neck was stiffer than it used to be and he could not look up to see whether there was a third floor. An aging dog with copper fur slept on the porch. He looked at Casper lovingly, his tail wagging as he followed him inside. An old woman with hair like steel greeted them.

  “Welcome, I’m Attri,” she said kindly. “How long will you be staying with us?”

  Her hands were just as gnarled as Casper’s, so he liked her immediately.

  “One night,” he said.

  Attri smiled brightly. Her teeth were crooked. Some of them were gleaming white and others were stained like amber. The house smelled like pepper corn and linen and large tapestries still hung along the walls in a spectrum of color. There was a tapestry where a girl that looked like Olivia held a golden arrow. There was a mural where a woman that looked like his Alex sat in a throne of clouds. And there was an embroidered heart where a man that looked like Casper stooped beside three old women. Casper closed his eyes and waited for Attri to say the magic words.

  “We have a room available at the top of the stairs, on the left.”

  “My Grandfather has trouble walking—” began Olivia, but Casper squeezed her hand.

  “It’s the perfect room,” he said.

  Bear helped him up the stairs, nudging him behind his knees, barking when he almost slipped.

  “Smart pet,” muttered Olivia.

  “He’s not a pet. He is a Bear.”

  “Alright, Grandpa. He’s a bear.”

  Olivia called everything in the room “awesome” or “vintage” and took endless pictures. Attri hobbled up the stairs, bringing a plate of chicken potpie and salted caramel cheesecake. They thanked her graciously and devoured the food like wolves. Eventually, Olivia got up to leave and kissed him goodbye.

  “See you later, Grandpa,” she said, throwing her ruby-streaked hair over her shoulder.

  Casper nodded and yawned. He touched the gleaming wooden bedposts, scrutinizing the picture frames and then opened the door. Bear greeted him happily. There were more grey hairs on Bear’s muzzle then Casper remembered, but he seemed as spry as a puppy. They took the stairs one at a time. There was no light in the left-most room at the top of the stairs. The threads still shimmered, but they seemed muted. Or perhaps it was Casper’s eyesight. Attri sat in a rocker by the chair, a basket of spun thread at her feet and a pair of ivory scissors in her lap. There was another rocker for Casper and a downy pillow for Bear. Bear circled his bed before plopping onto the pillow.

  “Well?” asked Attri. “Do you know what to do now?”

  Casper nodded before twisting and kissing his wedding band.

  “How was your stay, Casper?”

  Casper smiled and took the pair of scissors. “Memorable.”

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Roshani Chokshi's short stories and poetry have appeared or are forthcoming in Loose Change magazine, Khabar, and The Feminist Wire. Her unpublished manuscript was a 2014 Daphne du Maurier finalist and her short story, "Memory Metric" was a finalist in the 2014 Katha Fictions Contest.

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  A Lovely Light

  by Lindsey Duncan; published February 24, 2015

  Of the thirteen thousand lampposts marking the paths between worlds, only one was dark, and this did not bother its Keeper.

  Lirann reported the problem to his superiors, but the vital function of the lantern — the subliminal pulse that drew travelers so the Keeper could direct them — was unaffected, and he did not miss the light. He was
n’t blind — he simply kept his eyes closed. In the shadows there were sweet winds from meadow worlds, tastes of silverfruit and rye, voices and prayers that shaped the contours of between. Color and surface details seemed bland and distracting by comparison.

  In the dark, Lirann leaned against the post, rust crinkling under one hand. Footsteps approached in waltz rhythm, as if their owner moved to music. Too light to be mortal: Even the stealthiest had more weight. She — he could tell it was a woman by the way fabric rustled, silk playing against curves — couldn’t be a ghost, either, for there were aromas of summer earth and wood smoke against clean skin.

  “Traveler,” he said, “a hundred greetings.”

  “Is this the waypost?” Her voice, though a soothing mother’s touch, rippled like flame.

  Lirann forgot to speak. Something in her voice echoed as if he were the first person to hear her. The honor left him disoriented.

  “It is,” he said finally. “Between worlds of sorcery and science, where gods create men, men create gods, where a dream is beginning and end.” For the first time in Lirann’s memory the familiar answer felt foolish.

  She didn’t laugh. “Then I’ve come the right way.”

  “I’m sorry about the lack of light,” he felt he should say. “It will be fixed.”

  “It’s warm like fire,” she said. “That’s the important part.”

  It was his role as Keeper to direct her on the path, but he wanted her to linger. “Who are you?”

  “They call me Rissia,” she said. He thought that somehow, that was not an answer. He heard the whisper of thick curls as she turned. Black was the most common color for hair so thick. He found himself tempted to open his eyes, to look, and was unnerved by the urge. “And you?”

  “Lirann.”

  “How did you come to work here?” Rissia moved closer; her warmth filled the shadows. An odd tinge in her scent, almost decay, hidden under cedarwood and wool.

  “By accident.” There seemed little harm in telling her, though it was the primary event in his life. “The ways between worlds open spontaneously. Most wanderers find their way back home through luck, through willpower, or because someone thinks to chase after them.”

  Lirann swallowed; he could hear sorrow in his voice and knew she did as well. Her breath quickened, a soft outrush of sympathy. Faces could lie, and did — he had reasons for closing his eyes — but bodies told the truth.

  “The ones who don’t return are recruited as Keepers.” He made himself chuckle. “I suppose we have empathy for the lost.”

  “It’s a noble calling.”

  He shook his head. “Where do you want to go?”

  Rissia made a pensive sound. “I don’t know.” She sounded old, weighed down. He had met ghosts with more youth in their words. “I opened the portal with no clear plan.”

  He reached for her hand and found it. Her fingers were callused but her palm soft as a child’s blanket. They were thick hands, strong, certain — working hands.

  He lifted their hands and pointed left. “Worlds of glass, with cities that sound like struck chimes and forests of windows.”

  He pointed forward and realized she had leaned in when a stray curl tickled his nose. Her presence was elusive despite the cinnamon scent of her hair, and his eyelids fluttered reflexively, wanting to make sure she was there.

  “Worlds of metal and machine, where the ground has automated sentience and takes you where you wish to go.”

  Rissia cringed, her fingers tightening. “Oh.”

  He moved onward, hastily. “Worlds of fire and ice, where words have elemental force, and human flesh becomes starlight.”

  It dawned on him, with that maternal hand wrapped around his. He pointed behind them, somehow needing to say the words to reach the conclusion. “Worlds of myth,” he said, “where every orphan is a hero, every threat is a monster, and gods walk the earth.”

  Her breathing remained steady; there was no recognition. He had to know for sure.

  Lirann opened his eyes.

  The distant terrain was slightly brighter than the inside of his eyelids. In the foreground, luminous contours drawn by oil-ripples of color dominated his view. Rissia herself was only a suggestion within the brilliance, defined by its absence.

  He knew what he saw: a goddess from a world where belief created and sustained deities. When belief faded, so did they — but somehow, she had remained oblivious.

  Her chin tilted, her eyes — amber — came to his. He saw two things in them: her world’s history, and her.

  Rissia, goddess of hearth and family in a land that had removed borders and given equal share to all. There was no pride of place or possession, no bloodlines or inheritance. She waited for someone to confront her with reality and send her to nothingness.

  Her gaze widened, trusting, seeking. “Where should I go?”

  Easy to tell her. Easy to release her. What more was there for her?

  She blazed like flame, hand protective in his. Echoes of her washed around him, overwhelming sight.

  He closed his eyes. He would not tell her.

  “There are many worlds that could be yours,” he said, then hesitated. “Or—”

  “Or?” He heard rasping coals in her voice.

  “Or you could stay here. Keep me company, meet those who come through.” While he was near, he could keep her from learning the truth accidentally. He strained for her response, but he didn’t need sight.

  Laughter in her voice, a rippling cascade of scent and movement following. “I would like that.”

  “So would I.” Lirann grinned and leaned against the lamppost. He felt the warmth of the light, a glow nothing could extinguish.

  ~~~~~

  ~~~~~

  Lindsey Duncan is a life-long writer and professional Celtic harp performer, with short fiction and poetry in numerous speculative fiction publications.  Her contemporary fantasy novel, Flow, is available from Double Dragon Publishing.  She feels that music and language are inextricably linked.  She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio, and is currently attending culinary school.  She can be found on the web at LindseyDuncan.com and on Twitter: @LindseyCDuncan.

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  A Moment with Sofia Samatar

  Interview by Z.M. Quynh; published February 12, 2015

  When I first met Sofia Samatar, I felt transported to another world simply by being in her presence. She marked an undefined era of graceless eloquence, where life with all its pains and celebrations could be etched with complex yet humble brushstrokes. At that time, I had no idea about “A Stranger in Olondria” or any of Sofia’s work. She was simply someone who welcomed me with my newbie eyes to my first SFWA Nebula Awards Weekend.

  That same weekend, I had cozied myself in the Con Suite to read the short stories that had been nominated for the 2014 Nebula Awards. Her short story, ‘‘Selkie Stories Are for Losers,” was up for a Nebula. I read the crazy imaginative story that touched upon love and loss with an unerring lightness that made the story both captivating and thought-provoking.  At that time I had not yet linked the immense talent and brilliance of the story to the humble person that had greeted me to the weekends’ festivities only hours earlier.

  It was not until I heard her read later that weekend at Writers With Drinks that I began to feel the power of her story telling. I was mesmerized by her words. Her writing is so richly detailed and sensual. I can feel the prose possessing me. I asked Sofia with some veiled envy, “Does your pen naturally flow like this or do you take a great deal of care and time to craft each sentence you write?” 

  Thank you! I tend to write very fast--sometimes too fast--and then cut half of what I've written. I've taught myself to stop thinking of this as wasteful, since it's really not: the process of writing each word is necessary, even if, in the end, many of those words are superfluous. I write for stretches without stopping, because I'm possessed by the language myself, immersed in it. If that comes through to readers, I'm very
happy.

  The story that unfolded in Sofia’s short reading in the five minutes or so that she was on stage suited my first impression of her — worldly — or rather, one who has been to and experienced different lands, different people, different lives in our world. People such as this have a combination of a twinkle and yet a tear in their eyes. There is memory there, a wish for things to be ... not so hard, not so complex for those that struggle among us — or is that just me projecting? Curious and sharing somewhat of a nomadic tendency, I asked her what inspired her to create Olondria.

  Olondria is a combination of places I visited or lived in around the time I wrote the novel: Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Egypt. Jevick's home, the Tea Islands, draws heavily on the light and landscape of South Sudan, where I wrote the first draft of the book. And then there's another equally important influence: the books I was reading, and the places in them. Tayeb Salih's Wad Hamid, Marguerite Duras' Sadec, Peake's Gormenghast, Le Guin's Earthsea, Proust's Combray.

  Her story also brought beauty and magic to that with which we use to record our lives — our existence — words and books. These symbols and items are the etchings and scribbles that narrate our lives and histories – often reflecting the slant of the author’s pen.

  Not surprisingly, “A Stranger in Olondria” made its way onto my bookshelf where it collected my stained fingerprints in restless nights when I only had time to read because the word drew me out of sleep. Though the story started off slow to me as I struggled to find a connection with the main character, Jevick, a pepper merchant’s son — two things which are quite far from my own identity, I fell in love with the story the moment Jevick discovered the written word. I wondered if Sofia too felt challenged to create a voice different from her own (I’m just assuming that its different of course).

  Looking back, I see two main reasons why I chose a male protagonist. One of them is simply the dominance of male characters and their stories. As a young writer inspired by J.R.R. Tolkien, Mervyn Peake, and the Ursula Le Guin of the Earthsea books, the tale of a young man taking off on an adventure seemed "natural." This is super sad, and when I return to Stranger now, I see the ghost's voice, the voice of this dead, silenced girl, and her demands, and her rage, as expressive of a tension I was working through without knowing it, and the pressure of a developing female voice.