The Long List Anthology Volume 5

by David Steffen

  “How does it work?” Irene said much later. “Do you have free will? Can you, like, lie?”

  “Yes, I can lie. I couldn’t at first.”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth, then?”

  “I suppose you can’t. But I can. I know when I’m fighting against myself. So, is that a kind of free will? I don’t know. I can choose my contracts, at least.”

  Irene smiled. “What about having no contract? What about being free?”

  Celia tucked in her chin and considered the question. “It’s safer for me to be under contract,” she said firmly. “It gives me certain rights and securities that I wouldn’t have on my own.”

  And the twentieth year, the last year, last night, when a breathless, rosy-cheeked Irene came to the cottage to offer a contract of her own, barely an hour after they’d arrived.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” said Celia, showing Irene into the sitting room. Mrs. Lawson hadn’t long gone to bed with a mug of hot milk and sugar.

  Irene held Celia’s face in her hands. “You don’t have to do all that hostess bullshit with me, all right? Fuck compliance. Fuck making other people comfortable. I would be happier for you to not care about my comfort. There, stick that in your programming.”

  Celia smiled. “But I really do want to make you a cup of tea. Your hands are cold.” When it was ready, Irene gulped it down while it was still steaming. Her haste was worrying. “What’s the matter?”

  Irene set the empty teacup on the mantelpiece. “I’m doing it, Celia. I’m getting the first train out of here tomorrow. I want to know if you’ll come with me. We can go to your Bath, or Cambridge. I’ll give you a contract, whatever you need.”

  The bacon tumbles around inside Constable Kershaw’s mouth; the egg yolk splits and coats his teeth. She can’t stand to watch and boils the kettle for more tea, just for something to do. From the kitchen window she sees the sergeant pull up, a fleshy man who has to duck under the lintel when Kershaw opens the door to greet him.

  “I can’t,” she said last night, and the light dimmed in Irene’s eyes. “I can’t leave Mrs. Lawson like this, not while she’s so weak.”

  And Irene said, bitterly, “Right,” and almost turned to go. Then, “I don’t know how you can do this, Celia. How can you be satisfied with two good weeks a year for, what, five years now? You’re going to short-circuit pretty soon if you don’t fall apart first; will it have been enough? I’m sorry, but it’s not enough for me anymore. I need this full-time or not at all.”

  “Can I find you later? Where will you be?”

  “When your contract runs out? God knows. I’m done running on someone else’s clock. Aren’t you?”

  Celia brings the policemen their drinks and gives efficient answers to the sergeant’s questions. At 7:42 a.m., Kershaw’s notepad pings with a response from the solicitor. He opens the message and thumbs through it.

  “Here’s the contract.—Hey, Mrs. Lawson made changes to her will last week.”

  The sergeant frowns.

  Celia stays by the bay window. The fogged glass still bears the imprint of her palm where she placed it when she watched Irene leave, and the smear of her fingers where Mrs. Lawson took them and then held her close. Her head had burned worse than ever as she rested her cheek on the old woman’s shoulder, too many electrical impulses firing at once. She couldn’t cry, so she emitted helpless, wordless grunts instead.

  Whoever designed model 2.3 had given it a mind far too complex for the shell built to hold it.

  “I thought this might happen,” Mrs. Lawson said, stroking Celia’s hair. “I’d much rather you go, my dear, and be happy, than lose precious time with the one you love.”

  “Love?”

  “That is what you feel for her, isn’t it? I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

  It was true that her time with Irene was luminous in her memory, brighter than the passing days around them. They glowed. They anchored her inner calendar the same way her contract renewal did.

  “But I love you, too,” Celia whispered.

  “And we’ve had twenty wonderful years together. Forgive me, it was selfish to keep you all to myself.” She pulled away.

  “Where are you going?” Celia said.

  She gave Celia’s hand a final squeeze as she headed for the door. “I’m releasing you from your contract.” Celia had moved to stop her, so Mrs. Lawson made sure she couldn’t follow: “Commence full shutdown.”

  Kershaw skims the new will, the sergeant reading over his shoulder. When they reach Irene’s name as the sole beneficiary, Kershaw’s mouth falls open. He looks up at Celia, his pallid cheeks veined with blue.

  “How did she know my wife?”

  Celia almost bursts: She realises Mrs. Lawson has given them her blessing, her properties, her wealth, out of love; but she holds it in, the truth and her happiness. Somehow, she shrugs. And the lie, after so many others and so many years, casts something loose inside her: the binding code, finally unravelling like so much protein and silicone. She’s free.

  Ryan Kershaw stands dumb, until the sergeant snatches the notepad from him to check the will, and then the contract with its many, many amendments. He finds, as Celia knows he will, a paragraph in which she is forbidden from preventing self-inflicted injury or death to her late employer’s person while they reside in New Heacham. It’s the compromise they came to after Celia tried to argue against staying in the cottage. Mrs. Lawson’s body was her own to risk.

  It is 7:51 a.m. The first train leaves New Heacham in nine minutes.

  “Am I free to go, Sergeant?”

  With a contract absolving her of any and all blame, he has no grounds on which to hold her. She takes only the antique camera, slipping her head through the diagonal strap so it hangs against her hip. Outside, a cool breeze cuts through air heavy with dew, bringing the last of the little egret feathers tumbling with it. They rush past her face: Mrs. Lawson’s parting touch.

  The tiny feather is still in her pocket. She kisses it and flings it up to join the rest. Then she runs north to the train station, where Irene is waiting for her.

  * * *

  G. V. Anderson is a British writer from Dorset, UK. She won a World Fantasy Award for Best Short Fiction with her professional debut in 2017. Since then, her work has been shortlisted for a British Fantasy Award, and selected for anthologies such as Best of British Science Fiction and The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror. Her short stories have been published in Strange Horizons, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Lightspeed, and elsewhere. She is currently working on her first novel.

  You Can Make a Dinosaur, but You Can't Help Me

  By K.M. Szpara

  Your boyfriend is lying on the bed, flushed, with his shirt unbuttoned and his skirt pushed up over his thighs when he asks, “Do you want to pick, tonight?”

  The question knocks you off balance like a strong wind blowing so quickly by, you can’t breathe—and, for a moment, you can’t. Deep yearning lingers in your chest. Not the same kind you feel for him. Not blood-pumping lust. More like the memory of someone you lost or past regrets. Something you wish you had, but don’t.

  “What about Tyrannosaurus, the king.” Leo nods at a row of strap-ons that he’s named for dinosaurs. His idea, not yours, but you never explicitly objected.

  It took you almost a year to tell him you were that Owen. The Owen Corporation, Owen. Dinosaur, Owen. Usually, you can hide it because Owen is a common surname and your dad never mentions his son because, as far as he’s concerned, he doesn’t have one. Which is fine. If he doesn’t want to support you, you don’t need his toxicity. Everyone’s happy.

  Leo leans over and grabs a long purple-gray dick with a realistic head. “Or Brontosaurus—too long? Ooh!” He trades it for a textured green strap-on you bought together, on a website called Dildosaur that sells non-traditional dildos. “What about Stegosaurus? Ribbed for our pleasure.”

  He asks because he’s being supportive of your dysphoria in
ways you’ve discussed. Even though it’s going inside his body—and you like making him happy—it helps when you choose. When you pick the cock that feels best with your body, at the time. But right now, the options exhaust you. They’re thick or curved or ribbed or rainbow. And even though you know this isn’t true, you can’t help but think that sex is supposed to be about taking off, but for you it’s about putting on.

  “What if we used this one?” You pick up a strap-on that requires no straps. That matches your skin tone and, when you fit the other end inside your own body, hangs like it could’ve been there since birth. The longing creeps into your chest again. The dildo makes you feel better because it looks and feels right, but it also makes you feel worse because you wish so badly it was attached. And it’s not.

  Leo’s coy smile relaxes into a calm, supportive one. “Yeah, absolutely. It looks good on you.” He reaches out and wraps his hand around the end of it, tugging enough that you feel it move.

  But euphoria doesn’t only come from physical sensation. It comes from the sight of his hand on your new dick. Of the head disappearing between his lips, then the shaft between his thighs. When the physical part is over—when Leo’s lying in your arms, naked and spent—the feeling lingers as gender euphoria. The cock head peeks out between your thighs like it’s always been there.

  “Emerick?” Leo asks, his voice muffled by your chest.

  “Yeah?”

  He rolls onto his back, so you can look at each other. “If you don’t want to use the non-traditional strap-ons, anymore, we don’t have to. I mean, if this one makes you more comfortable—it doesn’t matter to me, is what I’m saying. I love you no matter what your dick looks like.”

  “I know. It’s…”

  “We don’t have to talk about it, now, if you don’t want to.”

  “No, it’s okay.” But there’s a long pause before you can form words, again. “It’s been worse, lately. Not just in bed, but every time I pee or shower or change at the gym. The realistic ones look so good, they’re like the real thing. Until they’re not. Which hurts worse than seeing a purple alien dick, or whatever, and knowing it’s not real. It shouldn’t, it—”

  “Hey.” Leo rubs his hand down your arm, shoulder to elbow. His pale pink fingernails trace the swell of your bicep—one of the parts of your body you love. That you worked hard for. “It doesn’t matter what ‘makes sense’ to anyone but you.”

  “I know.” Knowing isn’t the same as believing, though.

  Leo believes in himself. He has to, to leave the house wearing a skirt or heels, with his flat chest and facial hair. To hand his coat to the cis restaurant host, who isn’t sure whether to call him “sir” or “ma’am.” And you love him for that. You love him for so many more reasons—for naming himself after Leonardo DiCaprio (not da Vinci); for being just as excited about his manicure the hundredth time he holds his fingernails out for you to examine, as the first; for knowing which queer YA books he can safely recommend to kids whose parents might not approve, when he’s at work.

  He’s perfect and you’re a farce. He’s made peace with his body and you only tolerate yours. And you can’t believe you’re nervous to say this out loud, but you don’t want him to validate your body. You want him to remember what it’s like to need to change part of himself.

  “I’ve been researching new bottom surgery techniques.” You close your eyes while you talk. “I think I need it.”

  Leo’s lips brush the fine hairs between your eyebrows, then press moist against your skin. Why is he always so supportive? So there? So giving you what you need? Why does that hurt more?

  “Okay,” he says, breath warming your forehead.

  “Okay?” You look at him.

  “Yeah, we can look at—”

  “Not okay, Leo. We can’t afford it, for one, and I wouldn’t be able to work for at least a month. Have I mentioned we can’t afford it? It’s an impossible dream. I just—” You squeeze your eyes shut. “I want to go back and be born cis. I don’t like being trans.”

  Leo’s leans his forehead against yours. Your noses touch, mouths angled out of reach of one another. He waits until your body unclenches, to talk.

  “Can I suggest something? If you don’t like it, we can stop.”

  “Yes,” you say, even though you can already feel the nervous lump building in your throat.

  He doesn’t meet your eyes when he says, “When’s the last time you talked to your dad?” It’s a question, but you know the suggestion is visit your dad.

  You used to be able to name the date you came out to your parents. The Christmas when Dad didn’t come home from Owen Corp’s island headquarters, because “I can’t stop working, now. Not when we’re finally beginning to understand how the portal works!”

  You only remember the date Mom left, because she left a voicemail telling you she needed to move on—a clean break—for her emotional well-being. A recommendation from her therapist and divorce attorney.

  You used to know how many years you’d been on testosterone and how long since the top surgery you crowdfunded because the gym didn’t offer health insurance and calls to your mom ended with an electronic, “I’m sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  You’ve forgotten which year you received a card (forwarded from your previous address, by the post office) with no return address, enclosing a family portrait—not your family. The woman who used to be your mom. A man dressed in a neat flannel shirt and child with dimpled cheeks. A golden retriever. On the photo, a note written in permanent marker. “I’ve finally found peace. Wishing you the same.”

  You expect the birthday card that your dad addresses to your birth name, every year. He used to sign them, but the last half-dozen or so were clearly sent by an assistant. It’s little consolation he acknowledges your existence, when he’s always too busy to take calls that aren’t about his own work, or write back to the long letters you’ve sent, catching him up on your transition.

  You have little faith a visit will lead to his support—financial or emotional—but Leo’s right. Dad might help you. If you can be the bigger person. If you can muster up the energy to fake interest in the work that fractured your family. To pretend he’s a good father. And hope that he might see you as his son.

  • • • •

  Dad meets you at the helicopter, dressed like he’s going on safari, even though he missed every annual father-daughter camping trip, during middle and high school. The one “girl” social event you actually wanted to attend.

  Leo nudges you to get out. He offered to come support you, if you wanted it, and you do. But you think Dad only agreed because Leo’s a guy and Dad treats you like a girl, which would make you straight, in his mind. Not the butch queer daughter, he remembers. When you take Leo’s hand and duck out of the helicopter, you can’t help but think how amusing it’ll be when Dad realizes that your boyfriend’s the femme and you’re just some dumb jock.

  Before you have a chance to be standoffish, Dad puts his arm around you and says, “Emily!”

  You stiffen at the name you haven’t heard in ages. No one in your life even knows that name anymore, much less uses it. In fact, you’ve gone to great lengths to appear as unlike your old self, as possible, one set at a time.

  You couldn’t make your family work. Couldn’t make your dad respect your name or gender, but you could re-shape yourself. Press the barbell over your head for eight reps. The weight doesn’t judge you. If you can’t meet it on its level, it’ll be there next time.

  The chance to correct your dad slips away when Leo steps forward, offering his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Owen, I’m Leonardo. Emerick’s boyfriend.”

  You fantasize about holding the court orders for your name and gender changes in front of Dad’s face. Forcing him to face reality. If the government can sanction your identity, then so can he.

  “Nice to meet you, Leonardo.” Dad gets his name right—and why not? He doesn’t know Leo’s gender exp
erience and he wouldn’t care. It’s only you, he can’t comprehend.

  “You can call me Leo.” Leo wore a shirt dress, high-tops, and the kind of floppy straw hat rich cis women wear on the beach, in movies. The rising helicopter blows it off his head and picks up the long strands of his hair.

  You go after the hat, not wanting him to have to chase it in a knee-length dress. It’s a sight, your dad smiling and laughing with your obviously-queer boyfriend like everything’s cool, when he can’t look at you, in your jeans and T-shirt, your open button down, thick shoulders, and layer of dark facial hair, and remember Emerick.

  “Here you go, babe.” You hand Leo the hat and he fits it on his head.

  “Thanks, Emerick.” You know why he’s not calling you ‘Em’ in front of your dad and you appreciate it.

  “Well,” Dad says. “Let’s get you two settled in one of the guest houses for the night. In the morning, I’ll introduce you to Dr. Hartford, my right hand woman”—he bristles, feeling clever—“who will give you the full tour. Yes, she’s much smarter than me. Really something.” His eyes twinkle, corner of his mouth curls upward.

  You roll your shoulders in an attempt to rid yourself of anxiety’s slowly tightening grip, but it remains. Or, something like it. A hum that glides over your skin cool like water, buzzing like electricity. That is not your anxiety, it’s the island. You forgot this island has a feeling that leaks out of the portal. It’s stronger than last time—or than you remember, at least. Amplified by your own nerves, perhaps. They’re making it difficult to feel much else.

  • • • •

  “You’re walking fast, again.” Leo stretches his hand forward. “I’m sure they’ll still be serving breakfast when we get there.”

  You stop walking and take his hand, when he catches up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to leave you behind.”

  “I know.” He kisses you on the cheek and smiles.

  “Did you consider that heels—”

  “They’re called oxford pumps.”