IMAGINARIUM 2013
INCLUDING THE WORKS OF
DON BASSINGTHWAITE
JOCKO BENOIT
TONY BURGESS
PETER CHIYKOWSKI
DAVID LIVINGSTONE CL INK
ROBERT COLMAN
PETER DARBYSHIRE
INDRAPRAMIT DAS
A.M. DELL AMONICA
DAVE DUNCAN
AMAL EL-MOHTAR
M.A.C. FARRANT
GEMMA FILES
GEOFF GANDER
LISA L. HANNETT & ANGELA SLATTER
CL AIRE HUMPHREY
MATTHEW JOHNSON
MICHAEL KELL Y
BARRY KING
CATHERINE KNUTSSON
HELEN MARSHALL
SUSIE MOLONEY
MATT MOORE
SILVIA MORENO-GARCIA
DOMINIK PARISIEN
A.G. PASQUELLA
IAN ROGERS
J.W. SCHNARR
CHRISTOPHER WILLARD
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY TANYA HUFF
the best canadian speculative writing
IMAGINARIUM
2013
EDITED BY
SANDRA KASTURI & SAMANTHA BEIKO
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY TANYA HUFF
ChiZine Publications
copyright
Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing © 2013, edited by Sandra Kasturi & Samantha Beiko
Cover artwork © 2013 by GMB Chomichuk
Cover design © 2013 by Samantha Beiko
Interior design and layout © 2013 by Danny Evarts
All rights reserved.
Published by ChiZine Publications
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EPub Edition AUGUST 2013 ISBN: 978-1-77148-150-2
All rights reserved under all applicable International Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.
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No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
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Proofread by Michael Matheson
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada.
Published with the generous assistance of the Ontario Arts Council.
table of contents
Cover
Contributors
Title Page
Copyright
INTRODUCTION: In Which I Speculate
TANYA HUFF
BLINK
MICHAEL KELLY
NIGHTFALL IN THE SCENT GARDEN
CLAIRE HUMPHREY
THE GHOSTS OF BIRDS
HELEN MARSHALL
THE LAST LOVE OF THE INFINITY AGE
PETER DARBYSHIRE
TOO MUCH IS NEVER ENOUGH
DON BASSINGTHWAITE
BIGFOOT CURED MY ARTHRITIS
ROBERT COLMAN
WING
AMAL EL-MOHTAR
ARROW
BARRY KING
PENNY
DOMINIK PARISIEN
THOUGHT AND MEMORY
CATHERINE KNUTSSON
GAUDIFINGERS
TONY BURGESS
A SEA MONSTER TELLS HIS STORY
DAVID LIVINGSTONE CLINK
SON OF ABISH
DAVE DUNCAN
OPT-IN
J.W. SCHNARR
LAST AMPHIBIAN FLEES
M.A.C. FARRANT
WHITE TEETH
DAVID LIVINGSTONE CLINK
THE SWEET SPOT
A.M. DELLAMONICA
VERSE FOUND SCRATCHED INSIDE THE LID
OF A SARCOPHAGUS(DYNASTY UNKNOWN)
GEMMA FILES
COLLECT CALL
SILVIA MORENO-GARCIA
BELLA BEAUFORT GOES TO WAR
LISA L. HANNETT & ANGELA SLATTER
A SPELL FOR SCRYING MIRROR GREMLINS
PETER CHIYKOWSKI
THE BOOK OF JUDGEMENT
HELEN MARSHALL
THE AUDIT
SUSIE MOLONEY
SIXTEEN COLOURS
DAVID LIVINGSTONE CLINK
THE OLD BOYS CLUB
GEOFF GANDER
FIN DE SIÈCLE
GEMMA FILES
SINCE BREAKING THROUGH THE ICE
DOMINIK PARISIEN
THE PACK
MATT MOORE
INVOCABULARY
GEMMA FILES
I WAS A TEENAGE MINOTAUR
A.G. PASQUELLA
WEEP FOR DAY
INDRAPRAMIT DAS
WHAT I LEARNED AT GENIE SCHOOL
JOCKO BENOIT
ACES
IAN ROGERS
NO POISONED COMB
AMAL EL-MOHTAR
WHAT A PICTURE DOESN’T SAY
CHRISTOPHER WILLARD
THE LAST ISLANDER
MATTHEW JOHNSON
Honourable Mentions
Copyright Acknowledgements
About the Editors
Also Available from ChiZine Publications
introduction to imaginarium 2013:
in which i speculate
TANYA HUFF
If you’re a Canadian writer of speculative literature and if you attend SF&F conventions—the fan run kind, not the for-profit Creation monstrosities—then I guarantee that at some point in your career you’ll end up on a panel about the differences between Canadian and American genre fiction (where American refers to those from the United States rather than the inhabitants of either North or South America). I will further guarantee that this panel will take place at a Canadian convention. Because Americans don’t care.
But we do.
Why? Why do we continuously try to define what specifically it is about our genre voice that makes it different from the Americans?
I suggest that we are in genre as we are in life.
The search for Canadian identity is so pervasive that it’s become a major part of our Canadian identity. Ask any twelve of us what it means to be Canadian and you’ll get fifteen different answers; four of them in French. But while we may not be able to agree on what we are, the one thing we can agree on, from coast to coast, from north to south—or as far south as we go—is that we’re not Americans.
And we’re polite.
Politer than Americans, at least.
Although I have a friend who suggests we’re not polite, we’re passive aggressive and, in all honesty, I don’t think she’s wrong. We apologize when someone steps on our feet, for crying out loud. Although you’ll notice she’s merely making a suggestion; were she American, she’d probably be more definit
ive. But I digress.
So, what are the differences between Canadians and Americans?
Go as far north as you can go in the US—excluding Alaska—and that’s as far south as you can go in Canada. We live in a country where the environment can kill us for six months of the year. A little less in some places, a little more in others. Is it any wonder we’re polite? The last thing you want to do is piss off the person who might be the only person available to pull you out of the ditch in a blizzard. On the other hand, I bet they don’t want to do that in North Dakota either.
We have more real estate and one tenth the population.
They got the Irish and we got the Scots; which is why they have politicians with personality and our banks don’t fail.
Thanks to the presence of the North West Mounted Police, our west was never particularly wild.
Our answer to “Truth, justice, and the American Way!” is “Peace, order, and Good Government.” Note the lack of a Canadian exclamation mark.
We were not as overt in our attempts to destroy the culture of our First Nations, but we are just as culpable.
We have two official languages, we’re a mosaic not a melting pot, and our head of state is an unelected, soon to be great-grandmother who lives in another country entirely and most of us are okay with that. Enough of us believe that the government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation to allow the government to enforce the belief that they have no business in the bedrooms of the nation. Our government is parliamentary not representational and a sizable number of us have no idea what the hell is up with that whole electoral college thing they’ve got going on south of the border. Although, in fairness, that last point may be more of a similarity than a difference.
Socialized medicine may be tottering, but most of the time we can judge how sick we actually are by how fast we jump the queue when we need to see a specialist.
Some of us do say eh, although not as often as many Americans think we do.
It’s been said that when you flatter an American they accept it as their due, but when you flatter a Canadian, we think you’re trying to sell us something.
And how does any of this make our speculative lit different than that written in the USA?
A while ago, I read an article that said Canadian writers use more qualifiers than Americans. We don’t tend to make definitive statements. (See what I did there?)
According to Wikipedia, we’ve been at it since 1896 when Ida May Ferguson from New Brunswick published The Electrical Kiss, set in late 20th century Montreal, under the pseudonym of Dyjan Fergus and I suspect only Canadians would still be working on a definition one hundred and sixteen years later. Wikipedia is a little sparse otherwise, although as I’m mentioned a number of times, I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining. In 1992, David Ketterer wrote Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy, 228 pages of what some called an annotated bibliography while others commended the territory travelled. Ketterer’s book was published by Indiana University Press which either speaks volumes to the Canadian inability to see value in our own work or could merely indicate that Indiana had extra grant money in 1991.
I think that the paranoia in our national psyche makes it into our writing. I think that we come from a place where “the other” is not only acknowledged, but supported, by law, and that gives us an unique ability to give our antagonist a voice, and to develop the stories we tell in a non-linear manner. I think that our willingness to ensure a certain basic level of security allows us to take risks in our writing that someone who might lose everything to a hospital bill can’t. I think the amount of empty space pressing down on the thin line of population hugging our southern border allows us a greater insight into those trembling souls huddled around a hundred metaphorical campfires, their backs to the dark. I think our national awareness of things larger than us, dangerous and completely beyond our control gives us an advantage when it comes time to populate that darkness.
But most importantly, I think our constant questioning ensures that we give all facets of our stories their due.
And I think that this volume of the best in Canadian speculative fiction proves that we’re damned good at what we do.
TANYA HUFF
ONTARIO, 2013
blink
MICHAEL KELLY
This story starts here, at this first line. First lines are important. The first draft began with this line:
“I thought you’d be taller,” she says.
I blink. “Me too.”
She laughs. A good start, I think. Every story needs a good beginning.
“And,” I add, “I thought you’d look like your LoveMatch.com profile picture.”
“Me too,” she echoes, smiling. Then, smile fading, “That’s some other me.”
I pick up my beer glass, the cardboard coaster stuck to the bottom. “We all have some other version of ourselves,” I say. “Other identities. Avatars. It’s the new reality.”
“Do you write science fiction?” she asks. “Your profile said you were a writer.”
I grin, gulp beer. “Yes. That’s one version of me.”
“Oh,” she says, disappointed.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
She sips her drink, some fruity concoction. “Nothing really,” she says. “I don’t read that stuff—science fiction. Never appealed to me.” Her lips circle the straw, suck. “I thought we might talk about books. Writers.”
I try a joke. “It could be worse. I could write horror.”
She stares at me. Still good, I think. Characterization. Every story needs good characters.
We are quiet a while, sipping our drinks, glancing around the bar. Actually, a bar is too cliché. I’ll try to keep the clichés to a minimum. It isn’t my strong suit.
Instead, we’re at the . . . zoo. It’s a brisk day. High grey sky knotted with thick dark clouds. A chill breeze. Damp and salty. Autumn, then. Near the sea.
We’re at the ape house, watching one of the male primates masturbate.
I clear my throat. “We can, you know,” I say. “If you like.”
She blinks, puzzled.
“Talk about books,” I say. “I’m not completely inept. I have read outside my genre.” I cough. “On occasion.”
She laughs, and I relax. It’s a good sign. I thought we were heading for a rough patch, but the story is progressing.
After the ape house is the lion’s den. The lions lay still, sleeping or dead. The clouds are thinning; the day brightening.
“What are you working on?” she asks.
“Hmmm,” I say, distracted, staring at the dead lions.
“Your writing. What are you working on?”
I turn away from the dead animals. “Why don’t we talk about you?”
“I . . . I,” she starts, but just shrugs.
Of course, I haven’t really constructed her yet. She’s mostly me. A facsimile. Another avatar.
“Mabel,” I say, and it’s an old-fashioned name but she seems pleased with it. “I’m sorry, Mabel, but your profile was a bit sparse. You’re a . . . paramedic?”
No reaction. She’s as dead as the lions. “An actress?” I say, hopefully.
A weak smile. She says, “A writer.”
I stare at her. Then I laugh. She grimaces. A lion yawns. Not dead, then.
“Sorry,” I mutter. Too easy, I think. Too cliché, recreating myself. Lazy writing. Yes, write what you know. Still, it’s lazy.
She’s quiet, wide-eyed, looking around the zoo. She blinks, and something shifts, changes. It’s like a television screen winking off.
Salt air and cool wind. Dark wet sand underfoot. We’re at the . . . beach? Sky like an Etch-A-Sketch. Still autumn, then. All this scene-jumping isn’t good. Revisions are needed.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Mabel says.
Further up the beach, in the shallow tide, there’s a desk wit
h a laptop open on it. There’s a dark figure sitting at the desk, hunched over, typing. My eyes are wet. From the sea-wind.
“I . . . I, hmmm,” is all I can muster.
She sighs, impatient, a tad angry. “Your writing.” She’s staring at the figure in the foamy surf, typing, as if addressing them, not me. “What are you working on?”
“Short stories,” I answer. “My favourite form. Science fiction.” I dry my eyes on a rough coat sleeve. “There’s no money in it, though,” I add quickly, defensively.
“Oh,” she says, disappointment or regret tingeing her voice.
“What?” I ask. “What is it?”
She sips her drink, some fruity concoction. “Nothing,” she says. “I just don’t read that stuff.”
It’s as if we’ve already had this conversation. Where’d she get the drink? Was that a previous construct?
“I was thirsty,” she says.
“Huh?”
She smiles, takes another sip. “The drink. I was thirsty.”
It’s quiet. Too quiet. The tide is soundless; the wind suddenly mute. My head hurts. We’ve reached the figure at the desk, bent to the keyboard, typing. There’s nothing on the screen. It’s white. Blank save for a large vertical black slash, a cursor, blinking like a judging eye. Then there’s a choking, gasping sound and the dark figure slumps, falls into the dark tide and is carried out to sea. My eyes tear up. There’s a pain in my chest. The world wavers, ripples, shifts again.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
No answer. Mabel doesn’t know. How could she?
But why don’t I know?
Because you haven’t thought it through.
Whose voice? A POV change! I blink. No, damn it, I’m not changing the point-of-view.
“No need,” she says. “I will.”
“You? You did that?”
Mabel smiles. “I didn’t like him. Or you, for that matter. Not that there was any difference between the two.”
He’s trembling with rage. Another tilt, and there’s a thrum in the air, like particles charging. His vision blackens, fades. He’s shrinking, becoming less, or something else. “But you’re only a character,” he says. He blinks, curses her.
Blinking cursor.
She smiles. “Aren’t we all?”
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