Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  Yan-yan's smile glittered and curved as Fennel rebuttoned her shirt. "Someone has an exhibitionist streak," she said. "I like that." It was praise she didn't give often.

  "You didn't undress," Fennel noted.

  Yan-yan shrugged. "I like giving pleasure more than I like receiving it."

  That was a lie. The Yan-yan of three years ago, the Yan-yan who had just met her, the Yan-yan who was completely enthralled by her, had taken pleasure enthusiastically and often.

  Fennel reached for the hem of Yan-yan's blouse, and was rebuffed. "What are you hiding under your blouse?" she asked. Her mind was already supplying her with answers: It was mottled peachmark hickeys, it was the marks of someone else's teeth, it was ten raking scratch lines from the buffed and manicured nails of some office girl with a made-up face who wore skirts and pretty heels and better understood the needs and wants of an ambitious creative director in her forties, in her primetime, a somebody who was going somewhere.

  Yan-yan laughed the way rocks do when they fall, crushing everything in their path. "Nothing. What do you mean?"

  Fennel hesitated for two excruciating seconds before unknotting the question that had tangled in her mouth. "Who is she? This girl you're seeing?"

  Now Yan-yan's expression turned hard. She stood up. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "You come home late every night. Ten, eleven o clock. Hoping that I'd be asleep already?" Fennel knew she was heading for the edge of the bridge, she was going over the railing and she couldn't stop herself, but the sea was rushing up at her and it was already too late. "When I ask you about your life you never answer or you give me some silly excuse. I'm not stupid. Who else are you seeing?"

  Yan-yan's face coloured. "I've been very busy at work. You think my job is easy? I don't see you complaining when I bring home the money. I'm not like you—"

  "A glorified cleaner? That's what you called my job, right?"

  "That's right." Yan-yan's expression had turned igneous, her face harsh-edged as geologic structure. "The way you act, it's like you've forgotten who pays for the house you live in. Who buys you clothes, pays for your vacations." She began up the metal stairs, each footstep ringing out. "If you're so unhappy with me, you can stay here with your stupid krakenmaid. See how you like it."

  "Are you going back to the other girl now? Are you?" When Yan-yan didn't reply Fennel sprang up after her. "What's she like? Does she look up to you like a big sister? Does she make you feel ten years younger?"

  "Fuck you," Yan-yan said, and stormed out.

  Fennel sat down on the steps, cold from the bones out. Sudden explosions of temper were a fact of life with Yan-yan, but something felt different this time. It felt like something had broken in their flood of words and would never be put back together. It felt like Fennel was standing in an vast and open field of debris, and she didn't know which of the pieces she should pick up first.

  So she just sat and waited. Waited to see if she was wrong. Maybe Yan-yan would change her mind. Maybe she would come back and tell Fennel it was a mistake, she was taking her home, all was forgiven. All was back to normal.

  Hours passed. Yan-yan did not return.

  Fennel was startled from the torpor she had sunk into by a tapping noise. When she turned, Ursula the krakenmaid was hanging in the water mere feet from her, pressed up to the surface of the glass. There was something strange about her expression. A smile—that was what it was, her lips spread out to form a curve, dimpling the flesh of her cheeks. Ursula beckoned to her. She had been watching them. She had been learning.

  Fennel climbed to the top of the staircase, her mind turning slow as tower clock gears. Cephalopods were very intelligent, of course, and they quick to mimic behaviors that they saw. Even as invertebrates they were hard to manage, hard to keep in check. How much more so for Ursula with her human shape and dolphin intelligence.

  Fennel stood on the platform, at the edge of the water. Ursula came swimming up to her, and pulled herself out of the water with her arms. The gills under her jaw flapped wetly in the air. Pigmentation in blue and orange circles ran down her shoulders and dispersed over her back, but if Fennel squinted hard enough she could pretend that Ursula's wide-eyed, flattish face was completely human.

  The krakenmaid ran one hand along Fennel's calves, before sinking back into the water. Her hair formed a small silver cloud around her face as she looked up, still smiling.

  Fennel began to strip, down to her shirt, down to her underwear, down to nothing at all. When she was naked she slipped into the water.

  Ursula rose up to meet her. Fennel felt the tentacles wrapping around her, a dozen muscular tubes enveloping her lower body. Ursula rose out of the water until they were face-to-face.

  Look at me, look at me, tell me I'm pretty.

  Ursula kissed her, mouth closing over mouth. Her lips were rubbery and the teeth hidden beneath them sharp, reinforced for cracking the shells of mollusks. But her tongue was long and strong and Fennel thought she would choke from the force of it.

  The krakenmaid grabbed her by the upper arms and pulled her downwards, into the water.

  From the inside of the tank the laboratory looked warped, surreal. Ursula kept her mouth over Fennel's as she swam downwards. Fennel's arms and legs trembled in Ursula's grip. Her flesh clenched the tentacles invaded her, easy as anything. The water filled with low, harmonious sounds: Ursula was singing, singing into her mouth, an she could feel oxygen bubbling between them.

  Weightless in the water, surrounded by glass on every side, Fennel felt like she was detaching from her body. If it writhed and bucked it did so of its own accord. She was the alien in here, cut off from all the things she needed to live, and so alone. Alone, alone, alone. There was a whole world out there, filled with Disneylands and cheating girlfriends and angry sign-carrying students, but in here there was only water and krakenmaid song and the sensation of something moving against her, again and again.

  Ursula sang and sang and sang.

  Fennel was shrinking into herself. Perhaps tomorrow morning Prof Lam, he of the Disney plushes, would come in to see Fennel emerge naked and sated from the water, still carrying tentacle-imprints around her thighs, and he would fire her on the spot, scandalized. Or Ursula would drag her to the bottom of the tank and hold her there until her body stopped thrashing, and it would be she that was discovered floating limp-armed and heavy, waiting to be retrieved for the morgue table. Perhaps Yan-yan would finally turn up and apologise for what she had done, and she'd ask Fennel to take her back even though she could never satisfy Fennel like a krakenmaid could, not a million years. Or perhaps she would pack her bags and fly away with her new lover to Shanghai or Tokyo or somewhere else glorified janitor Fennel could never follow. She was probably packing already, in the space that used to be their shared bedroom. Underwear and shampoo and warm socks. Boarding passes in hand.

  Fennel closed her eyes. In the darkness that unfolded, where the milkweb sparks of oxygen deprivation danced, she listened to the words of the krakenmaid's song, filled with strength and grief and loss, before their meaning slipped away from her completely.

  END

  Isabel Yap

  http://isalikeswords.wordpress.com

  Milagroso(Short story)

  by Isabel Yap

  Originally published by Tor.com

  It’s late afternoon on the eve of the Pahiyas Festival when Marty finally drives into Lucban. The streets are filled with people congregating outside their houses, stringing up fruits and vegetables shaped into chandeliers. Entire roofs are covered in kiping, leaf-shaped rice wafers, their colors flared to dazzling by the slowly setting sun. Someone has tacked poster paper all over the preschool wall, and children with paint smeared on their cheeks are making trees full of hand-shaped leaves. Vendors have already set up shop, prepping for the onslaught of tourists.

  Most side streets are blocked, so Marty has to drive through the town center, which is the usual explosion of propaganda—pos
ters of the mayor and councilors alternate with banners for washing detergents, Coca-Cola, Granny Goose Chips, and the latest summer-special, MangoMazings—exactly like the real thing! Marty ignores these as he navigates the still-familiar streets. They didn’t leave Manila for this.

  They left Manila to see a miracle.

  Inez is stirring awake, though she keeps her eyes shut. She groans, shifts, and slaps her thigh, impatiently. In the rearview mirror, Marty can see Mariah’s head snapping back and forth to match the car’s rhythm, her mouth hanging open. JR is also asleep; the seat belt is tight across his hunched chest, making him look smaller than he is. Sunlight beams through the car, shading half his face yellow.

  “Is this Lucban, hon?” Inez has finally stopped forcing sleep. She yawns and stretches her arms.

  “Yep.” Marty tries to sound more awake and cheerful than he feels.

  Inez looks out the window. “How colorful,” she says, as they drive past a house with a giant Ronald McDonald stationed by the doorway, waving his hands. Her tone makes everything seem gray.

  ***

  Marty stands by the door, wiping his palms on his shorts. Looking up, he sees five strings of kiping dangling from the second floor balcony. Even their ratty papier-mâché carabao is out, gazing forlornly at the street with its one remaining eye.

  Inez is looking for a spot with better reception; he can hear her muttering in the distance. The kids are unloading their luggage.

  “Tao po,” Marty calls. When no one replies, he enters, heading for the living room. “Manong? Mang Kikoy? You there?”

  He hears a door creak open, then the slap of slippers as Mang Kikoy shuffles into view. His skin is wrinkled and brown as tree bark. The mole on his cheek has grown even more colossal, but otherwise he is the same old Mang Kikoy who has maintained this house, Marty’s ancestral home, since forever.

  “Boy? Is that you?”

  “Yes, manong.”

  “Just in time, just in time. Where is your family?”

  “Outside,” Marty says, feeling a twinge of guilt. It’s been a little too long, perhaps, a little too late—but once he married Inez, and they had Mariah, he’d felt compelled to remain in Manila. He liked his job at San Miguel Corp., and he always believed that Lucban was near enough that they could visit anytime. As a result, they never did. To ignore these thoughts, he asks, “I noticed the décor. Are we part of the procession this year?”

  “No, but I thought it might be good to decorate the house anyway. You never know.”

  Mariah materializes at Marty’s elbow, dragging her duffel bag. “Dad, it’s so hot,” she says, fanning herself.

  Mang Kikoy beams at her and moves forward to take her bag.

  “Please don’t—it’s heavy.” Marty turns to his daughter. “Mariah, this is your Manong Kikoy. Show him you can carry your own bag, please.”

  “Hello po,” she says, straining for politeness as she lugs her bag towards the stairs.

  “Hello, hija.” Mang Kikoy grins wider as she slouches past. His teeth are a gray, sickly color. “Well, Boy, I must go back outside; the kiping is cooking. Let’s talk again later.”

  “Sure,” he says. Mang Kikoy has already turned to go when JR rushes past, arms held stiffly away from his body, making fighter-jet noises.

  “Wee-oop! Wee-oop!” He yells. “I’m attacking you! Propeller BLAST!”

  He makes swiping motions at Mang Kikoy, who laughs. “So this is your little kulilit. Has he ever tasted a miracle before?”

  Marty’s throat dries. He swallows. He doesn’t ask, Is it true, manong? Is it real? He doesn’t say, It’s not right, who knows what eating those things can do. Instead he puts a hand on JR’s head, to stop him from airplane-ing, and says, “No, never.”

  ***

  Dinner is at Aling Merrigold’s. Inez fusses over their clothes and hair, and asks Marty twice whether they shouldn’t have brought some pasalubong from Manila. The children are sleepy, already bored. Marty promises that tomorrow will be more fun.

  On the way to dinner they walk past increasingly extravagant houses. One has a robo-rooster attached to its roof, where it cacaws ear-splittingly every five minutes. Another has The Last Supper rendered on its walls, made with colored straw and palm leaves. Still another bears the mayor’s face, fashioned out of kiping, all across the roof. Two giant animatronic carabaos are lowing by the main door, while a life-sized San Isidro stands on a rotating platform. He holds a spade in one hand and a sheaf of corn in the other.

  “Farmer Jesus!” JR exclaims.

  “That’s not Jesus, you idiot.” Mariah snaps a picture with her phone. “Who’s this, Dad? I want to tag it properly.”

  “San Isidro Labrador. Patron saint of farmers and peasants.”

  “That’s Mang Delfin’s house,” Mang Kikoy adds. “This year, the procession goes through this road, and he’s determined to win. He’s got a pretty good chance, don’t you think?”

  Marty nods, although the house speaks for itself. The Pahiyas Festival has always been a chance to show off one’s home, but now the stakes are even higher. These homeowners want to be chosen for the miracle. They want to boast of a natural harvest, and have jealous neighbors beg them for a taste.

  Aling Merrigold’s house at the far end of the main street is simpler, though she has deployed her trademark rose pattern that no one has been able to copy. Vivid fuchsias and yellows adorn the typically drab white walls. She welcomes each of them in by smelling their cheeks.

  “Martino!” She coos. “I haven’t seen you since you were a young man! But how old you look now!” In a softer tone that everyone still hears, she adds, “You’ve grown quite the belly!”

  “Thank you for having us,” Marty says. “You look healthy as always.”

  She laughs with delight then swats him on the shoulder, the flab of her arms jiggling.

  “This is Inez, my wife,” Marty says.

  “Well, but you look so very young for Martino!”

  “Oh, not at all,” Inez demurs.

  “And what do you do, Inez?”

  “I’m a merchandiser for Rustan’s.” She tips her chin up, just a fraction.

  “Wonderful,” Aling Merrigold says.

  “And these are my children.” Mariah and JR give her halfhearted hellos, and she smacks her lips at them.

  “And Mang Kikoy, of course, how good to see you,” Aling Merrigold says. Mang Kikoy smiles, then shuffles off to eat with the rest of her household staff. She leads Marty and his family to the dining room, babbling the whole time: “I can’t believe it’s been four years since your father died. I spent lots of time with him after your mama died, you know. And he did talk about you such a lot—how he was so proud of you, and how he missed you so much! But then I can’t blame you, my dear; it’s so hard to get time off with the economy like this, no? And then you have these two children. So healthy!” She beams at the kids. “So healthy! You feed them well! Do you get plenty of free food from San Miguel? You still work there, di’ba?”

  “Yes. He was recently promoted to Procurement Manager,” Inez says. “Extra vacation time is one of the perks, so we were finally able to take this trip.”

  “Is that so?” Aling Merrigold draws a dramatic breath. “Well, I’m not really surprised. When San Miguel created that breakthrough formula for the Perfect Pork—wow. I said to myself, This is it, this is the future! And you know, I was right. I mean, the lechon we’re having tomorrow…and you will eat here tomorrow. I insist. After all the events, of course. My balcony has a great view of the fireworks!…What was I saying? Oh yes, tomorrow’s lechon is Perfect Pork, which truly is perfect.”

  “I’m very glad to hear that,” Marty says.

  They walk past a sliding door into the air-conditioned dining room. Aling Merrigold gestures for them to sit. “This dinner is mostly from San Miguel, as well—the roasted chicken is, for sure. This is your Spam, and I think the bangus relleno is yours, too. Pero the cake is from Gardenia. And the chicken cord
on bleu is by Universal Robina, because I’m sorry, their cheese is better than yours, you know? Anyway, let’s eat.”

  She says grace, and they dig in.

  Marty takes a bite of the roasted chicken. It’s delicious. He feels a swell of pride. He helped make these things. Not directly—that was the research team’s job—but he handled most of the exports and imports that provided the raw materials for their meats. After the lockout with China he had shifted grudgingly to more expensive vendors in Vietnam, only to realize that their bio-plasticine millet (BPM) adhered to flavorants more easily, and could be molded into more convincing shapes. Chicken and tuna, in particular, could be replicated using Vietnamese BPM for a cheaper unit cost, and San Miguel was quickly able to launch a new line of canned goods, labeled: More nutritious. Extra-delicious!

  People still say it doesn’t beat the real thing, but Marty thinks it comes pretty damn close. They’ve finally reached an era when neither Mariah nor JR will incur a health risk from their diet; when people don’t need to fret about foodborne illnesses; when it’s conceivable, if the government gets its shit together, for people below the poverty line to have three meals a day.

  “Has the Department of Health decided on a budget for its feeding program yet?” Aling Merrigold asks.

  “No,” Marty says. “I hear they’re working on it.”

  Aling Merrigold rolls her eyes. “They’re always working on it.” She takes a sip of Coke. “Still, I can’t pretend I’m thinking about anything except tomorrow. You haven’t seen it live, but the moment when San Isidro makes his choice and the produce becomes—you know, natural—it’s wow. Talagang wow.”