The Humanity of Monsters © ChiZine Publications
Interior design by Natasha Bozorgi
Cover layout design by Samantha Beiko
Cover design by Erik Mohr
All Rights Reserved.
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.
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Matheson, Michael, 1984-, editor
The humanity of monsters / edited by Michael Matheson.
Short stories.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77148-359-9 (paperback).--ISBN 978-1-77148-360-5 (pdf)
ISBN 978-1-77148-360-5 (ebook)
I. Title.
PN6120.95.S9H86 2015 808.8’037 C2015-904985-7 C2015-904986-5
CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS
Toronto, Canada
www.chizinepub.com
[email protected]
Edited by Michael Matheson
Proofread by Dominik Parisien
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.
Contents
Introduction
Tasting Gomoa
Chinelo Onwualu
Dead Sea Fruit
Kaaron Warren
The Bread We Eat in Dreams
Catherynne M. Valente
The Emperor’s Old Bones
Gemma Files
The Things
Peter Watts
Muo-Ka’s Child
Indrapramit Das
Six
Leah Bobet
The Nazir
Sofia Samatar
A Handful of Earth
Silvia Moreno-Garcia
In Winter
Sonya Taaffe
Ghostweight
Yoon Ha Lee
How to Talk to Girls at Parties
Neil Gaiman
Night They Missed the Horror Show
Joe R. Lansdale
If You Were a Dinosaur, My Love
Rachel Swirsky
Give Her Honey When You Hear Her Scream
Maria Dahvana Headley
The Horse Latitudes
Sunny Moraine
Boyfriend And Shark
Berit Ellingsen
Never The Same
Polenth Blake
Mantis Wives
Kij Johnson
Proboscis
Laird Barron
Out They Come
Alex Dally Macfarlane
And Love Shall Have No Dominion
Livia Llewellyn
You Go Where It Takes You
Nathan Ballingrud
Dream of the Fisherman’s Wife
A.C. Wise
Theories of Pain
Rose Lemberg
Terrible Lizards
Meghan McCarron
Acknowledgements
About the Authors
Copyright / Acknowledgements
introduction
I am extremely tempted to leave this book without an introduction and simply let the stories speak for themselves.
Now, I love reading anthology introductions. I was gleaning everything I could about publishing, process, and writing and editing as a whole from them years before I ever actually got into the industry. But I strongly considered skipping writing this one anyway.
Primarily because these stories speak for themselves quite ably, and in chorus, without any help from an introduction on my part. The Humanity of Monsters being a larger conversation than it would appear from its title alone, and the stories of course conversant not only with their immediate neighbours (welcome to Anthology Making 101), but also across the breadth of the book’s larger narrative (that would be Anthology Making 201). This anthology’s narrative is a somewhat pointed conversation, true. Though multi-faceted as well.
And, actually, it’s a combination of that last function and the dangers of overly ready assumption that make an introduction necessary for this book. So grab a seat, we’re going to have a (very) brief chat about interpretation and semiotics:
First, it’s only fair to note that the anthology’s title is a little misleading. The implication that the book is solely about the “humanity” of monsters (literal, figurative, or otherwise) is one thing the book is exploring, yes. The anthology is, however, also exploring the reverse: the “inhumanity” of the delusively non-monstrous. But approaching this book with only that base dichotomy in mind does the collected works within a disservice.
That’s because the larger, and overarching, conversation at work in The Humanity of Monsters is rather more about the liminality of state. There are monsters in the book, certainly. Both literal and figurative. But there are far more stories here that explore monstrosity from a semantically exegetical approach. It would, in point of fact, be more appropriate to label what this book is doing an act of sociolinguistics. For what are the stories in this book doing but questioning nomenclature as a function of societal and cultural norms and expectations, context, and use of language and label as active choice?
Now, why, you may be asking, discuss that instead of simply letting the stories inform the reader of this directly?
Because the unannotated presentation of stories that discuss mental disability, trauma, social, racial, or economic marginalization, Othering, socially conscious narratives, and Queer subject matter without a note about the role of said stories as examinations of the deeply mutable definition of the term Monster—in a book ostensibly foregrounding “monsters” as the thing people expect to see—is not a responsible action. Especially if one’s aim is to address the all too easy application of that term to anyone who is different from oneself, and how we apply it all too readily in shades of white and black (pointed commentary intended), and all too reticently when the situation is less easily defined or begs more complicated questions.
Monstrosity will always be a matter of degree and perspective. But one ought warn one’s readers about the implications of taking things too literally, or with too little interrogation.
A warning perhaps decidedly appropriate given that the modern usage of “Monster” finds its root in the Latin monere, meaning “to warn.”
In light of that, then, consider yourself warned:
There be monsters here. Though not always. And form and presentation are, as ever, hardly honest guides. No, in the end, it’s the
why and the who of it that’s the devil of the thing.
Michael Matheson
Toronto, 2015
tasting gomoa
chinelo onwualu
Today is the day the new wife arrives. I had long known they were going to take a second to me. Old and barren as I am, it was only a matter of time. As I circle the square hole that looks down into the main courtyard, I note their shoes at the doorway to the main room: Shigoram’s heavy army-issue boots, black and shiny in the yellow noon sun. Amah’s large misshapen slippers, stretched out by her girth, and a new pair, small and delicate, stitched with pink flowers and almost new. I reach the heavy front door of polished cedar and begin to descend the stone steps that wind through the dark tunnel to the main house.
At the doorway of the main room, I slip off my battered grey slippers and enter. It is dark and cool inside, a welcome relief from the heat. I feel the sweat between my breasts and thighs begin to dry. The room is only large enough for six or seven, though we rarely have so many visitors at a time. The stone floor is strewn with several colourful rugs, but the carpet that dominates the raised dais at the end of the room was part of my dowry. It is a magnificent thing of red wool covered with intricate Hespian designs picked in gold thread. The leather cushions were also mine and still have the crest of my father’s house stitched upon them. They were a rare gift Amah had once admitted to me, in the days when she had more than curses and orders for me. The walls are decorated with porcelain plates, glazed vases of blue and red, and rich tapestries. Someone has lit sticks of incense and the sweet, spicy smell of myrrh envelopes the space.
Amah and Shigoram are facing the doorway. Amah has leaned her bulk into the pile of cushions, her legs stretched out before her. She has taken off her veil and her grey hair has been scraped back into a bun. Her face is turned towards me but for once her heavy-lidded eyes, which conceal a sharp gaze, are not trained on me. As usual, Shigoram sits straight-backed and uncomfortable, his legs tucked beneath him as if this is not his house. He too has eyes only for the woman in front of him.
As I hang my headscarf and veil on the hook by the entrance, I note the new bride. She is performing a tea ceremony for them, pouring the tea from one pot to another to cool it. I cannot see her face, but I note her back and shoulders. Her dark hair hangs down to her waist in a thousand intricate braids each topped by a tiny coloured glass bead. Her shoulders are as pale as milk and her hips flare wide from a slim waist—what my mother used to call a water jug figure, designed to bear. Her feet, which peek out from under her ample bottom are small and pink.
She finishes the ceremony just as I come to kneel beside her. I help her pass out the tiny cups of fragrant mint tea. Amah takes the cup I offer with a small, triumphant sneer. Perhaps she expects me to be upset that she has married her son a new wife? Ten years in her house and she still does not know me.
“Galim Che,” Amah calls to me. She has not used my blood name in a long time. “Greet our new wife. This is Gomoa; I trust you will treat her as your sister and daughter.”
I turn to the girl, expecting the look of controlled fear one usually sees in young brides. Her face is broad and flat with high cheekbones and large almond-shaped eyes; her small bow lips are curved into a broad grin. She bows formally, head touching the tips of her fingers. I return the bow.
I had vowed not to hate her, this child who had come to take my place, but I did not realise that I would come to love her as I did.
That night, I wake with a start. I sit up on the straw-stuffed pallet and look around. The room is pitch black, still and cold. Faint moonlight peeps in from under the door. Even through the thick stone walls I can hear Amah snoring softly in the room next to mine. I am the only one in the room, yet I could have sworn I had felt someone tug at my leg. Shivering, I ball myself up into a foetal position and burrow deeper under my wool quilt.
I fall immediately into the dream, as if it has been waiting for me.
I am lying on my back, naked. The lamp at the foot of the bed casts a soft golden glow and I can feel its faint warmth at the soles of my feet. Shigoram kneels above me, hands on either side of my head, naked as well. His long wavy hair is unbound and falls about his shoulders. His face has the same look I remember from our wedding night: Hungry and apprehensive. I reach up and stroke his beard, something I have never done in life, feeling the coarse hair underneath my hands. He closes his eyes as if savouring my touch. I run my hands along his body, skimming the soft down on his chest and stomach until I grasp his penis. He dips his head down to kiss my neck and a jolt runs through me. His kisses fall soft across my throat and down, down until he reaches my breasts. He takes my right nipple in his mouth, sucking and teasing with his wet tongue until the pleasure is too much to bear. As I reach down to bury my hands in his hair, I take a moment to note that this body is not my own. My own breasts have never been so small, so pert. But then he is sliding himself into me and I part, wet and yielding to allow him entrance. He is filling me, his breath a warm moan against my ear. Together, we move in rhythm; I thrusting up to meet him, him plunging down into me . . .
I awake trembling with pleasure, my sex slick. It has been many years since Shigoram called me to his bed. I had forgotten what desire felt like and in forgetting I was able to endure. I fear this spark now ignited will grow to a conflagration. A true wife would turn away; gird herself for the sake of the family. But I am weak and it has been so long. . . . Blinking back tears of shame, I shove my hand down between my legs and, knowing the dream still waits for me, I will myself to fall asleep again.
The next day I am awake before dawn, as is my custom. I begin my chores by sweeping the fallen leaves under the ancient olive trees at each corner of the round courtyard with a broom of soft straw bound to a short handle. The sound echoes against the rock walls and I imagine that it floats up out of the depression and into the desert above. The house was once home to ten families, generations of Shigoram’s people who occupied each of the rooms. Now it is only us. Though it allows us many rooms for storage and gives each of us our own bedroom, I often find it lonely.
As I sweep past the door to Shigoram’s room, I pause to listen. They already consummated the marriage at the wedding ceremony at her father’s home—which I was not invited to—but I am sure he must have called his new bride to him last night. Imagining them together, I am taken back to my dream and my heart begins to race, a rhythmic pounding matched in my temples and between my legs.
The door to the room opens suddenly and I almost stumble into Shigoram’s arms. He closes the door swiftly, but not before I catch a glimpse of her, naked and sated, lying on her stomach with one leg dangling off the bed. He is wearing his faded purple morning robe cinched at the waist with a fraying belt. His dark hooded eyes are red and puffy from fatigue but he has taken the time to brush his dark hair back and braid it into its long queue.
“Good morning, husband,” I greet him. I bow quickly to hide my embarrassment. He nods at me, but he does not answer. Shigoram has never been a man of many words at the best of times but since his deployment to the front lines, he has had even less to say. He hurries to the toilet and bath rooms on the other side of the courtyard. I watch his long legs flash from beneath the robe as he moves, all golden skin and taut muscle. My sex clenches. I redouble my sweeping.
By the time I return with the extra firewood, the new bride, Gomoa, is with Amah in the kitchen. I can hear Amah’s voice as I drop the bundle of wood by the kitchen door. She is showing Gomoa how to prepare Shigoram’s breakfast the way he likes it. He has only been given leave from the army for a moon—and only so long because he was getting married. He will be returning to the battlefield this afternoon and Amah is determined that her only son be well-fed before then. It does not matter that I know all his tastes and preferences, my time has passed and it is the new bride’s turn to care for him.
I am fetching water from the well in the centre of the co
urtyard when the new bride passes by with a covered tray carrying Shigoram’s breakfast. Dressed in a loose blouse of blue and white stripes with a full matching skirt knotted under her breasts, her hair is uncovered and she is lovely in the dappled morning light. She greets me cheerfully and I see that she is not much older than I was when I married—fourteen at the most. Slipping her feet out of her tiny slippers, she pushes in the door with one hand and disappears into Shigoram’s room.
She does not emerge until it is time for Shigoram to leave us once again.
Standing at the door to the main entrance we bid him goodbye. Amah is tearful as she performs the prayers for his safe journey and return. This time, it is the new bride, Gomoa, who holds the small gold tray with the sacred flame burning in its tiny brass brazier. As she paints his forehead with ash and red ochre, chanting softly, my mind goes to the last night Shigoram and I shared together.
I had come to him unbidden that night. It was his first deployment and he had been gone nearly a year; I had no patience to wait for his summons. I had spent the day before preparing myself—I had gone all the way to my cousin in Aqor town to have my body plucked of all hair and my tresses coiffed high and held in place with ivory combs and pins. I had spent the last of my dowry gold on costly bath oils and perfumes. That night, when the last of the candles had been blown out, I crept into his room. Naked, I slid into his bed. I should have known the night was not with me when he first recoiled at my touch. But I was blind with desire and I pressed on. He lay on his back staring up at the blank stone ceiling, silently enduring my caresses. But no matter what I did, where I kissed, what I stroked or sucked or nuzzled, he did not stir. Finally, in a quiet voice he had asked me to leave. Burning with shame, I slipped on my robe and crept out of the room.
Only then did I allow myself to cry.
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