by Jared Shurin
Best of British Fantasy 2018
Edited by Jared Shurin
NewCon Press
England
First edition, published in the UK May 2019 by NewCon Press
NCP 190 (hardback)
NCP 191 (softback)
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Introduction copyright © 2019 by Jared Shurin
Cover Art copyright © 2019 by Matty Long
This compilation copyright © 2019 by Ian Whates
“There’s a Witch in the Word Machine” copyright © 2018 by Jenni Fagan, originally appeared in
There’s a Witch in the Word Machine (Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Limited).
“We Are Now Beginning Our Descent” copyright © 2018 by Malcolm Devlin, originally appeared in Losslit #7
“The Dance of a Thousand Cuts” copyright © 2018 by Liam Hogan, originally appeared in Terra! Tara! Terror! (Flatiron Anthologies)
“A Son of the Sea” copyright © 2018 by Priya Sharma, originally appeared in All the Fabulous Beasts (Undertow)
“To Look Upon His Works” copyright © 2018 by RJ Barker, originally appeared in The Art of War (Amazon)
“12 Answers Only You Can Question” copyright © 2018 by James Warner, originally appeared in EPOCH
“The Woman Who Turned into Soap” copyright © 2018 Harkiran Dhindsa, originally appeared in
The Good Journal #1
“Mushroom Speed Boosts” copyright © 2018 by Ben Reynolds, originally appeared in LossLit #8
“The Guile” copyright © 2018 by Ian McDonald, originally appeared on Tor.com
“We Can Make Something Grow Between the Mushrooms And The Snow” copyright © 2018 by Kirsty Logan, originally appeared in The Puritan #40
“The Moss Child” copyright © 2018 by Lisa Fransson, originally appeared in The Forgotten and the Fantastical 4 (Mother’s Milk Books)
“Boys” copyright © 2018 by Lizzie Hudson, originally appeared in Litro Magazine
“The Farm at the World’s End” © 2018 by Helen McClory. Originally published in Occulum #7
“The Prevaricator” copyright © 2018 by Matthew Hughes, originally appeared in Fantasy & SF
“The Small Island” copyright © 2018 by Heather Parry, originally appeared in F(r)iction Magazine
“A Gift of Tongues” copyright © 2018 by Paul McQuade, originally appeared in Cōnfingō 10
“Velocity” copyright © 2018 by Steph Swainston, originally appeared in Turning Point (Air & Nothingness Press)
“Counting the Pennies” copyright © 2018 by Rhys Hughes, originally appeared in The Early Bird Catches the Worm but the Wise Worm Stays in Bed (Createspace)
“The Councillor’s Visit” copyright © 2018 by Beth Goddard, originally appeared in Finesse: Short Stories by New Manchester Writers (Comma Press)
“Yard Dog” copyright © 2018 by Tade Thompson, originally appeared in Fiyah #7
“Dark Shells” copyright © 2018 by Aliya Whiteley, originally appeared on This Dreaming Isle (Unsung Stories)
“Coruvorn” copyright © 2018 by Reggie Oliver, originally appeared on The Silent Garden (Undertow Press)
“The Godziliad” copyright © 2018 by Adam Roberts, originally appeared on Morphosis website
All rights reserved, including the right to produce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
ISBN: 978-1-912950-17-1 (hardback)
978-1-912950-18-8 (softback)
Cover art by Matty Long
Cover design by Ian Whates
Text layout by Storm Constantine
Introduction:
We All Fall Together
Jared Shurin
When starting a new tradition - and I sincerely hope this inaugural volume of The Best of British Fantasy becomes one - the respectful thing to do is study what came before. And then promptly do the opposite.
In the case of the “year’s best” subgenre, introductions tend to take one of two forms. The first approach is that of the annual overview. The editor heroically attempts to catalogue all things related to the genre that occurred in the calendar year. Some of these introductions can run into the hundreds of pages: an annual index of trend-spotting that captures publications, movies, comics, awards, theatre, and beyond.
I suspect the reasoning behind this approach stems from the sub-genre’s distant origins – that is, ‘before the internet’. It is flattering to be part of a tradition this ancient, but, in 2019, I think these details are best captured elsewhere. There are a host of formal and informal resources that capture this data for posterity far better than I ever could.
The second approach found in Year’s Best volumes is the imposition of thematic consistency. The editor stares at the year’s fantasy outputs until the void stares back - and then helpfully whispers a single, unifying truth. Future readers then learn that 2018 was entirely about the apocalypse. Or nostalgia. Or any other themes that could, with the appropriate amount of pruning or plumping, define the historical record. As a fan of brutal simplicity - and of sweeping statements - I can’t help but appreciate this approach.
However, as much as I admire the ambition, I’m not comfortable with how the thematic approach deceives when it comes to chronology. All of the stories enclosed in this volume, for example, were definitely published in 2018. They were not all written in 2018. Some were written and published that same day: the miracle of self-publishing. Others were written in the interminable past, then sent forth to run the submissions gauntlet: the vagaries of traditional publishing. Some were inspired years before being written; some were constructed on the spot in workshops. Nor can we even ascribe ‘publisher intent’. The websites, anthologies and magazines that published these stories all began their own selection and publication processes at various times.
As much as I would love to declare 2018 to be the year of the apocalypse, nostalgia, or anxiety, that would be a false imposition not only of my own perspective, but of what even constituted ‘2018’.
What unites both approaches, the fact-collecting and the theme-building, is the sense of writing for posterity. These are introductions not for readers in 2018 (or even 2019), but in 2028, 2038 and beyond. They are attempts to provide valuable context for future readers of the collection. To explain not only that these are the best stories of the year, but to provide a ‘why’: what it is about the stories that makes them so very 2018ish. But if the ‘facts’ are best provided elsewhere, and the ‘theme’ is chronologically suspect, what else is there?
Only the most important thing of all: the reader.
Whenever they were written, commissioned or conceived, all of these storis were first read in 2018. The reader is therefore the ultimate context. Who are the people who read these stories? And how would the stories have reflected their attitudes, or their perceptions?
This is a vast question, and hopefully the readers of 2028 will turn to more than the introduction of The Best of British Fantasy when it comes to understanding the many nuances of British life in 2018. But, for the sake of the attempt, I’ve relied heavily on the massive database that is YouGov Profiles. The December 30, 2018 updates contains within it an audience of over 15,000 people who agree with the statement “I enjoy fantasy fiction”. This is a large enough pool to allow us substantial numbers for analysis, even as we dive into some of the database’s more esoteric statements.
To set the scene: fantasy readers are, demographically, representative of the UK as a whole. Fantasy readers do skew a bit younger (only 30% are 55+, compared to 38% of the overall population), and very slightly more male (51% to 49%), but, for the avoidance of doubt, they are statistically distributed across all shapes and sizes. They’re also distributed across the UK, alt
hough fantasy readers are over-represented in Scotland (much like this book’s list contributors). But, like the characters in this book, British fantasy readers come from every possible background - urban millennial renters, middle class village dwellers, second-generation immigrants, and much more. Fantasy readership, like the genre itself, knows no bounds.
Given this diversity, all the attitudinal statements should be taken with a grain of salt. However, there are some clear trends. Over a quarter (27%) of fantasy readers, for example, say that “life is more uncertain than previous generations”. This is a significantly higher proportion than the rest of the population. Aliya Whiteley’s “Dark Shells”, for example, captures the bridge between generations – the “then” and the “now”- with a poetically hazy confidence in the former. As is befitting in a genre well-rooted in its traditions, many of the other stories in Best of British Fantasy also capture the weight of history. Tade Thompson’s “Yard Dog” harkens to a different era (and country), but similarly captures a sense of the oral tradition, the importance of storytelling, and a certain glamour that comes from a bygone era. Even Adam Roberts’ “Godzilliad”: an elegant concoction that uses the formal mode to elevate a giant stompy lizard from pop culture to something even more significant.
Fantasy readers also revealed themselves to be cautious folk. 53% said they were not risk-takers, not only a majority, but also, a significant difference from the rest of the population. (It is hard not to blame our active imaginations.) But throughout Best of British Fantasy, the risk-takers are lionised. Lizzie Hudson’s “Boys” features a young woman taking a risk: a plunge from the safe into the true unknown. Ian McDonald’s “The Guile” is an improbable heist in an impossible setting; a feat of daring and deceit that can only leave you smiling. Lisa Fransson’s “The Moss Child” features a young woman of incredible courage: brave enough even to defy those who love her. None of these stories are pure escapism: everything comes with its price. Indeed, Matthew Hughes’ “The Prevaricator” serves as a sorcerous parable in a secondary-world setting. The story’s cunning anti-hero reaps the rewards of deceit, but eventually pushes his luck just the tiniest bit too far.
Fantasy readers have a distinct view of social mobility as well. 39% believe success stems from “good fortune”, while only 24% believe it comes from “effort”: both clear departures from the national average. Fantasy readers understand the “Chosen One” trope well, and the stories within Best of British Fantasy play with the tension between what’s destiny and what’s due. Liam Hogan’s “The Dance of a Thousand Cuts” is centred around a duel for the ages; a story packed with stunning swordplay. But it is also a discussion of privilege, both magical and political. R.J. Barker’s “To Look Upon His Works” is an aggressively rebellious, if gruesome, piece, in which an artist strikes back against tyranny in the only way he knows how. Steph Swainston’s “Velocity” is an exciting return to her world of Castle. It features an Immortal - a man honoured as the very, very best at what he does - and his ignominious homecoming. It is also a tale of with frustration at its heart. No much our hero has earned, he is perpetually at a disadvantage. Reggie Oliver’s “Coruvorn” has the tone and style of a classic ‘Club’ story, but the author turns this narrative tradition on its head. The title character has managed to fail upwards, lifted by his class, gender, contacts and the warm air of social standing. But when he finally brushes against real achievement, he finds himself challenged - in two worlds - by a new social order.
Fantasy readers are also more likely than the population as a whole to feel like there’s no sense of community in their local area - and over a third agree that they feel “a bit alienated” by modern life. This sense of being out of place is present in stories such as Heather Parry’s “The Small Island” and Priya Sharma’s “A Son of the Sea”. In the former, there is a literal separation that neatly fits alongside the figurative. In the latter, a young man roves around the world looking for a sense of belonging. Paul McQuade’s “A Gift of Tongues” contains a physical metaphor for alienation, and the story’s protagonist sacrifices herself, and her voice, in the quest to fit in. Harkiran Dhindsa’s “The Woman Who Turned Into Soap” features another sacrifice - slower, but no less tortuous. By dipping into fantasy, the stories are able to express alienation both symbolically and physically, with effective results.
The vast majority - almost two-thirds - of fantasy readers say they are disengaged from politics and politicians. And they are more likely than the rest of the population to disagree with the statement that “it is important to find their place in society”. Accordingly, several of the stories in Best of British Fantasy express an compellingly absurdist view of the world. Beth Goddard’s “The Councillor’s Visit” features a Very Nice Couple who, having been briefly inspired to Get Involved, now find themselves in an incredibly awkward situation. Rhys Hughes’ “Counting the Pennies” gleefully pokes fun at the maxims of capitalism, while James Warner’s “12 Answers Only You Can Question” is a Kafkaesque romp centred around a standardised test. Kirsty Logan’s "We can make something grow between the mushrooms and the snow" takes a fantastical approach to a quintessentially British horror: the housing market. For those reading the hardcover edition, Archie Black’s “Underground” is a similarly grim exploration of public transport. Fantasy allows us new perspective on British culture and society - even allowing us to laugh at it.
Perhaps most the upsetting revelation from the data: 28% of fantasy readers say that they are unhappy with their lives, significantly more than the 21% national average. Many of the stories within resonate with varieties of sadness and strain. In Ben Reynold’s brief and glorious “Mushroom Speed Boosts”, a young man uses a video game to come to terms with loss (or, possibly, not). Helen McClory’s “The Farm at the World’s End” reveals another way of coming to terms with loss; acknowledging that “an apocalypse can be as small as a palm.” Malcolm Devlin’s “We Are Now Beginning Our Descent” - from which the title of this introduction is lifted - features a man so out of place, so out of sorts, that he deliberately courts death time and time again. Jenni Fagan’s opening poem, “There’s a Witch in the World Machine” channels a furious frustration into an incantation. These stories use fantasy as an emotional sandbox, using the freedom of the genre to find creative ways to express deeply internalised challenges.
In an interview with the Arts Council (given in 2019, forgive me), Syima Aslam, Director of the Bradford Literature Festival referred to stories as “magical portals, through which you can explore different emotions, realities, and ideas”. Good fantasy has always been capable of the latter two: imaginative worlds and impossible ideas are the genre’s bread and butter. Great fantasy - dare I say it, the best fantasy - can do the former. Stories can help us grapple with, come to terms with, or simply recognise how we feel. Fantasy can be inspiring, but it can also be therapeutic.
Lest the reader of 2028 worry too much about the readers of 2018, please note that I’ve used my editorial prerogative to select the most dramatic attitudes. The database reveals many positive and optimistic trends as well. The most impressive is this: despite the unhappiness and alienation, fantasy readers are also significantly more likely to participate in volunteering, activism, and charitable donation. Fantasy stands long accused of being the genre of escapism, but here we see it as the genre of hope. The fantasy readers of 2018 are not only able to imagine a better future, they are willing to work hard to make it happen.
Within this book, you’ll find mermaids, rogues and magic swords; monsters, ghosts and local councillors. If you need further context for the stories, imagine yourself one of the diverse, unorthodox, slightly grumpy, and secretly-willing initial readers. Or, better yet, enjoy them for yourself.
Jared Shurin, London
April 2019
There’s a Witch in
the Word Machine
Jenni Fagan
There’s a witch in the word
machine
spe
ll-casting:
dots, particles, atoms
elemental, bodiless,
a typing shell!
The nothing sky has no good
intentions.
Go beyond it.
Timber wolves bay in testimony
as fingertips trail light:
argot idiom, double-grave, slash-
through
words have no pure notions…
they are flesh
strong and ventricle –
poison tipped arrows,
gouge them out
with a sharpened athame.
This is no thaumaturgy
(she can’t leave the word machine)
astral lovers (as they are)
cannot be parted by logic or
reason,
she brings no betrayal,
only incantations, divination,
sex magic
and a desire to crash the pro-
gramme
rewrite it as it should have
been.
We Are Now Beginning
Our Descent
Malcolm Devlin
I have always dreamed I would die in an aeroplane crash.
It will be a big plane. A commercial flight. I will be seated in economy as normal, I have never had an upgrade and I have never expected to deserve one. On this flight, the dice will have rolled against me and I will be trapped in the middle of a row. There will be a businessman on my left: he will be portly, balding, busy with a briefcase. His tie will have been loosened with a nervous tug of a crooked finger, and beads of sweat will have started pebbling his forehead before the cabin doors have even closed. To my right, there will be an elderly woman who will spend the majority of the flight tottering up and down the aisle to the bathroom and chewing the teeth that do not quite fit. Reading her complimentary tabloid, she will tut over the stories of benefit frauds and immigrants; she will linger over the nudity with a mournful fascination.