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Love Beyond Body, Space, and Time is a collection of indigenous science fiction and urban fantasy focusing on LGBT and two-spirit characters. These stories range from a transgender woman undergoing an experimental transition process to young lovers separated through decades and meeting in their own far future. These are stories of machines and magic, love and self-love.
Love Beyond Body, Space & Time occupies an important place in science fiction: not only centring queer voices and narratives, but also centring Indigenous voices and narratives, a group all too often left out of discussions of the genre. Not all the writers in the anthology are themselves Indigenous, a point Nicholson acknowledges in her Editor’s Letter, but all the stories feature Indigenous characters, cultures, and themes.
Love Beyond Body, Space & Time opens with three nonfiction pieces. Nicholson’s opening letter is largely a disclaimer about this not being her story to tell, but the others are more interesting; a piece on two-spirit stories as survivance stories in science fiction by Grace L. Dillon, and a piece on the historical and present day role of two-spirit people in Indigenous communities by Niigaan Sinclair. Both are fascinating essays, situating some of the things the anthology is doing in a wider cultural discourse and a wider social model, and providing multiple possible frameworks with which to approach the stories within.
There are a couple of absolutely outstanding stories in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time. Daniel Heath Justice’s ‘The Boys Who Became The Hummingbirds’ reads as a fable, with a very obvious moral; it’s well written and beautiful, as the best fable are, and with the poetic style and lack of specificity that much living myth has. Its queerness is explicit, varied in kind, and powerfully central to the story, and to the model of diversity in which Heath Justice is invested in the tale.
In stark contrast, ‘Né Łe!’ by Darcie Little Badger is straightforward science fiction, albeit with mythic resonance; it’s also a sweet lesbian romance story, that is impressively moving in its simplicity and with very strong characterisation over its short length. In similar vein is ‘Valediction At The Star View Motel’, a lightly fantastic story of young love, passion, and memory; Nathan Adler takes on the racism faced by the Indigenous community, including some of the racist policies applied to them, whilst also keeping at the core of the story the simplicity of young love.
The strongest story in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time, by my lights, is Gwen Benaway’s ‘Transition’. Benaway writes a transition narrative that deals with the difficulties of being trans in a cis world; the way every day involves armouring up and self-defence strategies to keep cis violence from breaking out against one. It’s also a story of community and history; Benaway builds into the very bones of the story the acceptance of trans people by at least the Indigenous community she chooses to present. The mythic fantastic creeps in around the edges of the story, which is essentially mimetic, and ‘Transition’ emerges as emotionally resonant and incredibly powerful.
At the other end of the spectrum, ‘Aliens’ by Richard van Camp is a frustrating piece, which if the reader accepts and enjoys the voice in which it is told might well work. However, it feels too mannered for the attempt at naturalism it is making, and the treatment of gender diversity as a big secret and major revelation at the end of the story is a frustrating one, playing into a number of harmful tropes and a deeply problematic presentation of gender diversity. Similarly, in ‘Imposter Syndrome’, Mari Kurisato writes a transition narrative that uses an alien transitioning to human as a metaphor for gender transition; seeing human trans people in fiction is powerful, whereas in this collection especially, this treatment of transness felt painfully out of place. Kurisato’s style and characterisation are excellent, and there are some really brilliant ideas in the piece, which makes the fundamental failure all the more frustrating.
Failing in a different way, ‘Perfectly You’ by David Robertson just doesn’t emotionally connect. This attempt to tell a romantic story feels strained and emotionless, essentially empty of real content; there isn’t really enough ground on which to build the payoff Robertson wants to give, and the strongest parts of the story are those in which he is building that ground.
In the end, Nicholson has engaged in an important project in Love Beyond Body, Space & Time, centring Indigenous queer people, but it’s a deeply flawed execution of that project; we need more anthologies like this, but next time, more stories like Heath Justice’s and Little Badger’s, please!
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In her vivid and sly, gentle and wise long anticipated first collection, Delia Sherman takes seemingly insignificant moments in the lives of artists or sailors—the light out a window, the two strokes it takes to turn a small boat—and finds the ghosts haunting them, the magic surrounding them. Here are the lives that make up larger histories, here are tricksters and gardeners, faeries and musicians, all glittering and sparkling, finding beauty and hope and always unexpected, a touch of wild magic.
Sherman’s first collection of short stories collects works published in various venues over the course of two and a half decades, but Young Woman In A Garden has, in some key ways, less variety to it than even many themed anthologies do, not that that’s a bad thing.
All Sherman’s stories are simple, small-scale, very human things; Young Woman In A Garden isn’t interested in the shining chrome gleam of space opera or the grand, flashy magics of epic fantasy, but far more on magical realism, to various degrees and in different kinds. Sherman’s collection is interested in interiority, in people’s emotions and feelings, in how we can better expose and understand those by looking at them through a fantastic lens, rather than in novae for their own sake. If fantasy and science fiction literature is the literature of what-ifs, Sherman’s stories aren’t about societal or universal what-ifs, but about very personal, individual hypotheticals, about the ways the interaction of the fantastic in the lives of people might change them.
The titular story, ‘Young Woman in a Garden’, is one of the stand-out works of the collection. Something between an investigation on the idea of art and who produces it, and a polyamorous queer ghost story, it is told from the perspective of a student doing some work on a (long-dead) lesser-known painter who has been invited to the home of the painter to go through his papers. Sherman traces her explorations and slowly builds in and builds up the supernatural elements of the story, dropping breadcrumbs for the reader both about that and the hidden questions about art and creation that it’s asking, questions that have interesting parallels with those raised in Siri Hustvedt’s The Burning World.
At the other end of the spectrum is the fairy story told in ‘The Faerie Cony-Catcher’, Sherman’s foray into historical fantasy. It is clearly fantastical, largely taking place outside the world, but also written in a sixteenth century style and language that is reminiscent, inevitably, of writers like Shakespeare; focusing on the arrogance and growing self-awareness of a jewelry-maker who has finished his apprenticeship. The man thinks himself very world-weary at the start of the story, as a series of run-ins indicate, but is shown to in fact be out of his depth and overconfident, and the extent to which this is the case is only revealed towards the end of the story. However, Sherman does a double-aversion in the end, evoking and then denying something akin to trans panic, not entirely successfully; the story ends up homophilic but transphobic, albeit clearly without that intention.
This isn’t to say all the stories here have queer text, or even queer subtext; for instance, one of the shortest pieces in the volume, ‘Nanny Peters and the Feathery Bride’, deals with a woman whose sexuality is simply left unstated and a general society of heterosexuality. It’s about suitability for marriage, about advice and how sometimes taking it is important, about partnerships and the way people outside a relationship can see better than those in it sometimes, and about the fact that people don’t really change. It’s interesting as a story, in part because of the patois in which Sherman writes it; not gratingly, full of apostrophes, but simply, straightforwardly, honestly, and naturally, which is much better.
I’ve only picked out three here, but they suffice to demonstrate that Sherman’s stories address a range of issues, including racism, sexism, and queer topics, as well as being in some cases stories without explicit interrogation of society; they are all sparkling little gems, and Young Woman in a Garden is a truly spectacular and varied collection as a result.
What do a disabled superhero, a time-traveling Chinese-American figure skater, and a transgendered animal shifter have in common? They’re all stars of Kaleidoscope stories!
Kaleidoscope collects fun, edgy, meditative, and hopeful YA science fiction and fantasy with diverse leads. These twenty original stories tell of scary futures, magical adventures, and the joys and heartbreaks of teenage.
Diversity is an increasingly strong theme in discussions of the state of the genre, and the inculcation of that diversity, but rarely are practical steps taken. Rios and Krasnostein decided to take a practical step through Krasnostein’s Twelth Planet Press publishing business, and with the help of Pozible (a crowdfunding site), Kaleidoscope was born!
I have to declare a certain interest here; Kaleidoscope is dedicated to me (in the Acknowledgements section – flip to the back and check!), and I have consistently supported the project and cheered as Krasnostein and Rios brought a host of voices both veteran (Garth Nix! Karen Healey!) and new (Sofia Samatar!) to bear on the broad theme of “diversity”, an idea that the fan community is coming to terms with but that is still seen as too “PC” a theme for an anthology by some. Kaleidoscope is an excellent artistic rebuttal of that.
Entirely made up of original fiction, Kaleidoscope covers themes from trans narratives (though not the narrative you’re expecting!), ablism and the perception of the disabled, and neurodiversity (two stories centre on OCD, one on schizophrenia) through to immigration, class issues, racism, and a lot of sexuality; it’s impressive to see the broad scope of “diversity” Rios and Krasnostein have embraced in collecting and curating this anthology, and the avoidance of some of the common, awful tropes that tend to reoccur in stories. There are no magically fixed people here, and indeed magical fixing as a theme is interrogated quite harshly; there is no sudden cathartic moment of universal reconciliation, and no utopias of perfect acceptance. Instead, the fantastic is used as a lens to interrogate our own prejudices, our own ideas of normalcy.
There is a wide range of types of storytelling on display here, from Samatar’s tragic and beautiful ‘Walkdog’, in the form of a book report, through Susman’s archival compilation of emails, phone transcripts, application forms and more in the stunning and unexpected ‘The Lovely Duckling’, and achronological chapter-sectioned wonderfully self-referential myth in El-Mohtar’s ‘The Truth About Owls’. The table of contents also boasts a lot of more conventional stories, including Roberts’ ‘Cookie-Cutter Superhero’, a truly wonderful subversion of superhero narratives and brilliant satire of the comics of the Big Two all at once. Indeed, to highlight every story here that is a stand-out beauty would take too long, and involve listing every single one; this is an anthology of what would be highlights in any other anthology, truly superlative work.
There is, unfortunately, one misstep in Kaleidoscope, and it is Flinthart’s ‘Vanilla’. ‘Vanilla’ is the sole story that discusses nonbinary genders (there are multiple stories about trans characters, but all within the gender binary), and it situates that nonbinarism in its aliens; that is, literal, non-homo sapiens aliens. Indeed, the story includes the idea that even without gender, the being carrying the child is made female by the act; that femininity is defined by the ability to give birth. Now, it’s inevitable that one story in the anthology would be problematic, and ‘Vanilla’ is, in its discussion of immigration and integration, amazing, but it feels rather unfortunate that the problems in the story punch me in the face.
That said, Kaleidoscope is overall a wonderful, monumental achievement and a really stunning collection of good fiction quite apart from Rios and Krasnostein’s efforts to foster a sense of diversity, empathy and understanding. If you can, buy this book. If you can’t, ask booksellers to order it in so you can buy it. Give it to teachers, to teenagers, to educators of all kinds; to politicians, to friends and family, to community leaders. Kaleidoscope deserves to be distributed far and wide, and its message needs to be distributed far and wide.
And it really is that good.
A. C. Wise’s story was recommended to me as being both queer and about architecture; as a bit of a fan of architecture, I immediately had to seek it out, and found a story far stranger and, in fact, more interesting than I was expecting initially. The architect and her lover are both expressions of different immigrant experiences, different histories; and both express their pasts in different ways. The magic of the story is absolutely brilliant, and the tying together of psychological and physical realities is amazing.
Her Last Breath Before Waking is a beautiful little love story, small and personal in scale and yet with huge consequences; the dreams of the architect change the city around her, tearing down the old, familiar city and building a modern City in its place, while the architect’s lover increasingly feels alienated and displaced, trying to hold back the change in favour of love of the old, rather than the need to replace it. The tensions between the two characters are portrayed lovingly and beautifully, cutting back and forth between them and showing the ways each has affected the other; the architect increasingly unworldly and withdrawn, her lover increasingly withdrawn from the architect but outspoken in trying to stop the change. Wise very clearly has sympathy for both characters, and the end of Her Last Breath… demonstrates where the end point of both journeys is.
The tale of immigrant experiences is also well pulled off; Wise tells us off two very different reasons for emigrating, one for better opportunities, the other to flee horrors at home, and Her Last Breath… proves sympathetic and open to both, showing the different things they bring to a place, and the reasons they’re both necessary; Wise also shows the reader that the balance of different experiences is vital to a culture, allowing it to change and evolve whilst also remembering what is good about itself, rather than stagnating into insularity or innovating away from the people it serves.
Her Last Breath Before Waking is, then, a beautiful love story with a point; Wise’s imagery and writing combine to brilliant effect in this short story that’s well worth your attention.
Gian returns to Sea-john from the Kingdom’s wars certain that he has skills beyond killing, death and destruction. He needs to prove to himself that love is just as strong, if nor stronger, than his hate. The Summer King gives him this opportunity.
Tor.com has fast become one of the best publishers of short fiction on the internet, and its openness to a wide variety of works within the realm of “genre fiction” is admirable. Kai Ashante Wilson’s story, published last May, is especially relevant in the context of the Abyss & Apex anti-dialect piece, using as it does dialect (albeit an amalgamation of various dialects, per here) to give a sense of setting and place, and to emphasise certain elements of the story.
To tackle that first, Super Bass tends to not use dialect heavily in the narratorial voice, but almost all the dialogue is in dialect. This is slightly problematic given that the narratorial voice appears to be embracing Gian’s point of view, and perhaps the whole would have been stronger had it all been in dialect. As it is, the use of dialect reinforces that the story has a cast almost entirely of people of colour; Gian is mixed race and the only speaking character who isn’t black, as the other white characters haven’t learned the language and are spoken for by their black husband. Indeed, the application to whites who are immigrants to a black locale of images of immigrants to Western nations is rather brilliantly carried off.
The romance that the story is structured around is also well done. Super Bass doesn’t make it a Twilight-esque “romance” of abuse, nor an Eddings-like romance without any feelings, but rather Wilson very effectively draws on a number of strands – insecurity, acceptance, love, fear, the whole gamut of emotions that appear in a relationship – in order to create a love that is convincing and beautiful. He also portrays a society organised into triads as the basic unit of marriage very effectively; that the triads can be of any gender – we see two-male-one-female, three-female and various other configurations in the story – is simply accepted, and Super Bass normalises that stunningly well.
As far as plot goes, Super Bass leaves perhaps a little too much to the imagination at its close; whilst hinting around Gian being abused by the Marshal in the wars, it never really makes it clear what form that abuse was, and Wilson never quite clears up a lot of the background to the story. However, the internal plot hangs together well, as the relationship between Gian and Cianco developes and we learn more about each of them and their role in the society; it’s a very well carried off piece of writing.
Super Bass is almost exactly what I was looking for when I started looking for Queering the Genre pieces; queer, normalising that queerness, and also challenging other heirarchies of power, in this case race. An excellent story, and, wonderfully, free to read here!