LINKDING

quote: Dad says Auntie was beautiful when she was young, with a bright-eyed gaze, pure yet alluring, and a slender, curving waist. When happy, her face was like springtime. When sorrowful, she was like a thin willow bending in the wind. Sometimes I try to imagine my aunt’s youthful beauty, and I end up thinking of those fox demon women in Zhiyi novels, eyes flickering like stars. With a slight twist of the demon’s waist, your soul is hers. But Auntie was the type who’s a thousand miles removed—aloof, full of rebuffs. Every boy who saw her back then suffered pangs of desire, yet they shunned her. Before Deng Baolin met her husband, she scratched the faces of thirteen boys. She was a prickly beauty, a thorny rose. In short, she was completely unlike the person before my eyes. ➤ scifi short story translated from chinese; originally published in 2021 ➤ it's a fascinating outside-outside pov, a nephew telling the story of his aunt, whose story is that of her famous physicist-astronaut husband ➤ the multiple layers of abstraction work well for this story -- and the narrative loops around itself in how it's told too, wandering forwards and backwards in time to circle around the heart of things ➤ which is really a story about family and about place and about how you decide what to prioritise in your life ➤ it's lovely and thoughtful and wistful. I really liked it! ➤ 7k words in length

Summary: <blockquote>Nogorod is built of black rock and dull iron and pale ivory, a city of high towers rising like petrified trees beside the rough grey seas. The common folk are whale-fishers, hunting with harpoons from their ships, but the nobles are all wizards, and they hunt dragons from bone chariots drawn by captive winds, slaying them with darts of ensorcelled ivory and poison spells. How this tradition began is lost to dishonorable history, but now the nobles hunt out of self-preservation, for dragons are wise and the wind that is their mother and their substance whispers the names of those who would slay them, so that they come to Nogorod to hunt in their own turn.</blockquote> ➤ fantasy story about wizards and dragons and power, and being queer, and being horny for a dragon who is also your death ➤ deliberately written in a higher register, which can too easily feel stilted or cold, but here works to give the whole thing a sense of dignity and depth ➤ 5k words in length

<blockquote>Raymond was the new care worker at Sunshine. The place was mostly staffed with holographic workers, who ambled around picking up things people had dropped, whether or not they wanted them picked up, and otherwise lurked in corners and shimmered. But Raymond was pale, spotty, and human, with a permanent sneer on his thin face. He turned the dial on the radio and Edie stopped listening. Instead, she thought about the song she’d heard, the few lines of the melody repeating themselves over and over in her head. Da-da-da-DA. It made her feet twitch. She got up, ignoring Annabel’s glare—Annabel thought Radio 4 should be a compulsory Sunshine experience—and went up to her room. In her diary, she scrawled today’s date, followed by: heard music. Name, Lee. Min?</blockquote>

<blockquote>Of three parts is every story woven: the warp, the weft, and the fabric they make together. The warp is Constant Ivan, strong and steady. The weft is Clever Natalya, darting here and there. As for the fabric they make, listen and you shall hear.</blockquote> ➤ a satisfying fairy tale type of story

<blockquote>I never wanted to turn out like her. When I met her, I was twelve. There was no one else to take care of me. Before she showed up, she was preceded by this man in a pinstriped suit. A harbinger. He sat me down in his sterile office and he said, “Time Law is not a joking matter.” He told me all the horrible things that would happen if I broke any Time Laws. Worlds would collapse. I would turn inside out. Important people would die and important things wouldn’t happen. And that’s when I first felt that clutching sensation in my chest. Like he had his fingers inside my rib cage and he was squeezing my lungs. Do not fuck this up. “So are you the one I’m going with?” I asked. Because I was a newly coined orphan and I needed someone. The pinstriped-suit man shook his head. “No,” he said. “The system is hard on children so we’ve come up with a better option. But you can’t go live with her. She must come to you.” Because she lived in the future. </blockquote> ➤ the one where an older version of Marley comes back in time to take care of her younger orphaned self, and it does interesting things with the inevitability (or lack thereof) of the future

<blockquote>Priya wondered why they were all so afraid to speak of death, herself included. “I’ll be fine,” she said. The daylight spilling across the kitchen floor was filtering through the layer of snow on the window, erasing all shadows. It all felt pleasingly melodramatic. “If I get lonely, I’ll go to Amarnath Noy.” “Oh,” Adam said, obviously trying to hide his surprise. “I guess you could. I, uh, I thought you didn’t go there alone, usually.” More tactful stepping around the subject. “I don’t,” Priya said briskly, “but I guess I’ll have to start.” She wasn’t sure where the idea had come from; she’d been to Amarnath Noy less and less as she grew up, and hardly at all in the years since college. But it felt necessary all of a sudden. It must be these difficult times, Priya thought. She put on her snow boots and set out.</blockquote> ➤ I love this approach to the portal fantasy, how her experience of the other world is both an allegory for the diaspora experience and a real thing in itself.

<blockquote>About “Where Oaken Hearts Do Gather” (5 contributors, 5 notes, 7 comments) →“Where Oaken Hearts Do Gather” (Roud 423, Child 313) is a traditional English folk ballad. Like many traditional songs, the lyrics are unattributed. Child transcribed twenty verses, and a twenty-first got added later (and is included here for some unknown reason—I keep writing to the Lyricsplainer mods to get someone to delete it or include it as a separate entry, but nobody responds, and all they’ve done is put brackets around it. Sometimes I hate this site.) Most modern recordings pick and choose verses and include far fewer than the full twenty. There are several variant titles, and the characters’ names shift through the various broadsides and folk and rock versions.– BonnieLass67 (11 upvotes)</blockquote> ➤ the entire story is told through a) the lyrics of a "traditional" folk song, and b) the conversation held between various people on a music website analyzing the song. There's plenty of questions left unanswered but enough is told to make some things very clear! I love it.

<blockquote>People in our neighborhood are always saying what a pity it is that two such fine-looking people as my cousin Bluma and her husband have no children yet. I don’t see that they’re so fine-looking as all that. Still, I’ve often thought that if Bluma had a little bit more business of her own to worry about, she might have less time to waste getting into mine.</blockquote> ➤ It's the sequel to "Further Arguments in Support of Yudah Cohen’s Proposal to Bluma Zilberman"! Which has been sitting in my notes waiting for me to bookmark it for an unconscionable number of years! It's great! I lovvvvve the outside perspective on Yudah and Bluma, and Shaina's narration is a delight

<blockquote>My parents lived most of their lives in their other bodies, as loons, and they were reluctant participants in human affairs. When I began to spend time with Elena and her family, when I began to beg for books, for conversation, they were bewildered. They didn’t care for human culture or human food, not even ice cream, and neither were they particularly interested in human terrors, like war or bigotry. Instead, Collectors had been the reigning horror of my childhood. More frightening than raptors or oil spills or a fish with a hidden hook in its lip. Collectors paid money for our souls and put them in iron cages, and a soul behind iron could not change. “Never tell anyone where you keep your soul,” my parents repeated to me over and over. It was our one family rule, aside from the obvious: do not reveal yourself to true humans. </blockquote>

<blockquote>Once upon a time there was a young magician, and he fell in love with a dancer.</blockquote> ➤ the one where the magician saves the dancer from death and then the two are basically stuck together to keep the dancer from dying again, and it ends up functioning kind of like a marriage of convenience? I was charmed by it

<blockquote>Sure, I know István Horvath. We met about a year before Eva died. That’s my wife, Eva. You knew that? Yeah, I figured you were pretty thorough.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Chaeeunshinji was seventeen, and I was thirteen. Just going by years alone, she was way older than me, but that kind of comparison didn’t really mean much: the planet where Chaeeunshinji was from and the one where I came from each had slightly different rotational and sidereal periods, so that the relative lengths of days and years on those worlds worked out to be just different enough to be confusing. “Well, technically I’m in my late teens, but you’re just a little kid, so officially I’m your big sister.” “But who would go by that? If you count by wake-sleep cycles, I’ve lived longer than you!”</blockquote>

<blockquote>The bear wife took the cub to mommy and me yoga. She didn’t look much like a bear without her fur, but somehow the other mothers seemed to sense it; when she came in carrying the cub they shifted away, drifting on their yoga mats closer to the windows, to each other. She was left alone in the middle like a stone dropped into a lake, each woman a wave rippling outward. In tree pose she was a lightning-struck pine at the center of a clearing.</blockquote>

<blockquote>When Vivian and her daughter witness the family matriarch die without leaving a corpse, Vivian can no longer ignore the family “gift” or the choice that lies before her.</blockquote>

<blockquote>He is not a remarkable student, Neconnu. Some among more senior Masters—those not required to take on teaching duties—did not even recognize his name when they found it entered into the lists for examination. But this is not as unusual as one might think; magi are not known for their humility. Already this year three candidates have overreached themselves, and been sent away. Odds are high that Neconnu will be the fourth. But he must have his chance. The Obsidian Master asks the question that pulses behind every serene expression. “What act will you perform, to prove your right to the degree of vīs faciendī?” Harrik Neconnu says, “I am going to return the dead to life.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>My name is Tetley Abednego and I am the most hated girl in Garbagetown. I am nineteen years old. I live alone in Candle Hole, where I was born, and have no friends except for a deformed gannet bird I’ve named Grape Crush and a motherless elephant seal cub I’ve named Big Bargains, and also the hibiscus flower that has recently decided to grow out of my roof, but I haven’t named it anything yet. I love encyclopedias, a cassette I found when I was eight that says Madeline Brix’s Superboss Mixtape ’97 on it in very nice handwriting, plays by Mr. Shakespeare or Mr. Webster or Mr. Beckett, lipstick, Garbagetown, and my twin brother Maruchan. Maruchan is the only thing that loves me back, but he’s my twin, so it doesn’t really count. We couldn’t stop loving each other any more than the sea could stop being so greedy and give us back China or drive time radio or polar bears. But he doesn’t visit anymore.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Aimee’s big trick is that she makes 26 monkeys vanish on stage.</blockquote> ➤ love the ending, reveals just enough to be satisfying while still leaving things mysterious

<blockquote>Apá always said I could come home. He never had to say the words if it doesn’t work out, but I heard them clear enough the day I left to live amongst the Fair Folk.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The night is humid and warm, sticks to our skin like a wet T-shirt. Luz pokes the fire with a piece of scrap metal she found lying by Gunner’s feet. It sends a swarm of sparks flying into the air. Taking that as an invitation, others come flocking to our little circle. No matter the temperature, the kids gravitate towards the fire at night, so I always try to have one going near sundown. “Give us a poem, Daddy?” the new kid says, one of Luz’s strays. His name is Roy. He’s probably a little older than Luz. Maybe in his twenties. I think of asking for something in return—the kids need to learn the rules of this world, and better I teach them in my way than someone else in theirs—but I hold back. Just this once, I feel like giving one away.</blockquote>

<blockquote>“Funny you should say that,” I said. “I’m interested in paint.” “Painting.” “Paint,” I said. “I dabble a bit in alchemy, and I reckon it might be possible to make synthetic blue. Instead of having to grind up ruinously expensive lapis lazulae in a pestle and mortar.” She didn’t say anything, so I went on: “There’s definitely a demand for it. A genuine deep royal blue at a fraction of the price. A man could make a nice little bit of money that way.” “I’ve never used blue.” “Too expensive?” She nodded. “That’s why I started doing portraits, you don’t have to have any sky.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>No one will sleep until the Princess learns the Stranger’s name. Liù the slave girl, who has loved the Stranger since before his exile, when he was a Prince, when he smiled at her—Liù alone knows who he really is. So it is Liù who is dragged to the Princess’s garden by night, bound, ankles twisting as she stumbles through the peonies.</blockquote> ➤ Not sure I quite follow the ending but it works anyway

<blockquote>A young food taster to the Traitor King must make a difficult choice in this story of pastries, magic, and revenge.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Can dreams come true? They can if you win the lottery, which promises to provide what your heart desires. For a humble shopkeeper in Yiwu, it’s a living, selling lottery tickets. Until a winning ticket opens up mysteries he’d never imagined.</blockquote>

<blockquote>It is exam week, and Donny is 14 years 10 months 15 days 10 hours 16 minutes old. He is bored and hungry and his scalp itches and he hates school more than he’s ever hated anything before in his life. He hates exams in particular, and he hates his math exam most of all.</blockquote> ➤ cyborg teenager

<blockquote>For the first couple of months, Nyle would get up every day before sunrise and run the spinal corridor. It’s recommended for all observation personnel to get plenty of exercise. Helps with the linkup, apparently. After a while, though, it was every other day, then only the ones that start with T. Now it’s just Sundays, and he has to stop three times to catch his breath. Nyle’s never had a problem with linkup anyway. Back at the academy, they told him his brain has a certain pliability. It doesn’t push back. Neither did Nyle, either. Not when it mattered.</blockquote> ➤ not a happy ending

<blockquote>Vivian’s late grandmother was a witch—which is just a way of saying she was a woman of unusual insight. Vivian, in contrast, had a mind like a hi-tech blender. She was sharp and purposeful, but she did not understand magic. This used to be a problem. Magic ran in the family. Even her mother’s second cousin, who was adopted, did small spells on the side. She sold these from a stall in Kota Bharu. Her main wares were various types of fruit fried in batter, but if you bought five pisang or cempedak goreng, she threw in a jampi for free. These embarrassing relatives became less of a problem after Vivian left Malaysia. In the modern Western country where she lived, the public toilets were clean, the newspapers were allowed to be as rude to the government as they liked, and nobody believed in magic except people in whom nobody believed. Even with a cooking appliance mind, Vivian understood that magic requires belief to thrive.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The Marquis of A— reluctantly acquired a fiancée in the spring after an exchange of brief but formal letters. Miss B— had come highly recommended by his awful uncle, who described her as a charming woman on the brink of spinster-dom. She was rich due to her merchant father but without title due, again, to her merchant father. The Marquis had a title worth only its connections and prominence but little else due to the debt attached to it. He suspected Miss B— would like to be a marquise. He, himself, could happily continue to go into further debt for the room his mistress, Arla, kept in town overlooking the White Hill Beast.</blockquote> ➤ this did not go how I expected it to go and it's great

<blockquote>Sarge paces, her tight black braid swinging every time she rotates. She returns to her speech, and Tone wonders just how many times she’s given it, how many generations have passed on Earth while she’s flitted back and forth trading with alien worlds. “The time dilation means that more than a century has already passed. Another and change by the time your tour is up and we drop you back home. Those of you who survive the next year of ship-time will be returned to a new world, a world devoid of everything familiar. Many will turn right around and sign up for another jaunt. When you do, I will shake your hand and welcome you aboard. Hell, I’ll pour you a drink.” Sarge stops and faces them. “Until then, you are mine. The Earth you know is gone. Everyone you loved is dead. I am your mother, your father. The people to your left and right are your siblings. This is your family from now on. Let that sink in.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>You maintain a menu of a half dozen Experiences on your digital blackboard, but Vision Quest is the one the Tourists choose the most. That certainly makes your workday easy. All a Vision Quest requires is a dash of mystical shaman, a spirit animal (wolf usually, but birds of prey are on the upswing this year), and the approximation of a peyote experience. Tourists always come out of the Experience feeling spiritually transformed. (You’ve never actually tried peyote, but you did smoke your share of weed during that one year at Arizona State, and who’s going to call you on the difference?)  It’s all 101 stuff, really, these Quests. But no other Indian working at Sedona Sweats can do it better. Your sales numbers are tops. Your wife Theresa doesn’t approve of the gig. Oh, she likes you working, especially after that dismal stretch of unemployment the year before last when she almost left you, but she thinks the job itself is demeaning.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Ann Crothers looked at the clock and frowned and turned the fire lower under the bacon. She had already poured his coffee; he liked it cooled to a certain degree; but if he did not get up soon it would be too cool and the bacon too crisp and he would be angry and sulk the rest of the day. She had better call him.</blockquote> ➤ originally published in the 50's.