LINKDING

quote: The sand underfoot was still fresh with ripples where it had been raked to hide the blood. The sea rushed in over Leris’s feet, the wave in the water meeting the waves in the sand and smoothing out, inch by inch, the remaining evidence of the first bout. “Ready?” It was the first word Gerthe had spoken all day. The sun was just shy of its peak, bearing down on the spectators and the competitors in equal measure. It would have been different, in a proper amphitheatre: the two pairs of combatants would have regarded each other from the shaded safety of the tunnels, sizing the others up and taking the time to discuss strategy. But this was the archipelago, and one of the rimward isles besides, and the closest amphitheatre was a week’s sail away on Leshin. Here there was nothing but a patch of sand, bounded on one side by temporary wooden stands and on the other by the ocean. ➤ a full novella published online for free the same way a short story would be! ➤ secondary world fantasy about two women from the outskirts of empire, who don't fit the identities their cultures expect of them but are also out of place within the empire ➤ they're gladiators in a partnership where one in a pair of gladiators takes a "swordform" and the other wields them ➤ great characters and great worldbuilding and great reflections on identity in this context! ➤ I loved Leris and Gerthe, and Ulmo too ➤ and the Empress herself and her story is fascinating, and I can see how in a different narrative her backstory would be the focus of a heroic narrative, and I love that that's not the story we get, this isn't a "monarchy is good with the right person in charge" kind of story like so much fantasy is ➤ the narrative perspective on religion is really cool too ➤ 36k words in length

Summary: <blockquote>In your head, the dead man wakes up crying. He stutters into awareness just as you manage to stanch the tears welling in your eyes, a response to the pressure of his presence on your limbic system. Your fingers brush, irritated, against the port at the back of your neck, catching at the ridges of the drive that carries his consciousness. He’s confused, lashing out to wrest temporary control of your limbs from you in quick staccato bursts before you can yank them back. “Stop that,” you snap, and then, remembering your client, soften the message with a “please.” Your right pinky twitches and you lasso it in, exerting your will over its movement. You splay your hands on your desk and watch them carefully, pay attention to your toes lest they start off on unwelcome dance routines, but in your head the dead man quiets, and you know he’s beginning to understand.</blockquote> ➤ sci-fi story about a woman with a port-drive into her brain that allowed her to be a great child actor when she was young, and gives her a career as an adult of plugging in the mental backup of a dead person to visit bereaved families who want their beloved dead back again ➤ about identity, embodiment, and not knowing how to want things ➤ also about body-sharing ➤ in second-person pov which works so well for the things this story is about and the things it's doing! the main character is someone who spends most of her time being someone else, after all ➤ it's so compellingly written! ➤ has the perfect ending, which can be so hard to pull off right ➤ 7k words in length ➤ this is the first published story by this author, and something this great is her first; I am excited to think of where she might go from here!

Summary: <blockquote>I tell Mateo to meet me at a wine bar. It’s a quiet, low-key spot—ideal for first dates, because it’s easy to make a speedy exit in case the red flags start flying—or worse, if the men in blue come knocking. It’s been over an hour, and we’re on our second glass of wine when I realize there are no red flags. He’s not just monologuing, he’s asking me questions too. This is actually a good first date—and when was the last time that ever happened for me? But I can’t help but worry that the puddles from this afternoon’s shower may have dried up. Any time there’s a pause in the conversation, my head swivels to the exit to check for the men in blue.</blockquote> ➤ a beautiful story about fear and trauma and being an immigrant or from an immigrant family, and queer romance and the wisdom of the people who love you, and how something that can help save you and that can bring joy and fun in your life can also be an unhealthy coping mechanism if you take it too far. I loved reading about Javier and Mateo as they developed their relationship!

Summary: <blockquote>This is the first poem Xu Anshi gave to us; the first memory she shared with us for safekeeping. It is the first one that she composed in High Mheng—which had been and remains a debased language, a blend between that of the San-Tay foreigners, and that of the Mheng, Anshi’s own people. She composed it on Shattered Pine Prison, sitting in the darkness of her cell, listening to the faint whine of the bots that crawled on the walls—melded to the metal and the crisscrossing wires, clinging to her skin—monitoring every minute movement she made—the voices of her heart, the beat of her thoughts in her brain, the sweat on her body.</blockquote>

<blockquote>I’m thrown through a doorway into a room full of girls. I use this word loosely. Most are past bleeding age, some with bellies that round like rising moons. They sit at a large table in the middle of the room, dressed in matching gray smocks, identical white sashes tied around their waists. To my people, white is for funerals; the color seems fitting. They watch as I hit the ground. Like me, they wear hobbles of strong, light chain.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The birth of a twin is a special thing. Mama told us when we were young. "There are customs in every land," she said. "And our land requires sacrifice." So when our mare gave birth to twins, she told me. "Lily, one of these foals will be ours, but the other will be given to the land."</blockquote>

<blockquote>Isabel said, “I think I’m being possessed.” You said, “You’re not being possessed.” You also said, “Don’t be so dramatic,” which you would later look back on and regret.</blockquote> ➤ really good and interesting, and then that last line!!!

<blockquote>This is Chapter Thirty or so in a whole ongoing saga that I don’t have time to get into right now. I’m jumping in at the point when my Machiavellian twin brother Charles decided to take over Mars, and I decided to help. My big failing is I never figure these things out until I’m already in the middle of them. But I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?</blockquote>

<blockquote>“Help us,” my mother begged the rishi. “Pray to Sri Lakshmi, and ask her to take away this boon.” The old woman shook her head. “That might anger the goddess. You shouldn’t appear ungrateful.” After some discussion, the rishi devised a curse, one whose words I know by heart because my mother repeated them to me every night before I slept and every morning when I awoke: “If Rampalalakshmicharan turns an object into gold for another person, they must give him whatever he demands in return. If they don’t, the golden object will turn to ash and he will lose his ability forever.” It wouldn’t guarantee my safety, especially not while I was too young to understand the consequences of my actions, but it meant that no one could abuse my gift forever.</blockquote> ➤ retelling of Rumpelstiltskin from the Rumpelstiltskin character's pov, making him a sympathetic character

<blockquote>During the unbearable years of tyranny, the political prisoners of the Anchorite Hegemony made a solemn covenant: when the time came, they would cross the last miles to freedom on their feet. For reasons of youth and idiocy, Tishrel thought he would have a choice in the matter. The doors of his cell would open, and rather than flee into the sky, he would make the journey as he had made his way through the years in captivity: with what dignity he could, one foot after another.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Mara took us down into the caves because we were bored, and because she was the oldest so it was her job to figure out what to do when me and Kay were bored. No one had found a new hiding place for Hide and Seek in three years, and all the board games in the game room were either for grown-ups or babies, and we weren’t allowed to play Hiding From The Martians anymore after the time when we burst out of the storage locker screaming, “Aaaaaaaah, it’s the Martians!” at Dr. Hatae and made her drop her geological samples all over the floor, which took her three hours to sort out.</blockquote>

<blockquote>My dearest Pippa, Today I walked past the flat you lived in when I first knew you, on my way to the only glassmaker in the city still working. The earthworkers were having a protest outside in the street. One of them had the long, uneven haircut you wore then. I think I would have joined their march even without seeing that eager youth, but—really, what else could I do. So I went a mile out of my way to march outside the Directorate and sing angry songs, and I nearly missed picking up my flasks before the glassmaker closed, but I knew you would approve. I love you.</blockquote> ➤ I've tagged this $other because although it's clear one of the characters is trans it's never actually clear what gender either of them is? So I can't exactly tag the gender formation of this relationship.

<blockquote>It feels like ghost stories should mean something, but it’s not at all clear what. I managed to get about a hundred pages out of the question, “What do these mean, anyway?” when I wrote my doctoral dissertation to get my PhD in Folklore, all without reaching an actual conclusion. My mother helpfully pointed that out when she read the manuscript. “If I give them a real answer, they’ll just complain about it,” I said. “So just tell me, Leah,” she said. “What do you think ghost stories mean?” “I think they’re the manifestation of people’s desire for answers about death and eternity,” I said. “But I could be totally wrong, especially since there’s a whole category of ghost stories that don’t seem to have anything to do with identifiable dead people.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>The girl does not come to Mebuyen, so Mebuyen goes to the girl. She is standing ankle-deep in the river, looking down, her mouth open. Mebuyen notices, as she draws closer, that the child’s calves are skinny, her cheeks chubby, and her SpongeBob Squarepants sando has a bullet-sized hole above her ribs. Mebuyen frowns as she steps into the river, waiting for the girl to speak.</blockquote>

<blockquote>“Ah yes, the ill-fated expedition of 2031,” he said, shaking his head. I was delighted to recognize in his heavily accented English the speech mannerisms of Bihar, the state in India where I am from. Biharis are not very common on the moon. But before I could say anything about my origins, he launched into the story behind the space-suit.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Constable Kershaw has not uttered any overrides, nor issued a warrant to access her memory logs, but Celia understands nonetheless that she is expected to stay, to sit and answer his questions like a suspect. It surprises her, this treatment. Like she’s human.</blockquote>

<blockquote>When Satan himself came to Lolly, she didn’t recognize him. She wasn’t on her guard—hadn’t been for years. Why should she be? Her immortal soul had long since drowned in rum and rotted under gobs of treacle toffee. If any scrap was left, it was too dry and leathery to tempt evil. But even the most pious of parsons wouldn’t have recognized the Devil in the guise of a dead woman floating face-down in the Mersey.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Two women who have been friends since they were children—one a recovering alcoholic brought up by parents who believe they’re alien abductees, the other an orphan with an eating disorder—contend with a secret that might doom their friendship.</blockquote>

<blockquote>When I finally went in she had cleared the table and pulled the carpetbag out from under the bed. It was grey with dust; even before Da died Mam and I weren’t supposed to touch it, though I used to open it when no one was looking. It’s the past, Da would say when I asked him about it. From when we thought we knew better than God. We came here to get away from that. The way Mam was laying things out, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had peeked inside. She didn’t even have to look, just put out the candles and the fancy drawings, and even the vials that I liked best. In your hand the stuff inside looked black, but when you held them up to the light you saw that it was really a dark, sweet red. Beside these Mam put a knife I had never seen before, with a thick handle and two round blades folded up like a flower. “I’ll show him,” she said. “I’ll show him my god-damned claim.”</blockquote> ➤ awful and ouchy and well-written and intense

<blockquote>“Our job is to make people happy,” she purred, raising a playful eyebrow. “Fulfill their requests. Help them make connections.” “Connections with their fellow eniyans,” I shot back, pointing at the Iyami Aje mission statement on my cube wall, engraved on a glittering obsidian plaque. “With their own fragile kind. I don’t work like you, Bola.” I fiddled with the ergonomic levers of my swivel chair. “I don’t just ignore the hazards of getting entangled.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>The five other fairies scowled at her. They too were all drunk and well fed, and the meal in their bellies was taking on the sour heaviness of an unpaid debt. They had all brought trinkets for the baby, of course, all the gifts that could formally be expected by a low nobleman—which was why six of them had been invited in hopes of getting at least one blessing—but the feast had also exceeded what could formally be expected for their having deigned to grace the occasion. They could hardly refuse the cake, either—and didn’t want to—and would have a lingering sense of a favor owed.</blockquote> ➤ eyyy I like this

<blockquote>Whispers said this new girl was officially called Brenda, but that was just as stupid as all the other Agency names, and the girl wouldn’t remember it after Processing anyway. At first I said we should call her Dishrag or Milkbreath, but even Flash thought that was too mean, and Flash is as nasty as hot sauce and lye. She’s the one who named me Ghost, on account of I’m small and shadow-dark and she thinks I creep around too much in the night. She got her name ’cause that’s how fast fosters send her back after their cat turns up dead and they realize the devil has blond hair and dimples.</blockquote>

<blockquote>HiQIRR rates this highway U/UR: unsafe/urgent repairs needed. HiQIRR rates most highways U/UR. Two hundred four point eight miles ago HiQIRR rated a highway DC/6: degraded/check again in six months. HiQIRR experienced unexpected procedural harmony. Krace says that means HiQIRR is happy. Krace says to use round numbers like two hundred.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Scarlett accidentally wakes the dead in the bottom of a coat closet, with a half-naked boy pressed against her and a bottle of tequila she’s too drunk to drink. That’s all it is, in the end: flesh against flesh, and a few whispered secrets. A ghost story she swore she would never, ever tell.</blockquote>

<blockquote>On the first day of Sara's appointment as Magistra Descendant to the Assembly of Terravine, Public Works decided they needed grassroots support for the plant. "I mean, I agree in principle," Sara had tried telling him, as he gestured at his hand-annotated wallcharts. "But for one thing, I'm supposed to be neutral, and for another thing, people might be eating!"</blockquote> ➤ aww yeah sentient spaceships are the best

<blockquote>It had been the most desperate moment of Angelo Neumann’s life so far, and you were certain to live through many such moments if you lived for the opera. When he closed his eyes, he could still picture his friend of so many years and partner in so many troublesome events, wildly running away from the new opera house and crying: “Can’t get me in there again! I’m done! Hear me?! Done!” Which were the most articulate parts.</blockquote> ➤ a world where opera houses as a matter of course all need to hire exorcists

<blockquote>“Your majesty—” Leita began.  Queen Sveta laid her hand on the dressmaker’s arm. “I could not, of course, condone anyone breaking our kingdom’s laws. However, my daughter needs a dress almost like magic. Very like magic indeed.” Leita held her counsel, thinking quickly.  She avoided the queen’s gaze, and looked up at the Princess Aina who had slipped off her stool. She cradled a bolt of rose silk, swaying slightly to private music. Over the years, Leita had come to feel affection for the queen and her awkward daughter. She understood the queen’s desperation. She, too, had once borne a child she’d have done anything for.</blockquote>

<blockquote>At first, the murder is universally mistaken for a run-of-the-mill political assassination.</blockquote>

<blockquote>George had only ever taken one trip without Millie, in the fall of 1951. A letter had arrived from the army asking him to fly to New Mexico.</blockquote> ➤ part 2 http://strangehorizons.com/fiction/in-joy-knowing-the-abyss-behind-part-2/

<blockquote>Once, I dreamed that I had a son named Sheldon, and my grief tore a hole in the fabric of the world.</blockquote> ➤ In which Sarah finds connections to an alternate universe where she was born a cis woman (Sarah's a trans woman) and has a kid. Sarah is ultimately happy with the universe she's in because she has her partner Janet