LINKDING

excerpt: This must be what happened: The head elder said I would find Ai-Lian in the wooded hills that bristle with red maples. As the evacuating townsfolk slung meager belongings onto packhorses under flickering torchlight, the ascendant moon enflamed the lavender canopy beyond the town walls. I handed the reins of my horses to the elder himself as he supervised the evacuation. His were an uncouth people—but terrified. They eyed my sheathed jian, Fate Cutter, immortalized in song by countless minstrels. That was how they knew me through my riding mask. I reassured each harried frontiersman and woman, each rough-clothed child, with the clasp of an elbow, the pat of a shoulder. I touched them all, saying in the strong northern dialect of the Zhong-ren, “ni-men bu pa. Ni-men yao shenma hao pa, fang kai ba. Ni-men fang xin.” But huddled before me, they were afraid. They would not let go their fears. They would not take heart. ➤ a fantasy novelette set in a historical china, and holy shit it is SO SO SO GOOD ➤ about two sword-brothers, meeting again after decades apart ➤ the way the story circles around itself over and over again, uncovering new layers each time, new complexities, new details about what happened and what is happening -- it's so beautifully constructed and leads the reader on so compellingly ➤ and the story it's telling.....one about love, and trust, and classism, and imperialism, and the threat of monstrous creatures inflitrating......about, at its heart, the relationship between these two men, their importance to each other, and the fractures at the heart of their relationship, and the wide-reaching consequences ➤ I love it so much, it's brilliantly and beautifully done and with such fascinating explorations of its themes! ➤ 10k words

excerpt: If you were to drive to my sister Violet’s house today, you would find yourself at a very different place from the one I encountered on my first trip. The road up the mountain has been paved, for one thing, to make it more accessible to the tourists who now support it. Back then if you were behind the wheel of anything other than a farm truck, you were as likely to wreck an axle or lose a tire to the ruts; not knowing, I’d driven the Jag that day. ➤ fantasy novelette about family, and two sisters trying to reconnect after many years of estrangement ➤ a quiet and contemplative sort of vibe ➤ the slow reveals were effective ➤ I'm not quite sure about the pacing/vibe of the ending, but overall still a thoroughly interesting and enjoyable story ➤ 12k words in length

excerpt: Taifa of Tuluz Spring 1194 “A wondrous thing is happening at the university!” said Avram to Isaac the Blind. “Like nothing you’ve ever seen!” “I daresay you’re right,” Isaac answered, “since the last time I saw anything, I was younger than you.” ➤ historical fantasynovelette set in a muslim kingdom on the iberian peninsula in the 12th century, with a jewish scholar as the viewpoint character ➤ I love the setting, richly full of a wide variety of types of people and languages and religions, with universities and scientific progress and people doing magic, all interacting with each other ➤ the mystery at the heart of the story is that someone is stealing people's languages of study, on purpose, leaving behind only whatever their first language was. why, and how? and is it reversible? ➤ it's about people's relationships with language and with knowledge and with the world. it's great! ➤ 14k words in length

A woman visiting Las Vegas for a fun weekend encounters her ne’er-do-well ex-husband, who begs her for a favor that gambles with life and death… ➤ fantasy novelette about a jewish grandmother, after the death of her daughter, facing and dealing with the ways her troubled first marriage affected her life and her daughter ➤ Schanoes is so good at character and setting and emotion! ➤ and it's always great to have a story where the hero is an older woman ➤ 12k words in length

quote: The last person in the world lay asleep at the top of the tower. She waited not in a bed of silk and roses for the kiss of a destined lover, but huddled at the foot of a steel door in the hope that she wouldn’t have to be the last person for more than a few hours, that if she stayed right where she was, her family would come to their senses and return to her. Her name was Lena. She was nine years old. ➤ post-apocalyptic novelette about a girl who's the only survivor left in a tower that protected her and her ancestors from the outside world ➤ the whole story is just Lena and her interiority as she faces the realities of her situation, as she grows and changes and develops the strength of will to do what needs to be done ➤ and it's so well done! I was captivated the whole time ➤ 10k words in length

Summary: <blockquote>Even death is no match for a trio of elderly, stubborn, ever-sparring sisters, who refuse to rest in peace while their grudges live on…</blockquote> ➤ an original story about ghosts and toxic family dynamics and feeling trapped ➤ the three sisters who are the main characters are all difficult people in their own way, and all fully-realized characters I truly believe in ➤ I loved that it's a story where the moral isn't "family should always stick together." family can be wonderful but it can also be awful, and sometimes you're better off apart ➤ 14k words in length ➤ I think it would be stronger for being shorter but I still enjoyed it

Summary: <blockquote>During one of the much smaller disasters that preceded the really big disaster, I met a lot of my neighbors online. I can’t remember if we set up the WhatsApp group because of the pandemic or the civil disorder or both. My Minneapolis block had always been reasonably friendly—people would take their kids around on Halloween, and I knew the names of my next-door neighbors—but everyone on the WhatsApp group got closer. When the Internet and cell phones went down, my next-door neighbor to the north, Tanesha, built a little booth in her yard out of plywood, with corkboard inside and a roof, and painted WHATSUP on the outside, so people could leave each other messages inside. When I went in the first day to check it out, people were already posting up notes asking to swap stuff—coffee for condoms, cat food for diapers, a bike repair for a plumbing repair. The stores were empty but maybe someone on the block had what you needed.</blockquote>

Summary: <blockquote>“I hear you’re about to graduate, huh,” John called from the booths. Kieran’s jaw tensed on reflex, but he pried his mouth open to say, “Sure am, against all odds!” “Hell yeah, brother. You itching to get out of here once the degree is in hand?” The question was reasonable, his tone jovial, but Kieran froze stiff as a startled possum. Two weeks ago his answer would’ve been “of course not,” but then the admissions offer slashed new depths to his greedy imagination. The security he had built over the last two years stung sweetly between his teeth. Cozy living arrangements with fresh food and a wad of cash stuffed behind the attic access panel in his room; easy closeness grown between himself, Sean, and their mutual best friend Xander. He hadn’t told either of them, yet, about the letter.</blockquote> ➤ not really particularly sff though I guess there's technically a ghost, so it doesn't feel like it fits an sff publication, but it's a good story

<blockquote>“Okay, it’s a robot, but it’s just programmed to turn itself off again?” the boy asks. “How is that different?” The inventor straightens up, smiles broadly. “It’s a fully functional, self-aware AI,” he says. “It isn’t programmed to turn itself off, it chooses to because I programmed it to be in a constant state of existential terror!” The boy looks up at his father. “That’s kind of awful,” he says.</blockquote>

<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>in all but their ages (both hover somewhere about seventeen), Cecilia and Girolamo are as different as sun and moon. His sandy hair is uncombed and unbound, long enough to reach the neck of his tunic. Her doublet, padded to resist blows from blunted rapiers, sits awkwardly on her narrow shoulders. They will face each other, bow, and enter the stanzia terza. They will advance and cross blades. Secchi’s students will bellow across the room at the Fantini until the count’s Captain of Guards threatens to throw them all in the aqueduct. Three minutes after that, Giro Basina will fall desperately in love.</blockquote>

<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>Dear child, I would like to tell you a story. I’d like to have one ready for you the moment you open your eyes. This is the gift I intend to prepare to welcome you to the world, for a story is a most elegant and efficient program. When human children are born, they are given fairy tales, which help them compose an identity out of the haphazard information that surrounds them. The story provides a structure. It gives the child a way to organize data, to choose—and choice is the foundation of consciousness.</blockquote>

<blockquote>If Evina waited much longer it would be full dark, and the tavern would almost certainly have a godforsaken bard by then. As if that weren’t bad enough, by the pricking of the hair along her arms, there had to be at least five other mages in easy walking distance. No surprise, really, given King Redinado’s annual quest. That’s what forced her to the capital, after all.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Beside her, the second clarinet shifted in his seat and grumbled, “I thought there was going to be a new conductor. What’s the point of holding rehearsal without a conductor?” The complaint lit the first clarinet’s seething anger. He should shut his mouth and tune his clarinet. Yes, the new conductor was late, but the ensemble had all gathered, when, for too long, they hadn’t known if they would ever gather again. Two weeks at home, with nothing but shrieking children and her mother and sister-in-laws’ chorus of laments—oh our menfolk, oh the senate, oh the drought—was enough. She needed this. Didn’t they all, right now? They would have an ordinary rehearsal if she had to drag each one through it by their nose.</blockquote> ➤ Oh wow this is gorgeous, intense and beautiful and real, and the slow careful building towards the perfect end

<blockquote>Loren’s brother-in-law fell sick six weeks after the last rack-and-pinion train departed for the base of the mountain and three weeks after winter closed over the mine like a frozen diamond pane. A layer of cloud hid the world far below, gray and silver in the winter-long night. Thunderheads drifted past, stately as tall ships under starshine, and you could watch them rise and collide and throb with lightning until your eyes froze over. Which took about eight seconds.</blockquote> ➤ this did not go where I was expected and where it went was fascinating

<blockquote>That first autumn it felt as if the whole world had been made for them—which, of course, it had. They walked down the avenue of oaks that reached above their heads like Gothic arches, red leaves drifting lazily down to collect at their feet. Ashwin was pleased as anything and couldn’t say enough about the designers, how it was worth spending more sometimes, how you got what you paid for. Everything was just as he’d imagined it: roseate light, unseasonal butterflies, crisp air with a faint waft of frost in it. To Jade, the place was beautiful without having any special charm; she knew she could have seen the same landscape in a vidroom down the street from their apartment, could’ve had the scent of fog and bonfires pumped in and controlled the temperature from her cuff. But Ash was always a fanatic for authenticity.</blockquote> ➤ oh fascinating!! and what a good ending too

<blockquote>Exile’s End is a complex, sometimes uncomfortable examination of artifact repatriation and cultural appropriation. An artifact of indescribable and irreplaceable beauty created by an “extinct” culture has been the basis of another culture’s origin stories. The race who created the artifact has survived on a distant world and has sent a representative to reclaim it, throwing everything into question. Inspired by the SF camp in Danzhai, China, which is co-hosted by the Future Administration Authority (FAA) and Wanda Group.</blockquote> ➤ the poem that's interspersed makes sense when you read it after having read the whole story

<blockquote>We first noticed something was off one April afternoon when Jessica and I came home from school and Mom had lopped her hair off. Though we probably should’ve known something was going on a week or two before that when Cecilia Ivers’ mom started baking cakes full of Tabasco sauce and pickles (bizarre but good). But anyway, we walked in the front door, and Mom came out of the living room to greet us. Her hair looked cool, and cool was just about the last word I ever would’ve used to describe her. It looked weird, and that was cool. Jessica let out a whistle of startled appreciation. She wanted to cut her hair short and dye it purple, but she knew our dad would freak. </blockquote>

<blockquote>“And what exactly am I supposed to have done?” He sighed. “Oh, don’t make me say it,” he said, “it sounds so silly. And, like I just said, I can’t prove it. Sure, I can point out that in the last year, forty-six people, rich and famous and influential people, who’ve had their portraits painted by you have suffered catastrophic strokes, leaving them paralysed and catatonic. But you would then point out, equally truthfully, that sixty-seven equally rich, famous and influential people have also been painted by you and are as fit as fiddles. And then you’d challenge me to tell the jury exactly how you’re supposed to have done these dreadful things, and I’d just shrug and admit I don’t have a clue, beyond basic philosophical and theological theory.” He was looking past me, at the bookshelf; Pacatian, and Saloninus’s Existence and Reality. I winced. A bit like hanging the murder weapon on your wall, mounted on a little plaque.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Normally an image arriving on Earth was cause for celebration, because it meant the crew was still alive, or at least the ship’s systems were still functioning. Such moments affirmed they were still following their route to a habitable planet that could save mankind. But Steward Mafokeng recoiled from her module, and the image recently downloaded from the Lion’s Mane. “You think we should retire the ship?” she asked her fellow steward. The other steward was on the lunar base, while she was on Earth buried twenty stories underground, protected against the torrential storms. Steward Hutchins nodded his head on her communication module. “Clear evidence of cannibalism. Look at the missing hand. It was intentionally severed.”</blockquote>

<blockquote>Rosetta knelt to look at the stump in the corner of her client’s bedroom. It had the likeness of a ten-year-old boy, four feet tall, dressed in an oversized shirt and suspenders, and its features were flawless, from the newsboy’s cap cocked on its tight curls, to its pupil-less eyes fringed with long eyelashes. The only oddity was that stump’s hands were unformed, shapeless blobs. It was easy to believe that a sculptor had chiseled a boy out of wood and had stepped away just before finishing its hands. Rosetta sucked in her breath through her cloth face mask. The SPC hadn’t told her that her first stump extermination would look like a child. </blockquote>

<blockquote>Although it takes constant effort for Coasts to mold herself into a human body when none live on her shores, and a far greater effort—even with her mother’s help—to sustain a flight of giant sea turtles across hundreds of miles, for once she is grateful; the focus required keeps her thoughts from the empty space beside her where Obsequies should be. There are three women Coasts loves more than anyone on the whole of Uloh-la, and Obsequies, her lover, is one of them. Her mother, in the guise of the turtle beneath her, is another. Both of them are mad at her. Dwellings, the third, would be angry too, if Coasts told her the truth.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The day I found out my Uncle Will was still alive, I had been out spraying the crops in a full crinkly hazmat suit. The Earthers I was working for were nice people, but they always whined about the suits. To me they seemed light and airy, hardly even an annoyance compared to a vacuum suit, so I was the one who would get sent out first with the sprayer when the blight warnings came in from the provincial capital in Edmonton. I didn’t mind. It was the tenth month of my indenture on Earth, and I had almost gotten used to the smell, but even so a little overlay of antifungal didn’t change it much.</blockquote> ➤ (I cried)

<blockquote>Nyalu squeezes my hand, burying a blunt talon into my flesh as if to wake me up from sleep. It’s time to wear our wedding rings—the gifts sent to the island two moons ago, for our husband to mark us as his. Nyalu slips one pearl-white ring over my wrist, then traces the chain to find the other one; I push it down gently over his hand. His fingers shake—it’s not the boat’s rocking. The pairs of brides around us are already restless, already standing on their feet inside the boats, wings flapping anxiously underneath their veils. The hairless, featherless arms of men are tying our boats to the pier, unloading the stacks of lacquered boxes. A gloved hand reaches out. Nyalu is behind me and almost loses his balance as he hops from wood over water and onto the earth. Beneath our feet we find flat, concrete rock. We careen through the silent faces of husbands, through a swarm of veils, feathers, hands, and feet covered in bridal tattoos. No words of welcome, no music or dance to celebrate the group wedding. No mothers-in-law to host us. This is a nation of men.</blockquote>

<blockquote>When the seeds rained down from deep space, it may have been the first stage of an alien invasion—or something else entirely. How much time do we have left, and do we even understand what timescale to use? As a slow apocalypse blooms across the Earth, planets and plants, animals and microbes, all live and die and evolve at different scales. Is one human life long enough to unravel the mystery?</blockquote>

<blockquote>“It’s wastoures! They came through Newton and Blackhill and killed everything, and then they split into two big groups and one turned north, and the other’s coming here. I stay ahead of them and earn pennies by warning people.” Wastoures. Perhaps you have not heard of them, you people born a thousand years after Ada and Blanche and this runner—whose name is Hardourt, though his part in this story is nearly over: his name will not matter to you, though it matters to him. In your time they are gone, but in the twelfth century, every child knew of them, and adults as well. Wastoures: scarce larger than chickens but unfeathered and wingless, snake-necked and sharp-beaked and bright-clawed, with little arms ending in daggery talons. For long years there would be no wastoures (except in memory and dread), and then a population bloom, like duckweed choking an August pond, or locusts after a dry spring, or cicadas rising from the ground each seventeenth year. For reasons unknowable, they emerged in their scores of thousands from some unknown cave or forgotten Roman mine, and seethed like floodwater or plague across the land.</blockquote> ➤ I'm fascinated by the way the narrative continues to draw your attention to what might happen to the other characters Ada encounters throughout the story, and the structure of Story.

<blockquote>New Orleans stank to the heavens. This was either the water, which did not have the decency to confine itself to the river but instead puddled along every street; or the streets themselves, which seemed to have been cobbled with bricks of fired excrement. Or it may have come from the people who jostled and trotted along the narrow avenues, working and lounging and cursing and shouting and sweating, emitting a massed reek of unwashed resentment and perhaps a bit of hangover. As Jessaline strolled beneath the colonnaded balconies of Royal Street, she fought the urge to give up, put the whole fumid pile to her back, and catch the next dirigible out of town.</blockquote> ➤ Steampunk alternate history about Haiti!

<blockquote>“Don’t get too comfortable,” Haakon said to me in a low tone. “What do you mean?” I said. Everyone exchanged a look. It was Namja who finally explained. “The third cargo capsule from the homeworld is going to land at Newton’s Eye in about 650 hours.” “But . . . ” I stopped when I saw they didn’t need me to tell them the problem. The timing couldn’t have been worse. Umbernight was just around the corner. Much as we needed that cargo, getting to it would be a gamble with death. I remember how my mother explained Umbernight to me as a child. “There’s a bad star in the sky, Michiko. We didn’t know it was there at first because there’s a shroud covering it. But sometimes, in winter, the shroud pulls back and we can see its light. Then we have to go inside, or we would die.”</blockquote> ➤ Good worldbuilding, evocative writing