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Jemina noticed the Very Small Person the moment she entered the train.The child paused in the doorway to survey the car before glancing down at her ticket and then at the other half of the hard wooden bench, high-backed, its shellac peeling, that Jemina sat on. Jemina tucked the macrame bag beside her in with her elbow.
The child was one of the last on, which was why Jemina had been hoping against hope to have the bench to herself, at least all the two day trip to Kansas city. The train began to roll forward, a hoot of steam from the engine, a bell clang from the caboose at the back of the train, the rumble underfoot making the little girl pick her way with extra caution, balancing the small black suitcase in one hand against the pillowy cloth bag in the other.
She arrived mid-car beside Jemina and nodded at her as she struggled briefly to hoist her suitcase up before the elderly man across the man did it for her. She plumped the cloth bag in the corner between sidearm and back and sat down with a little noise of delight as she looked around. Catching herself at the noise, she blushed, fixed her gaze sternly forward as she folded her hands in her lap, and peeped at Jemina sidelong.
Jemina tried to imagine how she might appear. She knew herself thin but nicely dressed and pale-skinned. The lace at her throat was Bruges, the cross around her neck gold. She looked like a school-teacher, she imagined, and not a particularly nice one. She felt her lips thin further at the thought.
The child, interpreting the flattening of Jemina’s mouth for disapproval, fished in her bag and took out a small blackbound Bible. She began to read.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Jemina said. Her boldness surprised her, but this was a child, after all. “I’m Jemina Iarainn and I’m a scientist, headed to work at the War Institute in Seattle. Who are you are where are you going?”
The smile bestowed on her could have lit a room. The Bible slid back into the bag. “Oh thank goodness! I’m Laurel Finch and this is my very first train ride ever, up to Seattle too, and I was hoping I’d have an agreeable companion on my voyage.”
She stumbled a little over the solemnity in the last words. Jemina said, “Trips are much, much nicer with someone to talk to. Where are you going in Seattle? To visit relatives?”
“To the Soldiers’ Orphans’ Home there,” Laurel said, and her mouth drooped before she summoned her smile again. “I’ve been staying with my uncle for the last three years but he is traveling to China as an ambassador. It’s all right, he’ll come back for me, but in the meantime I’m to live there for a few years.”
“Seattle is very nice,” Jemina said. Her mind raced along the years before this child, living among orphans with no chance of adoption herself. Bleak, as bleak as any of Jemina’s childhood years. “You will meet Princess Angeline, Chief Seattle’s daughter. She lives down near the market and is a real Indian princess.”
“Do you know Seattle well?”Jemina shook her head, then nodded. “My twin sister is out there already and she has been writing me long letters.”
“Is she also a scientist?”
“She writes for the newspaper.”
“Oh! Like Nellie Bly!” Laurel clapped her hands and Jemina sighed internally. A daredevil reporter was more exciting than a scientist, but she was the one constructing giant killing war machines, after all, even though she was not at liberty to talk about any of that.
...
Still revamping this, since it insists on struggling from novelette length towards novella. Here you go.
Friendly Village loops and winds, tiny roads scattered among the trailers. Every patch of landscaping is different ““ cacti surrounded one mobile home, followed by a forest of rhododendrons, then dahlias that might have originated in my own garden.
Up along the creek ran a little road, unlined with homes. It led to a trailer of a peculiar pearly hue that might have been mistaken for grime at first. It was a Nordic style, almost, simulated white pine beams, rough wrought ironwork on the walls. Its landscaping was bare: a line of rocks, two tiny fir trees, one slightly larger than the other.
Outside, a massive rock crouched beside the mailbox.
In Greek mythology, such stones were sacred to Aphrodite. But I didn’t think a Greek God lurked within.
...
If you’ve got a favorite story that appeared online this year — yours or someone else’s — go nominate it!
(And if you’re wondering what stories of mine are eligible, they include Long Enough and Just So Long, Swallowing Ghosts, Pippa’s Smiles, Love, Resurrected, Bots d’Amor, Whose Face This Is, I Do Not Know, The Immortality Game, and Zeppelin Follies.
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NEAR:
The Mermaids Singing, Each To Each (Clarkesworld)
Peaches of Immortality (originally appeared as The Immortality Game in Fantasy)
Long Enough and Just So Long (Lightspeed)
Therapy Buddha (20/20 Visions)
Do the Right Thing (unpublished)
10 New Metaphors for Cyberspace (Abyss & Apex)
Memories of Moments, Bright As Falling Stars (Talebones)
RealFur (Serpentarius)
A Man And His Parasite (unpublished)
Not Waving, Drowning (Redstone)
Flicka (Subversions)
Raven (Twisted Cat Tales)
Legends of the Gone (Talebones)
FAR: (much less sure about this order, suggestions welcome)
Zeppelin Follies (Crossed Genres)
Surrogates (Clockwork Phoenix 3)
Kallakak's Cousins (Asimov's)
Five Ways to Fall in Love On Planet Porcelain (unpublished)
Angry Rose's Lament (Abyss & Apex)
Fire on the Water's Heart (Membrane)
Amid the Words of War (Lightspeed)
I Come From the Dark Universe (unpublished)
Seeking Nothing (Daily SF)
Bots d'Amor (Abyss & Apex)
TimeSnip (Basement Stories)
Mother's World (Aberrant Dreams)
(If you're curious about any, all of the online ones are linked to on my fiction page – http://www.kittywumpus.net/blog/fiction/. I know there's at least one A&A link that's broken, glad to hear of any other broken links.)
I've left some stories out, because there's actually enough for a 2nd fantasy antho and a horror one, much to my surprise. I've been more prolific over the past few years than I'd realized.
In my utter arrogance, I am debating whether or not I need to hire an editor, which is normally something I'd urge anyone putting together something for self-publishing to do. My reasoning is a) most of these have undergone multiple editing passes for publication, b) I am pretty sure I can find at least one volunteer proofreader, and c) I will be doing at least one read aloud pass to polish and finetune because I'd really like this to end up looking nice and error-free.
Cover art, I have no clue about yet. If I did it myself, it'd be two stick figures dancing.
Enjoy this insight into editing and want more content like it? Check out the classes Cat gives via the Rambo Academy for Wayward Writers, which offers both on-demand and live online writing classes for fantasy and science fiction writers from Cat and other authors, including Ann Leckie, Seanan McGuire, Fran Wilde and other talents! All classes include three free slots.
Prefer to opt for weekly interaction, advice, opportunities to ask questions, and access to the Chez Rambo Discord community and critique group? Check out Cat’s Patreon. Or sample her writing here.
...
The sound of the car wheels whispering along the road meshes with Grandmother’s snores and the faint noise of my mother’s humming as she drives. She prefers not to have the radio on during long trips.
Inside the car, it’s cold as a mall midsummer. Cold as a clinic, a hospital, a morgue. I can’t quite see my breath, but I’m wearing a sweater, while outside it’s 97 degrees — according to the dashboard gauge. The air conditioner roars its displeasure as we roll down the highway.
We are traveling with my reluctant grandmother from Mullinville, Kiowa County, Kansas, where she has spent all her life, to a West Coast nursing home near the neighborhood where my mother and I both live. Behind us are: her house, now up for sale; her Chrysler, also listed in the local paper; and her possessions, which my mother and I will return to sort through in a week.
The landscape spreads out with the pancake flatness of Kansas around us. Cottonwoods trace the edges of a meandering creek and its unseen waters. Irrigation sprinklers spread out green circles only visible from above, where a ribboned contrail shows a plane’s progress. Shimmers of summer heat prelude our arrival, as though we chase an oasis that never manifests.
My mother glances over at me. “Can’t sleep?”
“I thought you might want company.”
“I appreciate it. Though I can’t say that the silence hasn’t been welcome.” She rolls her eyes expressively towards the back seat.
“I heard that,” my grandmother says. It is unclear whether she is talking in her sleep or responding, so we wait. More faint snores come from the back seat, so we go back to talking quietly.
...
Abyss & Apex has a slew of interesting stories in this issue, including J. Kathleen Cheney’s steampunky Of Ambergris, Blood and Brandy, C. J. Cherryh’s The Last Tower and Vylar Kaftan’s Mind-Diver.
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Want access to a lively community of writers and readers, free writing classes, co-working sessions, special speakers, weekly writing games, random pictures and MORE for as little as $2? Check out Cat’s Patreon campaign.
"(On the writing F&SF workshop) Wanted to crow and say thanks: the first story I wrote after taking your class was my very first sale. Coincidence? nah….thanks so much."
In this Medium article, Cat Rambo talks about how she tries to control her year in order to hit her writing goals.
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