Issue 115 April 2023

Editorial: What Counts as Consent?

Emma Munro
Fae Magic on a Friday Night

Sheila Massie
Grin Minus Cat

Rich Larson
Gently Creaking Boards

Kat Day
We Are Not Phoenixes

John Wiswell

Purchase Issue

Editorial: What Counts as Consent?

April 1, 2023

Without consent, taking someone’s jewellery is theft. With consent, it’s an inheritance or a gift. Without consent, entering someone’s home is trespassing. With consent, it’s social congeniality. Without consent, performing surgery is physical abuse. With it, it’s gladly received.

It seems to me that consent and power dynamics go hand in hand. Each of our stories this month explores the impact of power on what counts as consent.

Our first story, Fae Magic on a Friday Night by Sheila Massie, is a confronting tale about consent. It’s an intimate portrait of an ordinary night out on the town in New York, where Fae magic is available for the taking. (TW: assault)

In a change of pace and style, our second story, Grin Minus Cat by Rich Larson, is Noir flash at its best. Cynical, fatalistic and morally ambiguous, set in a gengineered future, where murder and love are on the menu.

Our third offering, Gently Creaking Boards by Kat Day, circles back to issues of consent. This tale is both a mash-up of Goldilocks and the Three Bears and a “what happened to the house?” story with a dash of SF added to spice up what happens when consent is disregarded.

Finally, our reprint this month, We Are Not Phoenixes by John Wiswell, is a phoenix story that is all heart. This retold folktale explores the cost of being true to oneself, and it will linger long after you finish reading.

Enjoy!

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Fae Magic on a Friday Night

by Sheila Massie

April 7, 2023

TW: Assault

It was a warm August evening on the rooftop bar, with the NYC skyline up close and punching all my senses: the steady thrum of Times Square, the churning garish colors of the billboards, scents of oil and grime and smoke. There were enough Fae in the crowd for the air to shimmer with cast spells. None of my friends had shown up, though, and I was having a hard time attracting anyone for conversation or for dancing. All of this magic in the air and it wasn’t doing me any good.

The Fae were sloppy with their magic. It seeped from their pores and spittled from their hair and hung loosely from their fingertips as they shared glass pitchers of vodka-spiked, honey-sweetened cream, filling their glasses, and laughing.

I meandered my way through the crowd, deliberately brushing against Fae, my hand briefly on a bare shoulder, my thigh pushing against one of theirs, my fingers lingering on the nape of a neck, collecting a bit of Fae magic, enough for a momentary, smile-enhancing glamour. No one, Fae or human, responded to my smile.

It was well past midnight and everyone at the party was gregarious and talkative and pleasant enough. Just not with me. I was on my third whisky sour, but it didn’t seem to be doing much. When I heard one of the Fae was offering magic, I couldn’t think of a reason not to be included.

The line was long. More than a dozen humans waited in the corridor, chatting casually, poking and swiping at their phones. The magic was so potent in the air my body responded, muscles taut, skin flushed, heat rising, even in the hallway outside the hotel room.

I settled myself into place in line.

After an hour or so, a bar runner with a cart full of beer and liquor bottles and a stack of cloths, jostled up against me, trying to maneuver through the line. I held my ground, not wanting to lose my place. There were only two others in front of me now, and my skin was tingling with being so close. The bar runner finally let out an exasperated, “Excuse me!”

A young man, giddy with Fae magic, waved me into the hotel room. He didn’t even reach the elevator before casting his chosen spell. The scent of maple bacon and powdered sugar spun in the air. He stepped into the elevator, bragging, “Now I smell like breakfast.”

I hadn’t decided which spell I wanted to cast, but I knew I could do better than that.

The room was smaller than average, with a bed tucked under an enormous window, a postage-stamp-sized desk, a small bar top for making morning coffee, and a navy damask wingback chair. The Fae was draped sideways over the chair, head and ankles lolled over the chair’s arms, eyes closed, lips separated. The arch of its long, slender throat was exposed.

I took my place in line. The guy in front of me stood with his hands in his pockets, shifting foot to foot. He probably had never tasted Fae magic. I figured I’d give him a few more minutes to sort himself out. I tapped him on the shoulder. “You mind if I go first? I have to go back to the party,” I lied. “It’s my turn to buy the next round.” He shrugged and stepped aside.

The Fae moaned softly as I approached. The skin of its throat was bruised and swollen, flecked with blood, and feathered by scorch marks. I pressed my trembling fingers into the hollow above the Fae’s collarbone. It gasped, then settled. The magic vibrated along my skin.

A man claiming to be a medic nudged me, “Let me check the Fae.”

“Its fine,” I told him.

“It will only take a minute.” The medic edged past me and placed a hand on the soles of its feet, then the temples where the edge of its glossy amber hair met sharp cheekbones.

“You are holding up the line,” I said, eyeing the others waiting, deliberately inciting them. Word passed backwards, then a wave of mockery and thinly-veiled threats assaulted the medic. He threw me a stinging glare, glanced nervously at the agitated people still waiting their turn at the Fae. He backed off and left.

My fingertips pressed down hard, deep into the Fae’s skin, sinking as though dipping into a jar of honey. Its eyes opened slightly. One hand lifted to brush me away. The magic trickled into me, like whisky, the heat of it crackling along my skin, burrowing inwards.

I held on to it, savouring the incandescence coursing through me, as I took the elevator back up to the roof and the party. The music had changed tempo. It felt invigorating. Couples danced, their hips moving in time with the pulsing drumbeats, arms high in the air or circling their partners, heads nodding to the music. I ordered another whisky sour. I stepped onto the dance floor.

The magic vibrated like a guitar string inside me, eager to be spent. Speaking my desires under my breath, I cast a proficiency spell. My body responded to the music, effortlessly weaving a complicated series of steps.

I caught glances from both Fae and human; returned them boldly, moving among them, my hands lingering on smooth, warm skin, my smile a teasing invitation. I could have any of them. I chose a partner out of the crowd, who came with me, laughing. She passed her drink off to her friend and took my hand. We danced until sunlight reflected rose-gold on the glass of the skyscrapers.

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Grin Minus Cat

by Rich Larson

April 14, 2023

It’s a busy night at Fleisch, booths and bars packed with lonely suckers worshipping at the altar of evolutionary urges, draining their banks dry to watch women who’d never in a century fuck them dance like tonight they just might.

Me, I’m here on business. Some fresh faced small-timer calling himself the Cheshire ripped us off last week: intercepted our drop, ghosted before I could get my boys on the scene, then had the gall to try negotiating a buy-back with the boss. He should consider himself lucky I intercepted the message.

Nino would probably send a butcher squad; I just want to talk it out and get the shipment back where it belongs. I’m a good cop that way.

I carve through the neon gloom, heading toward the bar. Love bugs are drifting through the dark, those little gengineered things that prick you with an aphrodisiac- amphetamine cocktail to really get you spending. I swat one dead against the bartop, smear its guts into a smiley face with my thumb.

The bartender grimaces. “What’ll it be?” she shouts over the skull-pulping music.

“A dumbshit with a deathwish,” I say. “Name of Cheshire. Should be waiting for me.”

Her eyes flick to the spot my police holo would usually be, then she nods toward the private booths. “Third down.”

I order one of my standards, a rotgut vodka with hot sauce, and walk it to the back, past the jack-off stalls where fleshpads grow the orifice of choice— ace costs extra—for overstimulated clientele. The Cheshire’s not quite at that point when I find him in booth three, but he looks close.

Small man, striped purple jacket, splayed back on the gel cushions and utterly transfixed by the stripper wrapped upside down around the slowly rotating pole. He paid for quality: she’s long and lithe and beautiful, all hollow cheeks and beestung lips.

He only looks up when I click the door shut behind me. Frowns. “You’re not Nino.”

“Of course I’m not Nino.” I swirl my drink. “You thought Nino fucking Alvarez was going to come meet a nobody like you? I’m the trashman.”

He smirks. “Oh. Well.” He returns his gaze to the stripper, who is now moving spider-like toward the ceiling, clutching the pole with neon blue claws. “No mess here, Mister Trashman. Run along. The Cheshire only talks to big fish.”

I slosh my drink directly into his eyeballs, dousing them in alcohol and capsaicin. When he gropes inside his striped jacket, blind and howling, I smash the empty glass over his skull for good measure and he goes down in a heap.

“Look at that, you Alice-in-Wonderland-ass motherfucker.” I grab the edge of his orange-splattered coat, dislodging a few crumbs of glass. “A mess.”

I pocket his gun, a cheap modular thing still warm from the printer, and draw my own. The visual threat isn’t really going to translate. He’s still clutching at his eyes, rolling and moaning. The stripper is still doing her thing, either a true professional or just doped to the gills.

“Where’s the shipment you stole?” I demand.

“My eyes,” he sobs. “My fucking eyes, man—”

I stow the gun, grab him by the lapels instead. “I’ll take them out with a spoon if you don’t answer me. Where’s the shipment?”

“You’re in for it now,” he groans. “He’s in for it, right?”

And I get that little premonition, that little something plucking at the back of my mind, right before a slender muscly arm clamps around my windpipe. Neon blue nails waggle in my peripheral, close enough to look blurry. I know, instinctively, they are scalpel sharp.

“Hi,” says a very lucid voice in my ear. “These have neurotoxin on them, so just pretend you’re a statue, okay? A monument to the city’s dirtiest cops.”

Her other hand worms into my pocket and retrieves her partner’s gun, then yanks mine from its holster. I got limited head movement, so I stare down at the small man in the striped purple jacket, who’s apparently not the brains or even the muscle. He gets to his feet, glaring at me with capillary-burst eyes.

The two of them work together to cuff me to the pole, and he can see well enough to aim an elbow under my ribs. Then he steps back, gun leveled, and the stripper who I am fairly certain is also the Cheshire comes around front. She slumps down into the gel cushions, folds one long leg over the other.

“I got a butcher squad outside,” I say. “It’ll be easier on you two if they find me alive.”

Her lips peel back, and I realize the nails aren’t the only thing that glows. “You came alone, actually. And that message you jacked was never making it to Nino anyways.”

The hairs on my neck hackle up.

“Yeah,” she says. “Funny thing about that shipment we stole. I’m new in town, but I checked around and the drug purity’s about twenty percent higher than what Nino’s been selling.”

My heart pounds hard. “I don’t find that funny,” I croak.

“Nino wouldn’t either,” she says. “He would think that one of his bought cops has been ripping him off for almost a year already. Taking a slice of the high-purity product to sell on the side, and double-cutting the rest down to baby powder.” She shakes her head. “I tried that shit. Barely even buzzed me.”

“What do you want?” I ask, already suspecting, maybe even hoping.

“I’m new in town, like I said.” She shrugs. “I’m going to need a trashman.” She stands up, wraps herself in a chameleon coat scrolling designer patterns. “I have the booth booked until morning, maximum privacy. You’ve got plenty of time to think about it.”

They head for the door, and the last thing I see before they shut it is her radioactive blue grin floating in the dark, and shit, I guess this is what love feels like.

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Gently Creaking Boards

by Kat Day

April 21, 2023

She’s back.

Well, I think it’s her. She’s older, but she has the same sky-coloured eyes, overconfident manner, golden hair.

I want to tell her, this woman I’ve named Golden-hair, to get out. Leave me to my solitude, to my dust and cobwebs and the gentle whistle of wind winding its way in and out of cracks. But I can’t. I – and those like me – don’t have voice boxes and we can’t move. Well, except for the one with the chicken legs. But she’s a special case.

So I call, instead, to those others in the ways we know – through filaments deep in the earth, and insects in the air, through frost and mist on windowpanes, and gently creaking boards. Sometimes these ways take a while, especially at midsummer when the air is still. But that doesn’t matter, not usually. Houses live a long time.

She’s here again. I don’t add more. My uneasy vibrations will do the rest.

I liked the last family, very much. They were loving and gentle, and clean. The big one would do repairs, and I appreciated that, so I looked out for the little one. Made sure he never tripped running up the stairs, nudged things so that he never bumped his head. Small things.

That’s why I felt so bad when I didn’t stop her. I thought they must know her. She walked in, bold as you please, sat in the chairs, ate the food they’d left out, lay in their beds. Who does that uninvited?

It ought to have ended when she ran away. It would have. Except she came back, with scratches on her face she hadn’t had before. And she brought others, with weapons that smelled of oil and metal.

They chased out the family, because, they said, they were dangerous. It’s not right, they said. Animals shouldn’t live in houses, they said.

Me? I’m not sure I see the difference between one animal and another.

I’ve been empty ever since. She never wanted to live here. She just wanted revenge.

A reply comes back fairly quickly. It’s easier in the autumn.

Are you sure it’s her? Sometimes they look alike, but they’re not the same.

It’s Gingerbread, who is not really made of gingerbread. It’s an illusion, a good one. I’ve heard humans tell stories of a witch, but there’s no witch. Sometimes she lets the people she attracts stay for a while. Before she eats them.

No, but I want her gone. Tell me how you do it.

But Gingerbread’s question nags at me. I have to admit, it’s not like the last time, when she broke things and ran away. This woman has cleaned the grime from my skirting boards, and scrubbed the floors. Sometimes she leaves, but then she comes back with vegetables and fresh bread, and lights the kitchen fire.

I can’t deny it’s nice to be warm again.

I won’t show you my way. It’s not your nature. And you’re too close to other humans. They might burn you.

That draws my attention to the fireplace. The hearth is brick and the kitchen floor is stone. There’s little danger from a spark there. But my roof is thatch. And the weapons the others had… they smelled of fire.

My doors shiver in their frames. Golden-hair looks up from the tea she’s been drinking. And I don’t like the sharpness of the movement and I don’t like the heat and I don’t like her blue eyes that look like they belong outside.

I don’t care! I want her gone!

Golden-hair looks uncomfortable. I’m pleased. Maybe I can scare her off. It would be slower than Gingerbread’s methods, yes, but she’s right – it would be less dangerous.

I start by opening the kitchen door after Golden-hair has closed it, so the chill creeps in behind her and strokes her neck. The first time, she laughs and closes it again. The second, she looks confused. After the third, she frowns.

Be calm. Perhaps it’s not so bad. It can be nice to have a human. Sometimes they make things better.

I ignore Gingerbread and focus on Golden-hair, and my plan to unsettle her. I’m just trying to decide what to do next when she appears with cloth and thread and sets up a sewing machine on the kitchen table. She stitches a long tube and stuffs it with sawdust so that it resembles a snake. Is it a toy, I wonder? But there’s no little one here, any more.

She puts it at the bottom of the kitchen door. And I realise, it’s meant to block the draft, and help keep the door closed.

Confused, I reply to Gingerbread.

Nice to have a human inside? Make things better? Yes, if you eat them.

I spend the night jiggling the floorboards upstairs to sound like another human’s footsteps, making them faster and slower and faster again, keeping Golden-hair awake.

The next morning she leaves, closing the door behind her. She’s gone all day. Ha, I think, I’ve done it!

But by noon I realise I’m missing the fire, the smell of cooking, even her tuneless humming. I’m too cold, too quiet.

Even if you don’t.

Feeling empty, this time I reply to Gingerbread immediately.

What do you mean? Do you have someone living there?

My door opens. Golden-hair’s back, carrying bags. Some of them thunk as she drops them on the table. ‘Okay,’ she says to the empty room. ‘I’m going to get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll look at the loose boards.’

She doesn’t light the fire. I’m chilly.

I have. I like him. He hunts and leaves meat for me. He keeps things warm. I want him to stay. We’re meant to be lived in.

Golden-hair spends the next day checking for loose floorboards and nailing them down. She opens all the windows and whistles as she works. The air is warm and clean and…

… and

… it’s nice.

I consider her sky-coloured eyes, her confident manner, her golden hair. Lined skin, a smile, strong hands. Unwilling to give up, refusing to run away. Making things better. This isn’t her, I realise. She was never like this.

Maybe it will be okay.

After all, homes live a long time.

Comments

Raymond says:

December 23, 2024 at 11:51 am

Intriguing!!

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We Are Not Phoenixes

by John Wiswell

April 28, 2023

Remember that they are people. Most of them will be just as awed by what you can do as all your other audiences. If they’ve invited you, then they want you here. Don’t treat them differently. The patients deserve magic, too.

The easiest opening trick of your life is Nothing Up My Sleeves. Show the audience that nothing is inside your left sleeve, and then that nothing is inside your right. Take a beat. Then make both sleeves spontaneously combust.

They loved it, didn’t they? It doesn’t matter if this feels old to you. It’s guaranteed that people will be interested in what you do next.

Many patients experience temperature differently than healthy people. It always amuses a patient when you play up feeling as cold or hot as they do, and then cast a spell to change the temperature of the room. This is bait to get some of the audience talking. They always ask how a pyromancer can make things cold. Start with small spells, like transferring heat between two glasses of water so that one boils and one freezes. The act eats up time and keeps everyone rapt.

Don’t expect the same enthusiastic feedback other audiences give you. Some patients lack facial control. Others will be noncommunicative or emotionally checked out. But know that most of them are enjoying your performance in their own way. Don’t add your anxieties to their space.

Anxiety can make you overextend yourself. Pace your tricks so that you don’t burn yourself out. Drink plenty of water, and check your thyroid regularly to make sure it isn’t swelling too much.

Ask the room if anyone wants to “do a trick” themselves. There’s always at least one taker. Let them wave their hands or dance as they like, and at the suitable moment, summon your finest fireworks. If a patient can only lift a hand, send the bolero of flame from their fingertips. If you restrict yourself to using orange flame for the first part of your act, then pulling out greens and violets here will make the participants feel like this really is their magic for a minute. That minute is worth the whole day.

Of all the traditional crowd-pleasing tricks, avoid unburning things. Don’t unburn a candle back to being full. Don’t burn a playing card and make it reappear later. We all love unburning objects with reverse pyromancy, but it can lead patients to think about reversing their own conditions. You don’t want that conversation.

Above all, stay away from the topic of phoenixes.

Sometimes one of the patients will be a fellow pyromancer. They’ll be significantly younger than most of the other patients, and you’ll recognize the scars where their thyroid was removed. They are always the most eager to have you help them perform a trick. It will be their last, and every time it’s a privilege to help them perform.

View these pyromancers like everyone else in hospice: someone who could use a better afternoon. It doesn’t matter that you’re going to be in their position sooner than later. What matters is that you’re bringing light today.

If a patient’s loved one tears up, jokingly blame it on your smoke. Your fire should be as smokeless as possible given the lung problems some patients have, but it’s a funny way to dispel tensions.

One in every dozen performances will inspire some loved one of a patient asking about phoenixes. It’s easy to spot them in advance, as they’re never just watching your magic. You can’t avoid talking to them, either. If they have to, they’ll follow you to your car.

Usually they’ll approach you when you’re on a break. This is better than them approaching when you’re near the patients, who don’t need the stress of hearing this conversation. It can be stressful enough to let the loved one down without dragging a patient into it.

Even with these loved ones, avoid talking about how your pyromancy itself is terminal. The chances are that they already know and don’t care. They’re just hoping at your expense. Bringing up how pyromancy shortens our lifespans is likely to upset you both. Neither of you need that right now.

Instead, remind the loved ones that everything human is limited, and this includes magic. The doctors and nurses know amazing medicine, but they can’t do everything. We pyromancers know fire, but we can’t unburn everything. Not even ourselves. We are not phoenixes.

On your way out, don’t say, “See you later,” or, “Stay strong,” or any generic encouragements. Patients in palliative care don’t need to be told to fight. Instead, keep stoking the positive vibes of the performance so they last after you leave. You’ll probably leave feeling upbeat because of how receptive they were to your intentions, even more than they were to your magic. Hold onto that feeling. You earned it, and they did too.

Previously published in Fireside Magazine, March 2021. Reprinted here by permission of the author.