Imaginarium: The Best Canadian Speculative Writing Read online

  Transpose these characters to a world with different rules—to a world unlike our own, or one in the far (or near) future or distant past—and all that we as readers are then witness to, is what can only be called a virtuoso act of imagination. I am going to risk arrogance here and say, explicitly, that such authors working in Fantasy and Science Fiction and Horror, have to work much harder than do their compatriots writing contemporary, “realist” fiction. They need to convince of you of unfamiliar rules, unfamiliar settings, while at the same time assuring you, the reader, of the essential humanity of the story they’re telling. Having written both forms of fiction, you’ll just have to take it from me: contemporary, “this-world” fiction is easy compared to writing Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror.

  So, having sat for years on the grisly end of denigration as a writer in such genres, I hereby reverse the qualitative imbalance, and with brazen audacity announce that contemporary, realist fiction, is in fact a lesser form of writing, an easier and lazier effort at imagination, and one far-too-reliant on all that’s recognizable in the real world—to carry (for the author) the weight of significance, to bask with little effort in the seriousness of common veracity; and as for its often desperate struggle to elevate the mundane, through patently unrealistic subtext (the real world has no subtext: it just is), awkward symbolism, unrealistic foreshadowing, epiphany and denouement, these are nothing more than contrived structural impositions on reality.

  Which is not to say that there aren’t good writers writing contemporary fiction. There are a few, to be sure, but the extent to which some pundits would elevate their efforts, they are given far too much weight, far too much hyperbole, and far too much significance in the world of literature, to the detriment of many other talented—genre—writers.

  In launching, with a hard shove, the pendulum the other way as I have just done, I can already hear the reverberations of outrage at my bold claims (assuming anyone cares). To those who care to argue against my assertions, so long as you are familiar with works of Fantasy, Science Fiction and Horror, by all means begin your assault, and I may find some future forum in which to engage in lively discussion. If, however, you’ve not read any Fantasy, Science Fiction or Horror, well, let’s end our debate here and now, because you don’t know what you’re talking about, and I have no interest in wasting my time seeking to educate you.

  The writers in this collection have unleashed their imaginations. They have pushed the notion of an explicable reality, and they have dragged—at times elegantly, at other times roughly—the human condition into strangely flavoured worlds. This is not escapism. This is engagement: a dialogue with the present and real world, evoking the tensions of sensibility peculiar to, and indeed uniquely so, the genres of the Fantastic. In these genres, more than anywhere else, metaphors can be made real: intent can be given physical form, and the very purpose of storytelling—its deepest roots—are revived and given universal significance: why? Because they evoke in readers the one crucial element so woefully absent in “realist” fiction: a sense of wonder.

  This here real world is suffering from a loss of wonder—and if I venture, in aside, the suggestion that writers of contemporary, realist fiction are partly to blame for that loss, I do so with ready argument, although this is neither the time nor the place for further elaboration. Accordingly, consider my statement a provocation, since that is how it was intended. For what it is worth, I think we need to rediscover that sense of wonder, not in a return to childhood (as critics of the Fantastic might charge), but as adults, if only to counter this growing plague of cynicism and weary nihilism. If such an endeavour is cause for dismissal or indifference, God help us all.

  Steven Erikson

  Falmouth, Cornwall, 2012

  looker

  DAVID NICKLE

  I met her on the beach.

  It was one of Len’s parties—one of the last he threw, before he had to stop. You were there too. But we didn’t speak. I remember watching you talking with Jonathan on the deck, an absurdly large tumbler for such a small splash of Merlot wedged at your elbow as you nodded, eyes fixed on his so as not to meet mine. If you noticed me, I hope you also noticed I didn’t linger.

  Instead, I took my own wine glass, filled it up properly, climbed down that treacherous wooden staircase, and kicked off my shoes. It was early enough that the sand was still warm from the sun—late enough that the sun was just dabs of pink on the dark ocean and I could tell myself I had the beach to myself.

  She was, I’m sure, telling herself the same thing. She had brought a pipe and a lighter with her in her jeans, and was perched on a picnic table, surreptitiously puffing away. The pipe disappeared as I neared her. It came back soon enough, when she saw my wineglass, maybe recognized me from the party.

  I didn’t recognize her. She was a small woman, but wide across the shoulders and the tiniest bit chubby. Hair was dark, pulled back into a ponytail. Pretty, but not pretty enough; she would fade at a party like Len’s.

  “Yeah, I agree,” she said to me and I paused on my slow gambol to the surf.

  “It’s too bright,” she said, and as I took a long pull from my wine, watching her curiously, she added, “look at him.”

  “Look at me,” I said, and she laughed.

  “You on the phone?” I asked, and she dropped her head in extravagant mea culpa.

  “No,” she said. “Just . . .”

  “Don’t fret. What’s the point of insanity if you can’t enjoy a little conversation?” Oh, I am smooth. She laughed again, and motioned me over, and waved the pipe and asked if I’d like to share.

  Sure I said, and she scooted aside to make room on the table. Her name was Lucy. Lucille, actually, was how she introduced herself but she said Lucy was fine. I introduced myself. “Tom’s a nice name,” she said.

  The night grew. Lungs filled with smoke and mouths with wine; questions asked, questions answered. How do you know Len? What do you do? What brings you to the beach when so much is going on inside? It went both ways.

  Lucy knew Len scarcely at all. They’d met through a friend who worked at Len’s firm. Through the usual convolutions of dinners and pubs and excursions, she’d insinuated herself onto the cc list of the ur-mail by which Len advertised his parties. She worked cash at a bookstore chain in town and didn’t really have a lot of ambition past that right now. Which tended to make her feel seriously out of her weight class at Len’s parties or so she said; the beach, therefore, was an attractive option.

  She finished my wine for me, and we walked. I’d been on my way to the water’s edge and Lucy thought that was a fine idea. The sun was all gone by now and stars were peeking out. One of the things I liked about Len’s place—it was just far enough away from town you could make out stars at night. Not like the deep woods, or the mountains. But constellations weren’t just theoretical there.

  “Hey Tom,” she said as the surf touched our toes, “want to go for a swim? I know we don’t have suits, but . . .”

  Why not? As you might remember, I’ve a weakness for the midnight dunk. We both did, as I recall.

  I stepped back a few yards to where the sand was dry, set down my glass and stripped off my shirt, my trousers. Lucy unbuttoned her blouse, the top button of her jeans. I cast off my briefs. “Well?” I said, standing in flagrante delicto in front of her.

  “Get in,” she said, “I’ll be right behind you.”

  It didn’t occur to me that this might be a trick until I was well out at sea. Wouldn’t it be the simplest thing, I thought, as I dove under a breaking wave, to wait until I was out far enough, gather my trousers, find the wallet and the mobile phone, toss the clothes into the surf and run to a waiting car? I’m developing my suspicious mind, really, my dearest—but it still has a time delay on it, even after everything. . . .

  I came up, broke my stroke, and turned to look back at the beach.

  She waved at me. I was pleased—and relieved—to see that she was naked too. My valuables wer
e safe as they could be. And Lucy had quite a nice figure, as it turned out: fine full breasts—wide, muscular hips—a small bulge at the tummy, true . . . but taken with the whole, far from offensive.

  I waved back, took a deep breath and dove again, this time deep enough to touch bottom. My fingers brushed sea-rounded rock and stirred up sand, and I turned and kicked and broke out to the moonless night, and only then it occurred to me—how clearly I’d seen her on the beach, two dozen yards off, maybe further.

  There lay the problem. There wasn’t enough light. I shouldn’t have seen anything.

  I treaded water, thinking back at how I’d seen her . . . glistening, flickering, with tiny points of red, of green . . . winking in and out . . . like stars themselves? Spread across not sky, but flesh?

  I began to wonder: Had I seen her at all?

  There was no sign of her now. The beach was a line of black, crowned with the lights from Len’s place, and above that . . . the stars.

  How much had I smoked? I wondered. What had I smoked, for that matter? I hadn’t had a lot of wine—I’d quaffed a glass at Len’s before venturing outside, and I’d shared the second glass with Lucy. Not even two glasses . . .

  But it was Len’s wine.

  I’d made up my mind to start back in when she emerged from the waves—literally in front of my face.

  “You look lost,” Lucy said, and splashed me, and dove again. Two feet came up, and scissored, and vanished. Some part of her brushed against my hip.

  I took it as my cue and ducked.

  The ocean was nearly a perfect black. I dove and turned and dove again, reaching wide in my strokes, fingers spreading in a curious, and yes, hungry grasp. I turned, and came near enough the surface that I felt my foot break it, splashing down again, and spun—

  —and I saw her.

  Or better, I saw the constellation of Lucy—a dusting of brilliant red points of light, defining her thighs—and then turning, and more along her midriff; a burst of blue stipple, shaping her breasts, the backs of her arms. I kicked toward her as she turned in the water, my own arms held straight ahead, to lay hold of that fine, if I may say, celestial body.

  But she anticipated me, and kicked deeper, and I’d reached my lungs’ limits so I broke surface, gasping at the night air. She was beside me an instant later, spitting and laughing. No funny lights this time; just Lucy, soaking wet and treading water beside me.

  “We don’t have towels,” she said. “I just thought of that. We’re going to freeze.”

  “We won’t freeze,” I said.

  “It’s colder than you think.”

  “Oh, I know it’s cold. We just won’t freeze.”

  She splashed me and laughed again and wondered what I meant by that, but we both knew what I meant by that, and after we’d not-quite tired ourselves out in the surf, we made back for the shore.

  I wonder how things went for you, right then? I know that you always fancied Jonathan; I know what happened later. I hope you don’t think I’m being bitter or ironic when I say I hope you had a good time with him. If he misbehaved—well, I trust you did too.

  Shall I tell you how we misbehaved?

  Well—

  In some ways, it was as you might expect; nothing you haven’t seen, nothing you haven’t felt, my dear.

  In others . . .

  Through the whole of it, Lucy muttered.

  “He is,” she would say as I pressed against her breasts and nibbled on her earlobe; and “Quiet!” as I ran my tongue along the rim of her aureole . . . “I said no,” as I thrust into her, and I paused, and then she continued: “Why are you stopping, Tommy?”

  This went on through the whole of it. As I buried my face between her legs, and she commented, “Isn’t he, though?” I thought again of Lucy on the shore, under the water. “Too bright,” she moaned, and I remembered my visions of the sky, on her skin.

  And as I thought of these things, my hands went exploring: along her thighs, across her breasts—along her belly. . . .

  She gasped and giggled as I ran my thumb across her navel . . . and she said, “Tommy?” as my forefinger touched her navel again . . . and “What are you doing?” as the palm of my hand, making its way along the ridge of her hip-bone . . . found her navel once more.

  I lifted my head and moved my hand slowly aside. For an instant, there was a flash of dim red light—reflecting off my palm like a candle-flame. But only an instant. I moved my hand aside and ran the edge of my thumb over the flesh there. It was smooth. “Tom?” she said sharply, and started on about unfinished business. “Shh,” I said, and lowered my face—to the ridge of her hip-bone, or rather the smooth flesh inward of it. And slowly, paying minute attention, I licked her salted skin.

  I would not have found it with my crude, calloused fingertips; my tongue was better attuned the task. I came upon it first as a small bump in the smooth flesh: like a pimple, a cyst. As I circled it, I sensed movement, as though a hard thing were rolling inside. Running across the tiny peak of it, I sensed a line—like a slit in the flesh, pushed tightly closed. Encouraged, I surrounded it with my lips and began to suck, as I kept probing it with my tongue. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then, “Oh!” as my tongue pushed through. It touched a cool, wet thing—rolling on my tongue like an unripened berry.

  And then . . . I was airborne . . . it was though I were flying up, and falling deep. And I landed hard on my side and it all resolved, the world once more. Icy water lapped against me. And Lucy was swearing at me.

  I looked at her, unbelieving. She looked back.

  She, and a multitude.

  For now I could see that what I’d first thought were star-points, were nothing of the sort. Her flesh was pocked with eyes. They were small, and reflective, like a cat’s.

  Nocturnal eyes.

  In her shoulders—the swell of her breasts—along the line of her throat . . . They blinked—some individually, some in pairs, and on her belly, six points of cobalt blue, formed into a nearly perfect hexagon. Tiny slits of pupils widened to take in the sight of me. The whole of her flesh seemed to writhe with their squinting.

  It didn’t seem to cause her discomfort. Far from it; Lucy’s own eyes—the ones in her head—narrowed to slits, and her mouth perked in a little smile. “He is that,” she said, “yes, you’re right.” And it struck me then: those strange things she was saying weren’t intended for me or anyone else.

  She was talking to the eyes.

  “He can’t have known,” she continued, her hand creeping down to her groin, “and if he did, well now he knows better.”

  I drew my legs to my chest and my own hands moved instinctively to my privates, as the implications of all these eyes, of her words, came together.

  These weren’t her eyes; they were from another creature, or many creatures. And they were all looking upon me: naked, sea-shrivelled, crouching in the dirt.

  Turning away from her, I got to my feet, ran up the beach and gathered my shirt and trousers, and clutching them to my chest, fairly bolted for the stairs. I pulled on my shirt and trousers, hunted around for my shoes, and made my way up the stairs. At the top, I looked back for the glow of Lucy. But the beach was dark.

  The eyes were shut.

  You and Jonathan were gone by the time I came back to the house.

  I wasn’t surprised; Len had switched to his Sarah Vaughan / Etta James play-list, and I remember how fond you are of those two. And it was late. The party had waxed and waned during my excursion with Lucy on the beach and those who remained were the die-hards: Ben and Dru, sprawled on the sectional, finishing off a bottle of shiraz; Dennis, holding court in the kitchen with Emile and Prabh and the dates they’d not thought to introduce—at least not to me; maybe a half-dozen others that neither of us wouldn’t recognize if we met them on the street. Len’s party had proceeded without me.

  I wasn’t surprised, and I wasn’t unhappy about it. Skinny dipping on the ocean and fucking on the beach are two activities that hardly lea
ve one presentable to polite company. Best then to wait until the polite company had moved along, leaving only the depraved ones.

  I made for the bathroom—the second floor bath, which yes, I know, was a faux pas at Len’s parties, particularly late into the evening. But there was a small crowd around the two-piece off the kitchen, and I needed to tidy up sooner. So I slipped upstairs and made for the master bath. Which, happily, was vacant. The lights flickered on as I stepped inside and I slid the pocket door shut, and confronted myself in the long mirror opposite the showers.

  I didn’t think I took that long; just splashed water in my face, ran a wet comb through my hair, shook the sand out of my shirt and tucked it in properly before giving myself another inspection. By my own reckoning, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes. But the hammering on the door said otherwise.

  It was Kimi, Len’s Kimi.

  In a week, she’d be on a plane back to New York, done with all of us, gone from Len’s circle for good. That party, she was on the verge of it. I slid open the door and apologized. “You shouldn’t be up here,” she said, “not this time of night,” and I agreed.

  “Ask forgiveness not permission? That it, Tommy?” she said and brushed past me. She had been spending time in Len’s rooms, and it had gone about as badly as it did toward the end. You could tell. Do you remember that time Len had us all on that boat he’d hired for the summer? And she came hammering on our cabin door—with that fish-hook stuck in just below the collar-bone? And when you opened it, she was so quiet, asking if you knew where they kept the first-aid kit on the boat because “Len isn’t sure.” You knew something awful had happened, I knew something awful had happened. We talked about it after we got the hook out and the wound cleaned and bandaged and Kimi, smiling brightly, had excused herself and skipped back to the cabin she and Len were sharing. What did you say? “One day, that armour of hers is going to crack. When it does, she’ll either leave or she’ll die.”

  It was a good line; I laughed as hard as you did.