• • • •

Who were your literary heroes when you were younger and discovering science fiction and fantasy, and does their work still hold up?

When I was a kid I adored Tolkien—I remember in 4th or 5th grade taking the time to draw out fifty individual stars for a school poster about favorite books. I’m rereading it now and while some of it holds up—the worldbuilding, for example—so much of it does not. It’s not just the classism, racism, sexism; there are also a lot of weird clunky plot choices and bent-over-backwards justifications for what are presented as unassailable principles and long descriptions that I mostly skimmed as a kid.

On the other hand, I recently reread The Enchanted Castle by Nesbit and whew is that still weird and kind-of terrifying and bizarrely magical.

I still love Watership Down, if that’s close enough to SFF. It’s a ripping story, with a ton of (ironically) humanity, an engagement with the natural world, and really vivid, lasting characters.

Also The Pushcart War (technically science fiction, as it’s set in the future!), which I remember liking and rereading as a kid but which I now consider a brilliant manual for collective action and resistance to power, as well as formally inventive (the “P” page from the phone book! The letters! The documents! The transcripts) and a good story, if reflective of some regressive attitudes.

There are some other books I liked a lot as a kid but I haven’t reread them recently, so it’s hard to say how they hold up, like Earthsea. I have reread some of the “adult” Le Guin like The Left Hand of Darkness and still really enjoyed it; yes, there are problematic aspects to the proposition, but the worldbuilding has so many fascinating details and the story is gripping.

In high school I read Heinlein, and Bradbury, and also García Marquez and Calvino, then in college I got into Stephenson and Gibson, who definitely influenced how I think about the future and how I write. Again, there’s somewhat of a mix as to how they hold up. I still really enjoy some Stephenson (although I struggled with The Diamond Age last time I tried it). A few years ago, I was asked to write an introduction for an academic volume on William Gibson, so I did an extensive read and overall, his works held up extremely well for me.

Do you feel like they had a noticeable impact on your fiction—do you see them in your own work, or do you have a very different set of influences?

I remember being impressed by Tolkien’s worldbuilding, even as a kid, especially the sense of this vast library of lore that was just being hinted at in the text. Tolkien, of course, had written that vast library, but I did take away the idea that hinting at its existence can make the world feel more real. I usually try to include a lot of details that are not plot-bearing, and some that are only partially explained or noted in a very glancing way to make it feel like there’s a lot to the world that we’re not seeing.

I definitely drew on the cyberpunk influences for the Infomocracy trilogy, although those are filtered through my own experiences in work and academics. The Mimicking of Known Successes has a mystery lineage, notably the Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes books, which I started reading in college and have continued reading as the sequels came out; the Spenser books, ditto; Sayers, Tey, Marsh, etc., which I read more recently; Sherry Thomas’s wonderful Lady Sherlock series; and of course, the original Sherlock Holmes mysteries, which have some compelling points but are in many ways terrible. The real mystery is why retellings of those stories are such absolute catnip for me, and apparently for so many other people; I think the answer is complicated and manifold.

What was “breaking in” like for you? Was there a period of submitting and dealing with rejections, or were you selling work right out the gate?

I submitted for years—short stories, agent queries with novels—and got absolutely nowhere. I have one short story that I submitted to everywhere I could find and got rejected, and I was later able to sell it when a magazine requested a story from me, and it’s one of my highest paid sales and has been used in teaching and so on. I try to talk about this a lot because it can be so frustrating. I always found it really painful that I couldn’t tell whether I was failing because my work wasn’t good enough or because it was fine, but editors were overwhelmed with better stuff; and what feedback I did get was so mixed, there was no way to know if I was improving or not. This industry is so hard and so arbitrary. I don’t really know what to tell people other than to try to find peers they trust to work together with, and to not be that person who thinks the first thing they write is fine and definitely doesn’t need work or practice; but also, not to take rejections as an absolute judgment on their work. It’s a difficult needle to thread.

ANYWAY, I was finally able to get a story published at Tor.com. A few months after it was accepted (long before it ran) I screwed up my courage and wrote to my editor there to ask if they were looking for more. They weren’t, but they were just starting their novella program and invited me to submit something for that. I wrote a minimum-length entire novella in two weeks and also added 7,000 words to the novel I was working on at the time to put it just under the maximum and sent them both, telling them the novel was a stand-alone excerpt. It was not stand-alone, but turned out they were open to novels, so I finished Infomocracy over the next two months and they bought it. And the rest, as they say, is the future.

You write in various lengths as well as modes, including poetry. Does poetry serve a different purpose for you than short fiction? Is your approach very different?

Yes, definitely. I need to be a little more mindful of this; recently I’ve been (good) busy with short story commissions and novels, and I need to consciously make time for poetry the way I make time for academic work, since neither of them pay, as such. But poetry, for me, has space for ideas or emotions that don’t necessarily have a full arc; it (usually) doesn’t require inventing characters or settings; and while I try to use imagery and be precise, attentive, and playful with words in my fiction, all of that feels more urgent in poetry.

If readers who haven’t read your short fiction were to take a look at one story, which would you want it to be, and why?

Probably “The Divided” (…And Other Disasters). I’m not sure it’s representative of my work, but it means a lot to me. Or maybe “Narrative Disorder” (https://firesidefiction.com/narrative-disorder). For something more typical of what I write, maybe “Sturdy Ladders and Lanterns” (Current Futures: A Sci-fi Ocean Anthology; reprinted in Jonathan Strahan’s The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Volume 1). It’s actually hard to choose when I look at my list! There’s a number of stories I really yearn for people to read.

You have The Mimicking of Known Success coming out soon. What was the initial inspiration for the book, and how did it develop from there?

The original idea for the setting was one of those things that I either half-dreamed or daydreamed up: What if living on a gas giant planet with rail-lines encircling the whole planet, rotating geosynchronously and allowing for platforms etc.? Accompanying that was the idea of a zoo of animals from Earth, taking up some of that precious artificial land because the existence of those animals was so culturally important.

This idea was a paragraph in a doc on my computer for years. I dug it up in late 2020. It had been a tough year, and I had been doing a lot of comfort reading and a lot of thinking about the importance of comfort reading and why certain kinds of books were comforting to me, and I decided I wanted to write something that went all in on those elements. I titled my NaNo project “___ but make it fun,” because I needed fun. I thought about what I enjoy reading about, what brings me pleasure in a book: big overarching things like “romance” or “mysteries” or “worldbuilding” but also details like good food well described, or long journeys, or interesting technology, and close friendships, and people who feel comfortable with themselves, and people who fight for a better world. And I tried to pack all of those things into this book. And then it turned out it was also about a post-apocalyptic world and a yearning to go back to what things were like before and deep questions about adapting to new normals, but by then I was enjoying it so much that all that stuff was easier to deal with.

I’ve seen a number of reviews praising your worldbuilding for this one. What is your approach to worldbuilding, and what makes it so successful here?

As I mentioned before, I try to include details that go beyond what’s necessary to the plot: things a character accustomed to that world would notice in their surroundings, with just enough explanation to get a sense of them but maybe not all the backstory. I spend a lot of time thinking about the world and the characters even before I know what the plot is, and I try to write down as many of those details as I can and fit them in, and then when I finish a draft, I tend to layer on more random worldbuilding elements as I go through edits. Basically, I really enjoy spending time in this world!

What are one or two worldbuilding elements you really love in this book that you don’t mind sharing here?

The Mimicking of Known Successes is set on Jupiter, some centuries after humanity moved there in desperation from Earth. In the intervening time, a distinctive culture has developed, including several universities. Academia on Giant (as they call it), is divided into three main areas. Classical studies are anything to do with Earth, and these are by far the most prestigious, since it is believed that these studies will allow humanity to restore Earth and eventually return. Modernist studies focus on Giant. And then there are Speculative studies, about possibility and imagination. I don’t delve too much into that faculty in this book, but I love the idea of dividing up research this way (naturally there are lots of pushes for cross-disciplinary work and those initiatives mostly fail to make any substantive change in how things are conceptualized or done).

Did you do any cool research that, for one reason or another, never made it into the story?

I don’t do a lot of research in general, and when I do it’s mostly to answer very specific questions (e.g. how long is a day on Jupiter? What? It’s that short? Okay I better come up with a societal adaptation for five hours of sunlight). With near-ish future science-fiction like Infomocracy or extra-planetary settlements, as with this book, I figure there’s enough uncertainty that I can follow my narrative instincts (read: disorder) and imagination without worrying too much about it. That said, I do try to not contradict stuff we do know (I’m still annoyed that a country changed the name of its capital that I mentioned in Null States after it was published. Who knows, maybe they’ll change it back).

And since I dislike doing research for research’s sake, I try to work any random stuff that I do learn into the book—if not into this one, then hopefully into a sequel!

Many of the reviewers I’ve seen covering Mimicking love the central characters, Mossa and Pleiti, as well as their relationship. What do you like most about these two, and what were your goals in terms of writing them?

Ahhh, I’m so glad people are loving them! I wanted to show a relationship where these two, when they were in university, had a very passionate attraction, but it wasn’t enough to endure past some of their differences and, I think, general self-centeredness and emotional tempestuousness of youth. When they meet again, the attraction is still there (although neither of them are sure of that at the beginning of the book), but they’ve both matured somewhat and they’re better able to (try to) be intentional about the relationship, think more about what is a misunderstanding or miscommunication and what is a fundamental problem, and value each other.

I do think part of the appeal in Holmes retellings (for me at least) is the neurodivergence of the character, seeing someone on the page who thinks differently, so I leaned into that with Mossa, but I turned some things around. Mossa isn’t all about rationality; her deductions are often about narratives and personalities. Also, the original Holmes-Watson dynamic is pretty awful, as well as fairly unbelievable. Pleiti is not as unusual a thinker as Mossa, but she’s very smart and respected in her field, and she pushes back when Mossa doesn’t include her.

Even though Mimicking has been described as a cozy, I feel like there are still those underlying discussions on power going on. Are there things about this book that you feel may surprise some of your readers?

Frankly I think my readers would be more surprised if there wasn’t some kind of politicking or power dynamic in my books. Also, I subscribe to the Murderbot school of coziness, which definitely includes power dynamics along with an engrossing tale, competence, and characters you want to spend time with.

This is a very different setting and mood when compared to my previous books (although possibly more similar to some of my stories). In contrast to the fast-paced, present-tense, multi-perspective rhythm of the Centenal Cycle books, I was aiming for something atmospheric, with fog and gloom and suspense usually but not always on the other side of windowpanes, kept at bay by conversation and tea and a roaring (gas from the gaseous interior of the planet) fire. Infomocracy has a lot of elements based on my experience working in international and national non-governmental organizations; Mimicking is more about academia—although with a fair amount of action as well.

What would you like folks to know about The Mimicking of Known Successes, what is important or special to you about this book?

I hope this book is a comfort to people when they need it—it was certainly a comfort to me while I was writing it!

Is there anything else you’d like folks to know about you, your work, or The Mimicking of Known Successes?

Demand better than back to normal.

What else are you working on? What do you have coming up that you’d like our readers to know about?

Since it’s modeled on traditional detective fiction, I always intended for The Mimicking of Known Successes to be the first in a series, so I’ve been working on the sequels, making sure they push both the worldbuilding (side trip to Io, anyone?) and the relationship dynamics into new areas, while having a self-contained mystery in each one. It’s so much fun! I’m also working on a non-fiction book based on my Predictive Fictions course, which compares societal attitudes towards science-fiction to those towards other predictions of the future. I’m also working on a couple of other novels—I tend to work on a lot of different things at once.

My background in horror stories and my love of fractured fairy tales inspired this piece. I started with the premise—what could Jack’s beanstalk have been made of, and what treasures or abominations could something like that bring to the world? Science fiction is full of thrilling conversation about human responsibility to the environment, and the ethics of progress. I thought about what kind of people would be well-meaning enough and ambitious enough to create living live/work structures—and where that could lead; harmony or hellscape. And we’ve just sown the seeds here, to get the reader thinking about the larger implications of this dream world. Fully played out, any of the three main characters could end up a world savior, and any an archvillain.

I love the authenticity of the dialog between Shaundra and Dineisha at the start of the story; it rang very true to life. Are mother-daughter relationships a theme that you’ve explored in other work, or a dynamic that you’re particularly drawn to? Or is this just what felt natural for this particular story?

I write a lot about powerful people, and powerful children are fantastic characters, including in fiction that isn’t deliberately written for children. But I also write with representation in mind. It was a very deliberate choice to make this machinist a woman and a mother, and one who is particularly warm and committed to a style of gentle parenting. Women in STEM face a great deal more difficulty than many are ready to admit, for fear of losing face and opportunities if they complain. In fact, my family has suffered great loss due to this phenomenon. I didn’t grow up with many portrayals about young single mothers teaching their girl-children pre-elementary level engineering as a bonding ritual. I was glad for the opportunity to imagine that kind of family.

 What was the most difficult part of writing this story? What came easiest?

I made the decision to keep the story science fantasy instead of science fiction. I was tempted to make it a bit more technical, with descriptions of the chemicals and processes of creating the organic metal, but those details would take away from the heart of the story, which was more about impossible dreams suddenly made possible than about immersive and specific worldbuilding.

The easiest part was writing the mutual respect and admiration between mother and very young daughter. I took inspiration from my sister and my niece for that one.

These lines really struck home for me: “Kids were always coming up with such beautiful ideas. Shaundra wondered what age caused you to see the other side of it all. At what age did all the fearlessness go away?” There is a degree of cynicism that creeps in as we get older. What are your thoughts on that, both the fearless hope of Dineisha and your young scholar, and Shaundra’s wistful pragmatism?

Well, it’s experience! At the center of this story are three people in different stages of experience, with different perspectives of what power they have to make and control their impact on the world. Shaundra has experienced enough in her life to be concerned about how even the most beautiful well-meaning dreams can be nightmares waiting to happen if not properly guarded. The choice of whether or not to encourage or discourage the younger characters is her main conflict, especially as the decision would have a direct impact on Dineisha’s development. It’s a universal conflict within a parent-child relationship, to decide when to protect and when to step back and release the need for control. It’s a scary feeling for an adult not to not know exactly what to do, which is why the kids, in their fearlessness, can be so inspiring.

What are you working on now, and what can our readers look forward to seeing from you in the future?

I am working on a body of fabulist horror folklore with commentary on cultural development. My mission with these works is to increase BIPOC representation in speculative spaces and address societal ills in easily accessible ways.

I am also working on my debut novella, and have a few short stories, poems, and lyrical essays scheduled to be published early 2023. You can find my body of work at https://ebrownwrites.com

“Okay.” Shaundra placed her hands on her knees and leaned forward to look her daughter in the face. “What’s supposed to be in the box?”

Dineisha tried a little longer to look at the top of her own head, giggled, and took the box down to read the label. “Thirty-four, no, three-quarter something nuts.”

“That’s right.” Dineisha replaced the box on her head. “But the box is empty. Do we know why the box is empty?”

Dineisha shrugged and gnawed at her thumb.

“I want to make sure that we know that just because we don’t say something with our words doesn’t mean we aren’t lying. Momma asked you where the three-quarter something nuts were. So if you know, you need to tell me.”

“I planted them,” Dineisha said around her thumb.

“You buried them? Why? I needed those to finish this engine!”

“I didn’t bury them. I planted them. I wanted to grow you a whole tree.”

Shaundra pulled the thumb from her daughter’s mouth. “It’s a different kind of nut, sweetie. Now I need to buy some new ones. Are you going to pay for them?”

“They started growing.”

“I’m sure they did,” Shaundra replied, beginning to turn back around to her worktable.

“You shouldn’t tell people they’re liars,” Dineisha admonished. She knew better than to raise her voice to her mother, so she had quickly acquired the skill of giving her softly spoken words a ringing tone of disapproval.

“All right. Show me.”

“Don’t step on the grass,” Dineisha said solemnly. “It’s very sharp.”

“Alright, you show me where to step.”

They left the garage hand-in-hand and went around the house to the backyard, which had not seen a lawn mower in a month. It was high, green, and studded with weeds, yellow blossoms and white puffs waving gently in the breeze. They looked so soft. Shaundra reached down to pluck one, for her daughter to blow a wish on, so they could wish for more “three-quarter-something nuts.” She saw her blood pulse bright onto the blossoms, felt the blades deep in her hand, long before she felt the pain.

• • • •

Three minutes later, they were inside the house, doors locked, windows drawn, and Shaundra had a bandage on her cleanly sliced palm. Dineisha was hiding in her room; she had taken her mother’s yelp and cursing personally and clearly was attempting to lessen her expected punishment by punishing herself first.

Shaundra sat in the dark, thinking about the glint in the weeds in the noonday sun. The tiny spikes, twisting up, new shoots, pure silver. In a crystallized moment of horror, she thought she had seen them breathe.

Shaundra typed “plant metal” into her computer, and the search turned up a ton of metalwork artisan sites selling welded metal roses and gates and painted trellises. What could she search that would make sense? She stood up carefully and slipped over to the window, to look at the grass again. It glinted.

“Deedee, come here. Quickly.”

Shaundra carried her daughter to the garage; despite the walkway being paved, she wondered if she’d ever let her precious baby’s feet touch the ground again. Her mind remembered the spikes slicing into her hand as warm. It had to be the sun. Anything else it could possibly be made her stomach turn. Setting Dineisha down on the work stool, Shaundra looked all over the empty little cardboard box, and then carried it and her daughter back into the house.

The next few internet searches for Apex Tools turned up wares, distributors, money market information, and more artisans. But the website had a phone number on the bottom. There was a money-back guarantee for items that did not meet the customer’s expectations. It made Shaundra laugh to read that. She called, but after a few minutes of being shuttled around a bunch of different automatic messages, she hung up. Dineisha was playing quietly at her feet, a sure sign that she was still not sure how much trouble she was in. Shaundra bent down and kissed her on the top of the head. Then the phone rang.

“Good afternoon!” It was the voice of a young man. “You called Apex Tools support line. How can we help you?”

Shaundra hadn’t thought this far ahead. What could she say? Why did she feel like she was in trouble?

“Hello?” The voice on the line sounded a little frantic now. “Are you there? Did you call Apex? Is there a problem?”

Ah. There was no way to miss it; however uncomfortable Shaundra was feeling, this person felt worse. “Hi, yes. I called. I didn’t leave a number, though.”

“Our system logs the numbers of all incoming calls. How can I help you?”

“Who am I speaking with?”

Shaundra waited for the voice to answer. Four beats, five. “My name’s Jack. How can I help you?”

Shaundra nearly hung up. “Who is this really?”

“Is there something wrong with one of your tools?”

“And what if there was?”

“Then I want to make it right. I’m so sorry. Can you tell me which product it was?”

Something in Shaundra unclenched a little, and she read the number on the box.

The voice sounded relieved, too. “Okay, good. So far, that’s the only batch.” Nervous laughter. “Thank you, thank you so much for calling.”

“What is it?”

“I was . . . I was working on a project. For a scholarship. An eco-friendly building material. I was working over the summer with my uncle, and I took some stuff home to use, because I couldn’t afford the materials, and he found out and took it all back to the plant and fired me. But . . . some of the stuff worked. And he accidentally mixed it in with the regular stuff . . . ”

“Okay, but what is all this ‘stuff?’ What did you make?”

“It’s metal. Organic metal. It grows. Like bamboo.”

Shaundra sat back in on the couch, looking at her stinging, bandaged palm. “That’s pretty impressive.”

“Yeah. I mean, yeah, but I lost it all, so I’m trying to get it back. So, it grew?”

“Yeah, in my lawn. Tore my hand up, too.”

“How fast did it grow? Is it spreading? Can you send me a soil sample? How tall did it get? Did you water it? Any fertilizer?”

“I don’t know any of that stuff, just that it shredded my hand,” Shaundra interrupted him.

“Oh yeah, sorry. Um, sorry.”

There was silence between them. Dineisha looked up from her dolls, eyes wide in the way that they got when they were absorbing everything that was happening around her. Shaundra noticed the little gold hoops in her ears. Five minutes before, and she might have been unnerved at the sight of them. “Okay, Jack. What do we do next?”

• • • •

Half an hour later, Shaundra’s new friend Jack had hung up, and she was out in the backyard, looking at the silver glints in her tall green grass. There was only a patch of it. Sometime in the next week, a special package would arrive, return postage paid, in which Shaundra would mail a few planter pots containing every blade of the “specimens.” When Jack offered to keep her apprised of his progress with the project, she didn’t turn him down. After they had warmed to each other, Jack had painted her a picture of living skyscrapers that twisted gently to face the sun, that created organically shaped working and living spaces, kept cool in the summer and warm in the winter. Metal items grown in molds instead of forged. Less stress on the environment, less energy burned. Kids were always coming up with such beautiful ideas. Shaundra wondered what age caused you to see the other side of it all. At what age did all the fearlessness go away?

Dineisha watched as Shaundra come back into the house, thumb in her mouth. “Is it okay?”

“Yeah, babe.” Shaundra looked at the wall, on the other side of which sat her workshop, and the latest engine she was working on. Could it get wet? Would it sprout? She’d already used a few of the screws on it. Did metal infect metal? She decided to send it to Jack, too. However miraculous it all was, she wanted it out of her hair. “Just no more planting stuff without asking me first, okay?”

“Is it going to make a tree?”

“I don’t know, bunny, but as soon as I find out, I will let you know. Time for your bath.”

Shaundra sent Dineisha to go pick out her pajamas, thinking about this kid who called himself Jack, his brilliant invention, his dreams, the miracles that children could create. Dineisha had always shown interest in Shaundra’s repair work and liked to read the labels and sizes on her tools and organize her drawers. Maybe she could grow up to be some sort of organic engineer? Is that what they would call it? She pushed the images of war and torturous capitalist industry to the back of her mind and ran Dineisha’s bath, choosing to picture sentient ships swimming gracefully among the whales, eating all the trash in the oceans.

Dineisha opened the bathroom door and stomped in, tossing her PJs onto the counter, her top falling into the sink. She started to pull off her sweater, paused, turned to the door, and said “Thank you, Mr. Doorknob.”

Shaundra paused as well, biting her cuticles as she twisted the shining taps to cease the running of the water.

jugglers grease their torches with witch fat
& old women smear it onto cracked
nipples & lips
to hydrate aging skin (a secret they inherited
from their grandmothers,
who also burned witches).

industrious men are making candles by catching
melting witch wax
in mason jars with labels stubbornly holding
onto soot-stained glass despite
witch heat.

between the clouds smoke snuffs a narrow
window
when the moon struggles to shine;
fireworks take its place fueled
by Witch-Burning-Bright.

car speakers are thumping
a bass beat that overwhelms the melody,
knocking marshmallows from sticks
pilfered from the pyre that shrinks
as the witch burns.

scouts & thots & fuckboys sway,
exhale the night & blacken
their lungs—
blacker than charcoal around her
blacker than car speakers blacker
than smoke & clouds blacker
than what lies outside the firelight
blacker than the heart of the witch
someone asked
to burn.

Who? Who pointed across a busy café, clogged street, packed town hall meeting, dance recital, supermarket aisle, cousin’s wake, local sports event, blaring rave flashing neon, regional eclipse viewing in the park—

& said: burn her
& said: bitch
& said: fuck her
& said: witch.

& Who clapped, retweeted, shared, upvoted, endorsed, funded, joined the gang that crossed the stadium/library/cafeteria/church/courtroom/abyss

to grab her
to squeeze her
to breathe in her ear
to let her know

all she has        is helplessness

all she is          is kindling,

starting a fire without intention,
without control,
without consent.

The Fire Burns
only one
To Nothing.

& when the sticks collapse
& smoke ebbs
Dawn shows:
normal people leading
blameless lives,
trailing ashes from the scene
as they walk home
Unburned.

Everyone’s least favorite human, this persistent creature is a narrow-minded cousin of perhaps our favorite type of human—the cryptozoologist—and differs from that specimen in several key ways. Primarily, its insistence that we Encantados match the image proscribed to us in myth (of a dapper, dark-skinned man who charms women on the dance floor or with the seductive rhythms of a guitar, only to abandon her when sunrise invariably sends him running for the shores of the Amazon River before he transforms back into a pink river dolphin). A myopic cryptozoologist cannot fathom that, like humans, we might be more—more numerous, more various—than they dare dream. They set up cameras in the bushes and wait for us to emerge from the river, like underwear models glistening at sunset, completely unaware that we might choose to take the form of women or of children, that we might instead of attending a lavish party volunteer at a homeless shelter or campaign on behalf of a progressive candidate interested in finally tackling climate change. This never occurs to them. In their opinion, we have no goals, no intentions—no reason for existing beyond sex, pleasure, and trickery. Human stories have reduced us to imaginary lovers and convenient excuses for unwanted pregnancies. Frankly, we find this exhausting.

• • • •

The Ardent Disbeliever

A charming lot, so convinced of their correctness. Most prove harmless. By virtue of never actively looking for us, they never manage to see us in our true form, not even when we stand right in front of them or when they happen upon us as we transform. CGI, some claim. Magic mushrooms, others insist—despite all evidence to the contrary. That’s okay. Let them have their reasonable explanations and pseudoscientific theories. Science is so much broader than the human heart is generous. Better to leave this kind to pause just long enough to shake their head in disbelief, than risk retaliation for shattering their inflexible worldview.

• • • •

The Indifferent Bystander

In our experience, the vast majority of humans fall into this category. For one reason or another—their jobs, the constant struggle of balancing work and childcare, the unreasonable demands of late-stage capitalism on their minds and bodies, to say nothing of poverty—the indifferent bystander doesn’t have the energy to care about us; they are tired; they want to sleep. Short of sleep, they want relief from the pressures of their lives and the horror of living on dry land, where the water cannot cradle them or lull them to sleep. Only arms can do that. Only bodies pressed against their own, not in the bustle and squeeze of a city but in the tenderness of love. To these people, we are sometimes lovers, though rarely the kind that appears once on the dance floor and disappears from their lives forever. Instead, we ask about books they’re reading. We make friends with their dogs, who uniformly love Encantados, because dogs always know what is in your heart. And we let the love run its course—sometimes weeks, sometimes years, never cutting it off too soon. We need it, too. Connection. Our lives depend on humans, whether we like it or not.

• • • •

The Danger to Us All

Over the years, many categories of human have threatened Encante. Poachers intent on selling our pink flesh as a delicacy; trophy hunters hoping to bag an Encantado in human form, then mount it on their wall, blowhole and all; trawlers dragging their nets across the beds of the Amazon and the Orinoco Rivers; mad scientists dying to experiment on us; governments planning to brainwash and manipulate us into becoming shapeshifting spies; special interest groups who claim to want to save us from pollution but only ever protect the rich; intrepid explorers searching for the gates to Encante, unaware that they will never find it, not in human form. Each one of these poses a threat, but none so much as the insidious lie that only some people matter, that only some creatures deserve to live, while others have not earned the privilege. Everyone who believes this is our enemy. The question is: are you?

“Broodmare” is a story I have been mulling over for a few years. Back in 2019, I read an article in Mother Jones about the lack of abortion access in the south. The article focused not only on those who had to travel several hundred miles to obtain safe abortions, but also on the Mississippi Reproductive Freedom Fund and specifically a woman named Laurie Bertram Roberts. Roberts, her daughters, and her partner physically pick up people in need of an abortion and transport them across state lines to get them the medical care they need.

This was the fall of 2019. It would be another three years before the Supreme Court overturned Roe. I think everyone with a uterus was understandably terrified after the 2016 election, and I couldn’t get this image out of my head, of a woman and her family traveling in a van across the country to help maintain reproductive justice.

In October 2021, I took a short story workshop and committed myself to writing and finishing this story to present to the class. I knew I had to get it out now, because history was moving faster than my pen. The class lit a fire under me to finally tell the story.

What was the most difficult part of writing “Broodmare,” and what came easiest?

To be completely frank, the most difficult part of writing “Broodmare” was writing it. My writing practice has been spotty at best, completely absent at worst. When the pandemic hit, I lost a lot of the freelance work I was doing, and suddenly had more time. So I started writing again. Over the last two decades, I’ve done little bits of writing, but nothing longer than flash fiction. So I felt rusty, figuring out how to organize my thoughts and ideas, and work out story details and structure. The workshop was the best thing for it, because it forced me to finish it within a tight timeframe. If I wanted to get the most out of the workshop and if I wanted the critiques—which I needed, shout out to my fellow workshoppers, whose insight and input proved invaluable—I had to finish this story.

I think people might hate me for this answer, but the easiest part of writing “Broodmare” was also writing it. I had been getting into a van with Marge for almost three years. In the beginning I didn’t know her very well, but I spent many nights falling asleep imagining myself in the van with her, looking out the window at the countryside, picturing the towns she stopped in and the people she visited. I found the story in all those imaginings; it felt like it presented itself to me. The horse stuff was also easy. I am incredibly allergic to horses, but I’ve always loved them—I’m the saddest Horse Girl in the world. When I was little, I was obsessed with the book “Black Beauty.” I think I was about 10 when I had to write a book report on it, and instead I handed in an epilogue describing Black Beauty’s experience with his new, kind owner. That was my first real experience writing fiction. The teacher gave me a passing grade because she said the writing was good, but admonished me for not fulfilling the assignment. It wasn’t intentional, but now it feels like there’s a reason I put horses into a story that brought me back to writing.

The poor roan’s story encapsulated the risks so many pregnant people face, now and certainly even more so in the future. It’s a moment of real visceral despair that I found absolutely haunting. Short of magic like Marge’s, where can we find hope?

I think we find hope in people like Laurie Bertram Roberts and her family, who perform magic without any supernatural abilities whatsoever. Marge couldn’t exist in a vacuum. She needs her community to keep doing what she’s doing. It was important to me that the people around Marge, supporting Marge, be normal, everyday people. That includes Trace and Dolores, and the little old lady at the grocery store. Their real power comes from working together, and that’s where our power comes from too. We find hope in the people who don’t stop fighting for reproductive justice and refuse to accept the barbarism imposed by the opposition.

Is there anything else you’d like our readers to know about this story?

This story haunted me for two years before I finally got it out. It taught me that if I can’t stop thinking about something, I should probably start writing it down. Pay attention to your ghosts.

We were thrilled to learn that this is your first short story sale—congratulations! It’s an honor to be part of this milestone for you. What has your writing journey been like up to this point?

As I mentioned, my writing journey has been fairly rocky up to this point. I wrote more when I was younger, and studied creative writing in college, but my practice fell off once I graduated. I feel like I’m still finding my footing with a daily writing practice. My parents run an online air cargo magazine and I’ve flexed my writing muscles on short nonfiction pieces there and elsewhere, but I’m still figuring out fiction. I discovered Cat Rambo’s writing community and that has been an incredible resource. The classes and teachers have helped me tremendously, and the community itself has been so supportive and welcoming. I never thought I’d find a writing community in the middle of a pandemic!

What are you working on now, and what can our readers look forward to seeing from you in the future?

I’m currently being haunted by a short story around identity and assimilation. My mother is from Pakistan, but that’s a part of my identity I’ve felt a little disconnected from for most of my life, and I’ve wanted to reclaim it. I’m also excited because I’m participating in a 2023 Story a Week Challenge to push myself more. My hope is to get at least a handful of good first drafts that haunt me this year.

“God, there really is nobody out here, huh?” Trace slouches in their seat and props their feet on the dashboard. “I can’t believe you do this every other week.”

“There are a lot of people out here; you just don’t see them from the road. This is farm country. You should see some horses and cows soon, but it’s a lot of cropland. Corn and wheat and soy, mostly.”

“Bo-ring,” Trace singsongs. They take their phone out of their pocket and stare at the screen. “Barely any signal, too. I don’t get how people live out here.”

“It’s quiet. Some people like that.”

“Yeah, I know the types,” Trace scoffs. My grip on the wheel tightens.

Trace is young. Bringing a young person relieves me of some of the physical difficulties of the trip, but saddles me with other, less tangible burdens. The internet and rumors inform their knowledge of these parts of the country—no one makes a regular habit of traveling south anymore, not without a very good reason. It’s too unpredictable. I never travel alone— it’s important for my safety and the safety of our community—but it isn’t just about security or having a second driver. Everyone in the commune takes turns traveling with me. All of our members need to see firsthand why we do what we do.

“Can you please take your feet off the dash? It’s incredibly dangerous. If we had an accident—”

“An accident? On this road?” Trace waves their thin arms in a wide arc, indicating the emptiness. “There’s nothing to hit.”

“Just do it, please.”

Trace sighs. They slide their feet to the floor, leaving two rounded streaks of dusty fine dirt, like the humps of a melting camel, on the dashboard.

“Do you want to review what happens at the border?”

Trace straightens in their seat. “Don’t they just give me the test?”

“They’ll ask you questions before they administer the test. The likelihood is they’ll start with me, because they know me. I think I’ve probably met everyone who works this border at least a hundred times by now. You’ll see me go through it first.” I glance at Trace. I can’t see their face. They stare out the window at the pasture rushing past the car. Cows freckle the distance in clusters of black and white. A single weather-bleached billboard rises in the distance. Frayed at the edges. Something about Super Bowl LXX. I remember the ruckus over it. Last Super Bowl in the state. The NFL buckled under the pressure of the protests.

“I’m really glad I only have to do this once,” Trace mutters. They keep their face to the window, but I see the way they hold their cell phone, the device caged in their hands, their fingers white at the knuckles. I’m worried I didn’t do enough to prepare them, but that isn’t my responsibility. Trace was given a full rundown when they were chosen for the trip. They know the dangers, and how they might be received at the border.

“You only have to do it once, but you might find you want to do it again.” I turn off the air conditioning and crack the window an inch. The soft roar of our momentum enters the truck cab, carrying with it the sweet scent of grass.

“I highly fucking doubt that, Marge.”

• • • •

It started, for me, with a horse. A roan the color of dry, pitted driftwood. Ebony spots dotted her smoky dun body, but her legs were blackest black, as if she had waded through the night sky. A small diamond star shone on her sandy brown head, and her mane and tail grew white at the roots but darkened to ebony at the tips. She looked like pieces from many horses sewn together. I loved her on sight.

I began work at the horse farm when I turned fourteen. It put a little money in my pocket, but I was there for the free rides. There was no money at home for horse-riding lessons. I was glad to be out of my house on the weekends, and to avoid going straight home after school on weekdays, when I worked until supper. I cleaned the stalls and fed the horses, and brushed them down for the night, working their coats to a colorless sheen. The roan was my favorite. I had never worked with horses before and felt timid around them, but she was gentle with me from the start. I would brush her forequarters while standing in front of her so she could rest her head on my shoulder, her hot breath snorting down the back of my shirt, sharp whiskers tickling my neck.

I remember the first time I felt it. I was brushing her sides, following the trail of the brush with the flat of my palm, enjoying the velvety nap of her fur. It was late in the day, almost time for me to go home, the sun sinking low in the hills sending blades of gold through the slats of the stable. The day’s heat had settled inside the stalls, baking the mixture of hay and horses into a pungent sweetness. As I moved my hand over her belly, a strange sensation passed over my palm. It felt like when I slept on my side all night and woke in the morning to a dead arm, the exquisite rush of blood flooding back into the limb. I shook out my hand and the feeling subsided. But when I began to brush her again, there it was: a slight tingle as I passed over her side. I rested my hand there and let the pins and needles surface and scatter, unsure of what I was feeling. The roan flicked her tail back and forth and nickered, unperturbed.

I knew so little then.

• • • •

The sun is at its zenith as we approach the border. It hides behind a bank of billowing clouds, their heads blinding white, bellies dark with shadow. I pull up behind the line of waiting vehicles and shift into park, the engine rumbling in protest and gently vibrating the cab. I peer at Trace to see if the shaking has woken them, but they still doze, the hood of their oversized sweatshirt pulled over their eyes so that only their nose and mouth show. I wonder if I should wake them, if they would prefer a little time to prepare before the interrogation, but I hesitate to disturb them, remembering how nervous they seemed a few hours earlier. Their breathing is deep and regular, their mouth slack. I smile at the drool accumulating in the corner of their mouth, a wet spot darkening the edge of their hood.

“Trace,” I whisper, nudging their shoulder. They snort and sit up, the hood still over their eyes.

“Are we here?” they say, pressing the heels of their palms into their eyes. They flip the hood back and open their window. Fresh air, green and crisp but tinged acrid with motor oil, wafts into the cab. They lean out the window, staring at the line of trucks ahead of us. “Can I get out and stretch? Would that look weird?”

“No, I’ll get out with you. If they see me it’ll probably move us through this line faster.”

“Oh, are you, like, their favorite or something?” Trace shoulders out of their hoodie and hops out of the cab, landing nimbly and slamming the door behind them.

“Or something,” I sigh and step down from the cab and onto the asphalt. Trucks and a few small cars line the distance ahead of us. I wave my arms in a wide arc, both a stretch and a signal to the agents I know are making their way from vehicle to vehicle. Something pops in my shoulder and I wince. Years of sitting in the box truck, so many hundreds of hours on the road, are starting to wear on me. A figure wavers on the horizon. It extends a quivering arm that swipes at the air like a windshield wiper. I make my way to the front of the truck and lean against the grille. Trace is wheeling their arms out at their sides, twisting their body left and right.

“Is anyone coming?” Trace asks. They bend at the waist, their long upper body hanging limp, stretching all the way to their toes. I envy their flexibility.

“Any minute now,” I reply, folding my arms over my chest.

“I still don’t get it. Why don’t people just leave? Why live out here and deal with this shit?”

“Like I said. Some people like it out here. And for some, leaving isn’t really an option.”

“Well, what the hell are they going to do if you’re not around anymore?”

What happens if I’m caught, you mean. Trace should just come right out and say it, but they won’t. They’re not that bold, and they’ve never been a part of those dire conversations back home. Maybe after this trip, they will be. I’ve been asked that question a thousand times, and I never have an answer. I leave home knowing I might not come back, that this could all end over the smallest mistake.

A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck. Thick heat blankets us, hugging the dark asphalt. Fields of wheat and corn bound the road, green on one side, gold on the other. The air is still, no wind, and beyond the fields lies only the blanched blue of the sky. Trace joins me at the grille and we wait, listening to the tick tick tick of the cooling engine.

“Hello, ladies.” An agent rounds the corner of the truck in front of us and I straighten. Dark aviators hide his eyes, but I recognize Bill—the coarse stubble that rounds his soft jawline, the streaks of white silvering his brown hair. Trace pushes off the grille and steps to the side.

“Hey, Bill,” I say, extending my arm to shake his hand. He takes my hand in his warm grip and shakes it once. “How’s life at the border?”

Bill eyes Trace. They are staring at their sneakers. They grind at the asphalt with their toe as if stubbing out a cigarette. “Life’s good. It’s been real hot around here lately, but I can’t complain. I was hoping you’d be coming through soon.” Bill unzips a pack hanging from his waist and removes a tablet and two cotton swabs sealed in plastic.

“Oh yeah?” I say. “Why’s that?”

“Well, you know I love seeing you, Margie. You never leave me empty handed.” He presses a button on the tablet and the screen brightens awake.

“No sir, I usually don’t,” I say. “Bill, this is my travel partner, Trace. This is Trace’s first time through the border, so I’m counting on you to be kind.” Trace wipes their hands on their pants and extends their arm. Bill takes Trace’s hand and shakes it.

“Now when am I not kind?” He laughs. “Not to worry, I’ll be quick. You won’t feel a thing.” He laughs again. Trace’s eyes narrow, and I silently pray they don’t say anything. “Trace, may I see your identification please?” Trace pulls a bright blue wallet from their back pocket and tears open the Velcro flap.

“Trace Reynolds, twenty-four years old, sex listed as . . . X.” Bill’s eyes widen over his glasses, flicking from Trace to me, as he punches the information into the tablet. “That’s a first, Marge.” Red splotches stain Trace’s pale neck.

“Yes,” I say, stepping in. “Trace is my travel companion. I’m training them in the business—you know, the usual. They’ll be driving us back home.” I try to keep my face neutral when Bill smirks, his disbelief at the pronoun expressed with a short snort and a quick shake of his head. Better to keep the conversation moving. “It’s a lot for me to make this trip both ways by myself.”

“I hear that, Margie.” Bill returns Trace’s ID without looking at them. Trace pushes the ID back into their wallet. Their fingers tremble, and when they glance at me I give a slight nod of my head and a slow blink, hoping they receive the message. You’re doing fine. Just keep going.

“Now Trace, I have some questions for you. Are you ready?” Bill steps forward and Trace shoots me a look. I wish I hadn’t told them I would likely go first, but there’s nothing for it now.

“Yes sir,” Trace says. No steel in their voice, which I’m grateful for. If anything, their voice sounds softer than usual, as if they’re leaning into their femininity. We never discussed that, but I’m pleased at how quick Trace is on their feet.

“Trace Reynolds, are you sexually active?”

“No sir.”

“Trace Reynolds, have you ever been pregnant?”
“No sir.”

“Trace Reynolds, are you pregnant at this moment?”

“No sir.”

“Good girl,” Bill says. Trace’s face creases into a frown. Bill punches more information into the tablet and then slips it into the pack at his waist. “Now Trace, I will be administering a test. It’s completely painless; we’ll just be taking some saliva from inside your mouth and putting it through this machine.” Bill removes two square devices from his pack. He holds them up to Trace. The larger device has a screen and an open compartment at the back. He slots the smaller device into the open compartment of the other and clicks it into place. Bill opens the plastic and removes the swab.

“Okay Trace, open wide.” Trace inches forward and opens their mouth. Their eyes dart to mine and I hold them in my gaze. Bill grips Trace’s chin with one hand, tilting their head back slightly, and jabs at the inside of their mouth. Their cheek rounds against the tip of the cotton swab and their throat contracts with a swallow, their nose wrinkling. Bill’s face hovers in front of Trace, who never breaks eye contact with me. He breathes heavily as he swipes, and I remember too late a piece of advice I forgot to give: Don’t breathe through your nose during the test unless you want the sour odor of Bill’s coffee breath lingering in your sinuses the rest of the day.

When Bill finally removes the swab, Trace’s shoulders cave, the length of their body shrinking, their mouth falling shut. Bill inserts the swab into a hole in the back of the device. Seconds go by, Trace’s eyes moving from me to the screen of the device, until a loud, low beep sounds. “There you go, not pregnant. You did it. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” Bill places the used swab in a plastic baggie in his pack. He removes the back compartment of the device and presses a button on its side. Something within the equipment whirrs and Trace’s eyes find me again. Bill notices and laughs. “Nothing to worry about Trace, you’re all done. I’m just resetting the equipment for Margie here. One last thing though.”

“Yes sir,” Trace says, and this time I hear the sibilant sneer in their voice. Bill doesn’t seem to notice.

“This little guy doesn’t lie,” he says, holding up the device and shaking it. “I wish I could say the same for people. Unfortunately, it has trouble detecting pregnancy in the first few weeks. Fortunately, most people have the same trouble, unless of course they planned on becoming pregnant, in which case they may not know for sure but they could certainly guess.” He eyes Trace over his glasses, his wiry brows raised. Trace is motionless, their face neutral. Bill removes the tablet from his pack and turns on the screen.

“One last question for you then. Trace Reynolds, do you understand that should you become pregnant in the state of Texas, or register by test as having been pregnant when you attempt to leave the state of Texas, that you will be remanded into the care of the state for the term of your pregnancy until the baby is born?”

“Yes sir.”

“And you understand that any expenses you may incur during that term are solely your financial responsibility?”

“Yes sir.”

Bill hands Trace the tablet and asks them to sign the statement with their finger. “Okay Margie, your turn.” Bill runs through the questions with me, and I pretend not to notice the curl of a smile when I tell him I’m sexually active. I hate giving him the satisfaction of knowing something so personal about me, but it’s not worth it to lie about these things. He grips my chin in his sweaty fingers, tilts my head, and swabs the inside of my cheek. As my eyes water, I think of the dosing syringe we used on the roan when she needed medication. The butapaste was apple flavored, but I knew she hated the stuff.

“Okay ladies, we’re almost done.” Bill zips his equipment into his pack and hitches his thumbs into his belt loops. “You know the drill, Margie. I just need to see any bags you’re carrying, and let’s pop the back of the reefer and take a look around.” Trace turns and climbs into their side of the cab to fetch their backpack and our overnight bags. They swing their backpack toward Bill, who places it on the ground and unzips the front. The truck ahead of us roars to life and drives forward a few car lengths. The line is moving. I grab my purse from the cab and place it on the ground next to Trace’s bag, then make my way to the back of the truck. I unlock the door and roll it upward. Cold air, sugared with the honeyed perfume of fruit, wafts out. I climb into the back and squeeze between the racks, passing my hands over the boxes, searching for the right stamp. The cold gives the sweat that has collected under my arms and down my back a sweet bite.

“Margie, is this tea?” Bill appears at the open doors holding up a plastic bag of sachets. Trace stands behind him, their hands shoved in their pockets, their dark eyebrows knitted in a frown. I grab a box stamped with a red cherry from the interior of the truck and make my way out.

“Oh,” I say, handing Bill the box and climbing down. “Those are new. We figured we’re doing fruit and herbs, why not grow our own flowers too, maybe branch out into teas.” I take the plastic bag from him and open it, removing a sachet and sniffing it. I hold it out to Bill’s face and he leans forward. Trace rolls their eyes.

“Smells like peppermint,” Bill says.

“Good nose,” I say. “Tea goes great with pie.” I drop the tea bag back into the baggie and zip it closed.

“I suppose that’s true,” Bill says, nodding. “You understand I have to ask.” He glances back at Trace and adds, “You could be carrying abortifacients, and that would mean big trouble for you.” Trace’s head is cocked to the side, their face expressionless. Bill looks at the box in his hands and his face breaks into a wide grin. “Oh Margie, you know me and the wife love your sour cherry pie.” He rips the sticker seal and hovers his face over the pie, inhaling its tart aroma.

“I didn’t forget.” I pass the bag of tea to Trace, knowing Bill won’t ask any more questions. They turn and walk back to the front of the truck. Their door slams shut. “So, we good to go?”

Bill closes the box and steps up into the truck. He surveys the shelves of pies, moving boxes to inspect behind them. I know he won’t open any—he never does—but even if he did, there wouldn’t be anything to find. He steps back out with a light hop.

“You’re all set. Nice kid. Little quiet though,” he says, tilting his chin towards the front of the truck. “Look out for her down there. Not everyone is as understanding as me, you know.”

I set my lips into a thin smile, my jaw clenched. “I know it.”

• • • •

It wasn’t long before the roan started showing. Her belly grew round, her movements slow and sluggish. I worried about her condition. She seemed listless. She was resting more, and when she was standing she pawed at the ground with one hoof, shaking her head as if she were swarmed by buzzing gnats.

When I expressed my concern to the owners, they brushed me off. This behavior was normal, they assured me. It was her first pregnancy, but animals know what to do, they said. They know what’s happening to them. And besides, that’s why they had spent so much money purchasing her. She was a true, pure-blood roan—a rare and beautiful horse—and she was destined to sire roans. It’s what she was built for.

I spent extra time with her as the pregnancy progressed. There was no more riding her, but I didn’t care. I stayed late most days, trying to make her feel comfortable, laying thick blankets over her prone body and feeding her sugar cubes and apples. One weekend when she seemed particularly agitated, too often alternating between standing and lying down, as if she couldn’t get comfortable, I decided to stay with her. My mother worked nights at the hospital, and I knew she wouldn’t miss me. I spent the night in her stall, listening to the low groan that rumbled in her throat like a distant foghorn, her nostrils vibrating with the sound. I stroked her belly and wondered at the tingling in my hand growing stronger, more insistent, with each passing day.

• • • •

It is late afternoon when we roll into the first town. The sun has escaped the clouds and is racing to the horizon. Its light shimmers on storefront windows, the truck reflected in the glass winking back at us as we drive through town.

Trace is silent after the border. I don’t prod them. I’ve grown accustomed to this reaction. It is easier for cismen, who answer the questions and take the test knowing they have nothing real to fear. Trace is young, and the first non-binary person to accompany me. I know they were told what would happen at the border, but nothing really prepares you. We don’t have experiences or exposures like this in our home state. Haven’t for some time now.

We drive into the backlot of a supermarket and Trace pulls out a clipboard from the middle console. They find the name of the supermarket and run their finger across the page, searching for the delivery units.

“This is a normal delivery,” I say, gently prying the clipboard from Trace’s hands. “This supermarket is always a normal delivery. Many of these are, actually.” I flip the page and browse the names. “Do you remember the codes we talked about back at the commune?”

Trace nods their head. “The pie assortments, yes.”

“Only our contacts know the particular combination.”

“Right,” Trace murmurs. “And the combination changes every time.”

“Exactly,” I say, letting the pages fall back into place. I angle the clipboard toward Trace and point to a name. “This location is a potential safehouse, but look at their order.” Trace leans over, brow furrowed.

“Ten cherry, ten apple, ten peach, ten blueberry,” Trace mutters, squinting their eyes. “That’s not the code.”

My finger draws down the page to another name. “This is another potential safehouse.”

“Twelve cherry, six apple, ten peach, six blueberry.” They look at me.

“That’s our first real stop,” I say, sliding the clipboard back into the console.

Trace and I unload the truck for the first supermarket just as the parking lot lights flicker on. We walk in together, pies stacked in our arms. The cold of the supermarket hurts my head after so long in the day’s heat. This part is easy. We make the first drop and then drive the truck to the second, and the third—another large supermarket, and a tiny grocery store. Small deliveries, but the commune takes what it can get. Fresh, organic homemade pies do well everywhere, no matter your politics.

A trio of bells tinkle as we enter the small grocery store. The woman at the counter smiles at Trace, nods at me. She is short and round, her skin craggy and lined like a carved apple doll. An airy nimbus of fluffy white hair rings her head. A moist, woody aroma warms the air—tied sprigs of dried lavender, rosemary, and thyme hang above the counter, tacked above reels of lotto tickets. We lay the pies on the counter and she takes my hand in hers, presses it. I don’t open my hand until we’re back in the truck. A small stack of bills. Not much, but it’s something. Trace arches an eyebrow but says nothing. I don’t tell them I’ve been visiting the store for years. I don’t tell them how many people I’ve helped there, that it doesn’t matter that there was no one there tonight. Our contacts are always generous, passing along what they have to help the next person. Whatever will keep us going.

It is a forty-five minute trek to the next town, and the streets are dark. I let Trace take the wheel. We return to the highway and fall into the regular rhythm of linear driving. The night swallows the countryside and I’m lulled by the steady, metronomic flash of the sodium lamps marking our passage. I doze. There won’t be any real work for me tonight. It’s one of the rules that keeps us and others safe. No work after dark. No reason to have to explain where you’ve been.

The truck slows, turns off the highway. The change in rhythm rouses me. This is a small town. I know it well. It’s after eight and there won’t be anyone on the streets. The buildings are squat, as if pressed low by the enormity of the sky here, which feels denser at night. A one-street town. Everything you need on the single strip of Main Street; where it ends, houses begin. The store lights are off, quaint signs—many wooden, handmade—flipped to CLOSED, hanging in the windows. Café curtains, thin and lacy or frilled, border the windows of the diner and the general store, the quilt shop and the butcher’s. They exude amiability, as if the stores double as homes, and some of them do. Little apartments perch atop the low buildings like loafing cats. I look up through the window at the soft light of the curtained rooms above us, yellow or flickering blue, someone’s reading lamp, another’s television set. I straighten in my seat and point to the end of the street.

“Down at the end, by that corner café, make a right,” I say. “There’s a big lot in the back. Pull in there.” The café’s lights are off, but the icy glow of the pastry display case spills out onto the sidewalk. We turn into the backlot and Trace parks the truck.

“This is where we’re staying?” Trace turns off the ignition and peers out the window. A wooden staircase ascends the dark to a door above the café. A golden coin of light shines onto the landing from the porthole window.

“Yes. This is one of my oldest friends. Dolores has been helping us for years.” I open the door of the cab and cool air, scented with the sharp citrus of pine, twists in my nostrils. The familiar warmth of garlic runs underneath. Dolores is cooking.

Trace takes our overnight bags, and we climb the stairs. They complain under our weight, bowing with each step. I let myself in and the heat of Dolores’ cooking greets me like an old friend. A pot of sauce bubbles on the stove, curls of delicate steam rising above it. Meatballs crowd in a pan next to it, sizzling an ovation. My stomach grumbles and whines.

“Marjorie, my love!” Dolores throws her arms around me, and I lose myself in her thick brown waves. Her hair is perfumed with hints of thyme and lavender, the musk of sage. “How has it been only two weeks? I’ve missed you so much.”

“Missed you too, D,” I say, releasing her from my grip. She holds tight to my waist and peeks over my shoulder.

“Who is this gorgeous person?”

“This is Trace.” I sidestep Dolores and grab the wooden spoon on the stove, stir the sauce pot, slurp a cautious sip.

“Trace, do you hug? Because I hug,” Dolores says, her arms open. Trace drops our bags to the floor and steps forward. I can see the surge of red creeping up the collar of their tee. A tight-lipped half smile trembles on the corner of their mouth as Dolores envelops them in a hug. The smile unfolds, and I feel a pull in my chest. Dolores conquers all.

Dolores ushers us out of the kitchen and toward the front of her apartment, showing Trace the bathroom, the living room with the fold-out where Trace will sleep, Dolores’s bedroom where she and I will share her queen-size bed. She drags Trace to the front windows and swipes aside a curtain, points to the little free library across the street where she’s donated most of her books, in case Trace wants something to read. She shows Trace the remote control, and they patiently listen to instructions for operating a television, their head thoughtfully cocked, hands tucked in their back pockets. When we sit down to eat in the kitchen and Dolores says grace, her hands tented in prayer, I marvel at Trace’s easy mimicry, their head bowed, their fingers interlocked into a knobby fist. Only Dolores.

After dinner, Trace cleans the kitchen as Dolores moves the coffee table and fixes the fold-out with clean sheets and pillows. I retire to the bathroom to wash up before bed. I hear Dolores explain where the pies should be unloaded tomorrow to keep them fresh for when we leave, then the faint jingle of the café keys changing hands. I’m tired, but relieved to have landed for the night. Tomorrow will be busy. Dolores confides that four people will be coming over the course of the morning and afternoon. It’s a lot, but not unusual.

Dolores is already under the covers when I climb into the creaking bed. She strokes my head until I fall asleep.

• • • •

When the roan gave birth, something ruptured. She hemorrhaged, pouring blood into the broad ligament on either side of her uterus. She trembled, in pain and shock. They stabilized her, put her on fluids, anti-inflammatories, and clotting drugs in the hopes a clot would seal the bleed. It took months for her to recover. They kept her sedated most of the time. Her foal, a dusky gray whip of smoke, was left by her side to calm her. The vets told the owners it would be best if this were her only pregnancy. The likelihood was high this would happen again and next time prove fatal.

I checked on her often when I was working. My mind spun around the months spent witnessing her strange behavior, wondering if she knew something we didn’t, that some part of her agitation was in response to what was to come. I have never been angrier.

As time passed, she recovered. I enjoyed watching her care for her foal. The little colt was spunky and liked to race around the pasture, kicking his matchstick legs and stretching his neck forward as he ran, as if reaching for new limits to his speed. She always kept him in her sightline. If other horses came close to him she would trot between them, her broad body a protective barrier. She was the same with the handlers, but not me. From the beginning, even when she was sick, I was allowed near both of them. I slipped them carrots and grapes and strawberries, nuzzled their scratchy, hot muzzles as they chewed.

It was a year and a half later, as I was brushing her coat, my hand passing over her, that I felt it again. A faint buzzing in my palm as it rested on her belly. I held my hand there, and she looked back at me, her mouth working over some hay. My body flushed with heat. The fluttering under my hand quickened in response. I knew then, somehow, what it was, this prickling sensation under my hand. She wasn’t even showing yet, but I knew. Not again. They were warned. Rage flooded through me.

I’ve never been able to properly explain it. How my eyes went cloudy and my vision blurred. How I focused everything on my hand, on that faint flutter, all of me pressing against it. How I imagined it slowing, growing still, then fading into the distance like the lights of a town as you leave it.

An atomic quiver, winking out.

• • • •

I wake to the rich scent of roasting coffee, the sounds of Trace and Dolores laughing—the first a subdued chortle, the joy locked in their throat, the second a wide open braying that bounces heartily off the walls. I hear the sizzling drop of bacon as it hits the pan, and I change into my clothes. My stomach turns. I’m hungry but also not. Maybe it’s nerves. I’ve never been able to fully rid myself of them.

The morning sun has cast the apartment in amber and we soak in the glow over breakfast, arms crisscrossing the table to pass scrambled eggs, toast, jam, and hot pastries. Trace’s face is alight with a newness—as if they were freshly scrubbed, worries exfoliated like old skin, polished as a tumbled stone. I try to enjoy it while I can. Dolores is good at filling souls, fueling us for what’s to come.

Trace cleans the kitchen again and puts a kettle on. I sit on the fold-out in the living room, sipping coffee. When the knock comes at the door, I take a deep breath in and hold it.

She is tall, solid. Her eyes are wide and full, but they droop with fatigue, puce crescents cradling her deep brown eyes. She smiles at Dolores, who embraces her. Dolores places one hand on the back of her head, and I know without asking that Dolores knows her—this isn’t someone who found us through the standard channels. This is someone from town, someone who lives on these streets, who comes to the café for Dolores’s dry danishes and hot coffee. She sees Trace, and her smile teeters. Trace leans over the kitchen table, extending their hand, and the girl shakes it, nodding, her lips pressed thin. Dolores slips an arm around her waist and leads her into the living room, whispering something in her ear.

“Marjorie, this is Nia,” Dolores says.

“Hello, Nia.” I rise from the couch and motion for her to sit. “How are you feeling today?”

“Nervous,” she says, sitting down. “A little nauseous, I guess. I don’t quite understand how all this works, but Dolores—” She glances at Dolores, who sits in a chair opposite the couch. “She said I shouldn’t worry.”

“You shouldn’t,” I say. The shrill keen of the tea kettle rises from the kitchen, as if the kettle is finding its voice, but Trace removes it from the heat before it reaches its full pitch.

“So, like . . . what do you want to know?” she asks.

“Whatever you want to tell me, but I don’t need to know anything.” She glances again at Dolores, her hands fidgeting in her lap. Her nails are bitten to the quick. Flecks of dried blood dot her cuticles. “I know why you’re here. That’s enough.”

“I’m going to school. On a scholarship. I leave in the fall. I—I couldn’t leave if—they won’t let me . . . ” she trails off, tears welling in her wide eyes. “I’m not ready. I don’t want to stay here. I can’t do it.” Dolores reaches for a box of tissues, passes them to Nia. She presses one to her face, hiding in it.

“Nia is one of the smartest girls I know,” Dolores says. “Top of her class.”

“Not that smart,” she sighs. “I got myself into this mess, didn’t I?”

“It’s not about whether or not you’re smart, Nia,” Trace says. They enter the room carrying a cup of hot tea. The cool scent of peppermint fills the room. “I’m smart. Marge would probably say I’m too smart.” They set the tea on the table in front of Nia and take a seat opposite Dolores, smirking at me.

“I would, yes.”

“That didn’t stop it from happening to me,” Trace says, the words rushing out, each word clipped a little short. “But I don’t live down here, so I didn’t have to feel stupid about it.” Trace leans forward, resting their forearms on their knees and contemplates Nia. “Have you ever been out of Texas?” Nia shakes her head, a question perched between her brows.

“This is the first time I’ve left home since I was a kid. It’s . . . ” Trace leans back in their seat and raises their arms, lacing their hands together to rest on top of their head. They stare at a space above Nia’s head, out the windows onto Main Street. “I grew up in a town like this. Just like this. Up north, though, so . . . different rules, I guess.” For a moment, a younger Trace appears. I don’t think Nia and Dolores notice, but I do. Their eyes soften, a smile plays in the corner of their lips, and I can see them, racing down a street just like the one outside, heading straight toward themselves. Completely fearless.

“Don’t let living here make you feel stupid about this.” Trace’s gaze drops down to Nia. Nia nods, sniffling, and crushes the tissue in her fist.

“Okay,” she says, “Okay.”

• • • •

We find an easy rhythm. I take care of Nia, a young mother named Anne, an older woman named Sophia, and finally a young girl, Candace. None are very far along. Trace hands them mugs of peppermint tea laced with some natural calmatives and analgesics—valerian, ashwagandha, willow bark—to help them relax. I tell them to close their eyes. I place my hand on their stomachs, searching for the familiar quiver. I imagine it slowing, its movements inhibited, like an object flowing in a current of water as the temperature drops and ice begins to form. It jitters and then diminishes until I can’t feel it anymore.

The women wince. They feel a pinch. A weight pulls at their core. Pain marked by the pressure of collapse dulls their other senses, then comes the bittersweet release of cramps. I wipe the sweat from their faces, say nothing when their fingernails embed themselves in the flesh of my arms. I take on whatever pain I can. I wish I could take it all; the tea can only do so much. We couldn’t safely cross the border if it did any more.

They rest. Some drift to sleep. There are a few hours between appointments, a necessary break for all of us. My arms grow heavy and full. My hands ache. Dolores massages me from my shoulders to my fingers, squeezing and kneading the muscles as she works her way down. Trace watches her, and, soon, they have one arm, Dolores the other. Dolores shows them how to be gentler around my fingers, which prickle and flare with spikes of sharp pain. I suck in air when they press them, the sensation like an ice floe cracking in my blood.

When the women wake, we give them sanitary pads, tell them to take time off from work if they can, if it’s relevant. I tell Candace to tell her mother she has bad cramps and can’t go to school on Monday. She nods her head and then grabs me, pressing her face to my chest, soaking my shirt with her tears. It takes all I have not to cry with her.

I am spent. Dolores leads me to bed when Candace leaves, and I fall into it. She knows there’s nothing left in me. From somewhere between sleep and waking pots and pans clatter, water rushes in the sink, and last night’s leftovers, garlicky and sweet, rise back to life. I think I hear Trace gasp, a muffled sob, but by then I’m lost to the black of sleep.

• • • •

We leave Dolores in the morning. She packs us egg sandwiches and hugs me so tight I cough, then laugh. Trace grips Dolores, and a rush of warmth fills my chest. I know without asking that Trace will do this again. I’ve watched so many people undergo this experience. No one goes home the same, but Trace seems different in a way I haven’t seen before. We tell the assistants to leave themselves at home, but I’m not sure if that’s right. It feels like Trace found a part of themselves here. I don’t think anything could stop them from traveling with me now. The heat in my chest rises, and a familiar twinge tickles my nostrils. I turn my blurry eyes to the door before either of them notice.

I’m still tired, too tired to drive. Trace knows this without asking. They pull the keys from my fingers, shoulder my bag and ready the truck. They reloaded the pies into the van at some point, probably when I was asleep.

Dolores stands on the stair’s platform in the blue dusk of the early morning and waves us away. I wave goodbye, and Trace punches three short beeps on the horn as we leave the lot. I pull the clipboard from the console. Three supermarkets in the next town over.

“It’s about an hour to the first one,” Trace says, opening their window. The cab, muggy and hot, flushes with clean morning air, grassy and cool. I breathe it in. “The one after that is another hour or so. They’re both normal stops, though.”

“I see that,” I murmur.

“I’m guessing that third one is another safehouse.”

“It is,” I say. I glance at the list, flipping the page.

“We staying there?”

“No, just stopping in. We have an appointment for early afternoon. Only one, though. Then it’s off to the next town.” I trace my finger down the page, looking at the names. “One more regular stop, about two hours, then a safehouse. We’ll spend the night.”

“I can’t believe you do this every other week,” Trace mumbles.

“Yes, you said that.”

“No, I mean . . . ” Trace squints at the road. They sigh.

“What?”

“There are so many people out here. There’s no end to it.”

“So . . . why bother?”

“No,” they say. “I get it. I just don’t know how long we can go on like this.” Trace looks to me, but it’s my turn to avoid their gaze. I know the thing Trace won’t say. I could have an endless list of assistants, but who else can do what I do? We’re always one stop away from the last stop, one safe house away from being discovered. What happens to all these people if I’m not around?

“Never mind,” Trace says. “Let’s listen to some music.” They turn on the radio, search for a station, settle on something pop-y. I don’t recognize the song.

I sink into my seat and close my eyes, angling my face to the window. The sun shines warm on it, colors my vision a fiery orange. Back on the road, I can feel my mind drifting, emptying into the open spaces. The music carries in and out, a tidal sound competing with the wind whipping through Trace’s window. I fold my hands over my stomach, settling in for the ride. Something small and faint flickers there, something that’s barely anything at all. I move my hands away. There are so many miles ahead of us. A long way to go before home.

AS: I read a bunch of really cool anthologies last year, which means I read a lot of wonderful short fiction! If I had to pick three anthos published in 2022 that I’d want people to look at, I might say: Trouble the Waters by Sheree Renée Thomas, Pan Morigan, and Troy L. Wiggins (Third Man Books); Unlimited Futures by Rafeif Ismail & Ellen van Neerven (Fremantle); and Dreams for a Broken World by Ellen Meeropol and Julie C. Day (Reckoning). But there were other great books, too, and to be honest, it’s very hard to pick a few over others.

CY: Apart from the Cascade Writers Workshop, I didn’t participate in any events, virtual or otherwise. You, however, seemed to be everywhere at once!

AS: A lot of events were virtual, but some were in person. I was glad to attend a number of conventions, including World Fantasy (where we were up for an award for our editorial work) and being a special guest at Can*Con was a definite pleasure. I also got to teach a class for Augurcon, a lovely little virtual event put on by our friends at Augur Magazine, which I was very happy to see happen again. Oh, and everybody needs to watch Everything Everywhere All at Once. I mean . . . this movie is fantastic! It should get all the awards.

CY: I’ve heard it’s amazing. I’m way behind on movie-viewing, but the video media I enjoyed most this year was Neil Gaiman’s adaptation of his own Sandman comics from the 90’s. I started watching it again from the beginning as soon as I’d finished it! I’ll admit it’s been hard to keep up with what’s happening in genre overall this past year, but I’m loving the uptick in dark fantasy television lately. Sandman, What We Do In the Shadows, Wednesday, and Interview With the Vampire have all warmed my gothy little heart.

AS: I mean, I think for both of us, in our personal lives, 2022 was consistently very challenging. But I think in terms of Fantasy Magazine it was a truly wonderful year, filled with great fiction, poetry, and nonfiction. We have some seriously talented, brilliant contributors. In terms of genre as a whole – well, genre has its issues. But it also gets generous helpings of awesome. I’m looking forward to more cool stuff in 2023!

• • • •

In this issue’s short fiction, Erin Brown grows a little hope in “Skyscrapers That Twist to the Sun,” and “Broodmare” by Flossie Arend gives us a dark glimpse into the future; in flash fiction, Ruth Joffre turns the lens on us in “A Brief Catalog of Humans, as Observed by the Cryptids of Encante,” and “Monsters” Liz Colter peels away some uncomfortable layers; for poetry, we have “As the Witch Burns” by Marisca Pichette and “I Should Have Been A Pair of Ragged Claws” by Alice Towey. Plus an interview with Infomocracy,  . . . And Other Disasters, and The Mimicking of Known Successes author Malka Older. Enjoy!

I found more skin this morning. Pale flakes polka-dotting my blue sheets, grouped there as if they had conspired to jump together. Little sailors abandoning ship to take their chances in the expanse of my bed. I look my normal self in the mirror and find no red patches on my torso or legs. My back, maybe? It’s been itchy.

• • • •

October 10th

There were footsteps on the wooden stairs an hour ago. They thudded like my heart. One flight, then another, another, then the last, to my apartment where it stands alone on the top floor like Rapunzel’s turret or Poe’s attic. A loud drumbeat knocking on my door. I could have opened it; I stood close, just the other side. But I didn’t. Not even when I heard the familiar plastic crinkle and thump of bags carelessly dropped to the floor, bruising the bananas and apples, crushing the delicate cilantro. If I’d been brave, I might have opened the door to reveal the delivery person and banished my fears of a monster on my landing. I could have interacted with the world outside, even if only for a moment. It’s been so long. But if I open it next time and it is a monster, what then? Devise an escape like Rapunzel or invite them in like Poe?

• • • •

October 13th

I watched a movie last night when I couldn’t sleep. Bride of the Monster. It came on in those fragile hours between bar-closing time and dawn, when TV is all infomercials and old movies and local programming. Monster. What an odd word. Large: “Her house upstate is monstrous.” Sinister: “You’re a monster when you drink.” And, of course, a creature, unnatural and terrifying. When someone says Frankenstein, people think of the monster, but Frankenstein was the doctor. Maybe all our worst fears are meant to be unnamed, the ones that live deepest in our hearts or at the back bottom of our brains.

• • • •

October 18th

My forearm split in the shower this morning, the skin cracking like a ripe plum receiving too much water after too little. There’s a red line of irritation down the center of my chest, and I wonder if that will be next. I also found old flakes of skin today, really old, at the back of my closet. I was searching for a VHS tape of a party from when I was young. I remember presents and games and a new dress and shoes. I thought I might watch the video. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone other than the hunched shapes of strangers trundling along the sidewalks below. I wonder how many of the people who came to my party are monsters now. Back then, I only knew of the one, but I was young. Sad that we learn to recognize them. They’re everywhere now.

I didn’t find the tape, but under the yellowed confetti of skin were journals. The flat cursive is my hand, but I don’t remember writing them. There were five in all, written on yellow legal pads, like the one I’m using now. I put them back without reading them.

• • • •

October 21st

Stem cells of humans are successfully being grown in monkey embryos. I read about it in the news today. A plan to provide replacement parts for humans, so they say. Animals caged and redesigned to serve, life and limb. I doubt many will take the time to examine which is the monster in this partnership.

• • • •

October 24th

I wonder if a higher percentage of monsters exist this century than last? Than a thousand years ago? Or perhaps it’s a constant, a set percentage scattered among the population. Maybe monsters in our midst are a balance or a toll, something the rest of us endure to help us recognize goodness in the world.

The red line on my chest cracked and split last night in my sleep. The one on my arm has widened, revealing fresh, pink skin beneath. I think that soon the entire organ will slough off like a snakeskin. I’ll step out of the shower and rub it off or wake to find it next to me in bed.

Groceries came again today. My fingers toyed with the deadbolt. I wanted to open it. I wanted to trust that it would be okay. That the person on the other side would be good and kind.

• • • •

October 29th

I found the videotape today. Things in closets are often said to be buried, which seems apt. It lay in the undisturbed dark—deep beneath the summer clothes and spare linens—and rested in a small, coffin-like box. I held it a long time before I watched it. My mother was the mother of my youth, and my friends played and screamed in joy and excitement. As did I.

The monster was there, too, but it didn’t look like a monster on the tape. It gazed out from middle-aged human eyes and wore a form as vulnerable and fallible as everyone else there that day. It inspired no fear. Like a werewolf in daylight, the monster was revealed to be utterly ordinary.

• • • •

October 31st

The rest of my skin sloughed away last night, though I found none of it this morning, as if it had burned from me and the ash fell to dust. I’d hoped to examine it to confirm what I’d cast off. Checking in the mirror, the shedding has revealed only more pale, human skin beneath. I look the same as before. I recognize the differences, though, and I remember this now. This feeling of lightness and renewal, of healing, of rediscovering myself. Maybe this time it will hold. I have this journal to remind me. I’ll place it in the closet where I won’t forget.

Groceries come today. I plan to open the door.