Dominion

by Nicole Givens Kurtz

  Tod McCoy

  Chris Joseph

  The Leaking Pen

  Florian Rasche

  Emma Bartholomew

  Seymour Lavine

  Elizabeth Buchan

  Oliver Lauenstein

  Seth W. Stauffer

  Hasinah Koda El

  Tiffany Peng

  Forrest W

  Marcus R. Jackson

  Darrah Chavey

  Robert Monroe, Jr.

  Kevin Caler

  Anne-Sophie Sicotte

  David Proctor

  Shawn Catanzarite

  Gary D Henton

  David Semmes

  John Skinner Jr.

  Heather Valentine

  Cain Williams

  Judith Tarr

  James Kretsinger

  Joe M McDermott

  Victora Martin

  Toni Saktiawan

  David Bonner

  Karl Moore

  Matthew Cole

  Zeb Berryman

  Anna S

  Jonathan Cohn

  T.J. Franks

  Jack Blastum

  Michael Beck

  Shay J

  Derek Fletcher

  Laurie Lamar

  Bobbi Boyd

  John Winkelman

  FOREWORD

  TANANARIVE DUE

  My parents named me for an African city: the capital city of Madagascar, now called Antananarivo. When I had the opportunity to study for a Master’s degree in English Literature at the University of Leeds, the course that most appealed to me was not in Victorian literature or American literature, but in Nigerian literature, where I first discovered works by Nobel laureate Wole Soyinka, Chinua Achebe, Buchi Emecheta, and Ben Okri. I felt shocked and betrayed that I had never been exposed to African writers during all of my years of schooling in the U.S. My world was forever expanded—and now, with the publication of Dominion, yours will be too. This electrifying anthology not only introduces readers to new voices in literature, but these writers all have embraced a component I never dreamed about as a student: it’s all speculative fiction from African and African Diasporic writers.

  The world has taken note of powerful speculative fiction rooted in African experiences because of superstars like Nigerian-American authors Nnedi Okorafor (Hugo and Nebula award-winner who coined the term “Africanfuturism”); and Tomi Adeyemi, author of the international YA bestseller Children of Blood and Bone. But they are only two examples of a growing number of Black writers who are finding platforms to tell their own stories of the fantastic and the future. And, beyond introducing additional voices rooted in Africa and the African Diaspora, this anthology also includes African-American voices—a revolutionary compilation that bridges the oceans between us.

  I have always felt a deep desire to close the divide between Africans and African-Americans, which explains why my first book series that began with My Soul to Keep was centered around an immortal from Ethiopia. My protagonist, Dawit, fought in the famed 1896 Battle of Adwa, when Ethiopia repelled Italian troops…and also had experienced U.S. slavery, a hybrid of the Black Diasporic experience of both colonization and slavery, as if I were trying to knit together my desires to tell unknown African history and unknown African-American history.

  I teach Afrofuturism in the Department of African-American Studies at UCLA, and while the definition coined by cultural observer Mark Dery in 1993 focused on African-American art and discourse, my focus in class is the speculative arts of the African Diaspora—literature, comics, music and film that embrace and repair history, celebrate myth and magic, and imagine technologies with Black people centered rather than sidelined or erased.

  That’s why this anthology, Dominion, had such an explosive effect on me. Whether it’s the reflection on existence and attachment in “Red_Bati” by Dilman Dima, the horror of curses and punishment in “The Unclean” by Nuzo Onoh, or the intersection of commerce and human memory in “A Mastery of German” by Marian Denise Moore, every story in this anthology brims in creativity and thoughtfulness as these authors confront the Old World and the New, the magical and futuristic planes, and the age-old question of what it truly means to be human. Every selection is strong, each voice distinct, and I’ve never read an anthology like it.

  Sit back and enjoy these stories of myths and juju and robots and monsters.

  In these stories, the curses are real. And the future is now.

  TRICKIN’

  NICOLE GIVENS KURTZ

  The time had returned. Nestled beneath the rolling peaks from the mountain ranges, honeycombs of caves spread out in their gigantic girth, providing shelter from the weeping clouds. Raoul emerged from one of those caves.

  He scratched his scalp beneath his thick dreadlocked hair and squinted against the rain pouring across the lands.

  The black, whispery rain fell, chasing everyone indoors and turning the roads further down the city to a glistening dark. Desperation clung to each drop, splattering on the unyielding surface. Once, a bustling metropolis existed, but now, only disappointment remained. A hushed quiet blanketed everything. Only the rain’s soft drumming resonated throughout the valley, its melody rising up against the thick, humid hush.

  “Great. Monsoon season.” Raoul, a tall, but athletic man, shrugged against the cold rain pellets that bounced off the trees and splattered onto him. The bleak morning stretched onward, hovering in its gloominess. He adjusted his hood and flexed his feet inside his rain boots. Parts of him felt stiff and others felt foreign. The dark skin held hints of hair, tight black coils that sprung back to form after he tried to smooth them out. Different.

  Yet, different didn’t mean bad, only new. With it came an exhilaration to explore. Raoul jumped up and down on the balls of his feet before hunching back into his hood. Just inside the mouth of the cave, he peered out across the city’s broken landscape of discarded storefronts, flooded and cracked sidewalks, and gloomy pedestrians. He couldn’t see their faces from this distance, but their bodies spoke for them. Bent over, slow moving, they crept along the squall as if their spirits had been saturated with sadness and despair.

  Despite the mournful mood around him, his spirit was glad. Today held special—no, important—meaning. After a long sleep, he’d awakened. He stepped out further, yanking on an old hoodie to protect his hair. With fluid familiarity, he slipped his dagger in its scabbard into the hoodie’s front pocket.

  Who knew what or who he might run into on the path down or when he got to town? He’d travel light, risking the saturation he’d get in favor of being able to survive. He’d already missed far too much of the events, if the declining and decrepit structures could be believed.

  With a deep breath, he could hear his momma’s wisdom in his ear. Procrastination was the thief of time, and he’d wait no longer. The moment had come. With his hood pulled over his head, he set out into the downpour, eyes squinting against the rain, but his heart brimming with determination.

  Today was Halloween.

  Raoul made his way down the muddy slope, through the squall, and into a well-worn foot path that led into the city from the caves. The concrete buildings, tall but weak, pressed in agai1nst him. They spoke of another time, when they glistened with neon lights and dancing pumpkins. Now, they sat mournfully dark and glum.

  As he peered out from his hood’s shadow, he noticed how subdued and empty everywhere seemed. Once he reached Brower Avenue, he spied the tell-tale signs of life. Smoke swirls wafted up against the rain. The acidic whiff of hidden compost and hints of fire and food pervaded the air. As he slinked through the near-empty streets, his stomach rumbled, but he would wait. Treats would soon satisfy his gnawing cravings. Someone would venture out once the dark thickened, having forgotten the importance of this day. When they did, he’d be there to greet them with open arms, a raw hunger, and a sharp weapon.

  Afterwards, he’d start on the door to door rounds, hoping to encounter th
ose who recalled the importance of the day, the old ways, the best ways of which it appeared that some had forgotten. No orange and black parades or décor. No singing skeletons or black cats screeching. No witches, though Raoul doubted this. Witches had a way of blending in or hiding in plain sight. Most likely, there were still witches.

  The abandoned streets of a once major metropolis unfolded in front of him. Already, nature had begun to reclaim what was hers. Thick, leafy vegetation crawled over defunct vehicles and concrete, sprouting and oozing over cracked sidewalks and curbs. Braving the rain, early morning critters scurried along the path; sleek and slick, they blended in with the shadows and rain. The only thing visible was a flash of teeth or a blink of swift movement.

  He didn’t know what happened to the others who had come before. When he woke, the memories had a haziness that left him disjointed and disconnected from the times before. He remembered the décor, but not much else beyond his present thought. Unreliable though his memory had become, he didn’t know if that was how it had always been or how he wanted it to be.

  Some spoke of a virus that each warring country deployed against the other in an effort to gain the upper hand in a battle already slippery from bloodshed.

  Raoul’s ancestors believed the countries had deserted their peoples, leaving them to fight in a debate that had long outlived its mouthpieces. Even his grandparents had been ancient to Raoul, and the older ones—the survivors—didn’t know when the wars had ended. Only that at some point, no one spoke of it anymore.

  No treaty was signed.

  No declaration of peace was announced.

  Just the eerie silence and burning stench of hundreds of thousands dead. Even within their semi-protected valley, many had perished.

  Raoul shook his head to rouse himself from his musings. He tucked his chin into his hoodie against the rain. That rested in the past, out of his reach. Instead, he focused on the day, the one constant since his youth.

  They celebrated on Halloween. He did remember that. All Hallows’ Eve, the day to sacrifice to the darkness and all the powerful gods that governed humanity’s souls. The ones who listened to their wretched crying and whining about their plight, instead of simply enjoying that they still drew breath. Raoul shook his head at the thought. Still, he stood straight and lifted his chin. These people would do so again. The ones who kept to the old ways and honored him would provide treats. They would be spared his wrath. No tricks for them.

  Those that tried to deny him—well, he had something to give them.

  The cold smile on his face captured droplets of rainwater as it slid across his lips. The wind had picked up and now the rain fell at an angle, slanting and slapping into the buildings. It sounded like the clattering of dry rice. Must be growing colder, he thought, and it killed his grin. Colder weather meant folks would retreat into their homes, huddle against the fire, against each other. No, he needed them out in the streets, celebrating the return of Halloween!

  He made a right turn and tumbled down into a residential street. An uneasy silence blanketed the neighborhood. He reached an abandoned single lane bridge. Already drenched, the cold rain made his hands numb. He flexed them to work out the creeping cold. All around him, the wet earth waited in hushed desperation. His gaze swept over the darkened doors, shut tight against the rain and the unknown. So much so he could feel it, a tangible need that crawled over his skin. He had to stop himself from digging into his flesh to make it stop. The last time he did that, he had needed stitches to seal up the wound. He’d nearly bled to death.

  That had happened to him. He frowned. A haziness rose from where the memory should be. It blocked his access to the information as if it had been hacked. Only ragged bits of data escaped for him to access. He fingered the scars along his right wrist, but soon pushed the jagged memory away.

  Quiet.

  Only the hushed rain drumming against metallic shingles and tiled roofs. He walked past narrow, gloomy alleys and side streets, occupied by shadows and overflowing rain barrels.

  There! The crunch of rainboots on gravel and loosened concrete. With his ears pricked in warning, he slowed down his movement. His muscles tensed as he inched back into the shadows crafted from the bridge’s coverage. Would he get treats? His mouth salivated at the promise and prospect. Yummy goodness that would quiet his complaining stomach. With gritted teeth, he fingered his blade’s scarred leather scabbard before taking it out. Small, but effective. A sigh—a short breath above the rain pattering on the pavement.

  One pumpkin. Two pumpkins. Three pumpkins! He sprang from the gloom, white teeth and clean knife glaring, slicing through the dimness and tearing at the fiber of apathy and disdain.

  “Trick or treat?!” He roared, his voice echoing off the bridge’s underbelly.

  A weathered old man stumbled backward, eyes wide, eyebrows drawn upward in terror and mouth agape in surprise at the sight of Raoul. His booted feet dragged the skinny, almost skeletal legs, the boots too heavy to move as quickly as their owner wanted. The rubber soles stumbled clumsily on the dry pavement beneath the bridge.

  “What?” The man’s wiry and wrinkled arms shot up to protect his face. With his chin quivering, he seemed unable to form words. Strips of white hair lay plastered to his nearly bald head.

  Pathetic.

  “Trick or treat?” Raoul repeated. His belly rumbled in impatience.

  But patient he had to be. To rush would be dishonorable.

  “Uh, treat.” The elderly man lowered his arms and drew a shallow breath. He reached into his rain-soaked pants pocket and removed a vial. He passed it to Raoul, his hands shaking so much that his rings clattered against the glass. Raoul snatched it and the elderly man yelped.

  “Happy Halloween!” Raoul cajoled the elderly man, before cracking open the vial and dumping its contents into his wide, open mouth.

  Some of the scarlet liquid smeared on his nose and cheeks. He shouldn’t be so careless with the treats. With dirty nailed-fingers, he swiped the fluid from his nose and sucked his fingers. Blood-smeared and excited, he grinned at the man with a bemused expression.

  But the old man had pushed on, not braving a single backward look. His boots slapped at the water puddles as he hurried away into the downpour.

  Raoul gave a dismissive wave of his hands, unconcerned. No matter, he told himself.

  Lips stained but stomach still rumbling, Raoul blinked back the fiery hunger. Now that he’d eaten something, his mental fog cleared. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, drawing a thin watery red streak across it. He was nowhere near sated. He sighed and his shoulders sagged. He had devoured the treat much too fast and didn’t savor it. Licking his lips for the remnants of it, he searched his surroundings.

  He would need more treats before tonight was over and he had to return to the caves, until next year. But there was no reason to panic. Not yet. Plenty of time left in the evening. A grin curled the corners of his blood-stained mouth.

  Plenty of time.

  The weather shifted, and the shower with it. Now, it had become more of a mist. Great. People would start to wander out of their little hidey-holes, thinking the rain had stopped, unaware it was only a small pause. The area stank. Desperation was a terrible aroma.

  Raoul pushed on into the drizzle, veering away from the protection of the bridge’s overpass. His dreadlocks felt heavy against his back, but he couldn’t risk getting them wet. His power came from them, and tonight he needed all of his mojo. Sweat mixed with rain seeped into his eyes. He no longer felt cold. His body’s heat had turned up in response to the fuel the treats provided.

  He stalked down the vacant street. With the slap of his boots against the puddles, he made enough noise to send those who sought to avoid him scurrying. Not the best tactic, but as was the custom, he would go to their residences. His face distorted into a grin as giggles spilled out of the alleyway he’d just passed. A light, lyrical sound against the drab day.

 
Soon, a pair of lovebirds appeared at the alley’s end. The woman, with kohl-smudged eyes, stopped short. She clutched a red umbrella in one hand and in the other, her lover’s hand. He was a much larger male, with a dark hoodie and beady little eyes that peered out from underneath it. She wore a satchel style purse swung across her torso. Faded and tattered, it held all she had. The male stopped short but didn’t carry anything.

  Defenseless.

  In this dark and dreary place? Foolish. Raoul’s eyebrows rose as he looked closer, his eyes burning as he did so. Beneath the man’s hoodie was a lithe and nimble body that spoke to a somewhat healthy diet and engagement with nature. Still, hollowness rimmed his eyes and his matted hair had not been cleaned, cut, or styled in years.

  As she took him in, the petite woman swallowed hard and so loud that Raoul heard it and chuckled. Her eyes lingered around his face, over his wet skin, and the smirk on his lips. The woman appeared to have been pried out of bed and thrust into the wet, cold day. She lifted her chin in greeting.

  “You on the prowl?” the man asked, forcing Raoul’s attention back to him. “We don’t have any food.” His free hand rolled tight into a fist. With his other hand, he guided the woman behind him. “So get gone!”

  Raoul nodded and removed his hands from his hoodie’s front pocket. With a loud clearing of his throat, he asked, “Trick or treat?”

  The man’s eyebrows hunched down into a V, a furry caterpillar above his tiny, dark eyes. Raoul felt the man’s scrutiny as he took him in. The man let go of his lover’s hand and balled it too into a fist. He scrubbed his fist through his buzzed hair.

  “Don’t nobody get down with that crap anymore. Look around! We’re drowning! The gods have abandoned us.”

  Raoul’s vision burned as the man’s words wormed their way into his ears, slithering into his mind, where they laid eggs that would hatch out raw anger. Abandoned? The word held little meaning for him, and he discarded it. Tonight was his, and he wouldn’t let anyone sway his opportunity. He wouldn’t stomach the insolence.