The Long List Anthology Volume 5

by David Steffen

  Lines crease Leo’s face. He swallows. “Do you not consider what we do ‘real’ fucking?” He looks around the edges of you, like he’s reconsidering your entire existence.

  “Of course I do. I’m sorry,” you say, quickly. You know better. You know how that word has been used as a weapon against people like the two of you.

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Are you a real woman?”

  “That’s not a real gender.”

  “You don’t have a real dick.”

  “We’re real.” You take his hand. “I’m sorry, I’m failing at words.”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too. I knew what you meant. I shouldn’t call you out like a stranger on the Internet when we’re in bed together. I’ve been carrying a lot of nervous energy around with me. Wasn’t sure what to wear. Whether I should be myself—if it was safe to. If your dad would misgender me—I mean, if he misgenders you…” Leo gestures at your jeans and plain tee shirt, both from the men’s section. “And I didn’t want his opinion of me to make things worse for you.”

  You smile. “You couldn’t possibly. Everyone loves you. And it’s not that my dad doesn’t believe trans people are real. He believes that dinosaurs and portals are real—that Noelle is basically magic, for fuck’s sake. He just doesn’t believe that his son is no longer his daughter. It’s not about you; it’s about me. Just like this surgery.”

  Leo kisses your cheek then flops down on the bed. “We’ll talk to him, tomorrow. I promise not to get swept off my feet by any dinosaurs.” He tugs you down beside him.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” you say with your eyes closed and your lips brushing against the thick feather pillow.

  “I’m glad you’re here, too.”

  You know what he means. That he’s carefully avoided pressuring you into this situation for years, because it stresses you out. He wants you to be happy, though. To get the medical attention you need. For your dad to treat you with the same respect he shows his dinosaurs.

  • • • •

  You wake up—or you never fell asleep—hearing your dad call you “Emily.” His voice is scratchy and old. Weathered by decades of shouting at employees with anger and to himself with glee. The pit in your chest sinks deeper every time you replay it.

  “Emily.” You are not Emily.

  Your eyes find the clock: 12:34 a.m. Leo sleeps beside you, his hair tangled in a cute nest around his head. His bare chest rises and falls, arms loosely hug the pillow. He doesn’t wake when you get out of bed and pull on a pair of running shorts. If Dad won’t help you, then you’ll help yourself.

  Humidity creeps between your skin and shirt, the second you leave the guest house. As you walk the unpaved path, a roar sounds in the distance. A long, low growl that rumbles beneath your skin and raises the hair on your neck. For a moment, you forget that your dad built this place. That it’s artificial.

  These animals are real. Their huge feet flatten the earth. Their bodies dump piles of waste. Teeth grind leaves or rip flesh. They didn’t ask to be here or to be re-made—for their very DNA to be manipulated.

  And he’s going to kill the ones that can change their bodies. You fucking wish. You have half a mind to go set them all free—unleash the horny trans dinosaurs—but you have other ideas.

  The engineering building is dark and empty at 1:00 a.m. The heavy metal door is locked. You cup your hands and peer into one of the windows—fucking bars across them. You considered breaking one, but now you’ll have to find another way in.

  Around the back of the building, a sidewalk door leads down into what you assume is the cellar and it’s only secured with a lock. And why not? Who on this island is going to break in? They all worship your dad like a god. If you can find a hammer or something, you can break the lock off.

  Or, you could have.

  “Hey!” A flashlight shines on you from behind. “Stop right there.”

  You stop and hold up your hands to show they’re empty. No hammer. Nothing to see here.

  “Let me see your badge.” The guard moves closer, shining her light directly into your eyes.

  You shield them. “I don’t have a badge. My name’s Emerick Owen. I’m Dr. Collier Owen’s son.”

  “Do you have ID on you?”

  “No.” You didn’t bring anything with you. Didn’t think you’d need it, dammit. “But if you’ll walk back to the guest house with me, I can show you—”

  “I’ll send an officer to check that out, but if you don’t have a badge or ID, you’re going to have to come with—”

  The laboratory door pushes open. You both turn your heads. The guard’s flashlight swings to illuminate a small group of engineers leaving the building. They dawdle, interested in whatever drama has interrupted their work, until Noelle pushes her way to the front of the group.

  “Emerick?”

  “Do you know this man?” the guard asks her.

  “Yes, this is Emerick Owen, Collier’s son. He was supposed to meet me at the engineering building, earlier, but it appears he got caught up. And slightly lost.”

  “It’s 1:00 a.m.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a curfew on the island.”

  The guard looks between you and Noelle, finally nodding in the doctor’s direction. “Less paperwork for me,” she says. “Carry some ID next time, Mr. Owen.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” you say, even though you hate using gendered honorifics. The word “ma’am” leaves your mouth dry.

  You follow Noelle back into the engineering building, this time without her colleagues. The heavy metal door slams behind you; the echo resonates through the empty halls.

  You’re about to thank her for having your back, when she says, “So, what were you doing, loitering around my laboratory at 1:00 a.m.?”

  You consider lying, but she lied to help you, so you figure you owe her the truth. Even if it is pathetic. “I was going to find a hammer to break the lock on your cellar door, and then… honestly, that’s as far as I got.” You run your hands through your sweaty hair. “But I couldn’t sleep and I’m so frustrated; breaking in felt productive. Thought I might rifle through some private files. Find the DNA of those trans dinosaurs you’re going to kill. Gaze longingly at it. It wasn’t a particularly good plan.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you expected to succeed.”

  “I didn’t, really.” You lean against a long window and stare at the computer stations, inside. File folders and half-empty cups of coffee litter the desktops, overlooked by family photos and dinosaur figurines. “Can I tell you something private?”

  “Sure.”

  “You probably noticed my dad keeps calling me his daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well.” You gesture to your own body. “You’re a scientist; you don’t need me to tell you that isn’t true. I thought if I came and asked—directly, to his face—he wouldn’t be able to avoid the topic. That we could talk about my transition, for once. That he might show some support, even if not financially. I’ve funded my own healthcare before, I’ll do it again. Just would’ve been nice to talk with him about it. Maybe have him there while I recovered—I don’t know. It all sounds so stupid, now.”

  “It’s not stupid, Emerick. In fact, it’s my turn to ask if you mind me sharing something personal.”

  “Go for it.” Doesn’t get more personal than you need dick surgery.

  “I didn’t come through that portal by accident, though I did wind up on this island by luck.” Noelle crosses her arms and leans back against the window, beside you. “The universe I’m from is not unlike this one.”

  “Except for the dinosaurs.”

  She chuckles. “I wish! I don’t know where they’re coming from, but it’s not my world, though some arrived there, too. I wanted to study them, but the government killed every one that came through. When they found the portal, they immediately sealed it off, despite my pleas. I could’ve secured funding, secured the portal, and the animals that emer
ged. No one listened to me. They were going to seal it off permanently—and I assume they did, behind me. My siblings worked on the task force that made the decision.”

  “You’re stuck here.”

  “Yeah, I am. But I’m also happy. Your dad supported me when no one else did. Enabled me to upend genetic engineering as your world knows it.” She holds up her hands. A slight glow emanates from them, in the dark. Even though you know it’s not, it looks like magic. “Emerick, you don’t have to stay here, if you’re not happy. You can leave, I say as someone who isn’t trying to get rid of you.” She squeezes your shoulder, sending a jolt of energy through your body.

  “I know. I thought I’d give him one last chance. I miss my family.”

  “Yeah, but you have a new family, now. You have Leo and—whomever else you love and invite into your life. They’ll help you, if you ask.”

  The two of you stand parallel, staring at the wall opposite, for seconds or minutes. Noelle’s hands have since extinguished, but you feel her energy reverberating through your body—the same energy you feel from the portal and in waves all over this island. You know why your dad likes her; she can innovate in ways he never could, that no one in this universe can.

  “Would you?” you say. “Help. If I asked.”

  Noelle purses her lips and looks at the ceiling, but you know she’s considering you because you feel the buzz under your skin. “Yeah. As long as your boyfriend didn’t mind, I would.” She smiles. “I will.”

  • • • •

  Your nerves light up when you get off the helicopter, this time, as if your feet are connecting with a charging pad. In a way, you are: Noelle’s genetic magic is at work inside you, ready for another dose. It’s your sixth visit, since Leo suggested the first one, and Noelle suggested a dozen for the changes to manifest. For the cocoon to form and your new cock to grow—like a butterfly, Leo says, and he’s not wrong.

  You smile when you see Collier—that’s how you think of him, now. When he pulls you into a big hug and when he calls you “Emily.” It doesn’t matter because he’s not your real family. You pat his back and tell him you’ll see him for dinner, because he doesn’t matter. You found the support you needed—on his own island, at that.

  Let him think you’re here to see him. That you love him and give two shits about his portal and his dinosaurs. The Owen Corporation’s future. Innovations that will inevitably be sold to the military or pharmaceutical companies, neither of which care about people like you. The only good thing your last name has done is introduce you to Noelle. And, this weekend, Leo and you have an appointment with her—and a butterfly.

  * * *

  K.M. Szpara is a queer and trans author who lives in Baltimore, MD, with a tiny dog. Kellan's debut alt-/near-future novel, DOCILE (March 3, 2020; Tor.com Publishing), explores the snowballing debt crisis, consent, and privilege, and can be described as “really gay”. He is the author of “Small Changes Over Long Periods of Time,” a Hugo and Nebula nominated novelette about a gay trans man who's bitten by a vampire. More of his fiction can be found in venues such as Uncanny, Lightspeed, and Shimmer. You can find him on the Internet at kmszpara.com or on Twitter at @KMSzpara.

  And Yet

  By A.T. Greenblatt

  Only idiots go back to the haunted houses of their childhood. And yet.

  Here you are. Standing on the sagging, weed-strangled front porch that hasn’t changed in twenty years. Every dip in the floorboards, every peeling strip of paint is exactly as you remember it. Time seems to have ricocheted off this place.

  Except not everything has stayed the same. You have your doctorate in theoretical physics now, the ink’s still fresh on the diploma. Your prospects look good. You’re going to start teaching next month, your first steps on the path to tenure. You have a grant for a research project you’ve been waiting for years to start. The secrets of the universe are a locked door and you might have the key. That is, if the house doesn’t kill you first.

  You’re lingering on the doorstep, not quite ready to commit. There’s an early morning hush to the neighborhood, but it’s already ungodly humid and warm. The backs of your calves stick to your leg braces, your backpack is heavy on your shoulders, and your walking cane is slick from your sweaty palm, though you’re not sure if that’s because of the heat or because being back on this porch is doing terrible things to your heart rate. Even the dragonflies are smart enough to linger at the property line.

  This is a terrible idea. Your hand is clenched around the doorknob and you’re listing all the valid reasons you should walk away.

  And yet.

  If you’re right, you could be onto the greatest scientific discovery in quantum mechanics. Ever. And if you don’t make it out again…

  Well, at least it’ll be in the name of science.

  So, you open the door and step through.

  • • • •

  Nothing in the house has stayed the same since the last time you worked up the nerve to come in. Nothing. This shouldn’t surprise you, because you have this theory that the house reacts to its visitors. The visitor is the catalyst and the catalyst is not a bullied eight-year-old kid anymore. Thus the reaction is different. And yet.

  You were hoping, god you were hoping you could take the same path as before. Have the same escape routes. But the haunted house of your childhood has become an unfamiliar landscape. Instead of the front door opening to a wide landing and a staircase, you are standing in a foyer, at the mouth of a narrow hall with rooms on either side. There’s no staircase in sight.

  The walls are slanted inward. They’re covered in dark, dizzyingly patterned wallpaper and you aren’t claustrophobic until you are. Vertigo and your pulse skips so badly you don’t even notice the frames on the walls at first. But when you do, you bite back a scream.

  They’re full of pictures of you.

  You’re well-documented. All ages and always caught unaware. Some pictures are taken from over your shoulder, some from a distance, some from right under your chin. You’ve never seen these photos before, but you recognize the settings in several, like the nook in the library you hang out in when you want to be alone.

  Your hand tightens around your cane. You’re going to make it down this hall and find those damn stairs. But the farther you walk, the more pictures of yourself you discover. The more the slanted walls press down on you. The longer the passageway grows.

  In the end, you only make it about thirty feet before you can’t stand it anymore, your knees are shaking that badly. So, without thinking through the consequences, the possibilities, you turn into the second room on your left.

  • • • •

  There are five of them sitting on the couch and watching TV. You don’t recognize them at first, all grown up. But these people in their best business casual and gelled hair are your former “friends,” the ones that met you at the haunted house twenty years ago. You only recognize them because you just saw them at your ten-year high school reunion two days ago. Admittedly, you attended it just to gloat a little.

  “Wow, you’re researching parallel universes? That’s crazy!” Chelsea said. “I’m jealous. My insurance job is so boring.” You gave her a tight-lipped smile. You’d been hearing a variation of this all evening. That, and “Look at you! Walking with one cane now instead of two!”

  “We did some crazy things as kids,” she said, a little too quickly. She kept mixing her cocktail, something that looked too red and smelled too sweet, and didn’t meet your gaze. “We were really stupid back then.”

  Intellectually, you understood she was trying to apologize. Morally, you knew you should be the bigger person. And yet, you said nothing.

  Now Chelsea is in the same pink frilly shirt she wore at the reunion, and she and the other four are completely absorbed in some TV show. Just like when you were kids. Except you’re not sitting on the floor with your two crutches on either side of you, slightly apart from them, hoping that this counts as friendship. You’re sta
nding in the threshold, glaring. What the hell is so interesting on that TV anyway?

  You look.

  You regret it instantly.

  It’s a video of that terrible day. The day when your little brother, Avery, got hit by a car several blocks away.

  The video is playing on repeat.

  You weren’t there to see it happen. You were too busy getting peer pressured into going into this haunted house by these “friends.” But later, when the doctors took pity and put you and Avery in the same hospital room, you heard all about it.

  “I was coming to see you at the house, yeah?” Avery said with this sheepish grin, though half of his face was bruised and all four limbs were in casts. “But this big blue truck came out of nowhere!”

  On TV, a blue 4×4 crests the hill too fast and rams straight into your little brother. Then the scene resets and it happens again. And again. And again.

  But not, you realize, in exactly the same way every time. Sometimes the rusty, dented fender only clips him and sometimes the results are worse. Much worse. But one thing is consistent; Avery never makes it across the street.

  Your five ex-classmates watch unemotionally transfixed. The assholes. They should feel just as guilty for what happened to Avery. Your little brother never did make a full recovery. Was always in pain from that moment on. Two years later, doctors put his official cause of death as “complications relating to pneumonia.” He was eight.

  Suddenly, you want to cause some damage. Want to feel your knuckles crack their teeth though you’ve never hit anyone before. You take a step forward.

  Your ex-classmates flicker. Change. Like a tilt card, where the picture shifts when you tip the angle. Suddenly, they’re not twenty-eight years old anymore. They’re eight. Kids, again.

  Then you remember, oh right, you’re in the haunted house of your childhood. Shit.

  The urban legend was that this house didn’t like visitors. That it ate them. As a kid, you thought that meant there was a ravenous ghost in its basement or something. Now, you suspect that this house holds dozens, if not hundreds of parallel universes within it.