Interfictions: An Anthology of Interstitial Writing

by Delia Sherman, Theodora Goss

  ".—.—.—is the sky blue? .—.—.—do fools fall in love? .—.—.—do birds suddenly appear? You'll have to be more specific, my dear."

  She was supposed to ask him about—.—.—.—about—.—.—.—"How—.—.—."

  "Yes—.—.—."

  "How can I bring my brothers back?"

  "Ah! Now that is the question of the day, is it not? I could tell you—"

  "Please tell me!"

  "Oh, there are so many ways,” the Hanging Man said. “You could sit in this tree and not speak a word for seven years. Maybe a handsome king would come by and make you his bride, hmm? Or, you could sew twelve brother-sized shirts. Or, you could convince the stars to give you their key to the glass mountain. You could do all of that. And more. In fact, you already have."

  "When?"

  "Before."

  "Before?"

  "In another time. In another world.

  "In a fairy tale. In a myth.

  "In the stories your mothers would tell."

  Once upon a time there was a princess For a long time she didn't know that she had brothers One day she overheard people talking She was the one who had caused their misfortune When night came she ran away and into the forest I'm looking for my brothers I'll keep walking as far as the sky is blue to find them The way is hard, you won't be able to free them The conditions are too hard She went to the stars You would have to remain silent for seven years They were kind to her You'd have to sew twelve little shirts for us Neither speak nor laugh The morning star handed her the drumstick of a chicken If you utter just a single word You won't be able to open the glass mountain Everything will be in vain All your work would be for naught

  The fragments danced in the corner of her mind's eye. But were they real memories, or the memories of dreams?

  As if on cue, the Hanging Man said, “What's the difference?"

  The flapping of wings. Twelve ravens perched in the tree—looking at her, watching over her.

  "You say you want your brothers back? Here they are."

  "They're birds,” she said.

  "They're ravens."

  "Why?"

  "Because they're dead."

  The ravens began to call out to her. Calling and calling and calling. She covered her ears and closed her eyes and willed herself awake. Struggled up and up and up out of sleep. But the calling continued outside her bedroom window. Twelve ravens on the fire escape—calling to her.

  Fly with us! Fly, fly, fly!

  "I can't!” she yelled through the window. “I can't fly! I don't know how."

  You're afraid, one said. Then the others. You're afraid! You're afraid! You're afraid!

  "I am not afraid to fly!"

  Afraid to die!

  The phone rang. She jerked awake. The room was silent. She looked out the window—nothing there but the night. The phone rang again and she quickly picked it up.

  "What?” she barked.

  A short silence. “I'm sorry I woke you. I thought you'd appreciate it.” Scott.

  "How—.—.—.—how did you know?” She wasn't sure if she wanted the answer.

  Another silence. “What are you afraid of, Brenna? Truly afraid of?"

  She swallowed. On the other side of the window it was just becoming morning. The dark outline of the hill with the dark outline of the apartments with the dark outline of the bridge against the less dark of the sky.

  "Falling,” she finally said.

  "Flying is nothing more than controlled falling,” he replied.

  There was a long silence.

  "I'll call you later,” he said, then hung up.

  She couldn't fall back to sleep. She felt as though she'd done nothing but sleep. There was no sleep left in her, even in the cool light of dawn.

  She slipped out of bed and got dressed in the semi-darkness. She went out the door, down the street, and into the forest. Halfway up the hill she came upon a little wooden cabin. It had never been there before. She went inside. On the table was a white shirt. She took it up and began to sew.

  "There are many certainties in this world, Brenna,” the Hanging Man said. He hung from nowhere, his head beside hers. His breath smelled of smoke. “One of them is that you will always complete the tasks that I give you. Without fail. No matter how hard or how many."

  She could only regard him with a questioning gaze. She could not, must not, speak. This she knew.

  "So what do you want now? Another twelve lives? Another twelve tries?"

  She blinked, uncertain.

  She finished the sleeve, the shirt was complete.

  The dream ended.

  She woke up in her bed. It was noon.

  It was a dream—.—.—.—

  She slipped out of bed and got dressed in the midday sun. She went out the door, down the street, and into the forest. Headed to her place at the top. To the tree. She pulled herself up into the branches, stepped out onto the limbs and looked down. It was surrounded by fire. She screamed.

  "There are many certainties in this world, Brenna,” the Hanging Man said. His hair kissed the flames, yet didn't seem at all affected by them. “One of them is that your brothers will never let you die."

  The flames shot higher.

  "They will always choose to die for you,” he said.

  "Why?"

  "Because they love you. Because you are not ready."

  "But I'm the reason they die!"

  "No. You're the reason they live."

  Ravens circled the tree, beating away flames with wings.

  The Hanging Man spread his arms. “You completed the tasks. I granted your wish. Each brother lived a life equal to the one he would have had if not for you."

  "Even Benjamin?"

  "Even Benjamin."

  "And if I wish again?"

  "You will get the same. No more, no less."

  Tips of wings ignited—black feathers scorched blacker. The ravens flapped fire, succumbing to the flames one by one.

  "No!” She reached down into the fire.

  "Death is inevitable. Whether you fear it or face it bravely."

  The flames nearly consumed her.

  The dream ended.

  She woke up in her bed. It was almost evening.

  It was—.—.—.—

  The raven stared at her through the window. A white shirt hung from the doorknob.

  She slipped out of bed and pulled the shirt from the knob. Held it close to her as sunlight seeped slowly from the sky.

  "Okay,” she said to herself. Then to the raven, “Okay."

  She put on the shirt, then took the feather from her bedside and put it in her hair. Out the door, down the street, into the forest, up to the cliff. The glass mountain.

  She began to climb. Taking her time—finding the footholds, the handholds, the way up. Higher and higher. The sun began to set. Higher and higher. The air began to mist. Higher and higher. She did not look down, she did not look up, she only climbed.

  She reached the shelf, the mouth of the cave, took a deep breath and crawled inside. Deep into the darkness. The walls pressing in on her from every side. The darkness drawing her in, driving her forward, welcoming her to the end—the peak of the glass mountain.

  Her brothers were there, waiting for her, in their white shirts. She ran to them, held them tight, and danced with each in turn. Then, one by one, they took off their shirts, the shirts she had sewn, and became ravens again. Flying in circles. Calling to her.

  Flying is nothing more than controlled falling.

  She stepped to the edge of the mountain, faced the setting sun, and nodded.

  "Yes. I'm ready."

  She fell forward from the edge, fell into the air. Her white shirt came apart at the seams, falling away from her as she turned, arms spread, wings spread, black, shiny fingers-feathers catching the wind, lifting her up and up and up as she joined the ravens, her brothers, in the sky. Flying into the sun, into the west. Flying home.

  * * * *

  The
first time I ever heard the word “interstitial” was at a WisCon panel discussion. It was, I believe, one of the first panels to introduce the concept of interstitiality as applied to art and writing. In response to a question I don't remember (probably about whether there can be interstitial artists as well as interstitial art), Ellen Kushner said that she didn't think that a person could be interstitial. I raised my hand and replied “I am.” I have always felt in-between. In-between races, in-between sexual orientations, in-between cultures. I don't feel like I belong to any firm category, much as I and others have tried to stuff me into one or another. I don't know that this led me to write interstitial stories, but it certainly led me to write. Isn't that the cliché? The writer as outsider? I feel like a double agent. I have access to both “sides.” Each time I sneak across the border I get more comfortable with the space in-between.

  K. Tempest Bradford

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  A Drop of Raspberry

  Csilla Kleinheincz

  I woke suddenly. At one moment I was still sleeping the dream of the waters, swimming in and out of wakefulness like a sluggish fish, and then suddenly I was there in the lake bed, aware of the taste of the earth, the touch of the rough stones and the ticklish breeze, of my body rolling along, tastes, smells attacking me—and the pain.

  The splash of the heavy body was still rippling on my surface. I could feel how the contours were outlined in me: a large man, his eyes open. He was blinking, and looking into me. I am sure he saw me as well.

  He brought the awakening with him, and also the pain. His feelings were bitter, just like acid, and I shivered at the sight of him, as if a wind that precedes rain had blown over me.

  Go, I told him, and I was upset. He must have jumped from one of the cliffs along the beach, but I could not look around to see if there were others as well nearby who might pull him out, because the blueness of the sky, the sun-yellow crowns of the trees suddenly hit my eyes, now more freshly than ever before. I grew dizzy, but maybe that was also because of the man.

  Immense love, immense pain, so big that I could not bear it. I wanted to break out of the bed, to escape. I was alert, uncomprehending, and furious. All the drops in my body were protesting against wakefulness, but the pictures, the sounds, and the memories were spreading within me and were tingling all my bodily parts.

  I tried to shut myself away from him, while he was slowly sinking down to the abyss. When I wanted to throw him up, he swam a few strokes farther down, and infused me with sparkling memory bubbles: a picture of a street, where he is running with someone's hot hand in his. A room, filled with heavy green smoke. Grasping, falling. A kiss at the brink of fear. A loose lock of hair, without a face or a body, only a blonde spiral, beautiful like a winter dawn.

  With every bursting bubble I grew more and more awake, and something was stirring within me that should not have been there, not between the fish deep in the mud nor on the floating surface. Something that was only made clear by the stabbing pain.

  Why? I asked him, and looked into his wide open eyes. Why do you heap your burden upon me?

  His eyes were blue and sad; death was already summoning him.

  He woke me up. Never mind with what, but he woke me up, and against that I could do nothing.

  Sadness was shivering in my face; not my own, though mine now.

  I broke out of myself, grabbed his shoulders and started to pull him upward. I knew that I would kill him, if I did not save him.

  Before, I never felt sorry for the birds, never for the cold little life of the fish, the immense quantity of insects. I did not feel sorry for that girl who drowned in me many years ago—but this was different. He had done something to me.

  I threw him on the shore, and crawled up next to him. He closed his eyes.

  The burning pain vanished, but I brought the faint throbbing with me.

  I looked down on him. We were panting for breath, both of us. I looked back on my lake-self, and sat up. The body, formed out of the memory of the long-dead girl, was obeying me. It was somewhat strange to be outside of myself, looking back on the mirror-like surface that was only just touched by the wind, passing by into the woods. I do not remember how I got up on the shore or when I broke in two.

  Inside me the water was splashing silently, and that calmed me. I was still myself.

  The man was coughing as if he were choking, his blonde hair stuck to his forehead. I saw the fear in his eyes, and quickly leaned over him, tasted his lips, and sniffed the water into my mouth. When he got mixed up with me, inside me, the pictures attacked me again. A girl with white gloves on the bed. A square, the clock up high, with little people hammering in it. Then a crying face, the feeling of someone stabbing me, where there is no wound. Choking where there is no lake. Emptiness.

  "Why did you jump?"

  "Why did you pull me out?” he asked with a hoarse voice, and then he sat up and looked at himself. He looked clumsy, crouching and soaking there.

  They look so graceful when still in the water, I thought. Out of it, they forget to move.

  "You will catch a cold,” he said after a quick glance at me. “I left my coat somewhere around here.” He stood up, wrung his shirt, and headed toward the trees. His coat was hanging neatly on one of them. I was watching the lake until he returned. The surface was sparkling, and a new feeling shook me.

  "Nice, don't you think?” I asked, watching the play of the frills.

  He stopped behind me.

  "Yes, very nice.” He placed the coat on my shoulders and helped me to put it on. It was warm, nicely soft.

  I looked up at him.

  "I'm Gabó,” he said. “Thank you."

  "I...” I looked at the lake, and recalled the girl, and the sounds that I had heard in the dreams. Steps, screams, stones playing ducks and drakes ... “I am Tünde."

  Once I found the name, it was easier. I turned back to him.

  "Why did you jump?” I asked again.

  "I would rather not tell you."

  "It is my business as well,” I said, and wanted to continue, you woke me up, but then he agreed with a stiff face.

  "I think you're right, since you pulled me out."

  He walked over to the shore and I followed him. The earth was muddy where I had licked it.

  "I was here two years ago with my wife. That's when I asked her to marry me."

  There was something in his voice that made me splash inside, possibly the acid memory of the pain. His eyes were red from the water and he was gazing ahead. However, I was sure that he was aware of my presence. Even though he was lost in the past, even though he had just escaped death, he knew I was there.

  Only human beings can do this. We lakes, mountains, we forget everything that is not present, everything turns into a dream, a passing feeling. Light and characterless. But to be there, to be aware, only human beings can do that.

  "We were here on the beach.” He did not say more, and even though this memory did not wash over into me, I could see the blonde girl between the trees. And then he continued after all: “Today is the anniversary. She left with another guy two weeks ago."

  Suddenly he crouched. He was shaking as if he had been hit by a storm, and I had to give him a hug, to be the bed for his waves. I waited, whispered, and my water spilled over. When I dried my face, his tears smudged over to my lips from my hands. His were salty.

  "I'm sorry,” he said, and then smiled. “I'm sorry, please would you mind giving me my handkerchief? There's a dry one in my coat."

  In the end he was the one who pulled it out, because I could not find the opening of the pocket. He blew his nose, then pondered over something, and put it back.

  "I'm so sorry,” he said, and then looked at me. Already when he was floating around in me and white bubbles were surrounding him, already then I believed that he could see me. Even now it seemed that he saw my true self. “I don't know what you think about it."

  "I am not angry, if that is what you are
thinking. You woke me up, but I am not angry about it anymore."

  "I'm not angry at you either, for pulling me out."

  "You did not really want to die,” I said suddenly, and closed my eyes. Pictures swam through the inner surface of my eyelids, just like fish. “You miss her, and no one can replace her, but you did not really want to die. It really is so ... final."

  The incredulous laughter got stuck in him.

  "Who are you?” he asked.

  "The lake."

  "The lake?"

  I made the skin on my arms do waves. The sarcastic smile froze on his lips.

  "Please do it again!” he said hoarsely.

  A wave ran through me. He could see how my body turned transparent, like a water column under the coat.

  "Of course, this can't be for real,” he said. I looked at him calmly, and waited.

  Gabó pulled himself together at last. “I thought one shock was enough for a day. Please explain!"

  I told him what I had seen. He filled in with the details, stuttering and jumping between the memories. His voice was warm while he spoke, even though I knew that talking was painful for him. The memories were like bubbles: he pushed them out of himself, so that he could sink into the cold unconsciousness.

  As he was telling the story, as we were exchanging his memories between ourselves, slowly I tried to picture the woman he was missing. She was only present in his voice, in the flashing pictures, and I could not understand. Perhaps this was because she was not the one who had tried to drown in me, but Gabó. Him I understood: his pain was like December, when the memories of the warmth of autumn are still fresh, but spring is so far away that only the absence is present. Even hope hides away in the mud, just like the fish.

  As we were standing there on the beach, evening fell. In the end he went silent. For a long time I only listened to his heartbeat, and neither he nor I thought or felt that we needed to talk.

  When he finally spoke, it felt like it was only the evening wind that had spoken.

  "I love her very much."

  "I can feel it."

  "I have to go."

  He took his coat.

  "You don't really need it, right?” he asked. “The coat I mean."

  I shook my head.

  "Now what? Shall I leave you here?"