JKV: I didn't see much difference between issue 216 and other issues, despite the Mundane theme. Maybe you tend to print a lot of Mundane SF anyway. You seem to take more risks than other SF magazines, and that, more than anything, is what makes it worthwhile for me. I'd definitely rather read a singular and surprising story than a well-crafted but trite one. Thanks for an amazing year!
Piet Wenings: Three more positives than in 2007, so we're back at the 2006 level. Jason Stoddard, Aliette de Bodard and Will McIntosh appeal to me. They were in my positive list of 2007 and 2008 sees them returning. So please keep spots open for them in Interzone! Two fewer negative votes than last year. And there are always great issues: 217 was the stand-out this year, closely followed by 214. Wouldn't miss it for the world.
By keeping track of the Interzone stories, I'm also keeping track of my tastes. I've decided to be a little bit more enthusiastic when I felt really good or worried or confused after reading a story. Things that really annoy me are Deus Ex Machinas or endings that keep you guessing, but actually unconcerned about the problem (not) solved. So for next year I hope to be able to add stand-outs (extreme positives). Eugie Foster's story in issue 220 is an example of this. The first hit of 2009!
Chris Geeson: I first discovered the work of Chris Beckett in Interzone a few years ago and have been a fan ever since—so I was delighted to find that issue 218 was something of a Chris Beckett special. Another highlight of the year was R.R. Angell's story, ‘Remote Control', which must be among my favourite IZ stories of all time.
Scott Beeler: ‘Concession Girl’ is my favourite of the year. The mix of serious mystery with a good amount of quirky and comedic elements, plus nice world building and character portrayals (human and alien) blends really well to form an all-around tremendously entertaining story. It's very difficult to get all of those different elements right at the same time but Suzanne Palmer does it in this story.
Duncan Brack: I've never actually voted before, but I enjoyed ‘His Master's Voice’ in issue 218 so much I thought I needed to—if I could give it triple marks I would! Please can we have more writing like this? Interesting and fairly complex plot (given the length of the story), and tight, effective writing.
Rowan Collins: As a subscriber only since Christmas 2007, I must say I've been very impressed with the standard of stories in Interzone, and looking at my own list of favourites, it seems like I should be voting for practically everything! I've also very much enjoyed the artwork and editorial content—I look forward each issue to the ‘As Others See Us’ and ‘Thog's Masterclass’ items, for a start.
The thing I've been less impressed with, overall, is the reviews section, which seems somehow less polished than the rest. Not strictly in the period of this poll, but in the first issue I received, #213, was a review by John Clute which had an impenetrable sentence lasting more than 120 words. By the time I reached the last phrase—'transpontine longings'—I had already come to the conclusion that this was not someone I would trust to judge literature, and gave up trying to understand him. Later, in issue #219, I came upon Tony Lee's review of The Colour of Magic on DVD, which began with the assertion that “I'm not a Discworld fan,” and proceeded to dismiss Pratchett's entire oeuvre. I don't know if it's illustrative or just unfortunate, but another review in #219 had a summary listing two Best SF anthologies, but as far as I can see only actually reviewed one of them. [This review, Rowan, is of one book that has two editions, one published in the UK and the other in the USA. We listed the details of each edition, intending to be helpful. Sorry for the confusion!]
But I hate to end on a negative note, so please take these comments in a spirit of constructive criticism, and, above all, keep up the good work! Thanks again for a great magazine, and I look forward to more great stuff in the year ahead!
Rainer Graf-Hickel: I am a subscriber from issue 217 on. As general praise for your magazine, I must say I really love Interzone already, its great stories and its design. ‘Ansible Link’ is always very entertaining and witty. I am really disappointed that there's nothing comparable in Germany. But I found Interzone—really great!!!!
Robert Lawson: Kurt Vonnegut wrote in the introduction to his collection Bagombo Snuff Box a few pointers on how to craft a short story. Number 1 on his list was never to waste the readers’ time. Interzone has nailed that one and then some. It's been an excellent year. I won't ramble on about variety of tone, length, plot etc making each issue worth a re-read—even though it's true—but I'll just quickly throw in the observation that any publication offering ‘How To Make Paper Airplanes', ‘The Two-Headed Girl’ and ‘Corner of the Circle’ to readers in consecutive issues deserves to be applauded.
Anticipating the poll this year I tried to think of stories which had not only entertained but also given me something to think about other than fixing the dishwasher (again). The best of the year was the previously mentioned ‘The Two-Headed Girl’ which stayed with me for weeks. As with last year's ‘Molly and the Red Hat’ we've been given a compelling piece of imaginative fiction with wonderful set pieces, strong character dynamics and plain damn weirdness. Just how I like it. Not that I expect ‘The Two-Headed Girl’ to top this year's poll. That honour will probably go to the accomplished Mercurio D. Rivera who certainly knows how to tell a good story well. There are too many to mention in detail but other favourites of mine include ‘When Thorns are the Tips of Trees', ‘Dragonfly Summer', ‘Corner of the Circle’ and ‘How To Make Paper Airplanes'.
For every tick there's a tock. Disappointed with a below par effort from Jamie Barras with ‘The Endling'. This wasn't up to his (admittedly high) standards. The following will appear a contradiction I know having included ‘How To Make Paper Airplanes’ as a favourite but the Mundane Issue wasn't the best IZ ever was it? And as an advertising tool I wouldn't think to attract a fickle reading public into my pages by screaming that I'm a common, ordinary, banal, unimaginative special issue. But hey it still passes KV's number 1.
Best cover of the year was issue 218. It was twelve months ago when I enthused over Warwick Fraser-Coombe's artwork and he's only enhanced his reputation this year. Maybe he can see he's got a challenger in Daniel Bristow-Bailey. The only artwork tock was the absence of David Gentry. I hope it wasn't anything I said last year.
To finish I'd like to say thanks for the R.I.P. notice for David Foster Wallace. Brilliant does not go too far when describing his work. Infinite Jest should be experienced by any self respecting bibliophilic chancer.
Thanks for a great time.
Paul Evans: Reviewing last year's issues, I realised just how high the standard is in Interzone. Lots of great stories with issue 219 my highlight. There were a few stories that didn't do it for me, but no stinkers, so I'm not going to vote against anything.
Thanks to the whole team: keep up the good work!
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Story
1 When Thorns are the Tips of Trees
Jason Sanford
2 The Scent of Their Arrival
Mercurio D. Rivera
3 Crystal Nights
Greg Egan
4 The Ships Like Clouds, Risen by Their Rain
Jason Sanford
5 Greenland
Chris Beckett
6 Concession Girl
Suzanne Palmer
7 Little Lost Robot
Paul McAuley
8 His Master's Voice
Hannu Rajaniemi
9 Africa
Karen Fishler
10 Butterfly, Falling at Dawn
Aliette de Bodard
11 Everything That Matters
Jeff Spock
12 Remote Control
R.R. Angell
13 The Country of the Young
Gord Sellar
14 The Fifth Zhi
Mercurio D. Rivera
15 Comus of Central Park
M.K. Hobson
16 Far Horizon
Jason Stoddard
17 IF
Daniel Akselrod & Lenny Royter
18 Street Hero
Will McIntosh
19 The Two-Headed Girl
Paul G. Tremblay
20 Endra—From Memory
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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ART
1 Traveller (219 cover)
Kenn Brown
2 The Ships Like Clouds, Risen by Their Rain (217 illustration)
Vincent Chong
3 Little Lost Robot (217 illustration)
Paul Drummond
4 Corner of the Circle (218 illustration)
Warwick Fraser-Coombe
5 Greenland (218 cover)
Warwick Fraser-Coombe
6 Mundane-SF Issue (216 cover)
Christopher Nurse
7 Far Horizon (214 cover)
Paul Drummond
Copyright © 2009
[Back to Table of Contents]
JOHNNY AND EMMIE-LOU GET MARRIED—Kim Lakin-Smith
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Illustrated by Warwick Fraser-Coombe
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Kim Lakin-Smith is a science fiction and dark fantasy author whose obsessions include hot rods, steampunk, urban dystopias, and dirty rock ‘n’ roll. Her debut novel Tourniquet was published by Immanion Press in 2007 and she has had short stories published in several anthologies and magazines, including Celebration, the BSFA's 50th birthday anthology, the Myth-Understandings women writers’ anthology, All Hallows magazine, and others. This is her first appearance in Interzone. Kim is also a regular guest speaker at writing workshops andconventions. Visit her website at kimlakin-smith.com.
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First off we had to get to the church. Emmie-Lou in her Poodle skirt, tight sweater, bobby socks, and high tail. Me in thick-cuffed Levis, white vest, black hair—soaked and scooped in pomade—and a pair of devilish, twelve-inch creepers. Emmie-Lou's white dress was in the back. Don't get it creased, Johnny. I wouldn't get it creased. Couldn't say the same for my shirt, crumpled up on the back seat of my Chevy Bel Air like a used pack of smokes. I never was one to waste energy on threads.
Billy revved his Daimler Dart, and, yeah, it had a dirty throat but that machine was wired. It might have been dark, but the gas lamps that lined the street lit up every inch. The engine had been cranked proud of the bonnet like a sprawling heart of chrome. Four silver pendulum arms rotated, appearing to drive a colossal tick tock movement connected to the drive shaft. Pipework wormed in amongst the gristle of the engine, or beanstalked over the roof. The boiler squatted up back in its studded metal jacket. Now and then, a rack of variegated piston valves let off bursts of steam.
I swallowed. Billy's Dart was one fat cat and Emmie-Lou was the cream.
Hell wasn't she! I eyeballed the dips, hips and lips of the Rocketeers’ top doll, a paper shaker at Franklin High who wore team ribbons in her hair and was all but wed to Billy. Problem was Emmie-Lou didn't want what Billy was offering. She might've been born on the east side, which made her Rocketeer to the bone, but that didn't stop her from being real gone on a Fly. Real gone on me.
Except, in Dragsville, a Fly and a Rocketeer didn't go together. Each gang had its own part of town, way to fight, favoured machines and gene pool. Muddle the DNA and both sides took exception, the Flies by repossessing my glider wings and suckers, the Rocketeers by riding my thieving ass out of town. Or at least trying to. Truth was, I'd turn Jock before I'd abandon the blue-eyed baby riding beside me.
I shot Emmie-Lou a look made up of all the good stuff I felt inside. We'd been jacketed ever since we first spied each other in the school yard, her with a mouthful of Popsicle, me with a match hanging off my lip and a switchblade in my pocket. She'd flickered into view like the gasses streaming out of the open blower of my Chevy. Emmie-Lou; blackest hair, true-blue peepers, and a cupid's bow you could hook your mouth around and never let go of. For me, the deal was sealed there and then. As for Emmie-Lou, she'd stared right on back. I guess she must've liked what she saw.
Widening my nostrils, I sucked in the scent of her. Emmie-Lou had claws, curves, and a smell on her like cream doughnuts and summertime sweat—which was how she was two months gone, and why we were church bound. All I had to do was get us there, and whip Billy's ass in a race to Sinners’ Square in the process.
Rocketeers caged us in on three sides. Behind us, the gang's elite were holed up in their Daimlers, AC Aces, bullet-nosed Studebakers, and Nash-Healey's—coupes that gleamed with aluminium trim, rear-mounted water tanks, and every sort of billet. The remainder loitered on the sidewalk, or, to be exact, hovered above the concrete, mist shooting down from the twin pipes of their body-moulded backpacks. My one-time gang, the Flies were nowhere to be seen. All that stood between me and oblivion was the girl riding shotgun at my side and the steel wings of my Chevy.
A doll in skin-tight pants and a cherry patterned halter sidled out to the middle of the strip. She peeled a red ribbon out of her high tail and raised her arm. The Dart worked up thick blowbacks of steam. I held the Chevy on a knife's edge.
The instant the doll let go of the ribbon, I mashed the loud pedal. Grit whipped off the Chevy's steelies despite its locker. Reflected in the rear view, flames splurged out of the exhaust. And then the torque had me, moulding my spine back into the seat. In those first few seconds, Billy was just a bad taste in an otherwise lip-smacking cocktail of speed and adrenalin. The strip ahead was deserted, could've stretched for miles for all I cared. Emmie-Lou was a sweet knot of breath at my side. The Chevy parted the air like silk.
Then Billy rumbled up to my left shoulder. Tucking in my chin, I glanced sideways to see Billy smiling back, his starched white collar angled like a fin.
My gaze flicked up to the rear view. Rocketeers buzzed at our back ends. That's when she spoke, my blue-eyed baby, my Emmie-Lou.
"Give ‘em hell, Johnny.” Leaning over, she touched her tongue's tip to my ear—just as Billy must've popped the seal on the steam feed to give his Dart a swollen belly. His vehicle shot ahead on a meaty belch of cooling air. Simultaneously, the Chevy lurched. Emmie-Lou's mouth ricocheted off my skull. She fell back into her seat as we were wrenched high at the bumper, the front two steelies screaming in futile rotation.
"Billy's got us on a leash.” I bit down on the words as the chain connecting the two machines whipped taut. Billy snaked his Dart from one side of the strip to the other, and I'd a good idea why. Sooner or later, the momentum would build, allowing Billy to release the hook-up and send us slamming into any of the derelict warehouses that walled us in on either side. It was a dirty game, would've worked too if it hadn't been for the fresh hydraulics I'd installed two weeks earlier.
Glancing at Emmie-Lou, I registered the smear of blood where she'd hit her bottom lip on my hard head. My heart strings cramped.
"Fasten yourself in."
She did just that. I swiped a hand across the bank of switches on the dash.
Time folded as the front of the Chevy jackknifed, a 72 volt system working off the twelve batteries underpinning the lowrider's underbelly. The four corners of the vehicle shot up then dipped. I snapped more switches. The Chevy's entire body leapt skyward, pitched front then back, and juddered down on dumping cylinders. We left the ground every few seconds, our crazed bunny hop transforming that colossal machine into a thing of flesh and metal.
Somewhere along the line, Billy lost his hold on us. I dragged the Chevy's arse off a curb, showering the streets in sparks off the scrape plate.
"Okay, baby?"
Emmie-Lou was hot in the eyes. “You always were a wild ride, Johnny."
I pinned up a corner of my mouth. “About to get wilder.” A swirling fish bowl of a water tank reflected in the rear view; I'd plumbed it into the stretched bumper to even out the weight. Cranking a lever, I drew on that reservoir now to power the twin guns at the Chevy's backend, flipped a switch and uncapped the cut-outs. The black shark roared.
Billy dove left then right.
I aimed dead ahead. Billy's Dart had the pretty face of a pro street dragster but my Chevy had lungs on it. The black shell hunkered down on an open-wheel chassis, 34-inch skins bolted on either side while the rear wheels tucked in at the tail where the fibreglass had been tubbed to accommodate them. Downshifting, I yanked a steel handle in the roof, stoked the engine then floored it. We streaked past Billy's Daimler in an explosion of blue-black flames.
The street widened out into four lanes. No traffic, which was understandable; it was Rebel's Hour, those sixty minutes before dawn when the good folk snoozed like babies in their cradles and only cats and hobos inhabited the city. And the racers. I tucked in my shoulders as if to streamline everything that could create resistance. In Dragsville there was always some punk wanted to race you.
Right that second, it was a blonde flattop called Billy, who just happened to be one of the founding members of the Rocketeers. We'd never see eye to eye, Billy and me, and not just because his crew terrorised the neighbourhood, flying in at unlatched windows to steal a honey or a wallet, or dumping fistfuls of nails onto the streets below, a helluva slice of rain. No, the truth of it was that Billy and I were the bovver boys of our tribes, destined to clash skulls no matter the subject. But while we were extremists, I'd strayed that bit too far for the Flies. Now I was on my own.
Billy shifted in real close; if I hadn't got chrome nerf bars mounted wide either side of the Chevy's skirts, he'd have scuffed me up good. As it was, I kept my eyes on the cool grey slip of road and the clock tower of the church as it peeled into view.
"You ain't got Billy licked ‘til we're wed, Johnny,” Emmie-Lou stated, breathless and wide-eyed.
"I know, baby. He'll never stop hammering us ‘til that band of gold's wrapped around your finger. But don't doubt me now, Emmie-Lou."
"Never could, never would,” she smouldered, but I caught a glint of fear in her eyes.
She was right to be spooked. Billy had found his speed again, elbowing in as we turned off 99th Street and into Sinner's Square. The track narrowed, our machines swerving in to buddy up on the Inner Circular. In that same instant, something slam-dunked the Chevy's roof, prompting my best girl to throw up her hands like a scream queen. I pinched up my eyes. A second clang reverberated, shaking my nerve; it sounded like the fist of an iron man. Then I heard the hiss of steam, not the piped flux that powered the stomach of my machine, but a rent in its mechanism ... or, to be specific, a crack in the squat, rear-mounted boiler. I rapped the Speedo with my knuckles. Five miniature dials whirred and continued to lose momentum. One glance at the rear view confirmed the worst of it; the boiler was weeping hot green water onto the road, the misted tank starting to clear as it cooled to reveal one hell of a splinter.
Interzone Science Fiction and Fantasy Magazine #222 Page 2
