Are You There and Other Stories
Page 1
Table of Contents
Foreword
Reading Jack Skillingstead
Introduction
The Avenger of Love
Dead Worlds
Life on the Preservation
Double Occupancy
The Chimera Transit
Overlay
Scatter
Bean There
Girl in the Empty Apartment
Rewind
The Apprentice
Everyone Bleeds Through
Reunion
Free Dog
Thank You, Mr. Whiskers
The Tree
Are You There
Transplant
Here’s Your Space
Cat in the Rain
Alone with an Inconvenient Companion
What You Are About to See
Rescue Mission
Two
Scrawl Daddy
Human Day
Strangers on a Bus
Author’s Notes
Thermalling
How to Stay Original
About the Author
Are You There
& Other Stories
Jack Skillingstead
FAIRWOOD PRESS
Bonney Lake, WA
Where has Jack Skillingstead been all our lives?
The answer is that he’s been toiling away for years—decades!—without getting published. When he finally broke into publication, it was to the acclaim of his new peers: Stephen King selected a story to appear at King’s Web site; Harlan Ellison was ready to collaborate with Skillingstead on a tale (in the end, Skillingstead completed the story, or at least the version that is included here, on his own); Gardner Dozois published the story “Dead Worlds” in Asimov’s magazine, and Nancy Kress provides the foreword to this collection of 26 dazzling tales, Are You There and Other Stories.
“Are You There” is a fitting title for yarns like these. It’s the sort of question a fearful wanderer through a dark forest asks of a companion who has suddenly gone quiet; it’s the tentative query someone casts out to air gone electric with presence in the recesses of a haunted house. Getting an answer might be worse than no reply.
There’s strangeness and trepidation to spare in these two-dozen-and-change tales. Many concern men who are trapped in securely locked emotional vaults of their own devising—there’s no need to travel to strange new worlds for a storyteller of Skillingstead’s persuasions, because he’s a dab hand at finding the alien aspects resident in the human psyche, the eerie aspects of mood and tone . . .
These 26 stories could have been dictated by demons from The Twilight Zone, they’re so odd and so distinctively uncommon. They’re also that good, that funny, and that outrageous.
Skillingstead has arrived, and there’s no putting his genius back in the bottle now. That’s the happy ending we’re left with as we shut this collection with wide eyes and a big, stunned grin.”
—Edge Publications, Boston MA
Are You There
A Fairwood Press Book
July 2014
Copyright © 2009 Jack Skillingstead
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or
by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Fairwood Press
21528 104th Street Court East
Bonney Lake, WA 98391
www.fairwoodpress.com
Cover illustration by John Picacio
Book design by Patrick Swenson
ISBN13: 978-1-933846-45-3
First Fairwood Press Edition: July 2014
Printed in the United States of America
eISBN: 978-1-62579-322-5
Electronic version by Baen Books
For My Parents
Copyrights
“Reading Jack Skillingstead,” 2009 by Nancy Kress.
“Introduction,” 2014 by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro
“The Avenger of Love,” first appeared in Fantasy and Science Fiction, April/May 2009.
“Dead Worlds,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, June 2003.
“Life on the Preservation,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, June 2006.
“Double Occupancy,” first appeared in Polu Texni, September, 2008.
“The Chimera Transit,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, February 2007.
“Overlay,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, October/November, 2005.
“Scatter,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, October/November 2004.
“Bean There,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, April/May 2005.
“Girl in the Empty Apartment,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, September 2006.
“Rewind,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, February 2004.
“The Apprentice,” first appeared in Whispers From The Shattered Forum, Fall 2003.
“Everyone Bleeds Through,” first appeared in Realms of Fantasy, October 2007.
“Reunion,” first appeared in On Spec, #56 Spring 2004.
“Free Dog,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, October/November 2011.
“Thank You, Mr. Whiskers,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, August 2007.
“The Tree,” first appeared in On Spec, #62 Fall 2005.
“Are You There,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, February 2006.
“Transplant,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, August 2004.
“Here’s Your Space,” first appeared in Are You There, first edition, 2009.
“Cat in the Rain,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, October/November 2008.
“Alone With an Inconvenient Companion,” first appeared in Fast Forward 2, Pyr, October 2008.
“What You Are About to See,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, August 2009.
“Rescue Mission,” first appeared in Solaris Book of New Science Fiction, Vol 3, February 2009.
“Two,” first appeared in Talebones #35, Summer 2007.
“Scrawl Daddy,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, June 2007.
“Human Day,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, April/May 2009.
“Strangers on a Bus,” first appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, December 2007.
Contents
Foreword, by Jack Skillingstead
Reading Jack Skillingstead, by Nancy Kress.
Introduction, by Alvaro Zinos-Amaro
The Avenger of Love
Dead Worlds
Life on the Preservation
Double Occupancy
The Chimera Transit
Overlay
Scatter
Bean There
Girl in the Empty Apartment
Rewind
The Apprentice
Everyone Bleeds Through
Reunion
Free Dog
Thank You, Mr. Whiskers
The Tree
Are You There
Transplant
Here’s Your Space
Cat in the Rain
Alone With an Inconvenient Companion
What You Are About to See
Rescue Mission
Two
Scrawl Daddy
Human Day
Strangers on a Bus
Author’s Notes
Thermalling
How to Stay Original
Foreword
This is a reprint of my first short
story collection. Golden Gryphon did a wonderful job with the original edition. It was a hardcover, archival quality, acid free paper, sewn binding, a cover by John Picacio—a beautiful, nearly indestructable book. But it was not particularly affordable. When Gary Turner returned the rights to me I approached Patrick Swenson about doing paper and ebook editions through his Fairwood Press imprint. I wanted to keep the book available and, finally, at a reasonable price. Maybe it would reach some readers who had passed on the first round. Patrick readily agreed, and so here we are.
These stories represent my first professional expression as a writer. Many of them are what I call wound stories. As such, they form a picture of a particular type of character. I call him an outsider. My wife refers to him as “tortured lonely guy.” Well, you get the idea. Anyway, this book means a lot to me. The writing of these stories preserved my sanity and led me to the far shore. It is no exageration to say Are You There and Other Stories changed my life. May you discover your own far shore.
—Jack Skillingstead
January 2014
Reading Jack Skillingstead
Why does anyone write science fiction? Or read it?
There are probably as many answers to that as there are writers and readers. Some like the wide-lens adventure of zipping around the galaxy, free of gravity and Terran law. Some like all the nifty gadgets, from smart clothing to doomsday machines. Some like the Cassandra role, peering into the future of science and crying, “If we go there, we might end up here—Beware! Beware!” Some like comforting tales of clashes between Good and Evil, in which Good eventually wins and everyone can draw a deep breath, close the book, and say, “Now that was a rattling good yarn!”
Other writers, however, have different motives. Jack Skillingstead, for one. Skillingstead is a terrorist.
Not, of course, that he will say that, if you should happen to ask him why he writes. He blinks his eyes and says slowly–to a New York ear, Jack says everything slowly—“I always wanted to be a writer. Since I was about twelve years old.” He first succeeded in 2003, and has been publishing steadily ever since. If you push on and ask him why he chooses to write science fiction, he says, “The question presumes it was a choice. But actually, I’m just attracted to the weird and strange.”
Well, all right—most SF writers are attracted to the weird and strange. (If they weren’t, they’d be writing about suburban angst or growing up in Iowa or suburban angst in Iowa.) But not all SF writers are terrorists. What Jack does is set up a situation—plausible, interesting, sometimes even conventional—and then throw an emotional and philosophical grenade into the middle of it. When the dust settles, situation, characters, and reader are all shattered.
How, exactly, does he accomplish this?
Most often, it is by peering around the edges of reality, staring unflinchingly at what lurks there, and then making us peer at it, too, with the kind of mixed fascination and horror of witnesses at a train wreck. The scene thus illuminated isn’t what usually passes for reality. It’s what lies below the surface, behind the veil, in the closed trunk of the mental attic.
*
“I was gradually becoming an Eye again, a thing of the Tank. But no matter what, I was through with pills. I wanted to know if there was anything real left in me.”
—from “Dead Worlds”
Skillingstead characters are always looking for the real, even when they would really prefer to be doing something else. (Sometimes, anything else.) They find it in places both expected and unexpected, welcoming and horrific. And when they do find it, or it finds them, the Skillingstead reality is not the sentimental, one-dimensional, comforting reality of inferior fiction. Jack is after truth, and truth is never simple.
“I noted the flavor of lemon and the feel of the icy liquid sluicing over my tongue. Sensation without complication.”
—Robert, in “Dead Worlds”
Robert doesn’t get to keep his simplistic sensation without complication. His creator knows better. Skillingstead characters know—or must learn—that there are always complications. For Robert, who thinks he wanted to explore distant planets but learns that interstellar exploration is more complicated than he thought. For Kylie (“Life on the Preservation”), who thinks she wants to destroy Seattle but learns that destruction is more complicated than she thought. For John (“Everyone Bleeds Through”), who wants to end his affair with a married woman but learns that love is more layered than he ever imagined. For Brian (“Are You There”), whose job is to solve murders but who learns that not even death is a simple binary state.
“We were all bigger than what we appeared.”
—“Everyone Bleeds Through”
However, I don’t want to give the impression that these stories merely uncover complicated anguish. They do that, certainly, but they also do much more. After my sister Kate read a selection of Jack’s stories, I asked her for her opinion. She said, succinctly, “Not an easy writer. His specialty is pain. But do not be afraid!”
She was absolutely right. Unlike most terrorists, Jack has a redemptive side.
Nearly seventy years ago, Albert Camus wrote, “There is but one truly serious philosophical problem and that is suicide.”
“She punched through, and the sudden light shift dazzled her.”
—“Life on the Preservation”
These are pretty dazzling stories. Not always easy or comfortable; the sudden light shift can be disorienting. But your eyes will get used to it, and you will see things you never expected to see, and you will be very glad you did, in fact, let Jack Skillingstead punch you through.
—Nancy Kress
December 2008
Introduction
There are committed writers and writers of commitment: distinct but, I would argue, not mutually exclusive categories.
A committed writer is one who is either committed to the process of writing (a commitment often reflected in great productivity) or to a particular aesthetic model (a commitment often reflected in the achievement of mastery of craft in that particular model), or to both. Consider, for example, Jules Verne, P.G. Wodehouse, Agatha Christie or P. D. James.
A writer of commitment, on the other hand, is one who has made a deep, unshakeable pledge to the vast potential of literary expression, a sort of metaphysical, almost devotional lifelong pact; a writer for whom the removal of such an allegiance or self-identification would cripple his or her very identity, make them utterly unable to function. Given this highly unempirical definition of a writer of commitment, it’s impossible to know who is or isn’t one, but I’d guess that writers such as Gene Wolfe, Samuel R. Delany, Ursula K. Le Guin, Doris Lessing, Margaret Atwood and Joyce Carol Oates are all respectable candidates for consideration as writers of commitment. They’re likely also committed writers. (Do the committed writers I mentioned double as writers of commitment? I’ll leave it up to the intrepid reader to decide).
It may not be possible to become a truly great writer unless you exist in the intersection of both groups.
Jack Skillingstead should know. He satisfies that requirement.
And his career embodies an interesting evolution: always a writer of commitment, he has during the last decade built up a discipline of daily writing. In other words, he has become a committed writer. And with this transformation has arrived publishing success.
Touring the Bahamas between December 3rd and December 7th, 2012, during the “Sail to Success” writing workshop aboard the cruise ship Norwegian Sky, I learned in detail what being a writer of commitment, but not being a committed writer, looked like in Jack’s case. It meant a stack several feet high of novels, written in starts and fits, that were all dead on arrival--eight, nine, maybe more such abortions. Piles of stories, dozens and dozens of them. Twenty years of toiling away sporadically without any indication that publication was forthcoming. Here’s the crucial part. During these years Jack gave up on writing several times—but failed at failing. Writing was too necessary, too essential,
for him to permanently forgo it. He needed to write, had to write, in order to live. A writer of necessity; a writer of commitment.
So he continued. Until one day publication did indeed arrive, and in the course of the next ten or so years Jack went on to publish a torrent of highly-regarded stories and two well-received novels (and he’s hard at work on several more).
I admit I’ve offered an admittedly romanticized notion of writerly commitment. But the grim reality is that the writer of commitment risks much. Graham Greene mentioned “the long despair of doing nothing well”; think about the really long despair of doing nothing poorly. And it gets worse. The writer of commitment risks losing himself, disappearing utterly in the pursuit of literature. Jack Skillingstead not only exists in his stories, but perhaps, given his commitment, risks existing nowhere else quite so fully. (Nancy Kress assures me that Jack definitely exists outside his fiction—but of course, she would say that).
Further, the writer of commitment doesn’t act like a veteran tour guide or a hardened expert when they invite us readers into a new landscape. They are as awed by the sights as we are. Jack’s writing provides a gateway into a strange, uncertain, shimmering world. Step by step, his narratives wend their way to stray, misbegotten, incandescent wonders of psychic subtlety, roiling mists of self-discovery, plummeting precipices of realization. Reading the fine stories assembled in this collection you get that sense of communal experience time and again, those moments of condensed, almost poetic porousness during which Jack’s experiences seep through the text, somehow directly into us.