E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten
Armstrong / Wise / Trenholm Strangers Among Us: Tales of the Underdogs and Outcasts (Laksa Anthology Series: Speculative Fiction)
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-0-9939696-1-4
Verlag: Laksa Media Groups Inc.
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten
Reihe: Laksa Anthology Series: Speculative Fiction
ISBN: 978-0-9939696-1-4
Verlag: Laksa Media Groups Inc.
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)
There's a delicate balance between mental health and mental illness...
2017 Aurora Awards (Canadian SF&F) Winner
2017 Alberta Book Publishing Award Winner (Speculative Fiction Book of the Year)
2016 Foreword INDIES Finalist (Anthologies)
2017 Aurora Awards Winner (Best Short Fiction) and 3 other Best Short Fiction finalists
2017 Excellence in Canadian Literature of the Fantastic (Short Story category): one short story finalist
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2017 (edited by John Joseph Adams and Charles Yu): one honorable mention
The Year's Best Science Fiction: Thirty-Fourth Annual Collection (edited by Gardner Dozois): seven honorable mentions
Wilde Stories 2017: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction (edited by Steve Berman): one story selected
Who are STRANGERS AMONG US?
We
are your fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters,
friends and lovers. We staff your stores, cross your streets, and study
in your schools, invisible among you. We are your outcasts and
underdogs, and often, your unsung heroes.
Nineteen science fiction
and fantasy authors tackle the division between mental health and
mental illness. We find troubles with
Irish fay, a North Korean cosmonaut's fear of flying, an aging maid
dealing with politics of revenge, a mute boy and an army of darkness, a
sister reaching out at the edge of a black hole, the dog and the
sleepwalker, and many more.
Authors:
Kelley Armstrong, Suzanne Church, A.M. Dellamonica, Gemma Files, James
Alan Gardner, Bev Geddes, Erika Holt, Tyler Keevil, Rich Larson, Derwin
Mak, Mahtab Narsimhan, Sherry Peters, Ursula Pflug, Robert Runté, Lorina
Stephens, Amanda Sun, Hayden Trenholm, Edward Willett, A.C. Wise
Introduction by Julie E. Czerneda
Edited by Susan Forest and Lucas K. Law
Praise for Strangers Among Us
'Strangers Among Us
. . . is important, shining a much-needed spotlight on issues that get
far too little attention. A wonderful anthology, one of the major
SF&F books of the year. Bravo!' -Robert J. Sawyer, Hugo Award-winning author of Quantum Night
'The
stories in Strangers Among Us are as varied in tone and approach as
their authors. The power of the collection derives from this variety;
while each story can be read in isolation, the assemblage of outsiders
feels, on a whole, exultant. There is, indeed, strength in numbers, when
each individual is accorded space and respect.' --Quill & Quire
'Mental
illness is an exciting theme for an anthology, leaving plenty of room
for variety.' -Library Journal
'. . .
stories do a masterful job of knitting legitimate and painful mental
illnesses to characters who still retain agency and power.' -Kirkus Reviews.
'.
. . a
number of entertaining stories to be found within its pages.' -Locus (Gardner Dozois)
'The
writers of these stories address such varied subjects as agoraphobia,
depression, schizophrenia, autism, anxiety, and addiction . . . readers
who have mental illnesses may find themselves somewhere in these pages
and as a result may no longer feel so alone or isolated.' -Library School Journal
'This is a unique collection that should attract
readers of all genres.' -Foreword Reviews
Autoren/Hrsg.
Weitere Infos & Material
DALLAS’S BOOTH Suzanne Church
Dallas and his equipment waited for someone to dash into his phone booth and place a call. Any call. Trucks and streetcars screamed by while he squinted down at the sweet neon glow shining through the booth’s plastic walls. The painted sheet metal roof had been defiled with a splat of white and green sludge—a Rorschach inkblot of defamation. Damned birds. He limped into the kitchen, channeling his rage into the knurled handle of his cane. His mother had presented him with the device when he’d still believed in the merits of physiotherapy. She’d found it at one of those conventions where people wore elf ears and talked in made-up languages. She declared it “cool.” Said it would reduce the embarrassment factor. Wrong. He grabbed a broken bucket from under the kitchen sink and filled it to just below the crack. Slopping and sloshing with every step, he walked back and heaved the water through his second-story window at the roof of his booth. Problem solved. Abandoning the bucket, he headed for the only seat in his living room: his lime-green leather chair. A throne in a cluttered kingdom of electronics. He flicked the “On” switch for the lipstick-cam and turned the dial left, then right, then left once more to adjust the contrast for the live-feed video image of his booth’s inner sanctum. Next, he activated the power bars for the computers, monitors, and the two banks of audio sensors and recording devices. Finally, he scanned the labyrinth of wires, particularly those leading to the parabolic microphone hidden behind the Twice-the-Bargain Pizza sign below his apartment. All go. Pleased, he removed the headphones from the chair’s arm and waited for a Toronto denizen too stingy to own a cell phone. Or too paranoid to use one. After almost two hours, the equipment auto-activated. He licked his lips at the sound of a coin dropping. “Hi, Mom. It’s me,” she said. With a glance at the monitor, he savored the voice of the brunette repeat-customer he’d nicknamed “Becky”. A pause, and she added, “He did it again.” The microphone didn’t register the other side of the conversation. Tampering with a public phone was more illegal than Dallas’s other, lesser indiscretions. He squirmed in his chair, thinking of Becky’s choices. Why call your mother, when you should call the cops? Becky sniffled. She turned to face the hidden camera and the dark, swollen region around her eye conveyed her latest struggle. “On the face this time. He’s not trying to hide the bruises anymore.” Dallas waited through another pause, as Becky’s mother probably insisted she leave the guy. He twisted the headphone cord between his fingers. She turned her back on the camera and played with the coin-return slot. “I can’t. He went out for smokes and he’ll be right back. I needed to hear a friendly voice, that’s all.” Another pause. “He’d find me.” Becky sniffled. “He has people everywhere.” Dallas wanted to shout out the window, “Leave him!” Live-feed-Becky shook her head. “Mom . . . I love you. Gotta go.” She hung up. The equipment recorded for five extra seconds as Becky opened the door and fled the booth into the humid summer air. Dallas grabbed his cane and walked to the window. He leaned back, in case she looked up, and watched her hurry around the corner. He needed to catalogue the call into his “Becky” directory. Calling up the new file, he said to himself, “If the bastard ever uses my booth, I’ll kill him.” He opened a digital photo of Becky he’d taken months earlier. In the profile shot, captured with a zoom lens, she wore a forlorn expression. He touched the computer monitor, yearning for the soft warmth of her skin. With closed eyes, he fantasized how he would brush her hair aside and place his hand under her chin. She would look into his eyes, helpless against his strength, and he would kiss her moist lips. Finally, her body would relax, safe in his arms. Dallas woke with a start, from a call in progress. He jammed on the headphones. “I told you, two kilos.” The spiky-haired punk-of-a-dope-dealer Dallas had nicknamed “Bob” glared in the direction of the hidden camera. Dallas scowled at live-feed-Bob. “Early Friday.” Bob took a drag from his cigarette and then polluted the booth with his filthy habit. “Under the expressway. Put it in a duffel bag this time.” After a pause, Bob slammed the receiver onto the cradle and stormed out of the booth. “Be nice to my phone, dirt-bag.” Dallas sat in the dark, waiting for Bob to vacate the zone, before cataloguing the call. His stomach growled loud enough to wake the roaches. “Better scurry or I’ll squish you,” he said to them as he entered the kitchen. He always opened the fridge without turning on the light so they wouldn’t do their worrisome flee-and-hide dance. He slid two cheese slices from the package and loaded a plate with crackers from the cupboard. Un-wrapping each slice carefully, he folded them twice to make four perfect squares—the filling for eight cracker-sandwiches. Then he coaxed cold water from the tap into his mug with the chipped rim. Each mouthful felt like a piece of his childhood, the processed cheese an orange window into lazy Saturday mornings filled with cartoons and bad sitcoms. In those days, he could sit cross-legged, ride a bicycle, and frolic in a park without a second thought, lucky enough to live the invisible life afforded only to the healthy members of society. Once he’d finished his snack, he rinsed his dishes and set them in the rusty drain tray. The stove clock read 2:25 a.m. on his way to the bedroom. Leaning his cane against the night table, he sat on the unmade bed. The sheets felt slimy against his skin as he rolled onto his back. “I’ll ask Mom to clean you more frequently,” he told them. The sheets remained unimpressed. “How can Becky stay with that guy?” he asked the ceiling. “The next time she uses the booth, I’m going down there to talk some sense into her.” Yeah, right, the ceiling jeered. Because of his earlier nap, he couldn’t find sleep. Instead, he lay on the bed with his arms crossed over his chest, fantasizing himself into a hero’s shoes. When he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, the sunbeam had passed the foot of the bed to shine on the filthy wall. Stretching his stiff muscles, he stood and walked to the closet. The scrawny guy with the mangled leg glared from the mirror with disapproval. Mom’s gonna be here soon. He grabbed his cut-off sweat pants from the pile on the floor and pulled them over his boxers. Yanking his last clean T-shirt from a hanger, he struggled to put it on with one hand while holding the cane with the other. He skipped breakfast, choosing instead the lime-green chair. Mornings always dragged. Disasters requiring a payphone took time to develop. Through the window, a kid’s screaming tantrum mingled with the screech of streetcar wheels against metal tracks. Before long, Dallas heard the unmistakable three taps on the apartment door. “Dallas? It’s Wednesday.” He turned off the booth’s video feed, shuffled to the door, and said, “Hi, Mom.” She hugged him. “You’re looking . . . well, I suppose. It’s good to see you, honey.” She picked up two bags of groceries and set them on the kitchen counter, leaving the door uncomfortably open. Dallas turned his back to the gaping doorway, anxiously waiting for her to bring the remainder of the supplies inside. As she stowed the food in the kitchen, she yelled, “Drag the laundry bag to your room, would you? I’ll stow your clean clothes after this.” “My leg’s bothering me, today.” The excuse sounded as weak as his self-esteem. “Fine. I’ll get it.” She returned to the open door and hauled the big laundry bag through, catching dust bunnies as she dragged it along the floor. “I’ll run the vacuum around for you, too,” she added, as she closed the door with a reassuring thud. “Thanks,” said Dallas, as much for the closed door as the offer to clean. “Don’t forget my sheets.” “I’ve started stripping them already,” she called from his room. “Oh, and I bought cherry Pop-Tarts as your special treat this week.” Dallas winced. “Cherry’s not my favorite. I’d rather you get blueberry.” She scowled, standing in his living room with a handful of soiled sheets. “That’s the thanks I get for doing your shopping?” “Sorry, Mom. Thanks, so much. For everything. Really.” She disappeared into his room again. “Did you get that programming contract from that company? I noticed your computer’s running.” “Yeah. But they won’t pay me until the work’s done. Could you lend me another hundred?” “Transfer what you need.” She sighed with the disappointed tone that Dallas despised. “You know all of my account numbers.” “Thanks.” While she scurried around the apartment, tidying, vacuuming, and giving him the I’m-so-disappointed-in-you stare, Dallas sat at his computer and pretended to work. He counted to a hundred in his head, seven times, and reached sixty-three before she finished. She stood by the door, waiting for him to see her off, and said,...
