Transcendent

  Table of Contents

  TRANSCENDENT: THE YEAR'S BEST TRANSGENDER SPECULATIVE FICTION

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION K.M. Szpara

  THE SHAPE OF MY NAME Nino Cipri

  INTO THE WATERS I RODE DOWN Jack Hollis Marr

  EVERYTHING BENEATH YOU Bonnie Jo Stufflebeam

  CONTENTS OF CARE PACKAGE TO ETSATH-TACHRI, FORMERLY RYAN ANDREW CURRAN Holly Heisey

  THE PETAL'S ABIDE Benjanun Sriduangkaew

  TREASURE ACRE Everett Maroon

  SPLITSKIN E. Catherine Tobler

  THE NEED FOR OVERWHELMING SENSATION Bogi Takács

  THE SCAPER'S MUSE B.R. Sanders

  THE LIBRARIAN'S DILEMMA E. Saxey

  CHOSEN Margaret Tenser

  WHERE MONSTERS DANCE A. Merc Rustad

  BE NOT UNEQUALLY YOKED Alexis A. Hunter

  THE THING ON THE CHEERLEADING SQUAD Molly Tanzer

  KIN, PAINTED Penny Stirling

  About the Contributors

  Publication Credits

  TRANSCENDENT: The Year’s Best Transgender Speculative Fiction

  Copyright © 2016 K.M. Szpara.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, elec- tronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microfilm, and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published in 2016 by Lethe Press, Inc. at Smashwords.com

  www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com

  ISBN: 978-1-59021-617-0 / 1-59021-617-2

  These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

  Cover art and design by Noel Arthur Heimpel

  Design by Alex Jeffers

  Ebook layout by Inkspiral Design

  This anthology is a superhero—or heroine, or sometimes both or neither, or one and then the other. This anthology is a Super. It has superhuman powers that will radiate good and eradicate evil because it amplifies transgender voices and characters and themes amidst the faraway and fantastic. And, like all Supers, it has an origin story.

  Not so long ago, in a coffee shop that served magical muffins and smelled of the roastery next door, a transgender writer’s finger hovered over the “send” button in his email. He’d written a story with a gay couple that had been published earlier that year and earned some heartfelt reviews, so he thought he’d submit it to the Year’s Best Gay Speculative Fiction.

  With little suspense, the editor called him and offered something unexpected, instead: the opportunity to edit a new anthology, a Year’s Best Transgender Speculative Fiction. The trans writer was elated by the offer and that such an anthology would even exist, but the reason seemed to be a lack of intersectionality. A worry that Year’s Best Gay readers would not enjoy gay transgender characters. A separate but equal solution.

  After two weeks of weighing pros and cons, of wondering whether he would betray his core beliefs by accepting the opportunity but imagining what a wonderful book he could create—he wished he’d had such a book when he was younger—he emailed the editor, heart pounding as he explained why he thought this anthology would be important but why the offer made him uneasy.

  And, to his surprise, unlike many cisgender folks before, the editor listened. The editor asked him not only to edit The Year’s Best Transgender Speculative Fiction but also to draft a statement of inclusion for the other Year’s Best anthologies. The writer accepted and the editor rejoiced and they worked happily ever after.

  Transcendent contains multitudes. Inside, you will meet friendly monsters, book thieves, and an assassin. You will travel from the ocean kingdoms to alien planets. You will be stuck between the year 1905 and August 3, 2321—any further and you’ll be marooned in time.

  I have strong opinions on who should be writing transgender stories and how, but Transcendent challenged me to look beyond that. There are stories with actual transgender characters, some for whom that is central and others for whom that isn’t. And there are stories without transgender characters, but with metaphors and symbolism in their place, genuine expressions of self through shapeshifting and programming.

  We saw ourselves in those transformative characters, those outsiders, before we saw ourselves as human protagonists. Those feelings are still valid. We still see through a lens that cisgender people can never understand; we are transformation and outsiders.

  But sometimes we are insiders. Sometimes the change is more a self-realization or maybe we always knew. Maybe it’s not the center of our story, but just another stupid gendered pit stop on our way to slay the dragon or save the galaxy.

  I experienced a wonderful sensation while reading submissions: that every story I read would have a transgender character or theme in it. We rarely see ourselves manifested in speculative fiction, and when we do it is all too often in an appropriative manner by cisgender authors. I’ve put down many books because of a frustrating lack of queer characters. But that didn’t happen with Transcendent. As I read every story, I experienced the delight of seeing myself or my experience reflected though speculative fiction.

  I hope that if you are trans and reading this, that you experience the same. See yourself, see your friends. See your community and your makeshift family. These stories immortalize us; I hope you enjoy them.

  K.M. Szpara

  Summer 2016

  The year 2076 smells like antiseptic gauze and the lavender diffuser that Dara set up in my room. It has the bitter aftertaste of pills: probiotics and microphages and PPMOs. It feels like the itch of healing, the ache that’s settled on my pubic bone. It has the sound of a new name that’s fresh and yet familiar on my lips.

  The future feels lighter than the past. I think I know why you chose it over me, Mama.

  My bedroom has changed in the hundred-plus years that passed since I slept there as a child. The floorboards have been carpeted over, torn up, replaced. The walls are thick with new layers of paint. The windows have been upgraded, the closet expanded. The oak tree that stood outside my window is gone, felled by a storm twenty years ago, I’m told. But the house still stands, and our family still lives here, with all our attendant ghosts. You and I are haunting each other, I think.

  I picture you standing in the kitchen downstairs, over a century ago. I imagine that you’re staring out through the little window above the sink, your eyes traveling down the path that leads from the backdoor and splits at the creek; one trail leads to the pond, and the other leads to the shelter and the anachronopede, with its rows of capsules and blinking lights.

  Maybe it’s the afternoon you left us. June 22, 1963: storm clouds gathering in the west, the wind picking up, the air growing heavy with the threat of rain. And you’re staring out the window, gazing across the dewy fields at the forking path, trying to decide which one you’ll take.

  My bedroom is just above the kitchen, and my window has that same view, a little expanded: I can see clear down to the pond where Dad and I used to sit on his weeks off from the oil fields. It’s spring, and the cattails are only hip-high. I can just make out the silhouette of a great blue heron walking along among the reeds and rushes.

  You and I, we’re twenty feet and more than a hundred years apart.

  You went into labor not knowing my name, which I know now is unprecedented among our family: you knew Dad’s name before you laid eyes on him, the time and date of my birth, the hospital where he would drive you when you went into labor. But my name? My sex? Conspicuously absent on Uncle Dante’s gilt-edged book where all these happy details were recorded in advance.

  Dad told me later that you thought I’d be a stillbirth. He didn’t
know about the record book, about the blank space where a name should go. But he told me that nothing he said while you were pregnant could convince you that I’d come into the world alive. You thought I’d slip out of you strangled and blue, already decaying.

  Instead, I started screaming before they pulled me all the way out.

  Dad said that even when the nurse placed me in your arms, you thought you were hallucinating. “I had to tell her, over and over: Miriam, you’re not dreaming, our daughter is alive.”

  I bit my lip when he told me that, locked the words “your son” out of sight. I regret that now; maybe I could have explained myself to him. I should have tried, at least.

  You didn’t name me for nearly a week.

  1954 tastes like Kellogg’s Rice Krispies in fresh milk, delivered earlier that morning. It smells like woodsmoke, cedar chips, Dad’s Kamel cigarettes mixed with the perpetual smell of diesel in his clothes. It feels like the worn velvet nap of the couch in our living room, which I loved to run my fingers across.

  I was four years old. I woke up in the middle of the night after a loud crash of lightning. The branches of the the oak tree outside my window were thrashing in the wind and the rain.

  I crept out of bed, dragging my blanket with me. I slipped out of the door and into the hallway, heading for your and Dad’s bedroom. I stopped when I heard voices coming from the parlor downstairs: I recognized your sharp tones, but there was also a man’s voice, not Dad’s baritone but something closer to a tenor.

  The door creaked when I pushed it open, and the voices fell silent. I paused, and then you yanked open the door.

  The curlers in your hair had come undone, descending down towards your shoulders. I watched one tumble out of your hair and onto the floor like a stunned beetle. I only caught a glimpse of the man standing in the corner; he had thin, hunched shoulders and dark hair, wet and plastered to his skull. He was wearing one of Dad’s old robes, with the initials monogrammed on the pocket. It was much too big for him.

  You snatched me up, not very gently, and carried me up to the bedroom you shared with Dad.

  “Tom,” you hissed. You dropped me on the bed before Dad was fully awake, and shook his shoulder. He sat up, blinking at me, and looked to you for an explanation.

  “There’s a visitor,” you said, voice strained.

  Dad looked at the clock, pulling it closer to him to get a proper look. “Now? Who is it?”

  Your jaw was clenched, and so were your hands. “I’m handling it. I just need you to watch—”

  You said my name in a way I’d never heard it before, as if each syllable were a hard, steel ball dropping from your lips. It frightened me, and I started to cry. Silently, though, since I didn’t want you to notice me. I didn’t want you to look at me with eyes like that.

  You turned on your heel and left the room, clicking the door shut behind you and locking it.

  Dad patted me on the back, his wide hand nearly covering the expanse of my skinny shoulders. “It’s all right, kid,” he said. “Nothing to be scared of. Why don’t you lie down and I’ll read you something, huh?”

  In the morning, there was no sign a visitor had been there at all. You and Dad assured me that I must have dreamed the whole thing.

  I know now that you were lying, of course. I think I knew it even then.

  I had two childhoods.

  One happened between Dad’s ten-day hitches in the White County oil fields. That childhood smells like his tobacco, wool coats, wet grass. It sounds like the opening theme songs to all our favorite TV shows. It tastes like the peanut-butter sandwiches that you’d pack for us on our walks, which we’d eat down by the pond, the same one I can just barely see from my window here. In the summer, we’d sit at the edge of the water, dipping our toes into the mud. Sometimes, Dad told me stories, or asked me to fill him in on the episodes of Gunsmoke and Science Fiction Theater he’d missed, and we’d chat while watching for birds. The herons have always been my favorite. They moved so slow, it always felt like a treat to spot one as it stepped cautiously through the shallow water. Sometimes, we’d catch sight of one flying overhead, its wide wings fighting against gravity.

  And then there was the childhood with you, and with Dara, the childhood that happened when Dad was away. I remember the first morning I came downstairs and she was eating pancakes off of your fancy china, the plates that were decorated with delicate paintings of evening primrose.

  “Hi there. I’m Dara,” she said.

  When I looked at you, shy and unsure, you told me, “She’s a cousin. She’ll be dropping in when your father is working. Just to keep us company.”

  Dara didn’t really look much like you, I thought; not the way that Dad’s cousins and uncles all resembled each other. But I could see a few similarities between the two of you; hazel eyes, long fingers, and something I didn’t have the words to describe for a long time: a certain discomfort, the sense that you held yourselves slightly apart from the rest of us. It had made you a figure of gossip in town, though I didn’t know that until high school, when the same was said of me.

  “What should I call you?” Dara asked me.

  You jumped in and told her to call me by my name, the one you’d chosen for me, after the week of indecision following my birth. How can I ever make you understand how much I disliked that name? It felt like it belonged to a sister I’d never known, whose legacy I could never fulfill or surpass or even forget. Dara must have caught the face that I made, because later, when you were out in the garden, she asked me, “Do you have another name? That you want me to call you instead?”

  When I shrugged, she said, “It doesn’t have to be a forever-name. Just one for the day. You can introduce yourself differently every time you see me.”

  And so every morning when I woke up and saw Dara sitting at the table, I gave her a different name: Doc, Buck, George, Charlie. Names that my heroes had, from television and comics and the matinees in town. They weren’t my name, but they were better than the one I had. I liked the way they sounded, the shape of them rolling around my mouth.

  You just looked on, lips pursed in a frown, and told Dara you wished she’d quit indulging my silly little games.

  The two of you sat around our kitchen table and—if I was quiet and didn’t draw any attention to myself—talked in a strange code about jumps and fastenings and capsules, dropping names of people I never knew. More of your cousins, I figured.

  You told our neighbors that all of your family was spread out, and disinclined to make the long trip to visit. When Dara took me in, she made up a tale about a long-lost cousin whose parents had kicked him out for being trans. Funny, the way the truth seeps into lies.

  I went to see Uncle Dante in 1927. I wanted to see what he had in that book of his about me, and about you and Dara.

  1927 tastes like the chicken broth and brown bread he fed me, after I showed up at his door. It smelled like the musty blanket he hung around my shoulders, like kerosene lamps and woodsmoke. It sounds like the scratchy records he played on his phonograph: Duke Ellington and Al Jolson, the Gershwin brothers and Gene Austin.

  “Your mother dropped in back in ’24,” he said, settling down in an armchair in front of the fireplace. It was the same fireplace that had been in our parlor, though Dad had sealed off the chimney in 1958, saying it let in too many drafts. “She was very adamant that your name be written down in the records. She seemed…upset.” He let the last word hang on its own, lonely, obviously understated.

  “That’s not my name,” I told him. “It’s the one she gave me, but it was never mine.”

  I had to explain to him then—he’d been to the future, and so it didn’t seem so far-fetched, my transition. I simplified it for him: didn’t go into HRT or mastectomies, the phalloplasty I’d scheduled a century and a half in the future. I skipped the introduction to gender theory, Susan Stryker, Stone Butch Blues, all the things that Dara gave me to read when I asked for books about people like me.

 
; “My aunt Lucia was of a similar disposition,” he told me. “Once her last child was grown, she gave up on dresses entirely. Wore a suit to church for her last twelve years, which gave her a reputation for eccentricity.”

  I clamped my mouth shut and nodded, still feeling ill and shaky from the jump. The smell of Uncle Dante’s cigar burned in my nostrils. I wished we could have had the conversation outside, on the porch; the parlor seemed too familiar, too laden with the ghost of your presence.

  “What name should I put instead?” he asked, pulling the book down from the mantle: the gilt-edged journal where he recorded our family’s births, marriages, and deaths.

  “It’s blank when I’m born,” I told him. He paused in the act of sharpening his pencil—he knew better than to write the future in ink. “Just erase it. White it out if you need to.”

  He sat back in his chair, and combed his fingers through his beard. “That’s unprecedented.”.

  “Not anymore,” I said.

  1963 feels like a menstrual cramp, like the ache in my legs as my bones stretched, like the twinges in my nipples as my breasts developed. It smells like Secret roll-on deodorant and the menthol cigarettes you had taken up smoking. It tastes like the peach cobbler I burned in Home-Ec class, which the teacher forced me to eat. It sounds like Sam Cooke’s album Night Beat, which Dara, during one of her visits, had told me to buy.

  And it looks like you, jumpier than I’d ever seen you, so twitchy that even Dad commented on it before he left for his hitch in the oil fields.

  “Will you be all right?” he asked after dinner.

  I was listening to the two of you talk from the kitchen doorway. I’d come in to ask Dad if he was going to watch Gunsmoke with me, which would be starting in a few minutes, and caught the two of you with your heads together by the sink.