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    Wilde Stories 2009: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction
    Wilde Stories 2009: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction
    Wilde Stories 2009: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction
    Ebook256 pages5 hours

    Wilde Stories 2009: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction

    By Steve Berman

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    About this ebook

    The 2009 edition of Wilde Stories, edited by Steve Berman, promises readers a range of imaginative gay-themed fiction culled from the prior year. These are tales that range from the horrorific (Lee Thomas' "I'm Your Violence") to the surreal (Sven Davisson's "Dim Star Descried") to the fantastical ("Firooz and His Brother" by Alex Jeffers). Many of the authors included have won awards for their fiction, and their stories seek to press new boundaries of loneliness, loss and love between men and monsters (and those men who happen to be monsters).

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLethe Press
    Release dateMar 19, 2011
    ISBN9781452453989
    Wilde Stories 2009: The Year's Best Gay Speculative Fiction
    Author

    Steve Berman

    Author of over a hundred short stories, editor of numerous queer and weird anthologies, and small press publisher living in western Massachusetts.

    Read more from Steve Berman

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      Book preview

      Wilde Stories 2009 - Steve Berman

      Wilde Stories 2009

      The Year’s Best Gay Speculative Fiction

      Edited by Steve Berman

      Published by Lethe Press at Smashwords

      Copyright © 2009 by Steve Berman.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief citation or review, without the written permission of Lethe Press. For information write: Lethe Press, 118 Heritage Avenue, Maple Shade, NJ 08052.

      www.lethepressbooks.com lethepress@aol.com

      Book Design by Toby Johnson

      Cover Photo E is for Ennui by Yannis Angel

      1-59021-079-4 / 978-1-59021-079-6 (library binding)

      1-59021-080-8 / 978-1-59021-080-2 (paperback)

      Behind the Curtain © 2008 by Joel Lane (first appeared in Dark Horizons, Issue 52) | The Behold of the Eye © 2008 by Hal Duncan (first appeared in Lone Star Stories) | The Bloomsbury Nudes © 2008 by Jameson Currier (first appeared in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, ed. by Vince A. Liaguno & Chad Helder, Dark Scribe Press)|Bluff © 2008 by L. A. Fields (first appeared in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, ed. by Vince A. Liaguno & Chad Helder, Dark Scribe Press)| Dim Star Descried © 2008 by Sven Davisson (first appeared in Madder Love, ed. by Peter Dubé, Rebel Satori Press) | Echo © 2008 by Peter Dubé (first appeared in Madder Love: Queer Men and the Precincts of Surrealism, ed. by Peter Dubé, Rebel Satori Press) | Firooz and His Brother © 2008 by Alex Jeffers (first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, May 2008) | I’m Your Violence © 2008 by Lee Thomas (first appeared in Unspeakable Horror: From the Shadows of the Closet, ed. by Vince A. Liaguno & Chad Helder, Dark Scribe Press) | AKA St. Marks Place © 2008 by Richard Bowes (first appeared in The Del Rey Book of Science Fiction & Fantasy, ed. by Ellen Datlow, Del Rey) | In the Night Street Baths © 2008 by Chaz Brenchley (first appeared in Lace and Blade ed by Deborah J. Ross, Norilana Books) | A Troll on a Mountain With a Girl © 2008 by Steve Berman (first appeared in Second Thoughts, Lethe Press) 2008

      ____________________________________________________________

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      Wilde stories, 2009 : the year’s best gay speculative fiction / edited by Steve Berman.

      p. cm.

      ISBN 1-59021-079-4 (library binding) -- ISBN 1-59021-080-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)

      1. Gay men--Fiction. 2. Horror tales, American. 3. Fantasy fiction, American. I. Berman, Steve, 1968-

      PS648.H57W55 2009

      813’.085089206642--dc22

      2009031197

      Table of Contents

      Title Page

      Table of Contents

      Introduction

      Bluff

      L.A. Fields

      Firooz and His Brother

      Alex Jeffers

      Dim Star Descried

      Sven Davisson

      The Bloomsbury Nudes

      Jameson Currier

      Echo

      Peter Dubé

      I’m Your Violence

      Lee Thomas

      A Troll on a Mountain with a Girl

      Steve Berman

      Behind the Curtain

      Joel Lane

      AKA St. Mark’s Place

      Richard Bowes

      In the Night Street Baths

      Chaz Brenchley

      The Behold of the Eye

      Hal Duncan

      About the Contributors

      I think you’ll find the stories that follow present many of the daydreams and nightmares so many gay men experience.

      Introduction

      Welcome to the second volume in the series collecting the best gay-themed speculative stories published last year. Perhaps I should refer to this sophomore edition as our terrible twos—so many of the stories here offer quite chilling moments. But there is plenty of fey whimsy and strangeness to be found in the pages after this Introduction, so no need to be scared off.

      Those of you who read the previous volume (and thank you for doing so!), may find some familiar names in this book’s Table of Contents. I must admit, I was concerned whether or not I’d be choosing the same names year after year. Currier, Duncan, Thomas. Granted these are all talented writers, and reading new stories by them is always a pleasure, but I worried that the field was not growing. But discovering the work of writers like L.A. Fields and Alex Jeffers—the first a fresh talent, the second a man whose prior work should be on my shelf—left me secure that I could offer readers of Wilde Stories a varied selection of not only genre and style but author.

      2008 was a good year for gay speculative fiction. The fantasy novel Turnskin by Nicole Kimberling won the Lambda Literary Award. Some fellow named Steve Berman had another collection, Second Thoughts, and Craig Laurence Gidney’s Sea, Swallow Me and Other Stories released (and was one of the Lambda Literary Award finalists, along with Wilde Stories 2008). Anthologies continued to be an excellent source to find tales of the queer fantastic; books like Madder Love, Tangle and Unspeakable Horror are worth keeping atop your nightstand. Editors Vince A. Liaguno and Chad Helder should be congratulated for Dark Scribe Press’ Unspeakable Horror, which earned its Bram Stoker Award win and broke the lavender ceiling for horror anthologies. While the mainstream speculative fiction field had fewer gay male short stories than in year’s past, Gordon van Gelder of The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction continued to publish imaginative work by authors like Jeffers, Richard Bowes, and Rand B. Lee. Smaller periodicals, in-print and on-line, such as Collective Fallout, Ignavia and Polluto also contributed to the field.

      As I mentioned on a panel at the 2008 Gaylaxicon, more and more stories featuring gay characters are shying away from the traditional coming out tale and are addressing other aspects about being the Other. I think you’ll find the stories that follow present many of the daydreams and nightmares so many gay men experience. Remember, though you can turn the page to escape, I anticipate you’ll find these stories will definitely linger in your thoughts long after you set the book down.

      Steve Berman

      Spring 2009

      Each time Adam asks about their destination, the only answer he gets is the maraca sound of sand being thrown around by the wind, a noise like a rattlesnake’s tail, only more ominous.

      Bluff

      L.A. Fields

      Have you ever seen the lights?

      Adam jumps as the voice, a voice he knows very well, seems to flow in and out of his ear, roll down his neck, and disappear beneath his clothes. He turns around, and there in the shifting light of the Ferris wheel is Sam.

      Jeff’s on the Zero Gravity ride, Adam says, assuming that Sam would only deign speak to him in order to find his little brother and Adam’s best friend, Jeffrey.

      I know, he took Julie with him. Hope he doesn’t puke on her.

      Adam nods, says nothing. The lights that were orange and garish a minute ago now make the entire carnival seem gilded and heavenly, the din of shrieks and laughter is now wonderful, tinkling music. Sam stands alone somehow, above it all, his hair high and unruly, his eyes bright and vacant, looking dangerous and beautiful.

      Have you ever seen the lights? he repeats.

      Adam can only frown, unsure of what he means. Sam has been weird lately, ever since he was in the car accident that killed his Uncle Johnny, ever since he stopped doing cocaine with his Uncle Johnny. No one in town is ever sure what he means. Even Jeff tries to avoid him.

      Sam cocks his head and starts to walk away, clearly meaning for Adam to follow. Adam does, walking right out of the warmth and glow of the fairground as if under an enchantment, charmed and doomed.

      They walk for a while, Adam trying to keep up with Sam’s sure, steady stride over the divots and tufts of the desert. Not only is he almost five years taller than Adam, but Sam also knows where he is going. Each time Adam asks about their destination, the only answer he gets is the maraca sound of sand being thrown around by the wind, a noise like a rattlesnake’s tail, only more ominous.

      Eventually Adam realizes that they are headed to the bluff. He had not noticed how far out on the edge of town the carnival had been set up, but he supposes that even shady carny workers don’t want to spend their time in a dead-horse place like Loweville. Sam mounts the trail that leads to the bluff—the one and only interesting geological feature about their town—and Adam hurries to join him.

      On the way to the top, and even after he gets there, Adam is thinking of Francis Bitmeyer. Hard not to, considering Francis threw himself off the bluff last year, just before his high school graduation. It makes Adam wonder why the fuck he let himself be led up to the bluff; not only is he afraid of heights, he is also superstitious about ghosts. But before he can say another word, Sam puts his arm around Adam’s shoulder.

      Is that not gorgeous? Sam asks, pointing at the distant rides and attractions that are lit up on what could just be the darkest stretch of desert in all of Colorado.

      Yeah, Adam says, more impressed by the intense heat of Sam’s body than by the stupid lights of the carnival he was just at. For a moment he remembers that he was supposed to meet Jeff and Julie by the cotton candy machine, but he doubts they miss him too terribly. Adam is always the third wheel on a night like this: Friday, opening night of the carnival, the perfect dating opportunity that they are just too kind to exclude Adam from. Sam must understand him better; in a town of about four thousand people, Sam is like the four-thousand-and-first wheel. Nobody is his friend.

      Sam squeezes Adam closer to his side, closer to the edge of the bluff. Adam tenses but soon learns to huddle close to Sam, to lean on him. Sam does not seem to mind the proximity.

      You remember that kid Francis Bitmeyer? Sam asks, his profile almost inscrutable against the inky, blue-velvet sky.

      Yeah, I was just thinking about—

      He was in my year, Sam interrupts. He was supposed to sit right next to me at graduation. Neither of us were there. Of course, Adam thinks. He was dead, and you were getting arrested and charged with possession.

      I’ve always wanted to know, Sam continues, whether they left those two seats empty, or if everyone else just filled in our spaces.

      Adam tries to shrug, but cannot really manage to do so with Sam holding onto him so tight. He wonders if Sam can feel his heart beating madly through two sets of clothes and a cage of ribs.

      You know, I think Francis kind of had a thing for me, Sam says, hitching Adam nearer to the edge. If he were brave enough to look, Adam could just barely see the far-off ground, deep and dark like a sea of shadows. He spent a lot of time staring at me the way you do.

      I don’t, Adam begins, but Sam stops him by repeating, You do. Adam’s heart starts to reach hummingbird speeds. He cannot believe what he thinks he’s hearing.

      I think once at rehearsal that Francis was trying to hide a boner under his robes. Sam reaches with his left hand to grasp Adam’s crotch, which immediately necessitates a dizzying rush of blood to the area. Adam tries to swallow, and holds onto Sam tighter.

      Maybe someone pushed him, Sam says, kneading Adam harder, taking him so close to the edge that, even if Sam is trying to confess something, Adam feels like he might die of pleasure before he ever hit the ground.

      What do you think? Sam mouths into his ear. But Adam isn’t thinking, not right now. He kisses Sam firm and lush on the lips as the friction in his pants becomes unbearable and the grip he has on everything (Sam, sanity, life) begins to weaken.

      Wind rushes up past his burning ears as Adam has the best climax of his long, short existence, and for the briefest moment he thinks, Maybe.

      Maybe it’s his last.

      Stranger things than discovering an abandoned child in the wilderness had occurred in the hundreds of years since caravans began traveling between Samarkand and Baghdad.

      Firooz and His Brother

      Alex Jeffers

      They were all merchants, the men of his family, caravan masters, following the long road from Samarkand to the great city of Baghdad at the center of the world. A youth on his first journey, Firooz often did not know quite what was required of him. Because he wrote a handsome, legible hand and could do sums in his head, before they left Samarkand he had helped his uncle prepare the inventory: silks, porcelains, spices from the distant east; cottons, dyes, spices from the hot lands south of the mountains; carpets, woolens, leather and hides, books from local workshops. On the road, such skills commanded little respect. He could shoot, could manage both short and long blades, but the paid guards knew him for a liability if bandits were to strike: he was his uncle’s heir, they had been instructed to protect him. He made coffee when they camped, tended and groomed the horses of his uncle and the other merchants, cared for their hounds. Mostly he felt superfluous.

      Along one of the many desolate stretches when the plodding caravan was days away from the town it had last passed through and the next, his uncle told him to take his bow and one of the hounds, ride away from the bustle and clamor of the caravan to hunt. Fresh game would be a treat.

      Before they had gone very far, the hound sighted a small herd of deer grazing on the scrub. When Firooz loosed the hound, she coursed across the plain, silent. Holding his bow ready and drawing an arrow from the quiver, Firooz spurred his horse after. On an abrupt shift of the breeze, the deer caught the hunters’ scent. Lifting their heads as one, they turned and fled, leaping and bounding across the plain.

      The hound had her eye on a particular animal she must have sensed to be weaker or more confused than the others. She pursued it relentlessly, leading Firooz farther and farther from the caravan, into a broken country where strange spires of jagged rock thrust up through the loose soil, twisted little trees clinging to their flanks. All the other deer had vanished. The young buck they followed cantered nimbly among the spires and towers and bastions. Steep shadows fell from tall spires and scarps, filling narrow passages with dusk. Springs and streams flowed here, watering the soil and nourishing seeming gardens of wildflowers in bloom, more lovely than anything Firooz had seen since leaving Samarkand.

      There were trees as well, protected from the winds of the plain, tall and straight and broad, and lush stretches of green turf. If he had not been intent on the deer’s white rump and the hound’s feathered tail, Firooz should have been astounded.

      The deer’s strength was failing. It staggered, leapt forward again, ducked around a steep formation. The hound sped after it. Wrenching his mare around the corner, Firooz entered the deep, cool shade of a woods cramped narrowly between two arms of rock and slowed to a walk. He saw neither deer nor hound among the trees. There was nowhere to go but forward, however. The mare’s hooves fell muffled on leaf mold. Firooz did not recognize the trees.

      After a time, he heard barking ahead and spurred the horse into an easy trot. The barks broke up, became distinct: two different voices. Over the hound’s melodious baying, which echoed from the high walls of the canyon, sounded the sharp, warning yaps of a second dog.

      Firooz was ready, when he passed between tall trees into a small clearing, to rein in the mare and leap to the ground between the two animals. He grabbed for the collar of the sand-colored bitch but she, startled and snarling, eluded him, bounded over the sweet grass and leapt upon the other, smaller dog. Courageous or stubborn, it shook her off the first time and stood its ground, growling ferociously. It was scarcely more than a puppy. Wrapping the excess fabric of his jallabiya about his forearm, Firooz stepped forward to separate them but stumbled and fell. By the time he regained his feet, the bitch hound had torn open the puppy’s throat and stood over her fallen foe, jaws red and dripping. Still growling, the puppy lay on its side, panting from the new scarlet mouth in its throat as well as the one it had been born with, bleeding heavily from both.

      Saddened by the bad end to such outsize courage, Firooz cuffed the hound aside and severed the younger dog’s spine with a single stroke of his Damascus blade. For a long moment, he regarded the small corpse, while the hound lay at her ease, licking her chops, and the mare cropped at the grass between her feet. Clearly, the dead dog was not wild, native to the desolation—had been cared for, tended, for its woolly black coat gleamed where not matted and dulled by blood and it appeared well nourished.

      Heavy shoulders and sturdy limbs suggested it had not been a courser; though not fully grown, it would not have become large enough to threaten big predators, bears, wolves, leopards: it was surely not a hunter’s dog.

      Puzzled and regretful, Firooz did not at first properly hear or understand the muffled wailing that rose almost between his feet. The hound had returned, to nose interestedly at the corpse. He shoved her away again and gently lifted the dead dog aside.

      It had died protecting its charge. In a perfectly sized depression in the grass lay the crying babe, naked but for spatters of the dog’s scarlet blood. Firooz’s first, terrible impulse was to kill it, too, and ride away.

      The hound was back again, licking the blood from the baby’s perfect skin. Her soft, damp tongue seemed to calm it—him—and after a time the babe ceased wailing. Looking away, Firooz cleaned and sheathed his sword. He didn’t know what to do.

      He knew what to do. Removing his rolled prayer rug from the mare’s back, he wrapped the dead dog in it and fastened it again behind the saddle.

      The horse bridled and shied at the scent of blood. He took a clean scarf from the saddle bag. Kneeling by the baby, he nudged the hound aside for the last time. He moistened a corner of the scarf to wipe away the remaining traces of blood. The quiet baby stared up at him with a knowing, toothless smile. Picking up the baby, Firooz wound the scarf about his pliant body—somehow he knew how to hold him so he didn’t complain. Firooz couldn’t figure out how to mount the mare while holding the baby, so he took the reins, called the hound to heel, and set out walking back to the caravan. Along the way, he decided to name the baby Haider, after his grandfather.

      Stranger things than discovering an abandoned child in the wilderness had occurred in the hundreds of years since caravans began traveling between Samarkand and Baghdad. The doctor who accompanied the caravan proclaimed Haider fit. A nursing goat was found to provide milk. The dead dog was buried with dignity, its grave marked by a cairn of stones beside the road. Firooz’s uncle said he should raise Haider as his son, to which Firooz replied, I am unmarried and too young to be a father. He shall be my brother.

      Haider grew and prospered. Firooz, too, prospered. In time, he married his uncle’s

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