Your Great Mother Across the Salt Sea

by Kelsey Hutton

PART ONE

Kwayask nātohta. Listen carefully. There once was a woman who sewed clothes so powerful they made you become the person you needed to be. Children’s feet wrapped in her flower-beaded moccasins never stumbled. Otipēyimisowak orators, backs held straight by her finger-woven sashes, never lost a vote. Loved ones, buried in family robes storied with a thousand hand-dyed quills, were never forgotten.

This woman, called Miyohtwāw, used her gifts with bead and shell and calico and stroud to sew kin relationships together all across the Plains. Then, at the direction of the grandmothers, she was asked to do the same between the Otipēyimisowak and the distant Hauthasan kwīn.

Yes, she remembered their language from her time with the nuns. Yes, she could still count their coin and twist her hair up like a “lady,” though it was now touched with grey. A Hauthasan lord sailing home was even willing to present her in the Hauthasan court. This lord assured the Otipēyimisowak that his great woman leader across the salt sea was a compassionate and upright woman, who cared for the people of the lands she ruled from afar like a mother cared for her children. No matter how different they might be. (Continue Reading…)

Holy Banana Peel!

by Jane Brown

“Would you like underpants on the outside?” Celeste asked as she flicked her blonde curls out of her eyes and adjusted the tape measure.

The man’s body tensed. His green eyes darted around her shop, digesting the array of superhero outfits.

Celeste placed a hand on his shoulder. “Jim — was it? — I know it’s overwhelming. But you need to trust me. I’ll make you the perfect suit. I’m exceptionally good at my job.” She winked.

He looked into her eyes and laughed. “All right. I trust you. But no outside underpants, please.”

Celeste smiled. “It’s a bit old fashioned but you’d be surprised how many still request it.” She wrote down his arm measurements and began the inner leg. Underneath his baggy jeans and t-shirt his body was in good shape. Really good shape. Lean and muscular. With his thick black hair and light stubble, he was undeniably attractive and for a second her mind wandered before she shook herself back to reality.

“So . . . Jim, have you had your powers long?”

“A few months.”

“Radioactive spider bite? Magical ring? Experiment gone wrong?”

“I have no idea how it happened. I saw a lady getting mugged in an alleyway and before I knew it, her attackers were on the ground and I’d rescued her.” (Continue Reading…)

Skipping Christmas

by Heather Shaw & Tim Pratt

The flight was dead: to begin with. Leo Altman was seated in suite 2K in the first-class section, his usual preference since the first row was too close to the bathroom, and had almost the whole cabin to himself. There were fourteen seats up here in first, and as far as Leo could tell, there were only two other passengers, neither nearby. There might be teeming hordes in coach, but those poor souls boarded through a separate entrance, so he’d never know. He doubted even cattle class was crowded, though. He’d done this same flight a dozen times, the first few in his early thirties, when he could only afford business class, and it was never a crowded route.

Not many people chose to take the nonstop flight from Los Angeles, California to Sydney, Australia on the evening of December 24th. If they did, they crossed the international date line on the way, landing in Sydney on the morning of December 26th, and skipping Christmas Day entirely. Leo hadn’t experienced Christmas in over a decade. Oh, Christmas still happened — his nibling Ash always sent a cheerful text about it, for one thing — but it happened without Leo, taking place on a page of the calendar that he didn’t inhabit.

The plane taxied and lifted off, and Leo ignored the chatter from the cockpit and settled in. A flight attendant brought merely adequate champagne, but soon returned with a glass of better Scotch. She didn’t even wish him “happy holidays.” Leo was content to spend the next thirteen hours basking in serenity, another annual landmine successfully avoided. (Continue Reading…)

Creatures in the Walls

by Damini Kane

One morning before breakfast, Roe’s mother is shrieking. She is bejewelled, always moderating her tone and smiling in placid, dull-eyed ways. She is a duchess; it’s part of her job. She only ever shouts at the servants. Today she shouts at Father.

“I refuse — what kind of creature — how DARE you —”

Roe stares at his parents, fascinated. Both are dressed in silks. The housekeeper behind them holds rolls of grey fabric in her arms. This seems to be the bone of contention. Perhaps Mother is furious because it is not as nice as the gold-embroidered dress she wears; perhaps it is a gift that didn’t meet the standard.

Roe approaches it, tugging on the housekeeper’s skirt. “Can I see?”

Madeline rushes up after him and takes his hand. “Come,” she urges. “Today you can take breakfast in the garden.”

“But —”

He is dragged out of the dining room, yet cranes his neck to see his mother ranting at Father’s stiff, silent form. The fabric in the housekeeper’s arms moves. A single pudgy hand sticks out, reaching for a shaft of sunlight. (Continue Reading…)

Chewing Through Wire

By Chris Kuriata

Each evening, Auntie Shanta washes her muddy feet in the same bowl she eats her dinner from. She keeps clean bowls stacked in her cupboard, but those are reserved for company only. Auntie Shanta needn’t say so, but it’s been painfully long since the bowls last served company. The deep, wooden basins rumble like empty bellies after a long journey.

“She’s a darling.”

Auntie Shanta’s ancient arms strain under Emery’s weight, but she finds a reserve of strength in her ailing body and hefts the baby over her head. Sunlight beams through a hole in the roof, warming Emery and making her smile.

Pucks of dried mud in the shape of boot heels litter the front hall. I locate a broom and sweep them out into the acreage’s breeze. “When do the neighbours visit?”

Auntie Shanta makes faces at the baby. “Every goddam day.”

Auntie Shanta welcomes us with tea. “Keep an eye on him,” she warns of the great lizard who lies basking on the stone window sill. He looks too lazy to take an interest in Emery, but given the circumstances under which he and Auntie Shanta met, he cannot be trusted around a baby.

More years ago than I’ve been alive, during a routine walk to the fences, Auntie Shanta kicked a pile of hot dust, wanting to see the individual grains sparkle in the red setting sun, unaware the lizard was sleeping within. As payback for her inconsiderate act, the lizard bit her ankle and would not let go, no matter how much Auntie Shanta sweet-talked him. She told her funniest jokes, but got not so much as a giggle. Only a switch to sad stories set the lizard’s jaw quivering until he finally released the grip on her ankle. (Continue Reading…)

Stitch

By Kathleen Schaefer

Dalia doesn’t like how the stale hospital air pricks at her cheeks, and Aden doesn’t understand why no one else notices. He snatches his newborn daughter back from his husband.

“There you are,” he says, adjusting Dalia’s blanket to shield her face. “You need to keep her comfortable.” He holds Dalia to his chest and finds she likes the beat of his heart.

“She wasn’t even fussing,” says Garret, and only then does Aden realize that maybe new fathers don’t always know that their daughter’s left foot itches (he massages it beneath the swaddling blanket) or that a buildup of gas from her last feeding pushes against her stomach.

There’s something in Aden’s head. His daughter’s mind is in his head. Or rather, there’s a knot through which he slips in and out of his daughter’s thoughts.

“A mind stitch,” the nurse diagnoses by shining a flashlight in Aden’s eyes. His daughter’s pupils contract in response — a two-way bond, Dalia watching the world through his eyes.

The nurse pulls her away from him. “Mind melds with children. That’s wrong. Illegal and wrong.” She holds her hand over the infant’s head like a shield. An ineffective one, as Aden still feels the blanket slip from around Dalia’s face, exposing her once more to the stinging air.

“Wrong?” The nurse blocks him from comforting his child, and Aden’s throat constricts in anger — an anger he knows how to contain, but his daughter does not. Dalia screams, bellowing fury on his behalf.

He is supposed to protect his child from his pain and fears, not reflect them back to her. Aden leans on the wall, closing his eyes against his tiny daughter’s all-encompassing rage. Garret squeezes his hand. (Continue Reading…)