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Tag: short stories

Short Stories: “Animale dei Morti” by Nick DiChario

Bonne année à tous!


Hopefully the New Year is treating us all well. One of the things I’d like more of this year is talking about short stories. Outside award season (or major controversies), we don’t talk much about short stories, novellas, and novelettes compared to novels, even when they’re as innovative, or as thought-provoking, or as startling. So, starting this year, I’m going to talk about the short stories I think are cool.

And first up is a fantastic one that had me alternately sighing and bursting out laughing: Nick DiChario‘s “Animale dei Morti,” from this month’s issue of The Magazine of Science Fiction & Fantasy.

I’m clearly not the only one who loved it, since Franco made the cover.

In his introduction, DiChario explained that he wanted to write an “Italian fairy tale,” and the fairy tale notes are all over the work. But this isn’t the Brothers Grimm by a long shot. It’s ribald and funny and clearly delights in the startling details and the imagined squeamish reactions of its listeners. You can clearly imagine, say, Sonny Corleone telling this story, and bursting out laughing at the over-the-top bits. I’d say he did his homework, but DiChario clearly enjoys reading Italian fairy tales the way I enjoy reading Chinese tales, and it makes it a delight to read.

Marco is about to get married to Marianna, the prettiest girl in the Villaggo delle Ombre, when his older brother Franco gets killed. This is a problem for Marco, since family traddition demands the elder brother stand as best man for the younger. It’d be bad luck if Franco weren’t there. So he goes to the village witch, Brunilda, to bring Franco back from the dead. La strega agrees, on three conditions: that he defend her honor whenever she is slandered, that he take full responsibility for Franco, and that he deliver her a bottle of his best, by hand, every day of his life.

The meat of the story is the next forty eight hours as Franco lives it up as much as an undead man can, Marco tries desperately to keep him in check, and Marianna grows furious with her new in-laws. And, always in the ombres, Brunilda, whose magic weaves through the tale.

Obviously, I love this story. I love the interactions between Franco and Marco and Marianna, I love how sardonic and self-aware (but still serious) Brunilda is. Most of all, I love the life in these lines, the sheer joie de vivre. It really does feel like Sonny Corleone is telling it over a couple glasses of wine, laughing at the funny bits and sometimes (like the requirements to put Franco back) laughing so hard he can barely keep telling it. It was an absolute joy to read just for the telling of it.

But the reason I’m highlighting this story is, ironically, the reason the next paragraph’s un-highlighted and in shadows.

(Spoilers ahead)

With fairy tale retellings or fresh tales, there’s an almost-obligatory twist ending. It’s why I don’t enjoy fractured fairy tales very much, because too many of them either contort the rest of the story around the twist, or the twist is an afterthought that falls flat. This Italian fairy tale has its twist ending – of course Marco loses Maria and his estate on account of his brother, that’s old as Aesop. The twist ending is just as expected: he becomes betrothed to the witch instead.

The neat part is what happens next: Marco isn’t happy. DiChario makes a point of describing his sunken cheeks, the loss of his good looks, his loss of will or verve.

Indeed, the narrative switches almost seamlessly into a discussion of witches, and this witch Brunilda in particular, and it ends as her story as Marco is subsumed into her own will. And maybe it’s always been her story, not Marco’s. A conventional twist ending on this kind of fractured fairy tale would be for Marco to discover that the witch was his fate after all, and that is not how DiChario plays it.

This is what made this whole amusing story keep bouncing around in my brain, days later, when the more serious stories were all muddying together. This twist on a twist and the way it really does make me rethink the entire tale up to that point. I don’t want to say it’s punching above its weight class, but it’s not what you expected of the ribald, funny story in this month’s issue, is it?

(End of spoilers)

Pick up a copy of F&SF this month because Sheree Renée Thomas knows her stuff, because other stories like Maiga Doocy‘s “Salt Calls to Salt” and Innocent Chizaram Ilo‘s “The City and the Thing Beneath It” are moving and well-done…but especially because “Animale dei Morti” calls to you like the call of the unquiet dead who want to sing and drink a little wine again before they go, no matter who they burn down.

2020 Nebula Nominees: Short Stories (part II)

Here are the final three stories nominated in the Short Story category. Part I here. Now, we look in the face of storms, go back to the worst of the British Raj, and walk the stacks of alien libraries. Stick around to the end, where I unveil my favorite.


And Now His Lordship is Laughing
Shiv Ramdas

As a rule, I don’t particularly like “wrong and revenge” stories. Death Wish lingers way too long on the horrors of the wrong and then on the horrors of the revenge, and it’s not the only one by a long shot.

But I like this one.

The wrong: The British “Denial of Rice” policy, which was sadly and horrifically real.

The revenge: A doll.

That’s really all you need to know to know why you need to read this story. It navigates the narrow line between the two extremes of this kind of revenge story, it neither forgives its offenders and tries to make them somehow likable, nor does it fetishize either the violence each side does. It doesn’t shy away from it either, the list of trigger warnings is half as long as my arm, but it describes the grim details without lust in its voice. I hammer on this because so, so, so many revenge fantasies fail this, and then you have to shower afterwards.

Instead, “And Now His Lordship Is Laughing” contributes to the ongoing conversation about the British presence in India, especially during World War II, and whether or not they were as bad as the Nazis and fascists they opposed. I can’t weigh in on this conversation, except to say the British in this story are not doing themselves any favors there. But this story is every bit as engaging, and troubling, as Harry Turtledove’s “The Last Article” or Orwell’s obituary of Gandhi.

You should read it.

Moon Phase:
Gibbous

A Catalog of Storms
Fran Wilde

I won’t lie, I didn’t like this story much at first.

I mean, the opening line is excellent:

“The wind’s moving fast again. The weathermen lean into it, letting it wear away at them until they turn to rain and cloud.”

A Catalog of storms

That’s some “clocks were just striking thirteen”-grade opening material.

But that seemed to be where this particular cli-fi/fantasy stopped. Characters came and went, we danced between lists and narrative, it was very emotional, but it just didn’t seem to go anywhere, even when it finally went somewhere.

So what changed my mind? The power of names, and how Fran Wilde uses them, the way A. C. Wise did with titles in “How the Trick is Done“, only more developed? The weird, off-kilter, Bioshock: Infinite air? Or maybe just the power of that opening line?

It was the way I kept hearing snatches of narrative, a day later. The way I could see Lillit go in my mind several days later. The way I started making lists of social and spiritual storms as my prayer beads sat to one side.

Good stories stick with you. Good stories stick with you long after the title and author have fled your mind, so much detritus in the wind and weather. I don’t particularly like this story, still, but I have to admit it is a good story.

Moon Phase:
Quarter

Give the Family My Love
A. T. Greenblatt

I’ve saved this one for last, because I think this story is going to win the Nebula. It sure as Hell deserves it.

It’s an epistolary little tale, all one-sided, from Hazel “the last astronaut” to her brother Saul (and his wife Huang) as she treads across a barren planet and into an alien Library. She talks about the barren planet, and about the aliens, and about her research, and about the information she’s looking for and why.

She also talks a lot about how badly humanity has doomed itself, because she’s an anthropologist and has read a lot of history. She watched the Great Plains burn and the Pacific Northwest with it. She’s the last astronaut, not because she wants to, but because she was the only one qualified and because there’s not enough resources for astronauts. She doubts whether there’ll be resources for a government in the near future.

And she talks about hope, because in the end, that’s what this story is about. Whenever anyone talks about ‘hopepunk,’ they can refer to this story as their Exhibit A. It treats Saul’s hope as a subversive stance, Hazel’s pessimism as the only sound and sensible approach. We don’t get to hear Saul’s side, but we hear his influence, feel the shadow of his long arm.

And in the end, it might just save the world. Might. Ya gotta have hope.

And, honestly, it’s stories like this that made me read science fiction in the first place.

Moon Phase:
Full

Next time: Novelettes, the forgotten length. Tune in next week, same time, same channel!

2020 Nebula Nominees: Short Stories (pt. I)

We’ll start off the Nebula nominee reviews with three of the short stories, ranging from a threadbare-elbow tale of Las Vegas to Edwardian schoolgirl cannibals to blood-stained generation ship cathedrals.


How the Trick is Done
A. C. Wise

This first story on my Nebula reading list is a strange one. It seems to take place on a Vegas on the edge of the horizon, slightly tilted, slightly too real to be real, a Vegas where Resurrectionists bring potted plants back to life and Assistants falling off the Hoover Dam grow sequined wings and, most importantly, where titles have power.

The story is how the Magician died, how the Magician’s Girlfriend/the Resurrectionist, the Magician’s Stage Manager, the Magician’s current Assistant and the Magician’s former Assistant all play a part in it. “How absurd,” the narration notes as two of them first meet, “that they should define themselves solely in relation to the Magician.” These two have had names for some time, but as they introduce themselves, their titles fall away. Similar moments of transformation happen for everyone, except the nameless rabbit called Gus (and his lack of a name is important) and the Magician himself.

Watching the way Wise played with titles and names, names and titles, who’s called what when, was its own delightful little magic show. And I thank her for breathing new life into a whole set of tired old tropes about ledgerdemain, making something new of them. I’m sure Meg and Becca, in particular, would appreciate that trick.

Moon Phase:
Crescent

Ten Excerpts from an Annotated Bibliography on the Cannibal Women of Ratnabar Island
Nibita Sen

I remember reading this little gem when it came out last May, I was quite pleased to find it the same story that I remembered. A ghoulish academic summary revolving around distant Ratnabar Island and an unspeakable supper in a girls’ boarding house in rural England, Nibita Sen has a keen awareness of how close academia and cannibalism really are.

On this read-through, I noticed how interesting it was to watch the names and narratives change over time, and watch the Gaurs start elbowing their way back into their own story amidst Rainiers and Cliftons and Schofields. And my God does Sen command the tones! I could place each excerpt’s academic era within a sentence or two, each one distinct and ringing true to its sources. And everyone, from the Angloest Anglo to the Gaur cousins, wants to take Regina Guar and the never-explicitly-stated Churchill Dinner, and carve them up for themselves, for their theories and their narratives.

One has the rather sickening feeling, afterward, that one has just seen the Churchill Dinner all laid out with ten separate diners all commenting on the delicacy of the meat.

It is a delicious sensation.

Moon phase: Quarter

The Dead, In Their Uncontrollable Power
Karen Osborne

At first, I thought I was reading a fantasy story – a cathedral, a sin-eater, a cup of sin and a cup of virtue, a dying cleric, and a bomb. But it quickly became clear that we were cooped up in one of science fiction’s hoariest of hoary stock plots: the generation ship gone bad.

But the trappings are just that, window-dressing for the two cups, the cup of virtue and the cup of sin, and the two women who drink from them: the captain, and the sin-eater. The one contains all the dead captains’ fine and regal memories, desires, impulses, the other all their…well, all their sins. All the slain mutineers, all the spaced excess, all the foul deeds decided. And Karen Osborne would like you to take a minute and consider what the souls of the unquiet dead can do to people. Especially their virtues.

What I love about this story is how Osborne twists the ending. You know how this story is, you’ve seen it a hundred times on the news and a thousand times in fiction. You can already smell the iron tang and viscera. And Osborne barrels down toward that fetid, horrifying climax…and what she does instead made me cheer.

Read it, if only to see for yourself.

Moon Phase:
Gibbous

Didn’t see your favorite story? Part II is here, including my choice for this year’s Nebula-winning short story.

Moon images courtesy of Emoji One.