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green-trilobite and I went, just for the Saturday. I think I actually had more fun then he had - it was kind of blah from a fannish pov - there was no art show this year, and I don't know if the costume contest was any good because I was driven out of the auditorium by the painfully unfunny clowns who were the pre-show. On the other hand, the time I spent hanging in the hotel bar with handful_ofdust, kelpqueen and various others was pretty enjoyable - the writers at least seemed to be having a good time (at one point people got onto the topic of movie plots that could be improved by the addition of werewolves: ("Love, Actually, but with werewolves!")
Anyway, this reminds my that my spring-themed short story submission, "T," was rejected by Chi-zine, probably because of the awkward length (about 500 words), so instead I'll post it here:
T
In the beginning, there was the underground palace – or perhaps that had come at the end, after a life cut short by accident or treachery. It was very confusing in the underground palace - very few of the light switches worked, and there were more mirrors than he cared to think of, reflecting each other endlessly in the dark. Occasionally he would suspect, and just as soon forget, that he had amnesia.
One day, or night, there she was, at the other end of one of the shorter hallways, arguing with one of the spindly or hulking creatures that lurked in the palace doorways. She had nothing on but a huge dark fur stole, and she was carrying something that she offered to the monster, who refused it, and pointed to the fur instead. She made gestures of disdain, but the sight of another human must have been clearing his mind, for he guessed that this was a bargaining ploy. At last she tore off the stole and handed it to the guard (and why had he never realized the creature was a guard?) with a dramatic shrug of her shoulders; the guard stepped aside and she padded towards him, shivering. When she was close enough to be more than a shadow she hesitated and gave him a timid little wave. He gave her a bemused but encouraging look and waited to see what she’d do next.
“You don’t remember who I am, do you?” Her shoulders sagged a little. He felt sorry to have disappointed her.
“’Fraid I don’t even know who I am.” He tried to speak playfully, to ease the tension. It seemed to him this was what people did. He could not recall, however, whether he himself had ever been any good at it.
“Take this.” She showed him the thing she had been offering to the guard at first. It was one sleeve of an old sweater, badly unraveled. He was not surprised it had been rejected.
“You’ll be completely naked then,” he said, worried. She smiled grimly at him.
“I was overdressed when I started this trip: I had to bribe a lot of doorkeepers to get this far. As it is, I can’t stay here long, and you shouldn’t either. Trust me, you need this more than I do.”
At last he let her slip the sleeve over his arm, and she leaned in and kissed him, only to dissolve completely beneath his lips like cotton candy, leaving behind the taste of her lipstick and an awakening memory. He looked down at the wrinkled sleeve with a long strand of yarn trailing from one end and tugged at the untidy wool hoping to break it neatly, only to find yarn tail was longer than he’d realized.
It was caught on the back of a nearby chair of worm-eaten ebony, and strung from there to a statue, to picture frame to carved doorway, down the hall like a frail telephone wire. Between his cold fingers, the thin strand of wool hummed gently.
Winding it around his arm, he began following it.
Anyway, this reminds my that my spring-themed short story submission, "T," was rejected by Chi-zine, probably because of the awkward length (about 500 words), so instead I'll post it here:
T
In the beginning, there was the underground palace – or perhaps that had come at the end, after a life cut short by accident or treachery. It was very confusing in the underground palace - very few of the light switches worked, and there were more mirrors than he cared to think of, reflecting each other endlessly in the dark. Occasionally he would suspect, and just as soon forget, that he had amnesia.
One day, or night, there she was, at the other end of one of the shorter hallways, arguing with one of the spindly or hulking creatures that lurked in the palace doorways. She had nothing on but a huge dark fur stole, and she was carrying something that she offered to the monster, who refused it, and pointed to the fur instead. She made gestures of disdain, but the sight of another human must have been clearing his mind, for he guessed that this was a bargaining ploy. At last she tore off the stole and handed it to the guard (and why had he never realized the creature was a guard?) with a dramatic shrug of her shoulders; the guard stepped aside and she padded towards him, shivering. When she was close enough to be more than a shadow she hesitated and gave him a timid little wave. He gave her a bemused but encouraging look and waited to see what she’d do next.
“You don’t remember who I am, do you?” Her shoulders sagged a little. He felt sorry to have disappointed her.
“’Fraid I don’t even know who I am.” He tried to speak playfully, to ease the tension. It seemed to him this was what people did. He could not recall, however, whether he himself had ever been any good at it.
“Take this.” She showed him the thing she had been offering to the guard at first. It was one sleeve of an old sweater, badly unraveled. He was not surprised it had been rejected.
“You’ll be completely naked then,” he said, worried. She smiled grimly at him.
“I was overdressed when I started this trip: I had to bribe a lot of doorkeepers to get this far. As it is, I can’t stay here long, and you shouldn’t either. Trust me, you need this more than I do.”
At last he let her slip the sleeve over his arm, and she leaned in and kissed him, only to dissolve completely beneath his lips like cotton candy, leaving behind the taste of her lipstick and an awakening memory. He looked down at the wrinkled sleeve with a long strand of yarn trailing from one end and tugged at the untidy wool hoping to break it neatly, only to find yarn tail was longer than he’d realized.
It was caught on the back of a nearby chair of worm-eaten ebony, and strung from there to a statue, to picture frame to carved doorway, down the hall like a frail telephone wire. Between his cold fingers, the thin strand of wool hummed gently.
Winding it around his arm, he began following it.
