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No Really, I'm Not Even Kidding
Oct. 22nd, 2012 05:30 amSo last night was the launch for two short-story collections, HAIR SIDE, FLESH SIDE by Helen Marshall and REMEMBER WHY YOU FEAR ME by Robert Shearman.
The latter read first -- he's also been a writer for Dr. Who and his monologue by a passive-agressive? bemused? manic? God attempting to deal with his creations Cindy and Steve, who never met a "don't touch" sign they didn't ignore (or possibly who ignore everything until it's pointed out to them with a warning to avoid) left me picturing the Garden of Eden in the charge of Matt Smith.
Helen Marshall's story began with Claire, a seven-year-old a girl receiving the body of St. Lucia as a birthday present, in what turns out to be a world where's it's normal to give girls saints to play with. They bring relics to school and compare with their friends. Claire received hers from her father and stepmother on a visitation weekend, and upon discovering the gift, her mother who has primary custody is enraged and insists on giving Claire St. Joan.
(By this point I'd begun feeling a bit worried about handful_ofdust's husband, who's pretty strongly Catholic and was now hearing his second blasphemous story in a row).
What began as grotesque comedy darkened rapidly towards the end -- Claire's biological Mom has a taste for martyrs too, and wants her daughter to be hers forever. The ending struck me as a very sinister take on a line from The Crow: " 'Mother' is the word for God on the lips of every child."
(And....more squick for Steve. As green_trilobite pointed out later, he has a thing about eye-injuries too)
Cal, at least, seemed happy with the sock-monster he'd received for his birthday. And the little union jack flag that had held my sandwich together.
Afterwards there was much hanging out and talking. I know now, via Bob Knowlton, that Toronto in the 1950s actually had a small clique of beats, some of whom were also SF fans. I'd previously been under the impression that neither bebop nor reefers would have been available in Ontario, let alone Toronto-the-Good, prior to some unspecified time in the 'eighties. This is better.
The latter read first -- he's also been a writer for Dr. Who and his monologue by a passive-agressive? bemused? manic? God attempting to deal with his creations Cindy and Steve, who never met a "don't touch" sign they didn't ignore (or possibly who ignore everything until it's pointed out to them with a warning to avoid) left me picturing the Garden of Eden in the charge of Matt Smith.
Helen Marshall's story began with Claire, a seven-year-old a girl receiving the body of St. Lucia as a birthday present, in what turns out to be a world where's it's normal to give girls saints to play with. They bring relics to school and compare with their friends. Claire received hers from her father and stepmother on a visitation weekend, and upon discovering the gift, her mother who has primary custody is enraged and insists on giving Claire St. Joan.
(By this point I'd begun feeling a bit worried about handful_ofdust's husband, who's pretty strongly Catholic and was now hearing his second blasphemous story in a row).
What began as grotesque comedy darkened rapidly towards the end -- Claire's biological Mom has a taste for martyrs too, and wants her daughter to be hers forever. The ending struck me as a very sinister take on a line from The Crow: " 'Mother' is the word for God on the lips of every child."
(And....more squick for Steve. As green_trilobite pointed out later, he has a thing about eye-injuries too)
Cal, at least, seemed happy with the sock-monster he'd received for his birthday. And the little union jack flag that had held my sandwich together.
Afterwards there was much hanging out and talking. I know now, via Bob Knowlton, that Toronto in the 1950s actually had a small clique of beats, some of whom were also SF fans. I'd previously been under the impression that neither bebop nor reefers would have been available in Ontario, let alone Toronto-the-Good, prior to some unspecified time in the 'eighties. This is better.
