zenosanalytic reblogged
i think about ursula vernon's Bluebeard's Wife so much honestly
zenosanalytic reblogged
What more is there to say about Zen Cho? Read this collection and get charmed, get educated, get emotionally compromised.
zenosanalytic reblogged
A story within a story where a mother sits her rowdy children down and tells them a story about a the world's sweetest, kindest mother who never lost her temper, never cursed and never yelled at her children, no matter how rowdy they could get. She would only gently, kindly told them to not do the dangerous things. One day she sweetly, kindly told her children to not go play at the riverbank, because it's dangerous and they might slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die. Her children do not listen. They go play at the riverbank, where they slip on the rocks, fall into the water, and die.
And the sweet perfect mother of the story comes to the riverbank, sees that all her children drowned, and starts crying so bitterly that angels overhear her, and the angels say to each other, "she does not deserve this, this woman has never done anything wrong in her life, this should not have happened to her", and feeling great pity for her, bring her children back to life, and after that they always listened to their mother and lived happily ever after.
And the storyteller's children, who at this point are familiar with the concept that these stories are supposed to have some sort of a moral or lesson in them, interject to point out that their mother hasn't always done everything perfectly, she isn't always sweet, curses a lot, and as a matter of fact loses her shit at her kids all the time. She isn't like the mother of the story at all.
And their mother agrees: Her children are correct. She is not a perfect mother who has never done anything wrong. Angels will not have pity on her, and they will not bring her little shits back to life if they go to the river and die. So they better fucking not go get themselves killed in the first place.
this was forwarded to me by my kid and i gotta say that adds layers to the interpretation
zenosanalytic reblogged
“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”
The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and it was the kind of question she tried to avoid.
Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.
“You a cop?”
The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”
A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.
Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”
A nod.
“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”
A nod.
“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”
A tiny, miserable nod.
“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’
“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”
Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.
The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.
“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”
The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.
“I can work with that,” said the witch.
zenosanalytic reblogged
Why the Dog Wont Show Its Eyes
Time back way way back befor peopl got clevver they had the 1st knowing. They los it when they got the clevverness and now the clevverness is gone as wel.
Every thing has a shape and so does the nite only you cant see the shape of nite nor you cant think it. If you put your self right you can know it. Not with knowing in your head but with the 1st knowing. Where the number creaper grows on the dead stoans and the groun is sour for 3 days digging the nite stil knows the shape of its self tho we dont. Some times the nite is the shape of a ear only it aint a ear we know the shape of. Lissening back for all the souns whatre gone from us. The hummering of the dead towns and the voyces befor the towns ben there. Befor the iron ben and fire ben only littl. Lissening for whats coming as wel.
Time back way way back 1 time it wer Ful of the Moon and a man and woman sqwatting by then littl fire. Sqwatting by ther littl fire and afeart of the nite. The dog wer in the nite and looking tords the fire. It wernt howling it wer jus looking at the fire. The man and woman seen the fire shyning in the dogs eyes. The man throwit meat to the dog and the dog come in to them by the fire. Brung its eyes in out of the nite then they all lookit at the nite to gether. The man and the woman seen the nite in the dogs eyes and thats when they got the 1st knowing of it. They knowit the nite the same as the dog knowit.
You know what they got 1st knowing of. She has diffrent ways she shows her self. Shes that same 1 shows her moon self or she jus shows her old old nite and no moon. Shes that same 1 every thing and all of us come out of. Shes what she is. Shes a woman when shes Nite and shes a woman when shes Death. The nite bearths the day. Every day has the shape of the nite what it come out of. The man as knows that shape can go in to the nite in the nite and the nite in the day time. The woman as knows that shape can be the nite and take the day in her and bearth the new day.
Wel they got that 1st knowing they got it looking in the dogs eyes in the Ful of the Moon. When the man and woman got that 1st knowing from the dog they made a contrack with the dog in the Ful of the Moon. They roadit on to gether with the dog and foraging to gether. Dint have no mor fear in the nite they put ther self right day and nite that wer the good time. Then they begun to think on it a littl. They said, "If the 1st knowing is this good what myt the 2nd knowing and the 3rd be and so on?"
They cawt a goat and lookit in its eye. You know what eye the goat has its the clevver eye. The man and woman looking in that clevver eye and they thot: Why shud we be foraging the woal time? They cawt other goats they made a fents and pent them up. They gethert weat and barly they had bread and beer then they wernt moving on the lan no mor they startit in to form it. Stoppit in 1 place then with sheds and stock and growings. They wernt outside in the nite no mor they wer inside looking out. The nite jus lookit dark to them they dint see nothing else to it no mor. They los out of memberment the shapes of nite and worrit for ther parpety they myt get snuck and raidit. They made the dog keap look out for ther parpety.
Every morning they were counting every thing to see if any thing ben took off in the nite. How many goats how many cows how many measurs weat and barly. Cudnt stop ther counting which wer clevverness and making mor the same. They said, "Them as counts counts moren them as dont count."
Counting counting they wer all the time. They had iron then and big fire they had towns of parpety. They had machines et numbers up. They fed them numbers and they fractiont out the Power of things. They had the Nos. of the rain bow and the Power of the air all workit out with counting which is how they got boats in the air and picters on the wind. Counting clevverness is what it wer.
When they had all them things and marvelsome they cudnt sleap realy they dint have no res. They wer stressing ther self and straining all the time with counting. They said, "What good is nite its only dark time it aint no good for nothing only them as want to sly and sneak and take our parpety a way." They los out of memberment who nite wer. They jus wantit day time all the time and they wer going to do it with the Master Chaynjis.
They had the Nos. of the sun and moon all fractiont out and fed to the machines. They said, "Wewl put all the Nos. in to 1 Big 1 and that wil be the No. of the Master Chaynjis." They bilt the Power Ring thats where you see the Ring Ditch now. They put in the 1 Big 1 and woosht it roun there come a flash of lite then bigger nor the woal worl and it ternt the nite to day. Then every thing gone black. Nothing only nite for years on end. Playgs kilt peopl off and naminals nor there wernt nothing growit in the groun. Man and woman starveling in the blackness looking for the dog to eat it and the dog out looking to eat them the same. Finely there come day agen then nite and day regler but never like it ben befor. Day beartht crookit out of crookit nite and sickness in them boath.
Now man and woman go afeart by nite afeart by day. The dog all lorn and wishful it keaps howling for the nites whatre gone for ever. It wont show its eyes no mor it wont show the man and woman no 1st knowing. Come Ful of the Moon the sadness gets too much the dog goes mad. It follers on the man and womans track and arga warga if it catches them.
—Russell Hoban, Riddley Walker
zenosanalytic reblogged
Years before the covid pandemic began, author Naomi Kritzer wrote the charming, emotionally genuine short story "So Much Cooking," which was a pandemic log through the eyes of a cooking blog. The premise is that the author is a home cooking blogger raising her kids, and then a pandemic hits--and bit by bit she's feeding not only her own, but her sister's kids, some neighbors' kids, and so on, in a situation of pandemic lockdown and food shortages.
It's very good, and was prescient for a lot of the early days of the covid pandemic. I found myself returning to it often in the first couple of years because of how steadfast it was in its hopefulness.
Last year she wrote a novelette, "The Year Without Sunshine," which attacks a similar problem in a similar way; instead of pandemic, this one is about the aftereffects of a distant nuke or a massive volcano explosion (it doesn't say), which has churned a great deal of dust into the air, causing massive damage to society and agriculture. The story covers one neighborhood, pulling together to keep each other alive--not through violence, but through lawn potatoes and message pinboards and bicycle-powered oxygen concentrators.
I recommend both stories. They're uplifting in a way that a lot of what I see lately isn't. They're a bit of a panacea for constant fearmongering about intracommunity violence and grinding hatefulness. We can be good to each other, if we try.
zenosanalytic reblogged
Writing another weird short story that will demonstrate once again that there is something deeply wrong with me
NOT AGAIN
You know you love it
Go read it right now
#jesus fucking christ#sorry for the swearing but this fucked me up...in like the best way possible it's so good#so crazy#so wonderful#genuinely such a brilliant concept though oh my god#when you said the pronouns were fucked up I thought you meant like strange neopronouns or something but NO. they're FUCKED UP.#genuinely genius though#fave#stories
I'm a writer and words are my Barbie dolls
No pronoun is safe
I had a weird as fuck dream last night and I'm pretty sure this story is why
You've been memetically infected
zenosanalytic reblogged
Writing another weird short story that will demonstrate once again that there is something deeply wrong with me
NOT AGAIN
You know you love it
Derin I've read this three times already. My brain is circling around it like a vulture. I'm obsessed with this.
You should read it a fourth time to see if that fixes anything
Derin what the fuck
Many are saying this
zenosanalytic reblogged
A loving, married couple wake up one day to find that they have returned to their high school days, when they were the most popular student and the class geek.
(CW: bullying, including homophobic and ableist language, mentioned drug use, gender dysphoria, depression)
When Angelique Lancaster dumped a backpack and a brown-bag lunch on their table before sitting down with a huff, all Erin could do was stare.
First off, she’d never seen Angelique wear a backpack before. Erin didn’t even know she owned one. It wasn’t like she needed one—there wasn’t a single freshman boy at Chapman High who wouldn’t have carried her textbooks for her, and paid for the privilege.
Second off, Angelique wasn’t wearing makeup, aside from eyeliner that looked at least two days old. She was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, for fuck’s sake—again, since when did Angelique Lancaster own T-shirts?
Since when did Angelique Lancaster even look at this table, much less schlep over and sit at it?
Maybe it wasn’t actually her. Maybe her less cool long-lost twin had just transferred. Just to check, Erin craned her neck to look over at the Shithead Patrol’s usual spot, clear on the other side of the cafeteria. Nope, no fashionable backpack-less doppelganger, just a table full of popular kids staring back with just as much fear and confusion as she felt.
Erin turned back and met Raph’s eyes on the other side of her own table, partly to communicate the sheer what-the-fuck of the situation, and partly to make sure her best friend was handling Angelique fucking Lancaster sitting next to him without panicking or shutting down. Raph’s appetite was always the first thing to go on a bad brain day, and he’d barely touched the soup in his thermos. The last thing he needed was whatever psychological warfare this was clearly supposed to be.
But instead of shrinking into his oversized hoodie like the world’s floppiest turtle, Raph took one look at Angelique and raised an eyebrow. “Well that didn’t take long.”
Erin watched, mouth agape, bracing herself for the queen of Chapman to rain venomous hell down on her best friend’s head for daring to speak to her.
Instead, she looked downright defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You do realize you tanked your rep just by sitting here, right?” Raph said. “You mean to tell me you couldn’t stick it out for one day?”
zenosanalytic reblogged
read my beautiful son with so much wrong with him. No I don’t know why it’s like this either.
Hi girlie pops this is WHY DONT WE JUST KILL THE KID IN THE OMELAS HOLE it is about killing the kid in the omelas hole
zenosanalytic reblogged
zenosanalytic reblogged
A novella featuring trade routes, magical fertilizer, and one girl’s centuries-long effort to impress a woman who is already in a committed relationship with a boat.
after seven years I have Been Informed that this no longer lives at its original home. so I have built a new home for it, which is on my website! please enjoy anew Suradanna’s attempts to get an A in immortality
I think the thing you gotta understand about "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" is that it's about *US*. It's about **SOCIETY AS IT EXISTS**. For the Owner-class the description of The Festival of Summer IS life; I'm reminded of Brennan Lee Mulligan's This Christmas Party Turned Me Communist, which honestly is a better companion to Omelas than most pieces directly written about it. For the non-owners living in the colonial core it's a parable asking them if getting all the prosperity and security of the owners, without changing the systems of exploitation that prosperity and security is based on, would really be worth it to them.
The point of Omelas is to get you to think about capitalist society, and your place within it. Are you one of the ones who walks away; who looks at the injustice and suffering which your society runs on and tries to find or make a better way, or are you one of the ones who finds ways to accept the happiness you have, and ignore the suffering which creates it?
Having said that: It's no surprise that people whose position in our society IS THAT OF THE CHILD would be annoyed by the subtly chiding tone of Omelas. When YOU are part of the class tormented to create that joy, when every attempt you make to escape or improve or build a better way is criminalized and pathologized to KEEP YOU in that condition of torment and exploitation, it's no surprise that you would look at a story which is, at heart, a call to action to those who BENEFIT from that exploitation, and find it lacking.
zenosanalytic reblogged
"The idea of reforming Omelas is a pleasant idea, to be sure, but it is one that Le Guin herself specifically tells us is not an option. No reform of Omelas is possible — at least, not without destroying Omelas itself:
If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms.
'Those are the terms', indeed. Le Guin’s original story is careful to cast the underlying evil of Omelas as un-addressable — not, as some have suggested, to 'cheat' or create a false dilemma, but as an intentionally insurmountable challenge to the reader. The premise of Omelas feels unfair because it is meant to be unfair. Instead of racing to find a clever solution ('Free the child! Replace it with a robot! Have everyone suffer a little bit instead of one person all at once!'), the reader is forced to consider how they might cope with moral injustice that is so foundational to their very way of life that it cannot be undone. Confronted with the choice to give up your entire way of life or allow someone else to suffer, what do you do? Do you stay and enjoy the fruits of their pain? Or do you reject this devil’s compromise at your own expense, even knowing that it may not even help? And through implication, we are then forced to consider whether we are — at this very moment! — already in exactly this situation. At what cost does our happiness come? And, even more significantly, at whose expense? And what, in fact, can be done? Can anything?
This is the essential and agonizing question that Le Guin poses, and we avoid it at our peril. It’s easy, but thoroughly besides the point, to say — as the narrator of 'The Ones Who Don’t Walk Away' does — that you would simply keep the nice things about Omelas, and work to address the bad. You might as well say that you would solve the trolley problem by putting rockets on the trolley and having it jump over the people tied to the tracks. Le Guin’s challenge is one that can only be resolved by introspection, because the challenge is one levied against the discomforting awareness of our own complicity; to 'reject the premise' is to reject this (all too real) discomfort in favor of empty wish fulfillment. A happy fairytale about the nobility of our imagined efforts against a hypothetical evil profits no one but ourselves (and I would argue that in the long run it robs us as well).
But in addition to being morally evasive, treating Omelas as a puzzle to be solved (or as a piece of straightforward didactic moralism) also flattens the depth of the original story. We are not really meant to understand Le Guin’s 'walking away' as a literal abandonment of a problem, nor as a self-satisfied 'Sounds bad, but I’m outta here', the way Vivier’s response piece or others of its ilk do; rather, it is framed as a rejection of complacency. This is why those who leave are shown not as triumphant heroes, but as harried and desperate fools; hopeless, troubled souls setting forth on a journey that may well be doomed from the start — because isn’t that the fate of most people who set out to fight the injustices they see, and that they cannot help but see once they have been made aware of it? The story is a metaphor, not a math problem, and 'walking away' might just as easily encompass any form of sincere and fully committed struggle against injustice: a lonely, often thankless journey, yet one which is no less essential for its difficulty."
- Kurt Schiller, from "Omelas, Je T'aime." Blood Knife, 8 July 2022.
zenosanalytic reblogged
Well, it's official, and now I can talk about OUT THERE SCREAMING, a new anthology of Black horror that's edited by Jordan Peele. I have a brand-new short story out in this, and I'll be sharing a Table of Contents with Dr. Chesya Burke, Nnedi Okorafor, Cadwell Turnbull, Tananarive Due, P. Djeli Clark, and more!
zenosanalytic reblogged
Super exciting! Much rejoicing!
My short story collection EVEN GREATER MISTAKES is half price in audiobook format for a while. This is the best fiction I've ever published, narrated by the ultra-talented Luis Moreno, Maria Liatis and Jen Richards!
zenosanalytic reblogged
Hewwo I wrote things and here they are this one’s MAD DEPRESSY but also includes Jokes sometimes