Seasons Between Us Read online

  LAKSA ANTHOLOGY SERIES: SPECULATIVE FICTION

  EDITED BY SUSAN FOREST AND LUCAS K. LAW

  Strangers Among Us: Tales of the Underdogs and Outcasts

  The Sum of Us: Tales of the Bonded and Bound

  Shades Within Us: Tales of Migrations and Fractured Borders

  Seasons Between Us: Tales of Identities and Memories

  EDITED BY LUCAS K. LAW AND DERWIN MAK

  Where the Stars Rise: Asian Science Fiction and Fantasy

  BOOKS BY SUSAN FOREST

  ADDICTED TO HEAVEN SERIES

  Bursts of Fire

  Flights of Marigold

  Scents of Slavery (forthcoming)

  SEASONS

  BETWEEN

  US

  TALES OF IDENTITIES AND MEMORIES

  LAKSA ANTHOLOGY SERIES: SPECULATIVE FICTION

  EDITED BY SUSAN FOREST AND LUCAS K. LAW

  LAKSA MEDIA GROUPS INC.

  www.laksamedia.com

  Seasons Between Us: Tales of Identities and Memories

  Laksa Anthology Series: Speculative Fiction

  Copyright © 2021 by Susan Forest and Lucas K. Law

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, organizations, places and incidents are either a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual situations, events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Laksa Media Groups supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Laksa Media Groups to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Seasons between us : tales of identities and memories / edited by Susan Forest & Lucas K. Law.

  Names: Forest, Susan, 1953- editor. | Law, Lucas K., editor.

  Series: Laksa anthology series: speculative fiction.

  Description: Series statement: Laksa anthology series: speculative fiction

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190218835 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190218878 | ISBN 9781988140162 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781988140179 (softcover) | ISBN 9781988140186 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781988140209 (Kindle) | ISBN 9781988140193 (PDF)

  Subjects: LCSH: Science fiction, Canadian. | LCSH: Fantasy fiction, Canadian. | LCSH: Speculative fiction, Canadian. | LCSH: Memory in literature. | LCSH: Identity (Psychology) in literature. | CSH: Science fiction, Canadian (English) | CSH: Fantasy fiction, Canadian (English) | CSH: Speculative fiction, Canadian (English) | LCGFT: Science fiction. | LCGFT: Short stories. | LCGFT: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS8323.S3 S43 2021 | DDC C813/.0876208353—dc23

  LAKSA MEDIA GROUPS INC.

  Calgary, Alberta, Canada

  www.laksamedia.com

  [email protected]

  Edited by Susan Forest and Lucas K. Law

  Cover Art by Samantha M. Beiko

  Cover Design by Veronica Annis

  Interior Design by Jared Shapiro

  Ebook formatting by Hydra House Books

  www.hydrahousebooks.com

  FIRST EDITION

  SUSAN FOREST

  To Callum, Liam, Jaxon and Lucas

  Spring, full of promise.

  LUCAS K. LAW

  To members of the Law and Foo families (wherever you are)

  Identities—ever-evolving, behold a sense of wonder always

  To all of us

  Seasons—ever-changing, dreams and journeys yet to be discovered

  In memory of Daniel Frank Yochim, Suzanne Lee West,

  and our loved ones who had left us

  Memories—ever-treasured, stories never to be forgotten

  Contents

  FOREWORD

  Lucas K. Law

  INTRODUCTION

  Candas Jane Dorsey

  CLEAR WATERS

  C.J. Cheung

  GROVEN

  Heather Osborne

  ROBOCARE

  Rich Larson

  DRESS OF ASH

  Y.M. Pang

  HOPE TO SEE THE GHOST TONIGHT

  Patrick Swenson

  LAY DOWN YOUR HEART

  Liz Westbrook-Trenholm & Hayden Trenholm

  THE VEIL BETWEEN

  Karin Lowachee

  SYMPATHÉTIQUE

  Alvaro Zinos-Amaro

  THE SELKIE’S SKIN

  Bev Geddes

  MESSAGES LEFT IN TRANSIT,

  DEVICES OUT OF SYNC

  S.B. Divya

  JOE

  Vanessa Cardui

  SUMMER OF OUR DISCONTENT

  Tyler Keevil

  A GRAVE BETWEEN THEM

  Karina Sumner-Smith

  BLUE KUEH

  Joyce Chng

  SECOND THOUGHTS

  Eric Choi

  THE SABHU MY DESTINATION

  Maurice Broaddus

  THE HIDDEN KNOWLEDGE SOCIETY

  Bogi Takács

  THE LIGHT OF STARS

  Amanda Sun

  THE HOLLOW OATH

  Brent Nichols

  WHEN RESIN BURNS TO TAR

  Maria Haskins

  EXCHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE

  Alan Dean Foster

  THE ASTRONAUT’S FOUR SEASONS

  Jane Yolen

  AFTERWORD

  Susan Forest

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

  ABOUT THE EDITORS

  COPYRIGHT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  APPENDIX: MENTAL HEALTH RESOURCES & ANTI-DISCRIMINATION RESOURCES

  Foreword

  Lucas K. Law

  What is a life well lived?

  That thought stirred in my mind as I watched a slideshow at my brother-in-law’s Celebration of Life. And this question led to another: How should life be lived?

  Then, to another: What kind of stories will you leave behind?

  Each person—including myself—must write his or her own story, but it struck me that some experiences throughout a person’s life may be recurrent. Ageing, universal emotions, and relationships were three commonalities that crossed my mind.

  Ageing. The changing of seasons.

  What comes to mind when you see the word ageing? “Old people”? “Ancient,” “feeble,” “useless,” or one of the other negatives? I used to have such associations when I was younger. Now, I connect the word with “all of us.” Ageing is a life’s journey of growing older: a journey that begins in our mothers’ wombs and ends with our last breaths. No reversal, just progression.

  What has shocked and alarmed me in the past few years has been hearing young people’s remark that they are not afraid of death (so they say), but they worry about ageing. They fear the future. There may be numerous reasons for this, but one root cause could be the rapid social change societies all over the world have experienced in the last few decades. Although what worries a 20-something might be different from what worries a 40-something or a 60-someth
ing—and we fear or worry differently at different stages in our lives—we can nevertheless empathize across generations. The underlying emotions are universal and known to us instinctively.

  There is happiness in welcoming a child into this world. There is jubilation in celebrating a milestone. There is grief in facing a sudden loss or saying goodbye to a deceased loved one. In between “arriving” and “leaving,” each season is a series of waves, rising and falling between joy and sorrow, touching the range of human emotions—some named, some not, some indescribable. Though each experience is individual and unique, the stories feel familiar because they are the touchstones in our collective unconscious. We know these emotions—they are fundamental and universal to us from the moment of our birth to the moment of our death. Do we accept and embrace these emotions? Or do we fear and run from them? How do we live a life of purpose?

  Living with purpose is difficult when the complexities of our world go against us—some hurdles are within our control, others not. But, as the slideshow in the Celebration of Life demonstrated, moments of joy, moments of goodness, and moments of festivity are to be found in every season. We must live, and we must dream.

  How often have we heard “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that matters”?

  Not only do the slideshows have many stories to tell, they also impart truths if we care to look for them. One fundamental truth can be expressed as: it is not the quantity of relationships but the quality of those bonds that last over time and space. The quality of our lives—emotionally, physically, mentally, spiritually—is directly linked to the quality of our relationships. No matter our age, we are not alone, and life is a shared journey of moments to discover, explore, and rediscover in every season. We have a lot to learn from each other—the young from the old, the old from the young, and everyone in between. There’s no shame in asking for support—or accepting support. Being independent does not preclude needing each other: to grow, to expand, and to flourish.

  In Seasons Between Us, Candas Jane Dorsey and twenty-three authors examine the power of self-exploration as we cope with the undiscovered country of our journeys through growing older over the seasons. In their Tales of Identities and Memories, the authors leave us with probing questions: Who are we? What is the meaning of existence? Do we make a difference? And at the end of each short fiction, the author provides a note: What would you tell your younger self?

  This anthology is dedicated to the memory of Daniel F. Yochim, Suzanne L. West, and all our loved ones who have gone before us. We do not say goodbye, but only farewell until we meet again. Dan and Suzanne taught me not to take time for granted. Who or what is here today may not be here tomorrow.

  Somewhere in my travels, I saw this phrase: Each morning we are born again. What we do today matters most.

  So, go. Create memories; accept new identities; engage words for social good; listen to music; read a book; be honest and humble; connect with people, places, and things that make your life richer; savour the support and generosity given to you; acknowledge your good fortune; work on healthy ageing. And also, apply the pay-it-forward principle. When it is time for your own farewell, you will then answer your own question: What is a life well lived?

  A portion of this anthology’s net revenue goes to support the Kids Help Phone and Mood Disorders Association. Please support your local charitable organizations and public libraries. Do take care of your own health, and be kind to yourself and others. And remember: We are never too old to dream.

  —Lucas K. Law, Calgary and Qualicum Beach, Canada, 2021

  Introduction

  Candas Jane Dorsey

  Arriving, Pausing, Enjoying, Leaving

  Recently I was in the emergency room of the closest hospital (for reasons that turned out okay, don’t worry!) and when she saw my patient number, the admitting clerk said, “I’ve never seen one so low! Were you born in this hospital?” and the answer was, “Yes. Yes, I was.” I discovered I could go to Records and ask to see my birth record—which is apparently written in pen in a ledger, so old am I becoming. I haven’t done it yet, but it gives me pause (paws?) to think that my paws, for all their roamings away-and-back, are now firmly planted only a few blocks, a mile maybe, from where I drew my first breath. I have been to a lot of places in the world, but I come back here, and I am growing old here, sometimes in the same rooms.

  What is the journey of a life, then? Is it geographical? Certainly, for my forbears, it was. Four generations ago, they were arriving on this landscape, full of ambitions, prejudices and misconceptions about the emptiness of the land. They had a self-image of hardy pioneerism, and their very definition of self came from a line drawn between where they started their lives and the very different landscapes they traversed to end those lives on the Canadian prairie. My mother’s ashes are interred beside theirs, in a little graveyard in middle-Alberta where perspectives on colonialism, settlement and reconciliation are seldom admitted.

  I am so firmly of this land that I never want to leave it, and yet, I am of settler stock. I have been in a lot of discussions lately about reconciliation, in the wake of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada (TRC), and I accept that those settlers in my lineage did not possess the place they lived, though they thought they did. And yet, my geography exists: this is my place—and I “own” this house where I sit to write this. The difference, maybe, is the limitation of time: my place-ness, my ability to claim a place is mine, is time-limited to my lifespan. Which makes every moment of that life precious (no matter how, from outside, I may be relegated to margins because of someone else’s prejudices or misconceptions).

  So, is a life a geography all its own? History has more people who stay in one place than have ever travelled: are we to say that a life lived planted in one spot has no unique and particular landscape, no hills and valleys, no belonging-ness? Obviously, unless we are not paying attention, we would never say that physical, outward geography was all of one’s destiny, even if place and origin is some of what makes us who we are. But yet, geography anchors the most potent of the allegories, the metaphors, the similes we use to start describing our lives and purposes. We travel through life, we journey, we explore, we arrive, we depart from the events of our lives as if they were solid and created a geography. We talk of our highs and lows, our hills and valleys, and then, we “travel” atop that geography.

  Like Everyman in The Pilgrim’s Progress, whose journey was a naked and unsubtle allegory full of descriptively-named regions like the Slough of Despond, we can liken life to a series of destinations where we arrive, stay and leave in a relentless peripeteia. So then our life stories are a travel memoir, and the destinations—wisdom, serenity, peace, happiness—are goals to achieve as we age.

  Equally potent are the comparisons to climate, season, and weather. This very volume’s call for submissions was organized by seasons, with spring defined as the time of beginning, and the journey of our lives described as the passage of time (which it is) through allegories of an inevitable progression of birth, growth, prime of life (whatever that is), senescence, and death— unimpacted by any conscious wishes to linger in any one stage. But are seasons eras, or are they but moods? Is spring instead optimism, summer enjoyment, autumn melancholy, and winter despair? Do we really move through seasons only once, or do we hopscotch through them as robustly and discontinuously as any literary or TV time traveller, exchanging summers of content for winters of discontent, or wistful autumns for hopeful springs, on a daily basis? Or perhaps we think not of seasonal change but of daily passages: dawn of life progressing to sunset and night enveloping us at last—but is night infinite to some of us, and full of life and possibility in stars and galaxies, and do we scribe our stories on that infinity, while day feels limited by the blue bowl of sky that hides or limits our fate? And weather: are we defined by our weather: grey or sunny moods or personalities, sudden storms of passion
or anger, icy receptions or warm welcomes, all the weather of daily existence?

  My job in writing this Introduction is not to answer these questions, but to pose them and leave you in a state of wondering. The writers whose work follows will move you onward into the state of wonder. That is the nature of the fictional contract (and I knew this through and through, as a writer, even before I read Barthes, Foucault and Iser!)

  But those who know me will not be surprised to know that I do have some ideas on the progressions of our life. In some ways, every story written anywhere, every “speculative fiction” (which is a bit of a redundancy, I sometimes think!), is making a comment on our ages and stages of life, in one way or another, and in reading them, we draw from them and take with us both the positive and negative propellants of understanding. Having survived childhood (despite some serious illnesses), endured adolescence (despite adolescence!), bounded into adulthood and romped about in its possibilities (the people! the relationships! the creativity! the community! the achievements! the love! the sex!) while also confronting its challenges (with which I will not burden you), and now being in the process (a never-completed process) of coming to terms with the entropic advancement of ageing, I have at once achieved and abandoned perspective. Achieved it by the inevitable progression of days and understanding, but abandoned it because it was a spurious achievement.

  As a writer, and now also sometimes a visual artist, I have a great deal of experience in choosing what Feigenbaum, the chaos theorist, called the “irreducible amount of detail” that has to be present to make a work of art resemble reality. While doing this I have come to understand that if life were as simple as narrative, we would all be better at it.

  Here is what I think that I think: we are hard-wired storytellers adrift in a capricious, arbitrary, entropic, and disorderly Universe.

  I struggled with that word “disorderly”: we know we can find order that makes sense of the universe, or at least parts of it. We can cut the cake in such a way that we see a pattern. But is that pattern really there, or is it a result of our neurological tendency to impose narrative on the vast sea of information that provides input for our senses? I also wonder if “capricious” ascribes too much agency. Perhaps, instead, I should say that our Universe is completely disinterested, and, as we have constructed it, friable.