Book Reaction: Wilde Stories 2016

31310785This is the kind of book that you read all at once and then keep close at hand to keep referring back to. 2016 was a great year for gay spec fic, with stories by veterans in the field such as Richard Bowes, and new-comers who are on their way to becoming the next big thing, like Sam J. Miller. The stories collected here are wonderfully diverse, from spaces of the imagination in the near future to the surreal.

These stories were largely published in major magazines originally, so I’d read a few of them before. But this collection is valuable in itself because it is a wealth of brilliant spec fic stories featuring gay characters. So often I feel strung along by bromantic novels that end happily ever with the main bro meeting a pretty girl in the final chapters. It’s a relief to suspend that hesitance I approach every story with, not wanting to be let down yet again.

And yet despite that hesitance, or because of it, I missed many brilliant stories throughout the year, such as “Imaginary Boys” by Paul Magrs, which instantly became a new favorite. This is a great resource to discover new writers (whether they’re new or you’re new to them) in the field of gay spec fic, and just an all-around essential book for anyone who needs more gay spec fic in their lives (and who doesn’t?)

Erasure II: Reshaping the Path


Oops! There isn’t an eraser big enough for this ball of fur

I’ve heard from a lot of people in response to my Erasure post which I wrote over a year ago about turning 30, erasing stuff, and how we’re not getting any younger so I was going to carpe all the diems, make mistakes, and learn Portuguese. One of the best responses was from one of my oldest friends, Abe, who sent me a giant eraser and some comics I drew of our group of friends in high school. Good times. Actually, the comic was aptly named: The High School Times. Anyway, Abe recently started a brilliant blog, which you can read here. And you really should because he’s a brilliant, insightful writer and all around awesome person.

So, a lot of things have happened since I wrote that Erasure post. I’m now headed toward 32, and not really worried about being 30 anymore, and the Portuguese thing got complicated. It’s actually a pretty funny story.


Then: Novo Avenida

Last fall I went to Montreal. Hilarious story, right. Wait, here comes the funny part. I have never had a desire to learn French. While my mother and both of my sisters studied French in school, I studied Spanish. When my friends traveled to Paris in college, I studied Japanese. When I finally went to Europe, I avoided the continent all together and stopped in Ireland.

So anyway, there I was in Montreal with my Portuguese textbook, ready to use my spare time on vacation to complete the last few exercises.

Then things got French. Fast. People in Montreal that I talked to were all bilingual, but I quickly felt myself falling for the charms of the language and the culture. I’ve always dreamed of spending time in a place that would challenge me to speak another language, yet I’ve been feeling a pull back east as I get older too, and feeling like there is limited time to travel to new place while still staying connecting to all the places I’ve been. Quebec is lovely and hilly and mountainous, there are huge deciduous trees and all those wonderful things I miss about the east coast. Being in that place sparked memories of my past and reminded me of the future I’m chasing.


Now: Comme un Gant!

So when I got back to Winnipeg, I put Novo Avenida on the shelf and enrolled in a French class. Wait, I’m not a quitter. I have justifications:

1) I got to take French for free through a government funded French for Immigrants program. It feels like I’m learning a lot faster than I was learning Portuguese through studying on my own.

2) I live in Canada. French is by far the most useful second language for me to know. It’s useful at work (when visiting Montreal) or just whenevs I feel like Frenching. That’s what they call it, right?


The High School Times

3) I am no longer erasing. I read a book about mindsets recently, and how we can grow from mistakes. It made me see opportunity where I used to see failure. Maybe you don’t always have to erase, but can constantly improve. Such as reshaping a letter written in ink, turning a mistake into something new, not worse. So anyway, the justification is: French and Portuguese are both romance languages. Learning one will help me learn the other, and I have the ability to take French classes for free, so why not start there and build Portuguese on top of the skills I pick up along the way? It might not be the most efficient way, but how can you ever complete an objective if you’re erasing and starting over? Especially if you happen to be really indecisive and always want to try something new…

I think there was maybe a 4), but I forget.

Oh, wait, I forgot the really funny part. As in ironic funny. There is a chance I’ll be going to Brazil in the coming months. And I just might bring a French book to study while I’m there. *upside-down-smiley-face-what-a-crazy-world emoticon*


Book Review: Circuits & Slippers

csFirst, I have to say I was provided a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Begin honest review. Go.

This collection combines two of my favourite things—fairy tales and scifi. I’m fascinated by the intersection of fantasy and science fiction, and it’s really cool to see fairies translated into aliens, magic into technology, and ancient stories into futurescapes.

In a twitter chat with the authors recently, editor Jaylee James asked a question that strikes at the heart of the anthology:

“Do you think fairy tales will still be relevant in the distant future, or will we invent new fairy tales?”

Each story in Circuits & Slippers seeks to explore this question in some way.

Disclaimer: It’s really hard to review a collection of stories. Even in a collection by a single author, each story is a separate work with its own world, characters, and objectives. Since I can’t go into all of them here, I’ll just give you a little taste of what you can expect overall.

The anthology opens with “The Slumbering Hill,” a Sleeping Beauty retelling that sees Saira, a tech scavenger from a place called The Pits, journey across a desert to find a cozy town without tech where she discovers “fabric not yet made into clothing, seeds not yet grown, and ingredients not yet made into food.” The story is full of wonderfully imaginative details like these, and there is also a story within the story, a type of legend referred to as a “star story,” which is an answer to the earlier question as to the future of fairy tales. Anyway, the star story here is a scifi Sleeping Beauty tale that wraps up into the larger meta-narrative and comes to a satisfying conclusion that sets the perfect tone for the rest of the anthology.

The next tale is a retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk—but the beanstalk is a space elevator. This story has a similar atmosphere to the first, a wonderful blend of fable and future.

Then things take a dramatic turn with “Alone, and Palely Loitering,” which is about Galahad, who is an “automated museum curator,” an AI tasked with filling and protecting a grail with the history of Earth after its demise. While the lore it’s based on is still central, the story has a strong scifi atmosphere (in an awesome, creepy, “what happens when we’re gone?” kind of way.) Similarly, “The Last” tells the tale of the last woman from Earth, a warrior who was salvaged from the planet’s wreckage and preserved in a tower as a specimen of humanity. Her final mission…Project Rapunzel.

“CAT Beyond the Moon” mixes things up even more, with a very funny narrator who tells us about a girl named Cara who wants to attend the Newton-Nye institute, and doesn’t think she has a chance until CAT a “Creature for the Annihilation of Tragedy” comes along to help her—after getting a new pair of boots, of course. While the story is set far in the history of our own solar system, there are a lot of hilarious current references, such as the “tragic tale of the Downgrading of Pluto” which is taught to all the children in this world, and is yet another answer to the question of what fairy tales will become.

Another story that stands out is “Le Trotteur,” which takes us into a future version of the Quebecois legend of Alexis Lapointe, who in this reality is a Magskater hurling across gravity-defying tracks. The story has a fun, sporty feel because it’s driven by races and speed, yet finds time to slow down to incorporate the strong flavour of French language and culture.

“Fit for Purpose” is narrated by an android, which gives it a unique perspective, and there’s some interesting gender stuff going on here as the android is sexualized even though it doesn’t have a gender.

Another one of my favourites, “Compatible” is a hilarious and touching story about an alien studying human hair. It involves a trans human and a “more-male-than-female” alien who can’t quite be Earth-gendered. Here is an example of the humour: “I’m just now realizing how expressive eyebrows can be. Maybe humans use the hair on their head to communicate with other humans, and that’s why they’re obsessed [with it].” Maybe you have to read it in context, but trust me, when you do it’s hilarious.

These are just the stories that stood out to me, but the rest of the anthology doesn’t disappoint. There are cool scifi twists on some of the most conventional tales, like Goldilocks, Red Riding Hood, and Beauty and the Beast. And as you find yourself slipping deeper into this timeless future, it becomes clear that the stories themselves are both the questions and the answers—blending the wisdom of the past, the progress of the present, and our hope for the future. Fairy tales are timeless because, in the telling and evolving, they inspire us to push ourselves to the stars.

Circuits & Slippers comes out in paperback and kindle ebook on September 29th.

Erasing and Evolving

Abe is one of my oldest friends (as in since childhood, not as in he’s really old…) and he writes awesome stuff that you should check out on his blog. We met in kindergarten, and years later we are still erasing and evolving together. I’m still planning to write a follow-up to my original Erasure post, but this is going to be a tough act to follow after Abe’s post…

Thursdays with T

A while back my friend Will (who’s blog is awesome, seriously stop reading this right now and go check out his page) wrote about how he suddenly realized one day that he had reached a point in his life where he wasn’t expected to need erasers anymore. He gets a bit deeper on the subject but in summary, he realized that as children we are expected, heck encouraged even, to make mistakes. It’s how we learn. It’s how we grow. But then we reach adulthood and overnight we’re supposed to have our entire live worked out. No more erasers. No more do-overs.

erasing_mistakes_by_werxzyimage credit

That post really hit home for me. Partially because I, with age 30 peeking right around the corner, am nowhere near having my life in perfect order. True, the past few years I’ve started to figure things out, but compared to the typical adulthood timeline…

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Happy Pride!


Winnipeg Legislative Building

I fee so lucky to live in a time and place where we can be proud to be ourselves. It’s not always easy, but it is possible. Pride is special to me for a couple reasons, besides the obvious ;)

1. For many years I considered myself an ally. I was on the fringes of acceptance, but scared to come out. Then I saw representation of gay people in books (largely through Lethe Press) and stories (coming out stories and also Netflix DVDs that were delivered in discrete envelopes) and I wanted to be brave like the strong characters in these stories. Stories made me realize for the first time that I could be proud of myself, to acknowledge that I was gay and that I could be strong and happy instead of ashamed.
2. My birthday is in June. That’s it. A little anticlimactic, I know, but it feels a little magical. Another magical thing was that I first came out on a groundhog’s day, which I find pretty funny.

So anyway, I want to return the love and support I got in those early days by sharing some reading recommendations of great gay books.

Boys Like Us

This is a collection of essays by gay writers, reflecting on a diverse array of coming out stories. Some tragic, others hilarious. I kept this book by my bed for months before and after I first came out, gaining strength and courage from the stories.

I’ll Give You The Sun

by Jandy Nelson

This is a beautifully written YA novel about art, love and everything in between. I know I already said it, but the writing is so beautiful, at once satisfying and startling. This book is made of the kind of sentences that get stuck in your head like songs.


Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe

by Benjamin Alire Sáenz

Another YA novel, about love and longing, and another piece of brilliant writing. Seriously, that is enough. Go read it.

Vintage: A Ghost Story

by Steve Berman

A YA novel about a gay goth kid. Yet another beautifully written work. The haunting coming of age story is about a boy coming to terms with life, death, sexuality and the strange forces beyond us. Fast paced yet thoughtful, this novel follows some conventional ghost story/horror/suspense conventions in the best, creepiest ways while telling a refreshingly unique story.


by Corrinne Duyvis

Yet another YA novel. I didn’t plan this I swear, they’re just great books. This one is contemporary fantasy, sort of. A girl and a boy from different worlds share a special link and do not fall in love with each other!

Another Country

by James Baldwin

I first read this in a literature class in college. I’ve now read it about 5 times. This was the first work of “literature” that I read that featured gay characters, and it changed me and continues to change me to this day.

The Whole Story and Other Stories

by Ali Smith

Ali Smith is a genius. And this is another book I read for a class but kept reading over and over. Her stories are insanely creative, mind-bending, and wonderfully crafted.


I could keep going on and on with great book recommendations, but celebrating diversity is about sharing and listening so everyone can be heard.

What are your favorites?

Invisible Ink

My eloquent sister on writing and where words go once they are written.

Brenna Layne

IMG_20160507_125618929Almost-invisible ink.

Novel-writing is an act of wild optimism. It is for any writer, I think, but particularly for those of us who aren’t published. When I begin writing, I write not for an audience, not even for myself, but for the story–because there is a story that wants to be told. When I revise, though, it is with audience in mind. Will my thoughts come across clearly, my images vividly? Are these characters believable, sympathetic, real?

The initial drafting is a kind of possession. The raw material of story seizes you, sinks its fingers into your windpipe, and refuses to let go. Revision is different–a smoothing, a subtle shaping of worked clay. The story is birthed and must now undergo its metamorphosis. This is the point, for me, at which audience truly begins to matter.

But here’s the rub–there is no audience. This is true for published writers as…

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Book Reaction: Star Maker

I have to admit, it was hard to get into this book. I have tried to read it twice before and ended up skimming both times. Star Maker was written in the 1930s and the language is often dry and difficult, and there is very little plot. This is definitely a work of science fiction, but more than anything it is a travel log of a disembodied consciousness’s journey through the cosmos. A majority of the “story” consists of long-winded descriptions of planets and species. These planets are bizarre, yet well-thought out. And although I said there is little plot, there is definitely a progression to the book that lead me to a very rewarding experience I completely missed out on when skimming it before.StarMaker-Cover
Now what makes me give this book five stars? It is mind-blowingly brilliant. It continually made me feel like I was learning things I shouldn’t know, like I was being let in on secrets of the universe that are typically invisible. I haven’t read anything like this in a long, long time. Star Maker is not a perfect book, and it is very challenging, but it is one of the greatest works of science fiction ever written, and it awoke a curiosity in me that I haven’t known since childhood, making me ask why, why, why?
If you want to enjoy this book, don’t come to it expecting a fast plot or an easy read. Come ready to challenge your perspective of the universe and ask questions you forgot you needed to answer.
5/5 stars

Out of joint

Brenna Layne

the time is out of joint~Shakespeare, Hamlet, I.5.190

Lately, the idea that I have anything to say feels patently absurd. It’s probably also patently absurd that I use expressions like “patently absurd.” My intention has been to post weekly, on Thursdays, and I’ve not been doing a fantastic job of it. Thursday slides closer and then slips by in the backwash of the week’s end, trailing a tinge of that quiet but uncomfortable remorse one feels when one promises oneself that one will do something and one doesn’t. That is a lot of ones, but I’m feeling archaic. The time is out of joint.

I went backwards in time on a 1920s steam engine last weekend in Buffalo, NY. I went backwards in time on a 1920s steam engine last weekend in Buffalo, NY.

Perhaps it’s autumn that does this, that works its strange magic through the waning days and lengthening nights. When the leaves flame out against the hillsides and the nights…

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FullSizeRender[2]A couple months ago I turned 30. The big 3-0. All year I felt this impending milestone sinking on my shoulders and it made me question what I’d done with my first 30 years. Which led me to ask myself why I hadn’t achieved what I’d set out to do in my 20s, the major goals being to publish a novel and become fluent in a second language. As my 29th year burned to a close, I collected the last of the rejections on my novel and chalked it up as a loss. Which made me start feeling even worse about my other goal of learning a language. I wasted my 20s fueling a failed novel, and had nothing to show for it. All I had was a job I hated (that exacerbated the failure) and a lower than novice level understanding of Spanish, Japanese, Latin, and Portuguese.

Hitting 30 was one of the most depressing times of my life. I hadn’t done anything. And I blamed it all on the novel, on writing and how it had made me lose sight of my career and other ambitions.

It was dark times. Dark, scary times. I hit 30, totally unprepared with no seatbelt or parachute.


The other side of my 30th birthday was just as dark and scary.

But shortly after, things started to get better. I revisited my second novel and let writing become an activity I enjoyed again instead of a means to an end (an end of failure slathered in sticky peanut butter and dusted in glitter). It’s got a long way to go, but Second Novel is going somewhere. And I’m going with it.

Almost exactly a month after my 30th birthday, I started a new job. This literally changed my life. My last job was emotionally draining and awful and the new one is busy and gets stressful, but it doesn’t make me feel completely awful, which is completely awesome. I have energy at the end of the day. I sleep well. I feel happy sometimes, actually most of the time — which is new.

FullSizeRenderThis newfound calm has led me to the decision to actually study Portuguese instead of just talking about it. I ordered a textbook online and was half excited and half disappointed yesterday when it arrived and I discovered the workbook was already filled in. Excited because it’s fun to see someone else’s mark on an object, and disappointed because how am I going to learn Portuguese if Sarah from Guelph already learned all the Portuguese out of this book?

Luckily, Sarah wrote her answers in pencil, so I went to grab an eraser, only to discover that I do not own a single eraser!!! When I thought about it, I realized I haven’t used a pencil at home or at work, probably since high school. On my desk at home I have a stein my sister brought me from Germany. It is full of blue pens, black pens, pens that FullSizeRenderlook like monsters, sharpies, and highlighters. Not a single pencil. My desk at work is covered in papers with pens sitting on top of them and rolling under them like snakes under leaves. My top drawer is full of a dozen backup pens. No pencils.

Throughout my school years I was something of a pencil fanatic (read into that what you will). I had an impressive collection of Yikes! designer pencils, mechanical pencils of all lead weights and materials, and many, many more pouring out of my backpack and Trapperkeeper.

I also had a collection of erasers. The boring pink trapezoids, a green one shaped like a brain (from Yikes!’ Fall 96 collection), erasers that looked like dinosaurs, and ones that sat atop my equally impressive pencils. I only used the pink utilitarian ones because I didn’t dare turn my favorites into rubber pulp. But I took comfort in the fact that I had an infinite variety of writing tools at my disposal — and also a limitless number of ways to correct any mistakes I happened to make.

In our youth we’re expected to write in pencil, to make mistakes, to have an eraser FullSizeRender[1]handy. But then as we get older there are no erasers. Time is always passing, and you come to learn that you can always make a second attempt but you can never have a complete re-do because what’s done is done and there’s no going back.

I know this now. But that didn’t stop me from buying an eraser today. I’m going to erase Sarah’s attempt to fill in the blanks, and I’m going to learn Portuguese!

All That Glitters

A fantasy short story by Will J Fawley

Hello there, traveler. Are you lost? You’re trying to reach The Beyond, eh? This is not the way. Your path lies another day’s journey down the road that twists through The Ranges.

Where are my manners? I am Sir Terren, Royal Knight to His Majesty, the king. Come back to Mytus with me, traveler, for it is far too dangerous to cross The Ranges in the dark. In the morning an escort will guide you through the mountain pass.

The city is up there on the mountaintop. You can see its two golden towers stretching up into the clouds. That shorter tower belongs to the king and is surpassed in height only by the Alchemists’ Tower. It’s the one that rises from the mountain’s peak. It channels the smoke that rises from the mountain, allowing the alchemists to condense it in the massive hourglass that hangs above the city. From there, a series of chutes carry the distilled liquid down the mountain, allowing it to cool and complete its transformation into gold.

At first glance, the city appears to be no more than a gold refinery. But when you look closer—please come inside the city walls; that’s it, don’t be afraid—you will see that in the shadow of the golden towers, it is a city full of people going about their lives, just like any other.

There is Mr. Braun, the Blacksmith. (Mr. Braun waves a thick wrist and nearly drops a red-hot rod he is forging.) Clumsy fellow. A wonder he hasn’t singed off that awful mustache.

And that over there is Old Miss Trench. She’s like a grandmother to everyone in the lower town. “Hello dearie.” The old woman scratches a large black cat that squirms in her arms. “Say hello to the nice traveler, Gus.” The cat hisses.

Let’s take this next turn and—a woman carrying a bouquet of blue funnel-shaped flowers nearly collides with us. “Hello, Terren. Lovely day, isn’t it?” the woman says, punctuating her cheer with a cough as she gestures toward the sun, which is just visible through the smog that hangs over the lower city. This is Elysia, of course. She hands me a flower. “And oh, here’s one for you, traveler.” Elysia waves goodbye and begins to hum, and then cough.

You’ll notice there’s a lot of coughing around here. Really, stop and listen. The hacking and choking of suffocating lungs echoes off the cobblestones and crumbling townhouses. The byproduct of alchemy is not nearly as pretty as gold. Some go as far as to say the thick black smoke actually caused the plague. Don’t look worried, traveler. You’re far likelier to be slaughtered for those fine shoes than you are to catch the plague these days. Here, breathe through this kerchief if it makes you feel better. Go on, take it, I have an extra.

Now here we are at the Village Square. The square is just as run down as the rest of the town, though a good deal more populated. You have to push your way through the crowds to get anywhere. Don’t worry, the coughing really isn’t contagious, and you’ll get used to the sulfur smell. Just pull that kerchief tighter.

That over there, you see that woman in the white robes on the platform? That’s my sister, Syrene. Now you best listen closely to what she has to say. Shhh…I promise you won’t get the plague. Now listen…

“The king’s wealth comes at a cost,” Syrene shouts into the crowd. “A great cost to all of us who reside on the mountain, for it is the mountain itself that suffers. You see, the king’s gold cannot be made from air. It is made instead from the mountain itself. The alchemy consumes it. Uses it up. Angers it.” Shouts of sorrow run through the square. “But there is hope,” Syrene says, and her reassurance causes a hush to fall over the crowd. “Fear not, for at our darkest hour, I shall play my part and stop the King’s greed once and for all.” Cheers erupt in the square.

But not everyone is pleased with Syrene’s proclamation. Four guards push through the crowd and make their way to the platform Syrene is standing on. Uh-oh, traveler, this could get ugly. Stay close.

“Your words are treason,” one of the guards says as he approaches Syrene.

“King’s made it clear we’re to make an example of anyone who questions his authority,” another adds.

“Come, you can share your views with the king,” the first guard says as he grabs Syrene’s arm.

I cannot stand by and watch my sister be wrongfully accused. I have to do something, so I rush in and push one of the guards off the platform. “Unhand her!”

One of the guards grabs me and I fight his grasp, but another closes in and holds my arms. They pull me alongside Syrene, toward the king’s tower.

Traveler, they’ve spotted you and they will arrest you too! Run!

But it is too late.

“Ah, a whole uprising, is it?” the first guard says as he and his fellow soldiers drag us through the narrow streets.

Though it’s a cloudless day, the sun cannot penetrate the smog. It’s always dark in the lower town. I’m sorry, traveler. I never meant to get you involved in this. Fear not, the law of the land entitles us to an audience before the king. And though His Majesty and I don’t always see eye-to-eye, he is a noble man who treats his knights with respect.


This is not the best introduction to the throne room, escorted by guards, spears in our backs. But it is grand isn’t it? The gilded floor, the elaborate candelabras? Hold still. The spear will poke into your back if you struggle against it.

“Terren,” the king says. “I am disappointed. I had thought you to be one of my most loyal knights.”

“I am, Sire.” The circular pool in the centre of the room is so still and bright it is impossible to tell if the liquid itself is gold, or merely a reflection of the room around it.

“You disappoint me, knight. I wish I could believe you.” A wreath of gold wraps around the king’s head, branching upward in a tangle of intricate shapes. “And you, traveler, what business have you here? If you were really trying to reach The Beyond as you say, you would have taken the direct route through The Ranges.” The king gets up from his throne, rising against the weight of the crown. “Guards!”

Just what we need, more guards. Two of the king’s men enter the room, Syrene walking in front of them.

The king raises an arm, gesturing toward Syrene. “Can you swear your innocence on the life of your sister?”

Syrene meets my gaze. Her eyes are empty, hopeless.

“I can not.”

“Then you stand by your sister’s slanderous words?”

“I believe in you and in the kingdom, Sire. But it is obvious that the kingdom is not as it once was.”

“Treason!” the king cries. The guards prod their spears into my back, pushing me forward until I fall onto my face. The king’s twisted reflection gleams in the polished floor. Then one of the guards pulls me up to my knees. “To the dungeons with them!”

“No!” Syrene shouts.

“I suppose you see a different fate for your brother then?” The king walks toward her and lifts her chin with his bejeweled fingers. “Tell me, Syrene, you have been my trusted Seer for many years, have you not? Without you, none of this would have been possible.” The king spreads his arms to indicate the grand room and the Alchemists’ Tower visible outside the window. “Your demonstration in the square this morning caused quite a fuss. Tell me, what future do you see for the kingdom?”

“I see a future that is right and just.”

“And what does that look like? Is it not the kingdom you see before you?”

Watch this, traveler. What you saw earlier in the square was only smoke and mirrors compared to the true power of my sister’s sight. Syrene stretches a hand out in front of herself, channeling the other realms. Her eyes glow with a blue electricity and the white robes ripple around her as if a wind is blowing through the chamber. The pool erupts in a geyser, sending a burst of gold water toward the ceiling, and then falls back down, splashing as it boils.

“I see,” she bellows in a hollow voice not her own, “a land in turmoil. A king mad with a greed that tears his kingdom apart. I see boiling rivers, sulfur in the wells. The mountain grows angry at what we have taken from it, what we have used it for.”

“Watch your tongue, Syrene, or you will end up with your brother in the dungeon.”

“It is not my tongue that you fear,” she says, “but your own blindness. What I see is not the future, but the present. Even now the villagers gather around a boiling well, water unfit to drink. Steam rises from the ground and burns the livestock’s feet. The fish in the rivers have all died, and the plants that grow along the banks have wilted. You are putting your kingdom in danger for a metal that is too soft to build with and has become so common it is no longer beautiful to look at. Does gold do the kingdom any good, Your Highness?”

“The metal itself may not appear useful,” the king says, “but the things it buys, oh the things it buys!” He descends the stairs that lead down from the throne to where we are standing, and gestures out the window to the view of the mountain city. “Once, we thought the alchemists would produce the elixir of life. What a waste that would be. For what is an eternal life without the comforts gold can buy?”

“My Lord, can you not hear yourself speak?” I ask.

The king ignores me and continues. “How can you question the very substance that has made this kingdom great? Look at us, we are made of gold.” He lifts the corner of his robe to remind me of his gilded limb, a trait we share. Yes, it’s true. This is not merely a gauntlet but a metal arm. The weight of my own gilded limb pulls against the muscles in my shoulder. “How can you stand against what we are at our very cores?”

“You are mad!” Syrene shouts. The guards seize her by the arms. She does not fight, but lets her defiance reign across her face. “This kingdom will fall under your rule.”

The king shakes his head and signals to the guards, who carry Syrene to the pool. Still, she does not struggle, but closes her eyes as they lower her into the water. A sharp scream escapes Syrene’s mouth, but it is cut short as her vocal chords turn to gold. Then the only sound is the rippling of the water as the guards lift a golden statue from the pool. It resembles my sister, her face twisted in pain.

I open my mouth to condemn the king, but my throat is dry and locked. I can only flail against the guards, the points of their spears piercing my chainmail.

“Such beauty should be preserved. Take her up to the Alchemists’ Tower,” the king orders the guards. “And remove these traitors from my sight.”


Wake up traveler. We’re in the dungeon. There’s no time to waste; we have to get out of here and find Syrene. Yes, ‘we.’ Look, I’m sorry I got you into this mess, but I’m going to stand a much better chance of getting my sister back if I have your help. You’re with me aren’t you? Glad to hear it.

For some reason this musty air smells sort of refreshing, doesn’t it? You’re right, there’s no gold here. No gilded floors or elaborate candelabras. Only my metal arm gleams in the candlelight cast from the guard post outside the cell.

We’re in luck, traveler! I know the guard on duty. His name is Sorrel. I’ve stood watch with him on this very dungeon shift many a night. But our duty to fellow knights means nothing compared to our loyalty to the king. That’s quite alright. Loyalty can be bought.

The candlelight reflects off of my golden arm, bending the light and making it dance around the cell. The king who has so much gold he makes his servants grind it up in his meals and insert flakes in his wine (the king who literally eats and shits gold) does not share it with his people. Don’t get me wrong, traveler. I would die for my king. Just not for his gold.

The king’s desire spreads through the kingdom, making the people fluent in the glittering language of gold. A spare piece can get you anything in this city.

I unstrap my gilded arm and offer it to the guard as a bribe to set us free. The gold can be melted down by a friend who has connections in the tower, and will make Sorrel’s family rich with a greater wealth: food, warmth, and medicine.

Sorrel gives me a spare suit of guards’ mail and a helmet.

“And a set of armour for my friend here?” I inquire. Thanks.

Put these on. Oh, I hope I don’t look as ridiculous as you. No, you’re fine, just follow me. And let me do the talking if it comes to that, got it? I’m glad you understand.

“If you succeed in climbing the tower, in finding your sister,” Sorrel asks, “what then?”

“I’ll figure that out when I get there.” I will, traveler. I promise.


The mountain is shaking because it’s angry at what the king has taken from it. We must hurry to the tower. The chutes that carry the liquid down from the top of the mountain are attached to bridges, connecting each building to another and creating a web of pathways throughout the city. The bridges will be the quickest route to the tower. Follow me closely.

It’s not too difficult to stay out of sight once the sun sets. What little light makes it down to the lower town is filtered by the smog. If you’re still worried about the pollution, pull that kerchief tight over your mouth. But like I said, the plague claims so few these days the bodies can all be buried—at least within the week.

Let’s cross this bridge to get a view of what we’re up against. Slow down, I may need to steady myself on you as we climb. The golden arm wasn’t very useful, but I feel a bit unbalanced without its weight.

Even as we cross the city bridges, keeping our distance from the guards that patrol them, the Alchemists’ Tower is visible above, tapering up to the moon. The ground rumbles again and the bridge shakes beneath our feet. Shouts echo up from the narrow streets. The tremors are growing more frequent.

You distract the guards and I’ll knock them out so we can get in. You won’t be in any danger, traveler. I’ll take them down before they can touch you. Just watch out for those nasty halberds. They’ll slice your arm right off if you’re not careful. Believe me.

I wait until the guards are distracted and take them down just as I was trained to eliminate any enemy of Mytus. See, I told you that would work. Grab one of those halberds, will you? Let’s go.

The halberd will be a good addition to our disguises. It’s meant to be a two-handed weapon, but my gold arm never held any strength anyway, so I’m used to compensating for the imbalance. Just carry it for me for now.

Once inside, the first thing we notice is that the tower is mostly hollow, serving as a duct to ventilate the mountain, and a black cloud of smoke continuously flows up the open shaft. Dozens of guards patrol a staircase that spirals along the outer wall.

The tower stretches endlessly upward—stairs, smoke, guards. Look, see that rope and pulley system along the walls? That could come in handy. I study the intricate knots that suspend the rope from a series of golden wheels. The ropes would probably be the fastest way up, but I don’t have time to figure out how they work.

Follow my pace and we should blend in with the pairs of guards as we ascend the stairs. That’s it, stay close so they can’t see my empty sleeve.

We mirror the movements of the guards, keeping as much distance from them as possible, moving slowly upward. Sooner or later we’ll have to pass them. Simply nod and avert your eyes as we do.

When the time comes, I can feel their gaze piercing through my armour, and there’s a phantom tingle in the limp sleeve of my chainmail where the golden arm once was.

We pass the first set of guards without a problem, despite the drumbeat of my racing heart. Sh…listen. You can hear the next pair of guards talking as we approach.

“…ordered to keep our eyes out for two escaped prisoners trying to climb the tower.”

The other guard laughs. “I’d like to see ‘em try. This is the most secure building in the kingdom. We see to that!”

“That may be so, but we must keep an eye out just the same. One of the men is missing an arm. The king said he would do whatever it takes to get up to the top.”

We’re too close now to turn around. Just keep walking. I become increasingly conscious of my limp sleeve and try to hide it from sight. It’s a close call, but we pass the guards and continue our ascent.

Look ahead, there’s a platform tied to the pulley system. A golden rope-car rests on the platform ahead, just out of reach. Six guards are aboard. If only we can make it to the car we can ride up with them.

“Hey,” one of the guards behind us shouts.

Walk faster.

“Hey!” the guard shouts again, and lays a hand on my shoulder. I am about to run when he asks, “did you hear the orders? There’s a prisoner on the loose.”

“Yes, I heard,” I say, my pulse stabilizing. “I’ll be on the lookout.”

Keep moving. As we reach the rope-car, one of the guards looks down at my empty sleeve and then up at my face. Halberd please.

I make quick work of all six guards in the car, using the momentum of the blade to compensate for not having a second hand to precisely control the weapon. It arcs through the air, chopping into skulls and torsos, sending blood spurting in all directions as the guards tumble from the rope-car and down the stairs.

Bells ring throughout the tower and guards rush toward us from above and below. I lean the halberd against the wall and fumble with the knots, but can’t manage to untie them with one hand. Grab hold of the rope! There is no time to lose, so I pick the halberd up again and chop the rope that supports the counter-weight.

The stairs swirl down around us as the rope-car launches up through the smoke.


Get out of the rope-car, we don’t have much time. The tower shakes again to emphasize my point.

At its highest level, the tower is divided into four large rooms that are all connected to a central chamber, allowing the smoke to filter through the roof. The first room is empty except for its gilded walls and tables. Let’s continue into the next room. Careful, there are bound to be more guards up here. This is where the magic happens.

The next room appears to be the laboratory. See those workbenches? The benches are cluttered with glass vials and tools I have never seen before and cannot begin to name. Four alchemists are at work, one in each corner of the room, capturing the smoke in bottles and then transferring it through a series of tubes into a smaller version of the large hourglass that hangs above the city. The smoke condenses against the glass walls and trickles down to the lower half of the container in the form of liquid gold.

One of the alchemists looks up at us in our guard uniforms and then goes back to his work.

Syrene has to be around here somewhere. We walk through another empty room and into the next, which is set up like the laboratory, but with more open space, and a great window overlooking the kingdom. From this height you can see straight across the valley to the mountain range that divides our kingdom from The Beyond. The shadow of the Alchemists’ Tower bends across the valley and disappears on the far horizon. This is no time to admire the view, traveler. Let’s move.

Look over there in the middle of the tower! A collection of statues is lined up against the central shaft where the black smoke rises. Upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that these are not statues, but people frozen in gold like my sister, twisted in pain, trapped in that moment of the king’s cruelty forever.

What did these people do to deserve this? Was their crime, like Syrene’s, to want what is best for the kingdom? I don’t have time to dwell on these thoughts as I look between the golden faces, because I soon find one I know better than my own, her nose so like our mother’s, her mouth wide and proud like our father’s, but stretched in agony.

Do you have any siblings, traveler? Syrene is my only family. Looking at her golden face, I remember that cruel winter when our parents were taken by the plague. Syrene held my hand as the snow fell around us and she told me to focus on the beauty of the flakes instead of my pain. That same horrible winter, Syrene’s ability was discovered when she saw the plague before it struck. She tried to warn the kingdom, and the king took her away. I was alone. All I could do that winter was watch the snow fall and wish I was more like Syrene—able to see the beauty in everything. But to me it was just cold.

What is it, traveler? I’m back in the present now, and the king stands in silhouette against the window that looks out over the mountain kingdom. An uneven smile slants across his face. “You are not my royal guard,” he says to me. “You were relieved of duty if I am not mistaken, Terren.”

I stumble backward toward the statues and fall against Syrene, my hand resting on her shoulder to balance myself.

“What?” the king asks. “Surprised to see me? I knew that you would come to rescue your sister. But it is hopeless.”

A rumble echoes up from the ground and the tower sways from side to side. The king stumbles on his golden leg, but manages to right himself by resting a hand on a gold man’s face.

“You were foolish to come here, Terren. And to involve this poor traveler. There is no hope for any of you, especially your sister. The only way to change her back is to melt the gold down, which would kill her.” He turns away from me and looks out the window at the city he built atop the mountain. “You must trust me when I say that this is what is best for the land. It is time I share my wealth with the kingdom. Soon Mytus shall be the most magnificent city in all the world!”

With that, dozens of alchemists begin flooding into the room from both doors.

“But my lord, the power will be too great,” one of them says. “Surely it will destroy us all.”

“Greatness never comes without risk. If that is the price we must pay, so be it.”

At the king’s command, the alchemists crowd around the opening to the central chamber, smoke billowing up around them, making them appear insubstantial, like apparitions. They grab hold of a series of cranks positioned around the central wall, and begin to rotate them.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Soon the entire city will be gold,” the king says with pride. “And you along with it, brother and sister united again!”

The black smoke glimmers with flecks of light, and then becomes so bright I can’t look at it any longer. I cough and pull my kerchief tighter. Behind the king I can see the rooftops and towers across the mountainside slowly turning to gold, the sheen spreading like a sickness across the city.

A great heat bellows up from the bottom of the tower, and flames begin shooting upward. The tower shakes more violently now and I have to grab onto the wall for balance. Several alchemists lose purchase and fall down the central shaft, burned before they hit the ground.

This will not be the end of my city. Hand me the halberd, traveler. I charge at the king. But he is ready for me and draws his sword in time to block the thrust of my halberd. The force of his parry sends me stumbling backward.

Stay back traveler, this is not your battle! The halberd falls to the ground and I reach for it, but am too slow to grasp the weapon before I have to dive to dodge the king’s swinging sword.

When the attack misses, I take the opportunity to grab the halberd and swing it toward the king. He dodges, and another tremor sends us all tumbling toward the central chamber. Hot liquid ore is now shooting upward from the tower, and through the window, I can see that it rains across the kingdom.

With a surge of power, I swing the halberd again. The king grabs the handle and pulls me toward him. I try to kick at him, but he grabs my foot and I can see that his golden leg is beginning to lose its shape in the heat. He throws me backward and I collapse against the wall.

The tower is weakening, shaking constantly now, and the king struggles to steady himself on his metal leg. He rushes toward me with the halberd over his head, preparing a deathblow as I crawl sideways along the wall.

Just before the halberd slices off the only arm I have left, I lunge forward and kick the king’s golden leg. It has softened so much that it buckles under his weight, making him fall to the ground. The tower rocks even more violently, and I grab my sister’s arm to steady myself. It is soft in my grasp, almost like flesh. When I remove my hand, the imprint of my fingers remains in the metal.

The tower leans sharply to one side, causing the king to slide toward the central chamber. He claws desperately at the floor, but there are no grooves in the smooth gold leaves to grab hold of, so he slides until he hangs from the edge of the great opening at the tower’s centre, liquid ore cooking him slowly from below.

Planting my feet against the wall, I reach down to help him up, but he refuses my hand. “I will perish with my kingdom,” he says. And then he lets go of the ledge and falls down the endless hole to the bottom of the mountain.

A gleam catches the corner of my eye. Oh no, traveler, the statues are sliding into the opening as well! One by one the golden people follow the king, melting in the heat and dripping downward. I cling fast to the wall to keep myself from tumbling in as well, and I see Syrene as she melts. For an instant she is herself again, suspended in the air, flesh and blood, my sister. I reach out to her, but it is too late, she is already beyond my grasp.

I swear I can see a smile on her face in that last moment. And then she is gone, her melted body transformed into white flakes of ash which rise upward with the red bursts of flame and ore.

The hairs on the back of my hand are curled and smoking when I pull it back. The rocking tower throws me to my knees and I don’t care anymore if I fall to my death. I try to take solace in the fact that at least Syrene is herself once again, not that awful, worthless metal.

When they notice that the king is no more, the alchemists stop turning the cranks and begin working some other power on the mountain, attempting to reverse their actions. But the tower continues to shake and the lava to rise. The alchemists learned to harness the power of the mountain long ago, but they only used it. They never understood its power, and now they are at its mercy.

Just as it seems the tower is about to collapse into the mountain, a gust of cool wind blows up through the tower, carrying ash that glitters like snow. The wind stops as suddenly as it began. The shaking slows and then stops as well. The bursting ore falls down the central shaft and eventually fades back into smoke.

The tower is stable now, but still leaning at a perilous angle. I climb the incline of the floor toward the window and look out over the kingdom. The centre of the city has turned to gold and is covered in the black, crawling ore, which is bubbling and hardening. The alchemists are able to work their power now, and as they do, the gold retreats, the city’s towers and walls transforming back to stone.

But look how the black ore remains on the rooftops. Look how it fills the Village Square and the streets around it. Is there still a city under all the debris?

I’m sorry I got you into this mess, traveler. But it wouldn’t have ended as well as it did if you weren’t here. I thank you for that, as does the kingdom. Now it’s my turn to help you. We leave for The Beyond at once.

Looking out the window one last time, I smile. The smog has faded enough that the sunlight now reaches the lower town. And a white powder rains down on the mountain.

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