Read CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness Online
Authors: Mike Allen
CLOCKWORK PHOENIX 2: More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness
More Tales of Beauty and Strangeness
Published by Mythic Delirium Books
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, names, locations, and events portrayed in this book are fictional or used in an imaginary manner to entertain, and any resemblance to any real people, situations, or incidents is purely coincidental.
Edited by Mike Allen
Electronic edition copyright © 2012 by Mike Allen. All Rights Reserved.
Cover Painting: “Medicine (Hygieia)” by Gustav Klimt, c. 1901. Cover Design Copyright © 2009 by Vera Nazarian and Mike Allen
Published by Mythic Delirium Books
First appeared in trade paperback from Norilana Books, July 2009
Introduction
© 2009 by Mike Allen
“Three Friends” © 2009 by Claude Lalumière
“Six” © 2009 by Leah Bobet
“Once a Goddess” © 2009 by Marie Brennan
“Angel Dust” © 2009 by Ian McHugh
“The Endangered Camp” © 2009 by Ann Leckie
“At the Edge of Dying” © 2009 by Mary Robinette Kowal
“Hooves and the Hovel of Abdel Jameela” © 2009 by Saladin Ahmed
“The Pain of Glass” © 2009 by Tanith Lee
“The Fish of Al-Kawthar’s Fountain” © 2009 by Joanna Galbraith
“The Secret History of Mirrors” © 2009 by Catherynne M. Valente
“Never nor Ever” © 2009 by Forrest Aguirre
“each thing I show you is a piece of my death” © 2009
by Gemma Files and Stephen J. Barringer
“Open the Door and the Light Pours Through” © 2009 by Kelly Barnhill
“Rosemary, That’s For Remembrance” © 2009 by Barbara Krasnoff
“When We Moved On” © 2009 by Steve Rasnic Tem
This has been a tough year for me, for a number of my loved ones and for many of my friends in personal and professional spheres. But we all persevere; it’s our duty. In terms of this book—well, Reader, the volume in your hand could not exist without Vera Nazarian, who insisted this book would go forward even when her own house briefly appeared to be in jeopardy of foreclosure. I don’t see how I could ever ask for a more dedicated publisher.
Other thanks have to go to Michael M. Jones, who served as my assistant editor (translation:
slush slave
) while we fielded submissions for this volume. Also to Kathy Sedia, who gave invaluable advice for promoting the first volume far and wide; Amal El-Mohtar, for her enthusiasm and encouragement; Sonya Taaffe, for her insight; and to my wife Anita, who, aside from having to endure marriage to me for almost two decades, suggested the order in which these stories best flow (as she did for the first book). Trust me, neither of those things constitutes an easy task.
For Dad
Mike Allen
Claude Lalumière
Leah Bobet
Marie Brennan
Ian McHugh
Ann Leckie
Mary Robinette Kowal
HOOVES AND THE HOVEL OF ABDEL JAMEELA
Saladin Ahmed
Tanith Lee
THE FISH OF AL-KAWTHAR’S FOUNTAIN
Joanna Galbraith
Catherynne M. Valente
Forrest Aguirre
each thing i show you is a piece of my death
Gemma Files and Stephen J. Barringer
OPEN THE DOOR AND THE LIGHT POURS THROUGH
Kelly Barnhill
ROSEMARY, THAT’S FOR REMEMBRANCE
Barbara Krasnoff
Steve Rasnic Tem
The Authors
for the digital edition
Mike Allen
Below us the world burns, though the fires are not visible to the naked eye.
Yet when you look down through the remarkable prisms that form the razor-keen feathers of our steed and host, you cannot deny the oilslick rainbow of infernos that rages underneath those deceptively orderly urban rows. The city floats atop them just as the shell of this planet floats atop layers upon layers of molten hells.
The gears of the raptor that carries us spin and shift; great coiled springs compress and unwind; chains rattle through sprockets; wings contract; and we drop lower. Light bends through the body of our phoenix, bends so far in its dimensions that we can see under the rooftops and between the floors of these teeming towers, tall boxes now open to us like tesseracts, granting us shockingly intimate views of those who live inside these structures and what lies inside their lives.
See the ghosts of the slaughtered and the suicides as they rise past us or scream inside prisons of cathode and glass.
See the deformed lovers, their eyes too damaged to perceive—much less grasp—the desperate hands that grope beside them. See the perfect lovers, painful in their glory, steady their spears against the slavering hate lurching toward them from all sides, determined to smash them into easily consumed pieces. See the lovers’ children: boys buried deep, waiting for the dark robed ones to dig them up again; girls forced too soon into the harshest sunfire glare.
And watch out, my friend—for now they begin to see us.
Look how they sing their screams at us, their combined voices like all the animals sealed together in the hold of the Ark.
These denizens: their eyes, like their throats, are not like ours. They spy us through crevices and spaces our own eyesight focuses too clearly to detect.
See that pair of egg-round men in striped sweaters who share one mouth at the corner of their massive dual skull—can you hear what that mouth yells at us? That we have no right to impose our visions over theirs, that we command this height simply to distract the gaze of the One On High from all the rest of them?
And what is this woman rushing out onto the next roof, scrambling to climb its steeple, her vestigial wings flapping behind her as her long reptilian neck snaps our way? She roars that we’ve nothing to tell, that we’re made of pretty surfaces and all mirage beneath.
And they scream louder, exuberant, thrilled at the damage they’re doing as feathers start to fall away.
No need, my friend, to clutch so tight. We won’t fall. Not yet.
See how the sharp feathers spin faster and faster as they drop, how the rabble below so vigorously hurls their ragged voices that they don’t notice how the feathers follow the sound, track the shouts to their sources. By the time each feather reaches its mark, it is spinning so fast the poor morsels can’t possibly see what hits them.
Have you ever seen so many beautiful hues of blood? And more beautiful yet, when the fluids ignite and the iridescent fires bloom.
And so the hidden infernos beneath become vivid blazes above, an incandescent splendor at our backs as we abandon these erupting towers for the buttoned-down brick safety of the suburbs. These square domiciles beneath, loyal regiments of secretive red soldiers that fight with shale and mortar to keep us from knowing what’s inside—I assure you, the things that combust within their furnaces burn even hotter than the conflagration we just left behind.
Why do you keep looking back?
You still smell the burning city, you say? No. Look closer. Look down.
Look how the gears shimmer under our feet. Look at the sparks that fly between them, thickening rapidly from trickle to multitude to flood. Look at how the edges of the pinions snake with orange glows, fireplace embers blown hotter, kindling to life.