Clockwork Phoenix, edited by Mike Allen

Catherynne M. Valente makes good on her reputation for hallucinatory hothouse prose in the initial story in anthology Clockwork Phoenix (edited by Mike Allen), “The City of Blind Delight.” An unexceptional man, Gris enters an exceptional train station (with living billboards and human archways) and takes a train to the City of Blind Delight, where an acrobat with a button-up body takes him on a tour. Valente packs a happy magical wonder into every detail, creating a story very similar to a good dream full of places and people who are half real, half symbol. “Blind Delight”’s cyclical meditation on desire exemplifies the collection’s alchemical themes.

David Sandner entertains us next with “Old Foss is the Name of His Cat.” The Old Man loves two things: his wary and wise cat, Old Foss, and the kind, shining, and dangerous Jumbly Girl, member of a sea-dwelling race. Sandner’s elemental plot about the comforts of home versus the beguilement of fey contentment inspires sympathy for everyone, Old Man, Old Foss, and the Jumbly Girl, all of whom wish to connect but do so only fleetingly. Told with the transparency of a fairy tale, “Old Foss” is magical precisely because it is so melancholy, like a children’s story with elements of Greek tragedy, in which happiness is averted by fate.

In “All the Little Gods We Are” by John Grant, John loves Justine. They feel utterly familiar to each other, as if they are two halves of the same organism. (To Grant’s credit, he describes John and Justine’s intimate fusion with such precision and matter-of-fact familiarity that the concept of soul mates, upon which this story hangs, feels fresh, original, and convincing.) They grew up together, but time parted them in their adulthood…that is, until John, single now, gets a call from himself in a parallel universe in which he has married and had children with his other half. As single John reflects on his past, we learn what happened to separate him from Justine. Like the authors he follows in this anthology, Grant takes an old trope of science fiction and refurbishes it on two levels. The parallel universes work as an SF construct and also as a powerful metaphor for the strength of wishes, denial, and memory. Another sad and satisfying story.

Cat Rambo plays on the intoxicating sense of social possibility offered by cafes in “The Dew Drop Coffee Lounge.” Employee Clay curiously observes regular Sasha, who approaches people and says something that always drives them away. Turns out she’s performing a little magical social service in the name of blind dates. Light and playful, Rambo’s story departs from the dreamlike magic of earlier entries, creating a nifty little world that you believe you just might see around the corner in the next patisserie.

In Leah Bobet’s “Bell, Book, and Candle,” the three titular objects, traditionally used in the banishments of demons, are personified in three people (maybe angels) who unwillingly serve draconian priests. Summoned against their will, Bell, Book, and Candle are bound to execute terrible sentences against people. They struggle both to keep track of each other—as their forms are mutable throughout the ages—and to find a way free from their odious duties. Thanks to Bobet’s accomplished pen, Bell, Book, and Candle work not only as strikingly original personifications, but also as sympathetic and frail human beings searching for peace. With flashes of sensual brilliance, “Bell, Book, and Candle” equals “The City of Blind Delight” in innovation and…well, in delight.

In “The Tarrying Messenger” by Michael J. DeLuca, Molly the bike messenger pulls up in a desert town where an angel is being raised atop a church. Daniel, a dissident with a sandwich board, wishes to convince the churchgoers that their statue is a blasphemy of angelic and holy powers. Running on symbolic shorthand about different types of messengers rather than a firm foundation of psychological motivation, DeLuca’s tale lacks power. In comparison with, say, “Old Foss,” “Messenger” leans too hard on its thematic associations instead of fusing metaphor and character development for added strength. Though burning with gritty descriptions of the desert and a promising storyline about a girl on the run from something (herself?), this particular clockwork phoenix doesn’t get off the ground.

Laird Barron tells the next short story, “The Occultation,” almost entirely in dialog. His mastery of the rambling, jocular, cock-and-bull style of the two characters, a man and a woman who wake up in the night, is perfect. They ramble drunkenly, occasionally pausing to look at a weird…thing…in the corner. Their stories about creepy-crawlies dribble to a halt when they realize that said thing is a monster, waiting, lurking. Barron’s contribution is all about mood: the wild energy of late nights when time seems suspended and everything seems possible and that horrible, creeping dread when you can’t quite figure what’s wrong. He ratchets both of these sentiments up for full effect to create a concoction that’s both dark and amusing.

In Ekaterina Sedia’s “There is a Monster Under Helen’s Bed,” a well-meaning American couple adopts an orphaned girl, Helen. There is a monster under Helen’s bed, but the language barrier between parents and daughter prevents Helen from alerting her new mother and father. With mounting fear, each of the three characters acts on his or her own assumptions, with the inevitable tragic results. Always a consummate prose stylist, Sedia uses equally lush phrases to describe the world that Helen has left behind and the monstrous world that she fears. This is another story that successfully walks the narrow border between dream and metaphor.

In Cat Sparks’s “Palisade,” teenaged Luisa lives in a mansion with her father, imprisoned just like her only companions, the robotic simulacra of her mother at various ages. Luisa’s online relationship with Harmon provides her only escape, until she finds out a shattering truth about her long-distance lover. Delicious nastiness ensues. Sparks’s rich words bring to life the fecund hothouse of Luisa’s prison while also creating a character study of a petty tyrant and his effect on his captives. Beautiful and disturbing, “Palisade” is like a tasty fruit with a memorably bitter aftertaste.

In “The Woman,” Tanith Lee asks the old science fiction question—what if there were only one woman left in the world?—and freshens it up. She focuses on both the hopeful suitor, Leopard, and the woman (known as The Woman), making them not just pieces of a strange societal development, but human beings restive in their roles. Lee always writes well, with images that stop your heart whether you agree with their implications or not, but style alone cannot carry this story. Because Lee relies more on reporting the action, rather than enlivening it, she appears to have essayed a subject too vast for the confines of a short story.

Shapeshifting Neniza sneaks into the royal palace, hoping to save her father and herself. When she is selected to be the Rain Bride, she has an opportunity to do more than rescue herself; she has the chance to take down a god. Marie Brennan uses Aztec mythology to place the characters of “A Mask of Flesh” in a world where gods and other supernaturals interfere in human life, propitiated only by the proper sacrifices. Enticing but vague, “A Mask of Flesh” left me uncertain as to Neniza’s motives and what happened to her in the end.

“Seven Scenes from Harrai’s Sacred Mountain” by Jennifer Crow presents a series of sequential vignettes in the life of a man whose days, for good or ill, are ruled by a forbidding mountain. Combining poetic levels of description with an enveloping sense of place, Crow captures a mysterious, slightly menacing mood.

In “Oblivion: A Journey” by Vandana Singh, our protagonist seeks revenge for the mental rape perpetrated upon her by a ruthless AI many years ago. Guided by the ancient archetypes of the Indian epics, she tracks down the inventor of the Harvester AIs. Slowly she shifts from a single-minded pursuit of revenge to a more striking and philosophical conclusion. Singh reworks Indian mythology with a fast pace and psychological truth.

“Choosers of the Slain” by John C. Wright opens with Owen Pethane, warrior, about to make his heroic, but fatal, last stand. Then a time traveler, Sigrune, intercepts him, telling him not to choose a suicidal, victorious death but to come safely with him into a glorious future. Owen and Sigrune engage in dialectic more pitched than the battle around them. The echoes of Norse mythology strengthen this tale of seductive alternatives, and Wright makes both Owen and Sigrune sympathetic, their conclusions satisfying.

C.S. MacCath’s “Akhila, Divided” has an unusual protagonist: a sentient bomb that can take on a humanoid form. When the bomb crash-lands among human beings and befriends a peaceful monk, Vegar, her attachment toward the people directly conflicts with the murderous purpose she was designed for. MacCath’s blazing prose illuminates all characters sympathetically and crystallizes arguments for and against war in one achingly divided heroine. Brutal and electrifying execution make this old story of internal conflict new and wrenching.

Mohammed Muneer, protagonist of “The Moon-Keeper’s Friend,” owns a tea shop with no customers except for half-addled people who are chasing after the moon, like Reggie, the town handyman. One day, the moon actually comes down to Earth, catching both men up in its magic. With the dry and gentle attitude of a nursery rhyme, Joanna Galbraith makes an affecting entry in the tradition of the wise fool.

Did you know that the days and nights are stitched from bolts of unearthly cloth, joined by the sewing machine of the Tailor of Time? And, if the Tailor creates the passage of time, then one can arrest him and gain just an extra moment, right? Avery, whose daughter is dying, seeks more time for her from the Tailor. When he grants this desire, the Tailor affects the world all the way down to a dying girl and all the way up to the Engineer of all. In “The Tailor of Time,” Deborah Biancotti spins out her conceit with a light and fluid intelligence. She resists the treacle of simple wish fulfillment, choosing instead to study the characters of Avery, the Tailor, and the Engineer.

“Root and Vein” by Erin Hoffman follows a dryad, a tree spirit who has three hearts to give. She looks among human men for a worthy recipient. It’s a classic quest, simply told with grace notes of description of the natural world—a sweet, sweet love story with a clever equation between one’s heart and the next generation.

Publisher: Norilana Books (July 2008)
Price: $10.95
Trade paperback: 288 pages
ISBN: 1934169986