…is on its way.

A charity anthology for literacy, edited by Jeff and Ann Vandermeer.

TOC:

Daniel Abraham
Michael Arnzen
Steve Aylett
KJ Bishop
Michael Bishop
Desirina Boskovich
Keith Brooke
Jesse Bullington
Richard Butner
Catherine Cheek
Matthew Cheney
Michael Cisco
Gio Clairval
Alan M. Clark
Brendan Connell
Paul Di Filippo
Stephen R. Donaldson
Rikki Ducornet
Clare Dudman
Alistair Duncan
Scott Eagle
Brian Evenson
Eliot Fintushel
Jeffrey Ford
Richard Gehr
Felix Gilman
Jon Courtney Grimwood
Rhys Hughes
Paul Jessup
Antony Johnston
John Kaiine
Henry Kaiser
Caitlin R. Kiernan
Tessa Kum
Ellen Kushner
Jay Lake
Tanith Lee
Stina Leicht
Therese Littleton
Beth Adele Long
Dustin Long
Nick Mamatas
JM McDermott
Sarah Monette
Kari O’Connor
Ben Peek
Holly Phillips
Louis Phillips
Tim Pratt
Cat Rambo
Mark Rich
Bruce Holland Rogers
Nicholas Royle
G Eric Schaller
Ekaterina Sedia
Ramsey Shehadeh
Peter Straub
Victoria Strauss
Michael Swanwick
Mark Swartz
Alan Swirsky
Rachel Swirsky
Sonya Taaffe
Justin Taylor
Steve Rasnic Tem
Jeffrey Thomas
Scott Thomas
John Urbancik
Genevieve Valentine
Kim Westwood
Leslie What
Andrew Steiger White
Conrad Williams
Liz Williams
Neil Williamson
Caleb Wilson
Gene Wolfe
Jonathan Wood
Marly Youmans
Catherine Zeidler

<!– This entry was posted by Jeff VanderMeer on Wednesday, August 19, 2009 at 11:45 am and is filed under News. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.

–>

I got my copy of Cern Zoo today. A nice book. Out of the nine issues of  Nemonymous, I am in three…which is nice.

I just got some copies of a zine called The Green Flash; with a story of mine called The Horse Shrine.

My story The Last Mermaid just came out in Dutch translation in the magazine Wonderwaan. So, I guess it has been done in French and Dutch now… 

I sold this story to Wheatland Press, for their Polyphony 7 anthology.

My story The Tongue has been translated into Spanish, as La Lengua, and is up at La Idea Fija.

A story I wrote with the always interesting Forrest Aguirre is up over at Serendipity.

It was originally published in Neotrope.

This is the only story I have ever written in collaboration with another author, but I think it turned out to be a good match.

This story was originally published on Eternal Night, in 2003. It’ll be up here for about a week.

The Man Who Saw Grey

     “Not now,” she said pushing him away. “I’m cooking.”

     “So am I,” Greg laughed, kissing the back of her neck.

     She twisted. “If you need something to do, why not change the burnt out bulb in the living room. You said you would do it two days ago.”

     “I said I would do it yesterday.”

     “But you didn’t.”

     “I was painting.”

     “Still.”

     He sighed, opened one of the lower kitchen cabinets, took out a small spare bulb and put it in the pocket of his khakis. He watched his wife, Cassie, and noted how sexy she looked, poised in front of the stove, stirring the spaghetti sauce, her blond hair done up in a bun. She often got on his case about not performing chores; but he considered his painting to be far more important, and the little time he had, when not at his job, he tried to dedicate to it.

     “So I’ll go change the bulb.”

     “You do that.”

     Greg Schwegler kissed the back of his wife’s neck, went into the living room and turned on the reading lamp. He glanced at one of his paintings which hung up over the couch. It was an expressionistic work, which made use of slops of yellow and red in a slightly adventurous way. He considered it to be a good painting, and it very nearly was. Though he had a decent job as an administrator at the DMV, downtown, he considered himself to be a painter at heart. He had had his first showing the year before at which three canvases sold.

     “It would be wonderful to be able to make a living off my painting,” he had told Cassie.

     “Sure, but the money from those three paintings wouldn’t keep us going for more than a month.”

     “Still, it is a nice fantasy.”

     In order not to frighten her, he told his wife that it was a fantasy; in reality it was an ambition. Though he was but a mediocre painter, he thought he had talent. It was perfectly possible that, with time and labour, he might have become a true artist, – A thing more rare than a two-headed cow.

     He smiled slightly as he looked at the painting and thought of the one he had going in the garage. So far it was not as good as the one over the couch, but with some work he might be able to make it happen.

      Greg took the three-legged stool from in front of the bookshelf. He placed it in the centre of the room, climbed onto it and then reached up to the lighting fixture, which was a faux-chandelier with four, flame shaped bulbs. It was a high ceiling and he had to stretch and balance on his tiptoes to reach the lighting fixture. He unscrewed the burnt out bulb, stuck it in his empty pocket, and then fished the new bulb from the other pocket. He stretched out and began to screw it into place, shifting his weight somewhat too near the edge of the stool as he did so. The stool, which was poorly built and unsteady, fell over. In falling, Greg hit his head against the edge of the coffee table and cursed loudly.

     “What is it?” Cassie cried, running in.

     “I hit my damn head!”

     “Oh, poor baby!” She bent down and kissed him on the forehead. “Are you alright?”

     “I feel dizzy as hell.”

     “It’s just a bruise. Does it hurt?” 

     “I said it did.”

     “You want me to get you an ice pack?”

     “No.”

     “Let me get you an ice pack.”

     “My eyes are all screwed up.”

     “You need an ice pack.”

     Cassie got up and went to the kitchen, walking with the quick, deliberate steps required by a minor emergency. Greg sat on the floor with his legs spread out in front of him. He rubbed his head, though in truth it did not hurt much. What primarily distressed him was the fact that everything in the room seemed incredibly dark. He remembered the burnt out bulb in his pocket and checked. It was unbroken.

     “Turn on the light,” he said when Cassie returned.

     “The reading light is on.”

     “I feel sick.”

     “The spaghetti is ready; you want some?”

     “I feel sick.”

     “Lie down on the couch.”

     “I’m going to the bedroom to lie down.”

     “I’ll get you some Tylenol.”

     Greg took three Tylenol, undressed and lay down in bed. He felt nauseous, strange and disoriented; and in that state fell into a deep sleep.

     When he awoke the next morning he felt for Cassie, but she was not there. He opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was grey; a disgusting eyrie grey. It was like a strange apathetic nightmare, but he did not in the least question its reality. There were subtleties to the world around him that could not possibly exist in any dream state. Through the window came a mushie, bland dullness, somewhat different in tone than everything else, but not the least felicitous. He felt its warmth through the blankets and touched it with his hand. It threw a murky patch on the blanket.

     He was appalled.

    “Damn; it’s the sun,” he murmured.

     He climbed out of bed, saw two morbid limbs attach themselves to the floor, and then ventured to the window. The spectacle outside was so dreary, that Greg, who was by no means an emotional man, felt like crying. Giant fluffy mounds protruded from a monotonous, colourless earth. The sky was a depressing slab, heavy and joyless as prison concrete. The flower garden was nothing but a mass of grim wands. There was occasional ambience, but what it offered was callous and dead. The raw images of the world were there, but they were grey and raped of spirit.

     “Oh good, you’re up. The coffee has been ready for an hour; should I make a fresh pot?”

     He looked over. It was Cassie. She stood in the doorway, a featureless mass.

     “You ok honey?”

     “I’m sick.”

     “Does your head still hurt?”

     “I’m sick Cassie. Take me to the hospital.”

***

     After being run through a number of tests in the emergency room, Greg saw a doctor, whose words he hung on with agitation.

     “Well, the good news is there is nothing wrong with your eyes, and you don’t appear to have a concussion; – The bad news is that we don’t know what is wrong with you.”     

     “But there is something wrong with me,” Greg said, looking at the gloomy splotch that was the man’s face.

     The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “I recommend seeing a specialist.”

     “I’m not crazy.” (Desperately.)

     The doctor laughed. “No more than the rest of us I imagine. – I meant a neurological specialist, not a psychiatrist.” 

     He wrote down a name on a slip of paper and handed it to Greg.

     “He can help me?”

     The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “I would think so; – He can at least give you a proper analysis.”

     As they walked out of the hospital Greg handed the number to his wife. “Call him,” he said.

     “It’s Sunday today; – He won’t be in his office.”

     “Well, call him anyway. I want to have this thing resolved right away.”

     “Does it really hurt that bad?”

     “It doesn’t damn well hurt at all; but I can’t see; – I can’t see a god damn colour!”

     She called the number, but, as she had predicted, no one was in the office. She could see that Greg was beside himself, so she looked up the specialist’s name, which was Arnold Meek, in the phone book, called him and made an appointment for the next morning.

     Greg spent the day in the bedroom with the blinds drawn and only came into the living room when the sun had set and even then he insisted on having the lights kept low.

     “The light bothers you that much?”

     “Yes – it shows me what I am missing.”

     Cassie, in an attempt to take her husband’s mind off his sight, had prepared a wonderful meal of lamb chops and a green bean salad. She opened a bottle of champagne and poured two glasses. Greg drank the champagne three swallows and began to cut his meat, while Cassie filled his glass again.

     “Is the lamb good?” she asked.

     “Yes. – Yes it is.”

     The lamb was good. It tasted good; but it did not look like food. It looked more like stone and he was surprised when his knife slid so easily through it. The taste, aroma and the tenderness were perfect; but the fact that what he saw was so utterly bland thoroughly disturbed him. He drank heavily of the champagne, in a frank attempt to get drunk. He fancied that insobriety would be easier than reality.

     “Are you getting tipsy?” Cassie laughed. “I am.”

     “I’m a bit drunk,” Greg said, draining his third glass.

     Cassie leaned over and kissed him. He closed his eyes and the experience seemed enjoyable.

     “Should we go into the bedroom?” she said. “It’s been a while.”

     She took him by the hand and he followed her. It would take up his attention; and he thought it might be just what he needed. Two minutes later they were in bed together.

     “Turn off the light,” he said.

     “Shhh.” She bit his ear and tried to please him.

    He wanted the light off. He found the sight of her thoroughly repulsive. Her skin reminded him of a rat’s; all her faults suddenly became glaring; he could see how her bones protruded from her flesh and her chest, with its small, coarse breasts, made him feel as if he were pressing up against the living dead. She kissed him madly and pushed her tongue into his mouth. He pushed her back and gasped for air.

     “What is it darling?”

     Her smile was grotesque; the shading was hard and ruthless; she was like a phantom.

     “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have an awful stomach ache.”

     “Poor baby!”

     She put her arms around him and he pulled away.

     “I feel sick,” he said. “Sorry, but I feel quite nauseous.”

     “Is it me?” she asked, her face becoming suddenly set.

     “No, of course not; it must have been the champagne.”

     He found his feet on the floor and quickly made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the light, closed the door behind him and gazed in the mirror. He looked like a sordid old man, his own lacklustre eyes staring coldly back at him. With a moan he flicked off the light, sat down on the toilet seat and felt the salty liquid oozing from his eyes.

     “Damn,” he murmured. “Damn it! – That doctor better do something for me tomorrow.”

***

     Doctor Meek sat opposite him, twisting a pen in his hand. “The fact is,” he said, “that the human machine is something we don’t altogether understand. People assume that doctors and scientists know everything, that we have all the answers – But that is simply not true.”

     “So you don’t know what is the matter with me?”

     “I have a pretty good theory on what is the matter – I believe that somehow that section of your brain which controls ‘colours,’ that part that differentiates colour, has been shut down or cut off from the rest of your brain – Somehow in the fall it must have been jolted out of place; turned off like a light switch.”

     “Can you fix it though – can you turn the switch back on?”

     “Well, as I was saying – us doctors and scientists don’t know everything. Many of our most basic functions, such as smelling, hearing and seeing we are still not totally clear about. We know how the nose and eyes work, but we do not altogether understand how the brain transforms smells and sights – and colours for instance – into particular sensations.”

     “So – So what does this mean for me? It is absolutely hell to live without colour.”

     “I am sure it is. Unfortunately I can offer no immediate solution to the problem.”

     “So?”

     “Your case really does fascinate me though. I have never come across anything like it and I would like to continue working with you.”

     “Then you think you might be able to – You might be able to find a solution?”

     “I can offer no promises, but I think it is possible.”

     There was a brief silence.

     “Naturally you are upset with the situation,” the doctor said presently. “That is perfectly understandable, but hopefully you can continue leading a relatively normal life – Unless – Until we can find some sort of cure.”

     Greg did not answer. He stared at the doctor’s left hand, which was wagging a pen. It looked like some kind of cruel instrument of torture.  

     “What is your work?” the doctor asked, with a sudden softening of his voice. 

     Greg paused.

     “I . . . I work at the administrative department at the DMV.”

     “Well then,” the doctor smiled, “at least this problem should not much effect your ability to work – Now, if you had been something else – a botanist or artist lets say – something where your livelihood depended on the ability to discern colours – Well, then it would have been a bit of a disaster. – As it is though, I don’t see that the lack of colour can effect your ability to do paperwork.”   

     Greg left the doctor’s office. He was appalled at the man’s callousness. He was even less understanding than Cassie. It was obvious that no one could appreciate his state – how incredibly painful it was to be without colour. They seemed to think it was something equivalent to being short sited, but for him, for Greg it was an absolute horror.

     His entire life changed. The doctor was wrong about it not effecting his work. He took an indefinite sick leave, as he could not bear to go out in the daytime. He was dreadfully depressed, slept throughout the day with the shutters closed, and only rose at night. The world seemed have been transformed into a vast ghost land – a place deserted of feeling. While at night streets and buildings were tolerable to view, at no point could he stand the sight of natural or living things. Parks and trees were simply dismal; animals, such as dogs and cats, were genuinely frightening. The sight of mountains, forests and oceans filled him with a terror that was unparalleled. A meadow without colour was far more desolate than the driest desert. A stream, when reduced to a sickly colourless trickle, was simply ghastly. The sight of humans turned his guts.

     Greg, due to a good employee benefits package, was able to receive half pay for up to six months. Cassie, who was disappointed, at least saw that the situation was not an irremediable disaster.

     “You’ll see,” she told Greg. “The doctors will make you better. – And in the meantime, at least you can work on your painting. You have been wanting to spend more time on it.”

     Greg could hardly believe his ears. Was his wife really that out of tune to what he was going through? Paint? How could he paint without colour! Red was grey, yellow was grey, blue was grey! Life was simply a mush – an exasperating, vomity mush.

     “I don’t think I can go on with my painting,” he told her, just barely restraining his anger.

     “Not go on with your painting?” She gave him a startled, annoyed glance. “Well, just what do you plan to do then? You can’t stay shut up in the house every day without employment. I think you’re going overboard with this whole thing. You have been sulking for weeks now and its time to stop it. Plenty of blind men live full, happy lives, and you’re not even blind!”

     “No – No I am not blind. I see grey.”

***

     He prowled along 25^th Street, smoking cigarettes. The clouds of smoke that came from his throat gave him some comfort – at least they were meant to be grey. He watched the prostitutes linger on the corners, haunting as ghouls. He walked by a few, eyeing them nervously. No, – They were simply disgusting. In his condition, relationships with women, even the most sordid sort, were out of the question. Greg was living in a world neither black nor white; it had none of the charm of an old movie. It was a world both ugly and twisted that filled him with pain and repulsion.

     He gently caressed his eyelashes, feeling their fine feathery texture with his thumb and forefinger, and then ran his thumbs over his eyeballs. They were moist, somewhat slick, and the touch made them water. Everything he saw through them was grey; he was unable to detect pigmentation of any sort.

     “These damn eyes,” he murmured.

     They were really the cause of his suffering. He remembered Cassie’s words: ‘At least you’re not blind’ she had said. It was easy for her to talk that way – but it was quite clear that she did not realise how much he suffered. He could not even make love to her any more – love to a woman who he had previously found incredibly sexy and attractive. Now when he saw her she looked like a giant rat. She did not realise how precious colour was.

     “Sight without colour is worthless,” he thought. “These eyes are a torture. I would be better off blind.”

     ‘Blind men live full, happy lives.’ Those were her words.

     He touched his eyeballs with his fingertips and felt their slick softness. A cruel thrill ran through him. Sliding his forefingers behind his upper eyelids, he began to dig; feeling the hot circles he began to gouge. Like fingering peeled grapes; dipping behind the cornea. Panting, groping back towards the optic nerves, he damned those lenses, those partitions that refracted, perverted dreary light.

     With a little cry, a moan of joint horror and satisfaction, he had them. He felt the oozing down his cheeks, the pain, and then, as he clenched his tongue between his teeth, the ecstasy of blackness.

This story was originally published in Nemonymous (2005), and subsequently translated into Portuguese in Phantastes (2006), and Greek in Universal Pathways (2007). I’ll leave it up for about a week.  

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The following story was originally published in Darkness Rising 4, Caresses of Nightmare (2002).  I’m going to leave it posted for about a week.

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