THIS WEEK: Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

January 23rd, 2017

Stay Tuned THIS WEEK,

for a second installment of

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Hacking Mobility by Deborah Brannon

 

 

What’s New

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2017 FLASH SUITE Contest Winners

January 16th, 2017

Welcome to defenestrationism reality.

 

We are pleased to announce the winners of the 2017 FLASH SUITE Contest, only on defenestrationism.net .

 

First, the Fan vote:

with 81% of the first place Fan Voting,

Disarticulated Life by William R. Soldan

 

and with 54% of the second place Fan Voting,

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else by Ingrid Jendrzejewski.

 

And the Grand Prize Winner, by four Judge vote plus Fan Voting is

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else by Ingrid Jendrzejewski

 

and the Runner-Up,

Disarticulated Life by William R. Soldan

 

View How the Judges Voted

read the finalists

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More Disability Narratives

January 15th, 2017

Meet Defenestrationism.net Special Reporter,

Deborah J. Brannon, (codename: Geek Dame) spends her days in the South herding words by freelancing, with nights and weekends dedicated to scribbling furiously, RPGs (tabletop and video) and a dubious amount of television. Her articles and reviews have appeared in Faerie MagazineFront Page Meews, and Cabinet des Fées, while her original work can be found in Human Tales (editor: Jennifer Brozek), Scheherezade’s Bequest, and more. You can find more articles, reviews, and unabashed excitement on all things geek (flavor: SFF) at www.geekdame.com. Follow her on Twitter as @geekdame .

 

Elegy for a Fallen Angel

by Deborah Brannon

What is it about autumn?
You always asked that question, when I knew you.
What is it about autumn?
every time something went wrong.
I stand by my assurance that as many things went wrong
for you in other seasons.
You were just stuck on autumn
(that is also called Fall)
because of the day you suffered
by a plan, or a mistake, that at least you never intended.
But you can never anticipate God.
You said that too.

You used to moan in your sleep.
I’d never tell you. I’d never even wake you,
spare you the pain of your dreamed remembrances.
I was selfish then. Your half-coherent mutterings
were the only window I had into your inhuman,
smoldering wreck of a heart.
The wind is swift and it hurts, you’d say.
The wind is swift and it hurts.
I made the connection one night, late when
intuitive leaps seem more acceptable and true.
The wind knifed you as you fell from a very long height,
a height no human could hope to survive.
I wondered who pushed you.

When you started coughing up blood,
I knew you’d be going home soon.
I didn’t know whether they’d let you in
and you probably didn’t either.
You didn’t seem any happier to leave,
at any rate. I thought I should ask you some questions.
I wanted to know about the swift wind that hurt.
I wanted to hear you say why you really disliked autumn.
I wanted to believe, wanted inalienable validation.
You died in autumn,
with little fanfare and absolutely no heavenly host
and my questions still unasked.
Who can believe in a story like that?

 

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Winter/ Spring 2017 Schedule

January 9th, 2017

With One Week left in Fan Voting,

we are pleased to announce our winter posting schedule,

beginning with two pieces expanding our

Voices of the Disenfranchised: Disability Narratives

 

Jan. 15th

Disability Gaming by Deborah Brannon

Jan. 22nd

Elegy for a Fallen Angle by Deborah Brannon

Jan 29th

White Clouds of Elation by Michael Marrotti

Feb. 5th

Little Desert Flower by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 12th

Solo Boxing by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 19th

Alberta Bound by Michael Lee Johnson

Feb. 26th

Hazy Arizona Sky by Michael Lee Johnson

March 5th

Lion in my Heart by Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

Thnx for surfing through,

and remember us next time.

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Fan Voting, in mere Hours

January 2nd, 2017

Happy New Year, to one and all.

 

Fan Voting for the 2017 FLASH SUITE Contest will open in mere Hours.

 

So first, read all of

Sometimes We Are What We Seem, But Other Times We Are Something Else

 

TWAS BRILLIG

 

and

Disarticulated Life

 

!We’ll see you later tonight!

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else: the Vacancy

January 1st, 2017

by Ingrid Jendrzejewski

The Vacancy

When I tell you I applied to be the moon, you just laugh. The moon? you ask. You have to be a little bit crazy to be the moon! I know, I say. I am, aren’t I? You raise your eyebrows and leave for work, a smile on your lips.

Personally, I think I am uniquely qualified for such a position. I spend my most conscientious hours awake at night, silently watching over our restless little one, my face peering down, full and sleepless, quiet and trenched. My dark arms wrap around her smallness: I am so close and part of her that she forgets I’m something different from the night itself. We hold ourselves in that wasteland between twilight and daybreak when nobody but the infants and troubled and death-sick and mothers are straining.

And then, after and before such vigils, I go about the day as if I am a different entity: I pack lunches. I sweep the porch. I peel oranges. I post birthday cards. In the dawn and dusk, I kiss you goodbye and hello. I am, otherwise, unseen; in the light of the day, my giant moon face shrivels until it is only the size of an average human head.

 

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Somthing Else: a Preference for Burrows

December 31st, 2016

by Ingrid Jedrzejewski

A Preference for Burrows

Over the years, I have been called a lamb, a scaredy-cat, a limpet and even a vixen (only once, mind you, and the gentleman was a bit tipsy). I’ve been told I have puppy-dog eyes, bird legs and the face of a horse. I am often busy as a beaver, I used to be as poor as a church-mouse, I have on rare occasions had a whale of a time, and I am currently as blind as a bat without my horn-rimmed spectacles.

If only people would recognize that I am a rabbit, it wouldn’t matter that I walk with an awkward hop, and no one would look at me askance when I wiggle my nose in that particular way to edge the aforementioned spectacles farther up my nose. No one would question my desire to have more children or my fear of large predators. It would not matter that I am a little furry in certain places, and that, sometimes, when faced with things I don’t understand, I sit as if paralyzed while my heart races and my ears twitch.

 

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Sometimes We Are What We Seem, but Other Times We Are Something Else

December 30th, 2016

by Ingrid Jedrzejewski

Houses and Cars

When I was little, I never expected I’d turn into a house when I grew up, but what do you know, here I am. I guess it was all that time I spent alone, or maybe it was the wishing.

My rooms aren’t too big or too small. When unfurnished, they seem both spacious and cold, but then, it’s not often any more that I’m on the market. These days, I look out at the street through sash windows, several of which could use a corneal transplant or at least a scrub. My heart beats in the furnace, causing strange sounds to rattle in the radiators. Things and people and ideas fill me, then disappear. Important, meaningful things gather dust in the closets, but remain, sometimes well after their families have left: photo albums; high school yearbooks; a pair of baby shoes, hardly worn. I didn’t choose to become a house, but I’ve become used to it. I’m pretty good at standing still.

The only thing I’m not able to get used to are the cars that are constantly pulling in and out of my garage. They are foreign, grunting things, not at all personable. I feel that if my womb should be so incessantly penetrated, I would, at least, like to be able to entertain the possibility of someday producing a small bungalow I could call my own. But these cars, and the men who drive them, seem sterile and engineered: not at all capable of causing my very foundations to tremble.

 

A Preference for Burrows

Over the years, I have been called a lamb, a scaredy-cat, a limpet and even a vixen (only once, mind you, and the gentleman was a bit tipsy). I’ve been told I have puppy-dog eyes, bird legs and the face of a horse. I am often busy as a beaver, I used to be as poor as a church-mouse, I have on rare occasions had a whale of a time, and I am currently as blind as a bat without my horn-rimmed spectacles.

If only people would recognize that I am a rabbit, it wouldn’t matter that I walk with an awkward hop, and no one would look at me askance when I wiggle my nose in that particular way to edge the aforementioned spectacles farther up my nose. No one would question my desire to have more children or my fear of large predators. It would not matter that I am a little furry in certain places, and that, sometimes, when faced with things I don’t understand, I sit as if paralyzed while my heart races and my ears twitch.

 

The Vacancy

When I tell you I applied to be the moon, you just laugh. The moon? you ask. You have to be a little bit crazy to be the moon! I know, I say. I am, aren’t I? You raise your eyebrows and leave for work, a smile on your lips.

Personally, I think I am uniquely qualified for such a position. I spend my most conscientious hours awake at night, silently watching over our restless little one, my face peering down, full and sleepless, quiet and trenched. My dark arms wrap around her smallness: I am so close and part of her that she forgets I’m something different from the night itself. We hold ourselves in that wasteland between twilight and daybreak when nobody but the infants and troubled and death-sick and mothers are straining.

And then, after and before such vigils, I go about the day as if I am a different entity: I pack lunches. I sweep the porch. I peel oranges. I post birthday cards. In the dawn and dusk, I kiss you goodbye and hello. I am, otherwise, unseen; in the light of the day, my giant moon face shrivels until it is only the size of an average human head.

 

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TWAS BRILLIG: postscript

December 29th, 2016

POSTSCRIPT

If I were to read just so,

This anecdote of note.

I have for you this small cadeau,

This suite is mine to quote.


I grin, for it just serves to show,
That bonnie lass I used to know  —
Whose look was wild, whose face did glow,
Whose heart was purer than the snow,

Whose courage I did come to know,

Who never sought a quid pro quo,

Whose oyster said that she must go,

As waves did swell and seas did grow,
Who rocked her wings both to and fro,
And flew her Walrus low and slow,

Dodging blow after blow after blow,

To give those saved a tomorrow,
That summer morning long ago,

A-flying in a boat.

–L.G.

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TWAS BRILLIG: Chortling

December 28th, 2016

III. CHORTLING

From the cockpit of her Air Sea Rescue Walrus flying boat, she spotted a large bright yellow life raft bobbing on the grey-green English Channel. Two men in kapok filled “sausage” life vests were splayed out inside like rag dolls. She banked back around, and eased her biplane in on the gentle, rolling swells. With the flick of a switch, the whirring six foot pusher propeller sputtered to a halt near the back hatch.  

She used a long wooden rescue pole to bring the life raft in close. She fingered the butt of her holstered flare pistol, but when she saw the German flyers, there was no need.  The two survivors flopped into the belly of the Walrus like spent arctic ling cod shivering in shock. Their flying boots were long gone having been sucked away by the weight of the water. From a leather clad flask, she poured a stout shot of brandy into a small aluminum cup for each man. With greedy eyes, they slurped the brandy down through chattering teeth.

What was that?  She stood up in the rear hatch.  Thunderous booms.  Far away movement on the water caught her eye. A summer squall perhaps. But this was an upheaval the likes of which she’d never seen . . .  or heard.   A great wall of sea rose up in white frothy columns of water 100 feet tall. Geysers shot upwards one by one in step filling the gap between sea and sky with a massive curtain of spray and mist.  The spectacle was at once beautiful and horrifying. Shock waves travelled through the water, and rattled the control wires in her flying boat like strings on a stand-up bass. The roiling sea took aim at them.  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Pressure waves detonated two bombs in midair creating the flash of red pupils in the aberrant beast. It came whiffling and burbling with eyes of flame.

Unseen above them, squadrons of British bombers dropped hundreds of 500 pound bombs from thousands of feet high  —  a bomb dump!  Swell after swell pounded the flying boat. The wood hull groaned.  She stepped on the soaked Germans as she struggled inside the dark fuselage to get to her cockpit.  With the press of a button the Coffman starter sent the Bristol Pegasus engine into instant revving motion.   She slammed the throttle lever all the way to the wall. In the trough of a large swell, the Walrus’ lower wingtip caught the water and spun her plane around.  Hammering the right rudder didn’t help. It was too late.  The jaws did bite, the claws did catch! A great explosion rocked them to and fro. Great misty columns of water crashed over the wings and engine. The throttle lever went slack.  And then an eerie silence fell over them as odd as the previous tumult.   She poked her head out of the cockpit. Dead fish littered the surface.

As the wrinkled sheet of sea drew taut, a dark grey tube with a bulbous glass eye ripped a frothy “v” in the surface one hundred yards behind the Walrus.  The tube moved upward at astonishing speed and frightened her as it did gyre and gimble beneath the wabe.  The froth gave way to a U-Boat conning tower breaking through into daylight. “U-100” was painted in large red letters on the side. She fired her starter. The engine coughed, sputtered, then fell silent. But the cartridges weren’t the problem. She grabbed the brandy flask, and clambered up through the cockpit to the engine nacelle between the two wings. Water gushed from U-100’s ballast tanks as the submarine breached the surface, and then began to level off in a line of white slithy foam.  With breathless urgency, she checked her Rolex Oyster watch.  Kriegsmarine gunners would be on the U-100’s deck within 60 seconds. She poured the brandy into a carburetor valve. Glug, glug, glug.

She slid back down into her cockpit and jammed the starter button with her thumb. The engine coughed again, tck-tck-tck’ed, and throated up to full, glorious life. She had ten seconds or so until . . . a bright red German star shell flare exploded over the Walrus with a booming report.  Rifle bullets zinged through the canvas wing fabric as the deafening roar of the Pegasus engine pulled all three of them out of range, foot by precious foot. She felt the weightlessness of being airborne, and sighed in relief as she galumphed away into the crisp morning air.  An involuntary shudder pulsed through her body. She banked hard left to get a better view of her pursuer but the U-100 had vanished beneath the wabes like the frumious Bandersnatch it was.  

“O frabjous day. Callooh! Callay!’ she chortled in her joy as a huge smile crept across her face.

 

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