Decoded Pride Issue #1: Special eBook Edition

DECODED 2020

Editors and Publishers: Sara Century and S.E. Fleenor, The Oakey Dokey LLC.

Sensitivity Edit: Monika Estrella Negra

Layout and Design for PDF Version: Emma Mallinen

Layout and Design for Smashwords Edition: Maria Dong

Cover Artwork by Jeffrey Brown

All interior illustrations by Sara Century

Jeffrey Brown is a Black Non-Binary Queer Cartoonist who makes mini-comics, Fan Art, and other things and enjoys reading comics and making comics. Their pronouns are They/Them and they currently live in Sunny Florida.

Emma Mällinen is a Finnish art director in Amsterdam. Learn more at: EmmaMal.com

Maria Dong is a Korean-American Queer Developmental Editor and SFF Author. Learn more at: MariaDong.com

All material in Decoded is copyrighted to the original authors and may not be reproduced without permission.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please to return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of our publisher, editors, artists, and authors.

CONTENTS

Front Matter

Cover Art by Jeffrey Brown

Letter from the Editors

Special Thanks

Code for Free Full Color PDF

STORIES AND COMICS:

Spidertoes by Emmalia Harrington (June 1)

Clearing Cobwebs by Brandon Ortega (June 2)

Seven Plans of the League of Villainous Empowerment to Break Atomic Patriot’s Hold on Star City by Izzy Wasserstein

Griselda’s Heads by Priya Sridhar (June 4)

The Tank by A.J. Hartson (June 5)

Home, Smart Home by Clara Ward (June 6)

The Adventures of Andy: The Autistic Anchovy by C.R. Hillin (June 7)

The Hollow Bones by Sara Century (June 8)

The Deck by Maria Dong (June 9)

Mother Mushroom by Elisabeth Moore (June 10)

The Princess and Her Knight by Sarena Tien (June 11)

The Thyme Stop by Jalexa Schell-McCall (June 12)

Dance by Avery Montavon (June 13)

Greyling and Lamprey by S.K. Brownell (June 14)

The Empty Night, The Hungry Sky by V. Medina (June 15)

Little Infinities by Kaylee Schuler (June 16)

The New Emperor’s Clothes by O. Blaufuss (June 17)

The Incident at Mr. Hungry’s by S.E. Fleenor (June 18)

Nothing in the Dark by C.M. Fields (June 19)

Remaking the World by Juliet Kemp (June 20)

Heady Experience by Emmalia Harrington (June 21)

Anatidaephobia by Syd Richardson (June 22).

Healing Touch by Remy Burke (June 23)

Club Cassandra by Erica Weidner (June 24)

Córka Rusalka by Josephine M. YaLes (June 25)

Battlement of Straw by Stephanie Burt and Rachel Gold (June 26)

What Lies Between Oceans by Sigrid Marianne Gayangos(June 27)

IQ Match Inc by Diego Angeles (June 28)

SEE BELOW by N.R.M. Roshak (June 29)

Garden of Aeon by Bre Rose (June 30)

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Hello and welcome to the special eBook edition of Decoded Pride Issue #1!

We are so envious of you right now. Right now, you haven't met a former dragon with dental bills or a pair of murder mermaids who just want to sing or the magic 8-ball that changes the world or the queer/trans/nonbinary smart house of our dreams. But you're about to.

When we started this project in March of 2020 (yes, less than a year ago), we did so for a few reasons. We had a good idea we just couldn't shake. We wanted to see Pride live up to a higher ideal than hyper-corporatization. And, we wanted to provide a springboard for queer creators creating speculative fiction and comics.

In the seven months since we first had the idea, we've pulled together this 30-story anthology—a feat in itself—but we've also heard from many of our creators that they've placed stories, novellas, and comics elsewhere. We've become the springboard and we couldn't be more excited.

What's even cooler about Decoded Pride Issue #1 is that it contains works by authors who range from established professionals to debut authors and everyone in between. Truly, the one uniting factor of the people contributing to this project is that we are queer—from cover to cover, we are 100% queer.

Our anthology brings together horror, science fiction, fantasy, comics, and what can only be described as the very weird. What unites these stories is their queerness and we hope you're as moved by this powerful display of queer excellence as we are.

Thank you for joining us in this endeavor. We believe in the power of storytelling and we believe queer stories are needed as much now as they ever have been.

Thank you to our authors for trusting us with your stories. We are so proud to share your brilliance with the world.

We’d also like to thank Monika Estrella Negra for her thoughtful sensitivity edit, Jeffrey Brown for their exceptional cover art, Emma Mällinen for their powerful layout of our full-color edition, and Maria Dong for her brilliant work on this special eBook edition. We couldn’t have pulled together this wonderful anthology without your help!

If you're previewing this eBook, welcome. We hope you love what you see and want to support independent queer art. If you've purchased this eBook, make sure to read to the end for a special treat, as this issue also includes a promo code for a free version of the professionally formatted PDF, so that you can enjoy these stories in all their full-color glory.

May we never forget that the first pride was a riot,

Sara Century and S.E. Fleenor

May 31, 2020

STORIES AND COMICS

SPIDERTOES

by Emmalia Harrington // 465 words

Too often the promise of heavy clouds and a sky full of rain fell apart. Worse was longed-for weather happening during the day. On those mornings it was all Susan could do not to scream and smash everything within reach.

Her dearest only ever appeared after dark, when the raindrops drummed a merry beat against the farmhouse roof.

At dusk, she silenced all electronics. No synthetic sound should take away from her otherworldly half.

She lay down, keeping still with all her might, hoping it would allow her to hear that wonderful rhythm. Outside her window hung a ceiling of clouds. If there were words, a gesture or potion that could relieve this indecision, she’d have found it years ago.

Susan lay for moments, or maybe hours. All she knew was opening her eyes to a dark room where the ceiling roared, bombarded by an endless downpour. Veiled moonlight outlined a figure standing by the window.

Judging from how her heart leaped and fingers clutched the sheets, this was too real to be a dream. Susan eased out of bed and crossed the room to stand face to face with the newcomer.

Whereas she was tawny and plump, her dearest was black with chitin. Spidertoes was so thin, standing on spindly legs that didn’t end in feet. This lack never hindered Spidertoes, indeed it helped her glide in ways Susan could only envy.

Smiling at her other self, Spidertoes held out an arm. Bowing first, Susan gripped the proffered elbow. Together, they traced a slow circle.

There was no time to relish the whisper of skin and exoskeleton trailing on wood. In the next beat they rushed to face their opposite sides, not quite in sync. The pair touched palms, unused hands tucked out of sight, holding one another’s gaze. If they kept whirling, all would be well.

Now it was time to face away, performing footwork which mirrored the other’s. Step, bounce, spin. Their hair flew out in waves. Retreat, return, their hands united once more. Their bodies gained the same hue.

On and on they went, never knowing exhaustion or tedium. Flesh, size, and name vanished. All that existed was movement and sound. They embraced the night and its sky-born song, full with the knowledge that their dearest was always within reach.

After an endless age and all too soon, light crept through the dark, fading sky into tired gray. Pieces of morning emerged from the window, revealing no-longer-Spidertoes’ soft body, and former Susan’s spindle legs. As dawn strengthened, the new Spidertoes grew insubstantial.

Her other half, now Susan, rushed to grasp her vanishing love.

Spidertoes stood tall, spreading her arms for another jaunt as her outline faded. Eyes burning, she brushed Susan’s cheek before delivering a deep curtsy. Until the next.

Author Statement and Bio

"I wrote this story because I rather like ‘Gemini Girly Song’ by Katzenjammer Kabarett and I was going through a phase of writing short stories inspired from music. Hence the dreamlike nature, dancing and duality theme.

I have a soft spot for queer-oriented publications, as they have been the most accepting of my work compared to more ‘mainstream’ establishments. While I'm open about my queerness, my orientations are less well known than say, homosexuality. I like how the publications I've submitted to don't gatekeep me, but accept who I am. I'd like readers to take away from ‘Spidertoes’ that love doesn't need to be sexual of even romantic in order to be valid."

Emmalia Harrington (she/her) is a disabled QWOC with a deep love of speculative fiction. When she’s not reading or writing, she’s often sewing, cooking or managing cats. Her work can be found at FIYAH, Glittership and other venues. You can find her on Twitter at @EmmaliaWrites

CLEARING COBWEBS

by Brandon Ortega // 3087 words

[SCENE REMOVED DUE TO GRATUITOUS CONTENT.], the screen read, a black background pasting itself over the video Vivian was watching. [BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME.]

Oh, don’t give me that, you piece of shit. Vivian pushed her hoverchair away from the computer’s desk. It glided backward a few inches before powering down, coming to a rest on the soda-soiled carpet.

[HOW RUDE.]

They weren’t even touching, you glorified microwave!

[IF ANYTHING, MY ANCESTOR WOULD BE A CALCULATOR.]

I need to reprogram you, Vivian grumbled, standing up. She paced, the carpet soft on her feet; it was darkened from weeks of spilling late-night Cuba Libres and crumbs from leftover fast food. She hesitated and turned away from the computer, but felt it sitting there behind her, observing her.

She turned around.

The flat-screen monitor was still there, humming faintly with the sound of electricity running through it. There was nothing displayed onscreen save her desktop–it looked starkly old-school compared to the projectors and holograms that had become more common, but she loved it anyway. With a sigh, she sat back down. Listen, ArtI, couldn’t you just turn the program off?

[WHY WOULD I DO THAT?] the monitor read. [YOU LAUGH WHEN I’M STUBBORN.]

Vivian rubbed the bridge of her nose, fighting off a headache. I can’t look at this anymore. Turn on voice software.

A few beeps sounded from the computer, and then a male voice, familiar from smooth sweet nothings and witty arguments, replaced them: I’m still not turning NetNanny off.

Jesus shitting Christ, said Vivian, standing up again. Now I remember why I turned it off in the first place. Listen, dude, just because Max activated it doesn’t mean you can’t turn the damn thing off, you snarky little fuckface.

That would defeat the purpose of parental locks, Vivian.

Emphasis on parents, not an angry–you know what? No. You’re my AI. You’re supposed to listen to me.

My programming says I’m your late boyfriend. Therefore, I’m autonomous.

Your mother’s autonomous.

You were the one that coded me. You’re technically my mother. Love ya, mom.

I modified you. There’s a difference.

I don’t see a distinction.

With a sound of sheer frustration, Vivian turned the monitor off and threw open her studio door. The air was cool, crisp. The sky was pink. A light breeze sent a shiver through her, and she grabbed a jacket from the back of her chair before heading out into the evening.

She pulled her arms in close as she walked. Cars hummed in the air above her, their mechanical purr a comfort: Silence only ever sounded like funerals. The stone sidewalk was well-worn, its sandy color marred by decades of the footsteps of people long gone. Vivian thought very little of it, her feet moving almost of their own accord. Several blocks and three streetlights away, sandstone blocks turned to gray, splotched concrete as she stomped up the cracked steps she had climbed so many times. Always up to the same scratched glass door that beckoned her into a derelict apartment hallway. The landlord never seemed to care about the lobby.

Scents of mold and of dust hit her nose, so unlike the relative freshness of Vivian’s place. It smelled like home.

Within moments, Vivian was standing in front of the door to apartment 302. There was a metal nameplate next to it that read MAXINE PADAYAR in big block letters. Down the hall, she could hear shouting. The businessman must be home from his trip, she thought. She hadn’t heard him the last few times she’d walked down these halls. From the muffled anger, it sounded like his yearly moon vacation had been canceled. He was probably flipping his boss’s hologram off at this point.

Vivian took a breath, tearing herself away from the sounds, then knocked. Three slow thuds, and a final double-rap of her knuckles: their own secret code. Even angry, Vivian couldn’t help but go into routine.

What are you doing here? Max asked, pulling open the door. A clay-red cardigan hung halfway off her left shoulder, and her thick dark-rimmed glasses were slightly askew.

Take the NetNanny off.

No.

Take it fucking off already! It’s driving me nuts, Max.

Max crossed her arms. Cursing me out isn’t going to make me think you’re less of a child.

You’re my girlfriend, you’re supposed to–

You take it off. You’re such a better programmer than me, remember? Max said. Even though he’s dumber than the real one. Doesn’t even remember the real one’s birthday.

Vivian pushed past her into the apartment. Clothes were strewn everywhere. Shirts, sorted by color, were hung crookedly over a threadbare couch. Jeans dangled off chairs like small children’s legs. Hot air blew from rattling vents. It smelled of Max’s favorite incense—cloves and fire.

Max slid in front of her. You can’t come in.

What, have a girl over so soon?

We didn’t break up.

Maybe it’s revenge.

You’re paranoid.

You’re the one acting suspicious.

Max sighed, rolling her eyes. She sat down on the old couch, and it creaked under the weight. I just don’t want to see you right now. What do you want?

You know what you did.

What, went to work yesterday? Brought you lunch a month ago? Sent a Valentine to your office? Pretended you didn’t hate that restaurant on our anniversary?

Throwing her hands up in the air, Vivian shouted, Fucking disable it already!

Vivian. Come on. You bought that specific AI because it was named ArtI.

Coincidence.

You gave it his voice. You gave it his memories and didn’t even change its name. I love you, Viv, but I can’t be with you when you’re still caught up on him. He’s dead.

Vivian sagged.

It’s been, what, four years? You barely dated for six months. You hadn’t even talked in years.

Silence.

There was a photo of Vivian and Max on the nearest table. They’d been on a ferry; Vivian couldn’t remember where to. They looked happy.

Another beat.

I’ll go. Vivian’s voice was gravelly, quiet. Forget it.

Max made a move as if to touch her, then hesitated–she took a quick breath and turned away. Spine straight, she stepped back. There was no second I love you, no apology. Nothing but the sound of Max’s breath.

Max sounded close to sobbing.

Vivian’s gaze fixated on the dark brown skin of Max’s neck, and she willed her to come back, for Max to wrap her arms around her and promise to fix everything–not just ArtI, but everything.

She didn’t.

***

Adult content, eh? Again? ArtI said, two weeks later. He’d been marginally less annoying, but the NetNanny remained. The wavelength of his voice flashed onscreen, rising and falling like erratic heartbeats. You know I’m blocking it. Vivian was on her bed, holding her phone up in the air. The pillow beneath her head was hard, though the pillowcase was silky. Her sheets were a dark purple. She hadn’t made the bed in ages.

It’s kittens. How is that gratuit–

My programming prohibits the use of ‘pussy.’ Kittens are also called pussycats.

You’re fucking with me.

Maybe. You tried to mess with my permissions.

Because Max put on fuckdamn NetNanny.

Language. It was sing-song, the exact tone Vivian had heard so many times.

She threw her phone across the room. It landed with a clatter on the carpet amidst a few pizza boxes. The walls were white, nondescript–she’d torn down her posters in a fit after the fight two weeks prior. The carpet was finally clean, at least. Now it smelled like soap instead of old Coca-Cola. Anger always made her a little more productive.

The carpet didn’t smell of mold, nor of dust.

You know, you couldn’t have thrown the original Artie across the room, her phone said from its resting place. At least not without an assault charge.

Oh, shut up.

Unless you’re into BDSM, in which case, ooh, throw me again. ArtI’s voice had a definite ring of sarcasm to it. Vivian’s pillow landed beside her phone with a dull thump, and ArtI continued. Why’d you ever like Artie, anyway? The way you treat me, you think you’d have thrown him in the Recycle Bin.

A pause.

That was a simile about dumping the original me. A joke, if you will.

Vivian rolled her eyes, but she chuckled despite herself. Artie could always do that. I’m going to Starbucks.

Don’t forget your phone.

It was a little colder than normal outside, prompting Vivian to pull her jacket around her a little tighter, burying her hands–and ArtI–deeper into the green, fleece-lined pockets. It was rush hour. The cars above her murmured louder than she was used to. She worked from home. Rush hour was never a problem. Vivian’s footsteps clodded on the pavement. Too much effort to lift her feet all the way today after arguing with ArtI for hours. The Starbucks sign glowed in the overcast light, a faint undulating green and white. There was a peal of thunder, and the sign briefly fizzled out, replaced with static, before blinking back in.

It was warmer inside.

The sounds of steaming milk and customer chatter assaulted Vivian. She inhaled, paused, and decided no, the sounds graced her, more like. Two weeks of loneliness made her chest feel tight now that she was around so many people. With another deep breath, she let the door close behind her and raised her eyes from the scuffed tile beneath her feet. A barista sweeping in the corner greeted her; the smile she gave in return felt rusty, unused.

Vivian ordered.

She sat down in the center of the room with her caramel macchiato and took a sip. The espresso was roasty on her tongue, the caramel’s sweetness taking away from the bitterness of the coffee. It had taken her nearly two months to understand why Artie had loved the drink so much. It may have well been sugar milk to her. Vivian pulled out her headphones, set them in her ears, and then turned her head to see a couple nearby–both women, both chattering happily, holding hands across the table. Vivian’s music stayed off.

You got the job? one of the women was saying. Like, for sure?

For sure for sure, and a pay increase. We’ll be able to pay for the venue and ring in a few months!

Vivian shook her head gently, a smile playing across her features again. She turned her attention away from the couple, feeling intrusive; instead, she looked up at the queue, and another couple caught her eye. A guy and girl, both seemingly in their mid-twenties. Around her age. It wasn’t clear what they were saying, though the guy looked a little distraught. Their conversation took a momentary pause as they ordered, and in that moment Vivian decided they weren’t a couple. The girl seemed familiar with him, but staunchly unaffectionate.

Doesn’t that look familiar? she thought. The guy’s sandy hair even looked like Artie’s had, that day.

Vivian put her headphones in again. They were plain and black, a belated Valentine’s Day present from Max. They worked well.

Rock music blaring in her ears, she glanced down at her phone, ArtI’s soundwaves piercing across the screen and silencing the music. Doesn’t it seem weird to sit at Starbucks all alone? ArtI said from the headphones. Makes you look like a loser.

Asshole, she murmured back under her breath.

Yep. That’s what Artie was. Remember the time he stole the stop sign?

That was funny. Not assholey.

Theft is funny? Vivian could practically see the way Artie raised his eyebrows, the crooked smile he would give her. He’d been handsome.

Shush.

Afraid you’ll look insane talking to yourself? You could just be talking on your phone.

Then I’m the bitch at Starbucks yelling at her boyfriend. This is ridiculous no matter how you spin it.

As long as you know it, ArtI said.

How did you end up smarter than Artie?

Maybe you’re not as good a programmer as you thought.

Oh, shut up.

You know you have a draft to Max that’s unsent, right?

Vivian took out her headphones again.

She stared out the nearest window, behind the barista that had made her drink. It had gotten dark, though the light from cars flying up above lit up the night alongside the streetlights lining the pavement. People walked by, laden with shopping bags or backpacks or skateboards. Some of them looked happy—maybe they’d scored a date, maybe a job interview. One was crying. He wasn’t the full-on sobbing like he’d lost someone; it was just typical breakup whimpers, but Vivian recognized that look. Artie had worn it well on the day after their six-month anniversary. Vivian felt a pang of guilt. It was almost four years to the day.

Vivian hoped the guy’s life would be long. Would be happy.

Someone else, a woman this time, hooked her attention. Her ponytail was pulled the same angle as Vivian’s, it’s the same color. Married a few months ago, Vivian thought. But has a girl on the side. Maybe her husband knows about it. She needs to leave him. She continued staring. The woman had a nice peacoat, and when her gloves came off, a huge diamond. She’d been right about the marriage, at least. The woman took a phone from her pocket and answered it with a grin. The grin had no trace of hesitation, no reservation to it. Maybe she’s actually happy.

For just a brief moment, Vivian felt her heart flutter, the beginnings of excitement tinged with hope bubbling in her stomach. There was a girl with dark skin and short hair tinged with red—no.

No, she was a girl who Was Not Max. Max did not look that happy, not the last time they’d fought.

After an hour or two, Vivian ordered another drink, and watched more people go by. The longer she sat, the more she bounced her leg. Faster, as if it was a wind-up toy’s key being turned bit by bit; harder, as if running. Her chest tightened and she took a deep breath, watching a woman clad in a sports bra and short-shorts jog by, even in the cold weather. Vivian could hear the comment Artie would have made, her own response. They’d have checked her out together.

She had to do something. The coffee smell was sinking into her clothes, caffeinating her through osmosis. At least eighty people had gone through the lobby in the time it took her to drink her two beverages. It was too many, much too many considering how long it’d been since she’d been out.

Vivian stood, and took another deep breath. Someone in the corner was jamming out with headphones in, writing while they did so. Vivian imagined herself in their place, with a clean apartment and something to do to fill the time besides programming ArtI.

So she put in her headphones again. She left. And she ran. Around the corner from the Starbucks, down past the row of shops and bars and throngs of people laughing. They were enjoying life.

A click sounded through Vivian’s headphones, and she knew ArtI had begun playing an audio file.

Viv, talk to me, Max’s voice crackled into her ear. This is different from using Siri. You cloned your ex into your phone.

It’s just an AI.

Of your ex.

Like you don’t have a box of old things.

That’s stashed away. I don’t take it out and look at it and ask it to direct me to the nearest gas station.

Your mother is a gas station.

The recording had picked up Max’s scoff, and Vivian remembered her turning, slouching down and shrinking away. You didn’t even like him that much.

So? Not my fault I didn’t know right away.

Viv.

Max.

You’re deflecting.

No.

The audio cut out abruptly. You were, you know. Deflecting, ArtI said, dulcet tones replacing Max’s. That’s why I recorded it. For your own good.

I’m not a child, Vivian muttered back.

No. You’re a talented programmer. Beats me why you haven’t taken NetNanny off yourself.

I don’t want to mess you up.

You never did. It was an accident. You know that.

I meant you.

Deflecting.

Shut up.

You could be free.

Vivian imagined it.

***

It was exactly four years since Artie had passed.

It was snowing when she got to the graveyard. Thousands of graves glowed dimly in the moonlight. Photographs of loved ones long passed on beamed from holographic screens. Vivian trudged down the rows of headstones, dead grass crunching beneath her boots. She pulled out her phone.

Artie’s grave is row forty-four, came ArtI’s voice from it.

Your grave.

I’m just an AI.

Your grave.

WebMD 3.0 defines delusional disorder as–

I know you’re not actually Artie, you useless hunk of plastic. It’s your grave.

She shivered.

Twenty, twenty-five.

I’m not plastic, ArtI responded, or flesh, or anything, really. I’m just data.

God, you’re even more pedantic than he was.

Thirty, thirty-five. An old woman’s grave was at the edge of this row. She looked grumpy in every photo that flashed by, even the ones from her wedding.

It served me well in debate team, ArtI said. He sounded apologetic, placating.

You hated debate.

Only because you got kicked off the team for bad grades. You were the best part of it.

Forty. The nearest gravestone was adorned with a single bouquet. All of it was covered in snow and dirt. It was made of stone instead of holograms and glass–clearly from a poorer family. Vivian wiped it free of debris before continuing on, straining to find the grave she hadn’t seen in years.

You’ll be okay, you know. ArtI sounded pensive.

You saying I’m not?

You were for a while. Before we dated, while we did. Now, not so much.

Fuck off.

How rude.

Forty-one.

Forty-two.

Forty-three.

Then, there it was:

ARTIE COLLINS

BELOVED SON, GIFTED STUDENT, PRANKSTER

TRULY MISSED

Vivian didn’t cry. Just a gasp, instead. Part of her thought she could have done a better job coding the slideshow on his hologram.

Part of her thought it was perfect.

All of her knew he was dead.

She looked down at her phone. Its glass was smudged with fingerprints. The screen was dark. It had a single phrase at the top:

ARTificialIntelligence, version 2.0 — USER MODIFIED

It was silent.

She deleted it.

Author Statement and Bio

"When I began writing Clearing Cobwebs, I had a creative writing teacher who said that profanity and sexuality in storytelling was gratuitous and unnecessary. The story's first line was a direct response to that, a literary middle finger to the idea that queer relationships are explicit, our characters forced. I wanted to write something that shows real relationships, with all the messiness and heartbreak and joy and laughter that they bring. I hope that readers will take Vivian's grief and hope and use them to remind themselves that queer folk are not just meet-cutes and tragedy: we contain multitudes. Being published in Decoded, where I can tell queer stories alongside