Eat the Sky, Drink the Ocean

Introduction

In late 2012, Australia and India were rocked by violent crimes against young women. In Delhi, thousands pro-tested against rape. In Melbourne, thousands stood vigil in memory of a young woman raped and murdered while walking home. The fate of all young women, what they should fear and what they can hope for were hot topics in the media around the world. Out of that storm rose the idea for this anthology.

We decided on the title Eat the Sky, Drink the Ocean because it suggested impossibilities, dreams, ambitions, and a connection to something larger than humanity alone. It was inspired, in part, by a 1930s labor song in which bosses and priests tell workers that You won’t get to eat pie until you’re in the sky (i.e., until you’re dead). Pie in the sky has come to mean any kind of wishful thinking—something you can’t have in this lifetime.

This collection of stories embraces the idea of not just eating pie but of taking big, hungry mouthfuls of life and embracing the world. It’s about the desire to have and do impossible things, especially things that girls aren’t meant to do. We asked our contributors to reimagine the world, to mess with the boundaries of the possible and the probable.

Then we threw them another challenge. They were to work their magic in collaboration with a partner from the other country. Over Skype and e-mail they shared stories about the challenges of being a girl or woman, and speculated how the world could be otherwise. Our cross-border confabulations produced seventeen works of fiction—six graphic stories, one playscript, and ten short stories. In this collection you will find dystopian worlds and distant galaxies, alternative histories and time travel, fairy tales with a twist—and even a Shakespeare spinoff. You’d imagine a speculative feminist collection to be full of stories about strong and fantastic girls vaulting over traditional role barriers—but many of the stories are just as much about boys.

Some pairs worked together to craft a single piece of work, while others chose to bat ideas at each other and then work independently on a common theme. The notes at the end of the volume narrate their individual journeys; among the most interesting are the writer–illustrator pairs that started off skeptical and ended up sold on the idea of collaboration.

We wanted contributors to be bold, so we encouraged them to go beyond the expectations of their cultures, and to think not just about their own realities but also those of young adults, who may be like or unlike them. It was incredibly exciting to see people separated by thousands of kilometers sharing ideas about what it means to be human, to love and to live in this world. Unexpectedly, a strange synchronicity came into play. It was as if, unconsciously, the imaginations of all twenty artists and writers became interconnected.

Ultimately, this is a book about connections—between Australia and India, between men and women, between the past, the present, the future, and the planet that we all share. If we had to name one thing we learned in the process of making this anthology, it’s the fact that when you eat the sky and drink the ocean, you are part of the Earth: everything’s connected.

Cat Calls

Margo Lanagan

"But I can’t whistle! said Neddi. My mouth is made wrong. I’ve tried and tried!"

I can’t whistle if I’m nervous. Shinna played with her fingers and glanced around. Or if anyone’s looking at me. We all looked away.

I can’t if I’m laughing, said Kate. A big grin burst out on her face. "And I just know I’ll get the giggles, looking those fellows in the eye."

Dipti threw up her hands. Well, dammit, we’ll make a different noise. If you can’t whistle, hiss! Everyone can hiss.

And they all hissed, like the sound of wind in dry grass.

I put my face in my hands. Dipti threw her hard, skinny arm around my shoulders and shook me. Oh, if only I lived over the river! I wailed. Then my parents would buy me one of those Gran Sasso Devices, and I would be able to go wherever I wanted.

It’d be wonderful, wouldn’t it? she said. Just press the button and their filthy words fly right back into their mouths—never said, never heard.

Why don’t they just say them again, is what I don’t understand? said Shinna.

It doesn’t feel nice, Fan’s sister says, said Kate, "having that little bit of time run backward, while the rest of it’s running forward all around you. It feels like you’re a sock, she says, being turned inside-out—because it’s running your mind backward too. But it’s better than being shouted at."

Well, Melita. Dipti shook me again. That kind of handy thing was never made for girls like us, was it? That’s a weapon for rich men’s daughters. And that’s okay. We have no need of it— She couldn’t stop grinning. "Because we have a plan."

All the men were outside the teashop next morning. I felt sicker than ever with fear. Everything looked the same: the dusty road with not a soul on it, the closed-up church, the schoolhouse off in the distance. The air was still cool, and I was freshly bathed, and my clothes were crisp from laundering and drying in the sun, and there were the men all waiting, ready to attack. The big one leaned back in his chair. I had never seen him standing; perhaps he had grown into that straining chair, and sat there day and night? The two thin men lounged in the doorway, and Mr. Red Shirt and Mr. Fancy Boots perched on the edges of the other chairs. They were talking now, but as soon as they saw me . . .

Just run past them. Ignore them, my mother had said. The world is full of those men. They are not worth your time.

Of course they call out to you, said my father. They think you’re beautiful. Which you are. And a beautiful young girl should be complimented.

My mother had smacked his shoulder. You don’t know what you’re talking about. This made me feel hopeful for a moment—would she get angry enough to help me? But then my brothers had come home and my time for my parents’ attention was over. Take Otto’s bags, Melita. Bring Charlie some tea.

Walking closer to the teashop, I thought I saw a whisker of movement up near the church, but now as I stared, there was nothing. I was so confused—did I want my friends to be there or not? Had I been foolish to mention this, to say yes when Dipti offered to help? Would she make it better for me, or worse? Oh, whatever happened would be wrong and awful. I would be crushed and laughed at whether I was alone as usual or backed up by every girl in my class. These men, they didn’t look like monsters, but the words pouring out of their mouths fouled up my whole world, every morning and every afternoon. Girls had no chance against it, young girls like us, from this side of town.

One of the thin men saw me and whistled. The other turned and stared, gave a little whooping noise. I stared at the church. Had they come? Oh, please! Oh, please not!

One head popped out, popped back behind the church corner. Then two were quickly there and then gone. My heart lifted—and stuck in my throat for a moment, so that I couldn’t breathe. I wanted just to run, to run up and meet my friends and tell them, It’s all right. They didn’t say anything; there’s no need for you to be here. I could cope. I could be strong on my own.

The men began with their calling, with their crooning. Thin One and Thin Two got comfortable against the doorposts. Mr. Red Shirt sat forward in his chair. They threw out little remarks, soft and mocking, about my hair, my school uniform, my legs. If I’d been a rich girl, I’d have taken my little silver Gran Sasso Device out of my pocket right then, and pointed it at them—which would mean pointing it at myself, because it was a two-ended thing. And I would’ve pressed the blue button, and the particles faster than light, faster than time, would’ve burst out either end, and pulled those remarks out of my memory through my ears and folded them back down the men’s throats. Of all the things scientists and corporations had found to do with neutrinos, the Gran Sasso was to me the greatest and the kindest. It was the one I could see a real use for, in my world, in my every day.

I was right in front of the shop now, and they were a chorus in my ear, gentle, awful, saying all their worst things, which they never got tired of calling out at me, at any girl who walked by on her own.

I stopped, my heart thudding so hard I was sure it would show, ba-bump, ba-bump, through my shirt. I turned to face them, which was my signal to the others, the one we’d agreed on. I stared boldly into the men’s eyes, one after the other. I was sure they could see my fear, in my big eyes and my tight-pressed mouth.

The big man sneered and jerked his head at me. The thin men’s grins stiffened on their faces. Mr. Red Shirt looked at the others to see what he should do, and Mr. Boots crooned on about what he might find under my uniform, then checked whether the big man approved. I didn’t look away; I finished meeting all their eyes and went back to the big man and started again. My classmates were coming, my friends. First I heard their wolf-whistles, their woo-hoos, their hisses—then their shoes pattered on the dusty road.

I took one slow step, then another, toward the men. Thin One and Thin Two, they glanced up the road and looked actually afraid for a moment. I could hear it was a big crowd, bigger than Dipti had called together yesterday. There were boys’ voices in it; boys had come too! Girls and boys pushed in behind and either side of me, and they whistled and hissed at the men.

Mr. Red Shirt laughed loudly. All these girls for us! Some of them are pretty, too!

I despaired at his confidence, and at the big man’s easy way of sitting there. The other men would gather courage from it, I was sure, and hurl more words.

But Dipti got in before them. Some of them are hand-some, too! she exclaimed, in exactly Mr. Red Shirt’s tone.

All these fellas for us! Aren’t we lucky? cried out a boy behind me.

How about a kiss? Or just a smile? someone else called coaxingly. You’d be so pretty if you smiled.

And everyone else hissed and whistled.

What do you think you’re about, you kids! Mr. Fancy Boots jumped up from his chair, and I flinched.

Someone put her hand on my shoulder and called, dreamily, "What