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These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart
Izzy Wasserstein
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection.” —Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
In a queer, noir technothriller of fractured identity and corporate intrigue, a trans woman faces her fear of losing her community as her past chases after her. This bold, thought-provoking debut science-fiction novella from a Lambda Award finalist is an exciting and unpredictable look at the fluid nature of our former and present selves.
Available Format(s): Trade paperback; digital formats
In a queer, noir technothriller of fractured identity and corporate intrigue, a trans woman faces her fear of losing her community as her past chases after her. This bold, thought-provoking debut science-fiction novella from a Lambda Award finalist is an exciting and unpredictable look at the fluid nature of our former and present selves.
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection.” —Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
Security expert Dora left her anarchist commune over safety concerns. But when her ex-girlfriend Kay is killed, everyone at the commune is suddenly a potential suspect. In the remains of Kansas City, which the government has all but abandoned, Dora knows there will be no justice unless she solves the murder herself.
But Kay’s death is only one of several shocking incidents. A strange new drug is circulating, people are disappearing, and a war between two nefarious corporations is looming. As Dora untangles a terrible conspiracy, she must also come face-to-face with assailants from her pre-transition past.
Publishers Weekly Pick: Spring 2024 Top-10 SF Fantasy & Horror Esquire’s Best Sci-Fi Books of 2024 (So Far)
[STARRED REVIEW] DEBUT “A trans woman confronts her past along with the person she might have been in this queer, noir technothriller set in a near-future, dystopian Kansas City. Dora’s ex-girlfriend is dead, and her old commune expects her to return and solve the crime. But it’s not merely a murder, and it’s not a result of any of the standard motives, nor is the perpetrator any of the usual suspects. Instead, Dora finds a scientist operating an illegal cloning facility, trying to create easily programmable, disposable lab rats and super soldiers while also creating additional versions of Dora the way he wants her to be: obedient, worshipful, and unequivocally male. Dora has to literally plumb the depths of her city, her past relationships, and her present psyche in order to eliminate a threat she never imagined. The murder case is the best kind of technothriller, getting deeper into the guts of the tech and the skulls in the corporate skullduggery while putting the reader into the heart and soul of an investigator who can’t stop trying to save the day for everybody else. VERDICT Recommended for SF readers who love a good mystery, can’t resist a queer romance, and adore seeing a corporate conspiracy unraveled and undone.” —Library Journal
“The book begins as an effective murder mystery, with Dora—a security specialist and unofficial detective—suspecting Kay was killed by someone in the tightknit commune Dora had been part of years ago. But it turns into much more as her investigation progresses and visions of the past resurface. To find out what happened to Kay, Dora must regain the trust of community members she left behind following a furious disagreement over her proposed security measures, which conflicted with the community’s guiding principles of anarchic self-determination. Before Dora can get a handle on anything, a new drug circulates in the community, more people go missing, a feud between major corporations threatens the commune, and she is confronted with a most unexpected assailant—Theo, a clone of her pre-transition self. Classic genre tropes, including an impulsive, damaged detective and noir-style dialogue, are expanded through a trans protagonist and the complex relationship she develops with her pre-transition clone—a most delightful surprise of a character. Dora’s rogue independence and search for answers are problematized by Theo’s existence and strong will to live. Within a twisted conspiracy thriller is a compelling slice-of-queer-life, uninterested in simple representation. An irresistible afterword will leave readers eager for more from Wasserstein. This book is perfect for anyone interested in community politics, body politics, the craft of writing, or a page-turning thriller.” —Kirkus
“A queer anarchist commune in near-future Kansas City is threatened by corporate espionage in this fun and well-paced neo-noir cyberpunk adventure from Wasserstein (All the Hometowns You Can’t Stay Away From). Theodora “Dora” Madsen lives in “self-imposed exile” from the commune she once called home, but when her ex-girlfriend, Kay, is found dead of an apparent overdose, Dora, suspicious, is compelled to investigate. Now an outsider to the tight-knit community, her investigations raise echoes of the conflict that led to her departure, and call into question the very principles on which the commune was founded. Can Dora discover the truth without tearing apart the community that sheltered her when she needed it most—and before someone else gets hurt? Wasserstein makes clever use of genre tropes, including clones, snappy noir-style dialogue, and the damaged, insomniac detective archetype. With a complex and enjoyably flawed trans protagonist and a portrayal of queer life that goes deeper than casual representation, this marks Wasserstein as a voice to watch out for in LGBTQ science fiction.” —Publishers Weekly
“With an anarchist’s eye for flipping all the old tropes, Wasserstein makes her propulsive, stylish cyberpunk murder mystery sing on every page. Dora defines her own story, and it’s absolutely engrossing. You’ll want to follow the secrets as far down as they go.” —Karen Osborne, author of Architects of Memory
“These Fragile Graces is a work of astonishing heart. It bridges isolation and belonging, hate and forgiveness, riveting tension and emotional nuance, to fearlessly explore the chasm between who we are and who we were expected to be. Izzy Wasserstein has given us something we need, as only she can: a story about surviving the near-future hellscape that makes you want to survive the present hellscape. I know I’ll be reading it again before long.” —Elly Bangs, author of Unity
“Wasserstein’s debut novella does not give easy answers, but instead urges us to remember: the moment we lose sight of love—for our communities and for ourselves—is the moment we risk harming everything we hold dear.”—Naseem Jamnia, author of The Bruising of Qilwa
“‘Some of us survive,’ the main character of These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart muses. Somehow, even now.’ It’s one of my favorite lines in the book because, despite all the implied horror, it brims with defiance and hope. This wise novella asks compelling questions about anarchism, community, self-determination, and consent, while allowing its trans and queer characters the full range of their flawed, messy humanity. Just like all of Izzy Wasserstein’s work, this story is complex, well-written, heartfelt; I am so glad to have encountered it. —Natalia Theodoridou, World Fantasy Award winner and Nebula finalist
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection. Izzy Wasserstein is a true and tender storyteller with a head for twisty plots and a heart for complex love.” —Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
“A trans woman keeps on coming face to face with her clones who want to kill her—and might have already killed her ex-girlfriend. Izzy Wasserstein’s debut novella is a fast-paced post-cyberpunk thriller that starts with a murder at an anarchist commune in Kansas City, and explores both the far-reaching and the intimately personal consequences. Read it, get immersed in the investigation, then find yourself thinking for a long while afterward! From anarchist decision making to the difficulties of self-definition to clone sex, this small book has it all.” —Bogi Takács, editor of Transcendent
“An absorbing near future science fiction novella that explores themes of identity and family with a keen eye for character and a central mystery that unfolds in unexpected ways. Izzy Wasserstein is a gifted writer, and this is a wonderful debut.” —Josh Rountree, author of The Legend of Charlie Fish
“At one level, These Fragile Places, This Fugitive Heart works just fine as an efficient and fast-moving thriller in a gritty urban setting, but just as efficient is the manner in which Wasserstein layers in issues of trans acceptance.” —Locus
“If you like queer dystopian thrillers, don’t miss These Fragile Places, This Fugitive Heart.” —Reviews that Burn
“This is a murder mystery, yes; but mostly it is a story about how we can live together and love one another without using force or doing violence to those we love in the name of creating a better world. —Interzone
“This book is incredible . . . I love seeing trans people writing trans stories. It has a drastically different feel. I feel safer. I fall for the characters so much harder.” —MI Book Reviews
Izzy Wasserstein is a queer, trans woman who teaches writing and literature. Wasserstein was born and raised in Kansas, and she received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico. She is the author of dozens of short stories, two poetry collections, and the short story collection All the Hometowns You Can’t Stay Away From (Neon Hemlock Press, 2022). Wasserstein loves books, comics, horror movies, and slowly running long distances. She shares a home in Southern California with her spouse Nora E. Derrington and their animal companions. These Fragile Graces is her debut novella. For more about Izzy, please visit her on the web.
“Inventive, fascinating, and deeply moving . . . I want to listen to Izzy Wasserstein tell stories all day and all night.”
—Annalee Newitz, author of The Terraformers
“Across every genre and tone, Izzy Wasserstein imbues her stories with a unique power: to reach through the page and into your chest, where they hold your heart as if it’s the last of its kind.”
—Elly Bangs, author of Unity
“Izzy Wasserstein’s stories wrestle with ideas of home, grief, and apocalyptic violence with a stunning urgency and clarity of vision.”
—Nino Cipri, author of Finna and Defekt
“Izzy Wasserstein succeeds in not only nailing, but also reinventing, the trope of the hard-bitten private detective with a prickly personality, one who is both complex and deeply flawed for thoroughly understandable reasons.”
—Analog
“Wasserstein’s stories offer a finely-honed sense of place, precise and evocative writing, and a beautiful, sometimes chilling, exploration of what it means to be complicated and human.”
—Kate Elliott, author of Unconquerable Sun
“Wasserstein writes brilliantly about loss, revolution, change, and community. . . . She has a memorable literary voice, and her stories of alienation and survival will haunt and sustain me for years to come.”
—R. B. Lemberg, author of The Four Profound Weaves
“An impressive range from epic fantasy to scientific mystery.”
—Bogi Takács, author of The Trans Space Octopus Congregation
“The multifaceted portrayals of gender are a consistent strength throughout, rendering trans and nonbinary characters with vitality and nuance.”
—Publishers Weekly
I hadn’t seen Juan in years, not since I left the commune. When he showed up at my door, struggling to make eye contact, I knew that Kay was dead.
“Dora,” he said, his hands flexing and releasing at his sides, as if trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. “It’s Kay.”
An overdose, he explained. They’d found her this morning, unresponsive. I knew it was true, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Not that she used. I knew that. Between illicit drugs and street-brewed versions of the corporate stuff, most people were on something. But she’d always been precise. Careful.
“I’m sorry to show up like this,” Juan said into the silence. “I thought you should know, and I’d heard you live down here, now—”
He was apologizing for telling me my ex was dead. Because I’d left, and he’d honored that. Apologizing. I felt ill.
“No!” I said, too forcefully. “No, Juan. Thank you. I’d have hated to find out . . .” I almost said “too late,” my brain refusing to accept facts. Trailed off instead, then blurted out: “Can—can I see her?”
He flinched, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. No one would be pleased that I was coming back, including me. I’d made damned sure of that when I left.
I’d sworn never to set foot in the commune again. Kept that vow for years and never thought I’d break it. Never thought I’d outlive Kay, either. I didn’t want to face her body but couldn’t do anything else.
Juan led me to the commune, past apartment buildings, “neighborhood” chain stores, and the occasional pawn shop and hole-in-the-wall restaurant, under the overpass that marked the line between very little wealth and none. Late October, and the heat made every step cost. When I’d last seen the old neighborhood, it had been lively. Elders at their windows or on stoops seeking relief from the heat, dealers on the corners, children playing wherever they could find shade. Things between the neighborhood and the commune were occasionally tense, sure, but there’d been a community here, people who knew one another, looked out for each other. And predators, like in any community. But a real neighborhood, in spite or because of poverty and oppression.
Now it was a ghost town. No one was out on the stoops, no faces in windows hoping for a breeze. One person on a corner bolted as soon as they saw us. The quiet put me on edge. Where had everyone gone?
The front of the commune was a patchwork of red brick and plywood. Two guards on the doorway—so the commune wasn’t entirely ignoring security—were teens, maybe a decade younger than us. They looked at me with mild curiosity. The taller of the two said something in Tagalog and the other guard giggled and not-so-subtly shushed their comrade.
He knocked. A bolt clicked and the interior door opened. The common room was as I remembered it, once a restaurant for the rich, scarred and plastered over, furnished with scavenged and handmade tables and chairs. Seemed like the whole crew was there, clustered in small groups. At first, our arrival was greeted with mild interest. Then someone whispered my name, and tension rippled across the room. Someone I didn’t know called their kid over, clutched them tight. Soon every eye followed me, some wary, a few angry, none pleased. I burn bridges.
I stopped myself from yanking up my hood, just pulled my shoulders back, gave a quick nod to Samara and Samuel, who at least weren’t glaring, and followed Juan. I knew less than half the members, though I’d only been a few years in self-imposed exile. Through the kitchen, which smelled of yeast and sizzling vat protein, where more eyes stared, past what had been a courtyard and pool and was now the community garden, over to the personal rooms. Even before my memory implants, I couldn’t have forgotten the way, but Juan led me. For my safety, or the community’s? I didn’t ask.
Up the stairs of the apartments that made up the rear of the commune. The hand-painted swirls on Kay’s door were peeling like a tired metaphor. Juan put his hand on the latch, looked back at me.
“You ready?” he asked, more gently than I deserved.
“Not sure. But I’m doing it anyway.” Some things you’ve got to see, ready or not.
Sun sliced between the boards covering the wide window, thoughtless of its bright cruelty. Kay lay on her back. Someone had closed her eyes, wiped the vomit from her lips, mopped it up from the sheet as best they could, and put her on her back. Her brown skin was ashen. Can’t say she looked peaceful, but she was past hurting. I stared, even though I knew this sight would stay with me forever. I’d barely functioned before the memory enhancement, but the tech has a cost: I don’t forget, not even when I want to. I knew I’d never escape this last memory of her.
Maybe you only find a love like her once in your life. Who’s to say if that’s a curse or a blessing?
“She was always so careful,” I said. Careful about drugs, not about the commune. I’d told myself that’s why we’d split. Don’t think I ever really believed it.
“Careful isn’t always enough,” Juan said. As if I didn’t know.
I made myself lean close. Didn’t care that she was cold. I pressed my lips to her forehead, meaning it as our parting. It wasn’t enough. Tears weren’t coming, so I pulled her against me, mirroring the last hug she’d given me before I left. She’d always felt dangerously thin, one of many reasons I’d feared for her safety, even at those times when I hadn’t given a shit about my own. Even now I wanted to worry.
When I’d stormed out of the commune, cursing them for fools, all grief and anger and wounded pride, I told myself I was over her. Now I clutched her body like it would do any good. My hands clawed. The points of her shoulder blades were sharp under her worn shirt. Between them . . . something.
Carefully I turned her over, pulled down the shirt. No way anyone would have noticed the needle’s puncture if it weren’t for the bump around it, red and swollen, as clear an allergic reaction as you could ask for.
“Who found her body?” I snapped.
Juan stopped giving me space, came up to look for himself.
“Oh shit,” he said.
I asked again. Sharper.
“Ly. Lylah. When Kay didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“Tell me someone saved the syringe, Juan.”
Someone had. It was set in a box by the corner, next to the rag they’d used to clean up, waiting for safer disposal. I tore a corner from Kay’s cork-board. My contributions, a couple sketches of us, some bad poetry, and a tattoo design, had been purged long ago, replaced with mementos of other loves. I corked the syringe’s tip, carefully wrapped the whole thing and stuck it in my messenger bag. Pulled out my .38, confirmed it was loaded, and clipped it to my belt.
“The gun, Dora, really?” Juan asked, eyes wide. It wouldn’t win me friends in the commune, but I didn’t give a single shit.
“Someone here killed her,” I said. I could see he didn’t want to believe that, his eyes moving between me and Kay’s body. But he knew it too.
“Fuck,” he said. Our nightmares come to life. Kay killed, and it would be easy for this to tear the community apart.
Well. I’ve always been better in a crisis.
“Gather them up,” I said. “Everyone. I’m solving this.”
I’m no PI, but I’ve seen my share. Since I left the commune, I’d survived by selling my skill in operational security. I hadn’t set foot in the commune in years, which meant I was the only one who wasn’t a suspect.
“Are you sure you’re the right person for this, Dora?” Juan asked. As close as we’d been, now he didn’t want to say the obvious. They’d hate me for this.
“Who else?” I let him do the math. No one here, not the cops, who only came to the ghetto in force, and only then when the rich folks who ran the show demanded it. Not some PI the commune couldn’t afford. Me or no one.
“I’ll ask them,” he said. “You know I can’t make anyone agree.” Good luck making a few dozen anarchists agree on much of anything.
“Convince them. Remind them what it will look like if they refuse.”
He stared at me like I was a stranger. Or a fucking cop. When he left, I searched the room. Nothing more to see, just Kay murdered.
“I’ll find them, Kay,” I told her. As if that would fix anything. My specialty is breaking things.
These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart
Izzy Wasserstein
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection.”
—Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
In a queer, noir technothriller of fractured identity and corporate intrigue, a trans woman faces her fear of losing her community as her past chases after her. This bold, thought-provoking debut science-fiction novella from a Lambda Award finalist is an exciting and unpredictable look at the fluid nature of our former and present selves.
These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart
by Izzy Wasserstein
ISBN: 978-1-61696-412-2 (print); 978-1-61696-413-9 (digital)
Published: March 12, 2024
Available Format(s): Trade paperback; digital formats
In a queer, noir technothriller of fractured identity and corporate intrigue, a trans woman faces her fear of losing her community as her past chases after her. This bold, thought-provoking debut science-fiction novella from a Lambda Award finalist is an exciting and unpredictable look at the fluid nature of our former and present selves.
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection.”
—Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
Security expert Dora left her anarchist commune over safety concerns. But when her ex-girlfriend Kay is killed, everyone at the commune is suddenly a potential suspect. In the remains of Kansas City, which the government has all but abandoned, Dora knows there will be no justice unless she solves the murder herself.
But Kay’s death is only one of several shocking incidents. A strange new drug is circulating, people are disappearing, and a war between two nefarious corporations is looming. As Dora untangles a terrible conspiracy, she must also come face-to-face with assailants from her pre-transition past.
Publishers Weekly Pick: Spring 2024 Top-10 SF Fantasy & Horror
Esquire’s Best Sci-Fi Books of 2024 (So Far)
[STARRED REVIEW] DEBUT “A trans woman confronts her past along with the person she might have been in this queer, noir technothriller set in a near-future, dystopian Kansas City. Dora’s ex-girlfriend is dead, and her old commune expects her to return and solve the crime. But it’s not merely a murder, and it’s not a result of any of the standard motives, nor is the perpetrator any of the usual suspects. Instead, Dora finds a scientist operating an illegal cloning facility, trying to create easily programmable, disposable lab rats and super soldiers while also creating additional versions of Dora the way he wants her to be: obedient, worshipful, and unequivocally male. Dora has to literally plumb the depths of her city, her past relationships, and her present psyche in order to eliminate a threat she never imagined. The murder case is the best kind of technothriller, getting deeper into the guts of the tech and the skulls in the corporate skullduggery while putting the reader into the heart and soul of an investigator who can’t stop trying to save the day for everybody else. VERDICT Recommended for SF readers who love a good mystery, can’t resist a queer romance, and adore seeing a corporate conspiracy unraveled and undone.” —Library Journal
“The book begins as an effective murder mystery, with Dora—a security specialist and unofficial detective—suspecting Kay was killed by someone in the tightknit commune Dora had been part of years ago. But it turns into much more as her investigation progresses and visions of the past resurface. To find out what happened to Kay, Dora must regain the trust of community members she left behind following a furious disagreement over her proposed security measures, which conflicted with the community’s guiding principles of anarchic self-determination. Before Dora can get a handle on anything, a new drug circulates in the community, more people go missing, a feud between major corporations threatens the commune, and she is confronted with a most unexpected assailant—Theo, a clone of her pre-transition self. Classic genre tropes, including an impulsive, damaged detective and noir-style dialogue, are expanded through a trans protagonist and the complex relationship she develops with her pre-transition clone—a most delightful surprise of a character. Dora’s rogue independence and search for answers are problematized by Theo’s existence and strong will to live. Within a twisted conspiracy thriller is a compelling slice-of-queer-life, uninterested in simple representation. An irresistible afterword will leave readers eager for more from Wasserstein. This book is perfect for anyone interested in community politics, body politics, the craft of writing, or a page-turning thriller.” —Kirkus
“A queer anarchist commune in near-future Kansas City is threatened by corporate espionage in this fun and well-paced neo-noir cyberpunk adventure from Wasserstein (All the Hometowns You Can’t Stay Away From). Theodora “Dora” Madsen lives in “self-imposed exile” from the commune she once called home, but when her ex-girlfriend, Kay, is found dead of an apparent overdose, Dora, suspicious, is compelled to investigate. Now an outsider to the tight-knit community, her investigations raise echoes of the conflict that led to her departure, and call into question the very principles on which the commune was founded. Can Dora discover the truth without tearing apart the community that sheltered her when she needed it most—and before someone else gets hurt? Wasserstein makes clever use of genre tropes, including clones, snappy noir-style dialogue, and the damaged, insomniac detective archetype. With a complex and enjoyably flawed trans protagonist and a portrayal of queer life that goes deeper than casual representation, this marks Wasserstein as a voice to watch out for in LGBTQ science fiction.” —Publishers Weekly
“With an anarchist’s eye for flipping all the old tropes, Wasserstein makes her propulsive, stylish cyberpunk murder mystery sing on every page. Dora defines her own story, and it’s absolutely engrossing. You’ll want to follow the secrets as far down as they go.” —Karen Osborne, author of Architects of Memory
“These Fragile Graces is a work of astonishing heart. It bridges isolation and belonging, hate and forgiveness, riveting tension and emotional nuance, to fearlessly explore the chasm between who we are and who we were expected to be. Izzy Wasserstein has given us something we need, as only she can: a story about surviving the near-future hellscape that makes you want to survive the present hellscape. I know I’ll be reading it again before long.” —Elly Bangs, author of Unity
“Wasserstein’s debut novella does not give easy answers, but instead urges us to remember: the moment we lose sight of love—for our communities and for ourselves—is the moment we risk harming everything we hold dear.”—Naseem Jamnia, author of The Bruising of Qilwa
“‘Some of us survive,’ the main character of These Fragile Graces, This Fugitive Heart muses. Somehow, even now.’ It’s one of my favorite lines in the book because, despite all the implied horror, it brims with defiance and hope. This wise novella asks compelling questions about anarchism, community, self-determination, and consent, while allowing its trans and queer characters the full range of their flawed, messy humanity. Just like all of Izzy Wasserstein’s work, this story is complex, well-written, heartfelt; I am so glad to have encountered it. —Natalia Theodoridou, World Fantasy Award winner and Nebula finalist
“This fast-paced novella blends a pitch-perfect noir voice with all the excitement and grit of an action movie, but at its core, it is ultimately a tale of community, identity, and connection. Izzy Wasserstein is a true and tender storyteller with a head for twisty plots and a heart for complex love.” —Emma Törzs, author of Ink Blood Sister Scribe
“A trans woman keeps on coming face to face with her clones who want to kill her—and might have already killed her ex-girlfriend. Izzy Wasserstein’s debut novella is a fast-paced post-cyberpunk thriller that starts with a murder at an anarchist commune in Kansas City, and explores both the far-reaching and the intimately personal consequences. Read it, get immersed in the investigation, then find yourself thinking for a long while afterward! From anarchist decision making to the difficulties of self-definition to clone sex, this small book has it all.” —Bogi Takács, editor of Transcendent
“An absorbing near future science fiction novella that explores themes of identity and family with a keen eye for character and a central mystery that unfolds in unexpected ways. Izzy Wasserstein is a gifted writer, and this is a wonderful debut.” —Josh Rountree, author of The Legend of Charlie Fish
“At one level, These Fragile Places, This Fugitive Heart works just fine as an efficient and fast-moving thriller in a gritty urban setting, but just as efficient is the manner in which Wasserstein layers in issues of trans acceptance.” —Locus
“If you like queer dystopian thrillers, don’t miss These Fragile Places, This Fugitive Heart.” —Reviews that Burn
“This is a murder mystery, yes; but mostly it is a story about how we can live together and love one another without using force or doing violence to those we love in the name of creating a better world. —Interzone
“This book is incredible . . . I love seeing trans people writing trans stories. It has a drastically different feel. I feel safer. I fall for the characters so much harder.” —MI Book Reviews
Izzy Wasserstein is a queer, trans woman who teaches writing and literature. Wasserstein was born and raised in Kansas, and she received her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of New Mexico. She is the author of dozens of short stories, two poetry collections, and the short story collection All the Hometowns You Can’t Stay Away From (Neon Hemlock Press, 2022). Wasserstein loves books, comics, horror movies, and slowly running long distances. She shares a home in Southern California with her spouse Nora E. Derrington and their animal companions. These Fragile Graces is her debut novella. For more about Izzy, please visit her on the web.
“Inventive, fascinating, and deeply moving . . . I want to listen to Izzy Wasserstein tell stories all day and all night.”
—Annalee Newitz, author of The Terraformers
“Across every genre and tone, Izzy Wasserstein imbues her stories with a unique power: to reach through the page and into your chest, where they hold your heart as if it’s the last of its kind.”
—Elly Bangs, author of Unity
“Izzy Wasserstein’s stories wrestle with ideas of home, grief, and apocalyptic violence with a stunning urgency and clarity of vision.”
—Nino Cipri, author of Finna and Defekt
“Izzy Wasserstein succeeds in not only nailing, but also reinventing, the trope of the hard-bitten private detective with a prickly personality, one who is both complex and deeply flawed for thoroughly understandable reasons.”
—Analog
“Wasserstein’s stories offer a finely-honed sense of place, precise and evocative writing, and a beautiful, sometimes chilling, exploration of what it means to be complicated and human.”
—Kate Elliott, author of Unconquerable Sun
“Wasserstein writes brilliantly about loss, revolution, change, and community. . . . She has a memorable literary voice, and her stories of alienation and survival will haunt and sustain me for years to come.”
—R. B. Lemberg, author of The Four Profound Weaves
“An impressive range from epic fantasy to scientific mystery.”
—Bogi Takács, author of The Trans Space Octopus Congregation
“The multifaceted portrayals of gender are a consistent strength throughout, rendering trans and nonbinary characters with vitality and nuance.”
—Publishers Weekly
I hadn’t seen Juan in years, not since I left the commune. When he showed up at my door, struggling to make eye contact, I knew that Kay was dead.
“Dora,” he said, his hands flexing and releasing at his sides, as if trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. “It’s Kay.”
An overdose, he explained. They’d found her this morning, unresponsive. I knew it was true, but I couldn’t make sense of it. Not that she used. I knew that. Between illicit drugs and street-brewed versions of the corporate stuff, most people were on something. But she’d always been precise. Careful.
“I’m sorry to show up like this,” Juan said into the silence. “I thought you should know, and I’d heard you live down here, now—”
He was apologizing for telling me my ex was dead. Because I’d left, and he’d honored that. Apologizing. I felt ill.
“No!” I said, too forcefully. “No, Juan. Thank you. I’d have hated to find out . . .” I almost said “too late,” my brain refusing to accept facts. Trailed off instead, then blurted out: “Can—can I see her?”
He flinched, then nodded. “Of course,” he said. No one would be pleased that I was coming back, including me. I’d made damned sure of that when I left.
I’d sworn never to set foot in the commune again. Kept that vow for years and never thought I’d break it. Never thought I’d outlive Kay, either. I didn’t want to face her body but couldn’t do anything else.
Juan led me to the commune, past apartment buildings, “neighborhood” chain stores, and the occasional pawn shop and hole-in-the-wall restaurant, under the overpass that marked the line between very little wealth and none. Late October, and the heat made every step cost. When I’d last seen the old neighborhood, it had been lively. Elders at their windows or on stoops seeking relief from the heat, dealers on the corners, children playing wherever they could find shade. Things between the neighborhood and the commune were occasionally tense, sure, but there’d been a community here, people who knew one another, looked out for each other. And predators, like in any community. But a real neighborhood, in spite or because of poverty and oppression.
Now it was a ghost town. No one was out on the stoops, no faces in windows hoping for a breeze. One person on a corner bolted as soon as they saw us. The quiet put me on edge. Where had everyone gone?
The front of the commune was a patchwork of red brick and plywood. Two guards on the doorway—so the commune wasn’t entirely ignoring security—were teens, maybe a decade younger than us. They looked at me with mild curiosity. The taller of the two said something in Tagalog and the other guard giggled and not-so-subtly shushed their comrade.
He knocked. A bolt clicked and the interior door opened. The common room was as I remembered it, once a restaurant for the rich, scarred and plastered over, furnished with scavenged and handmade tables and chairs. Seemed like the whole crew was there, clustered in small groups. At first, our arrival was greeted with mild interest. Then someone whispered my name, and tension rippled across the room. Someone I didn’t know called their kid over, clutched them tight. Soon every eye followed me, some wary, a few angry, none pleased. I burn bridges.
I stopped myself from yanking up my hood, just pulled my shoulders back, gave a quick nod to Samara and Samuel, who at least weren’t glaring, and followed Juan. I knew less than half the members, though I’d only been a few years in self-imposed exile. Through the kitchen, which smelled of yeast and sizzling vat protein, where more eyes stared, past what had been a courtyard and pool and was now the community garden, over to the personal rooms. Even before my memory implants, I couldn’t have forgotten the way, but Juan led me. For my safety, or the community’s? I didn’t ask.
Up the stairs of the apartments that made up the rear of the commune. The hand-painted swirls on Kay’s door were peeling like a tired metaphor. Juan put his hand on the latch, looked back at me.
“You ready?” he asked, more gently than I deserved.
“Not sure. But I’m doing it anyway.” Some things you’ve got to see, ready or not.
Sun sliced between the boards covering the wide window, thoughtless of its bright cruelty. Kay lay on her back. Someone had closed her eyes, wiped the vomit from her lips, mopped it up from the sheet as best they could, and put her on her back. Her brown skin was ashen. Can’t say she looked peaceful, but she was past hurting. I stared, even though I knew this sight would stay with me forever. I’d barely functioned before the memory enhancement, but the tech has a cost: I don’t forget, not even when I want to. I knew I’d never escape this last memory of her.
Maybe you only find a love like her once in your life. Who’s to say if that’s a curse or a blessing?
“She was always so careful,” I said. Careful about drugs, not about the commune. I’d told myself that’s why we’d split. Don’t think I ever really believed it.
“Careful isn’t always enough,” Juan said. As if I didn’t know.
I made myself lean close. Didn’t care that she was cold. I pressed my lips to her forehead, meaning it as our parting. It wasn’t enough. Tears weren’t coming, so I pulled her against me, mirroring the last hug she’d given me before I left. She’d always felt dangerously thin, one of many reasons I’d feared for her safety, even at those times when I hadn’t given a shit about my own. Even now I wanted to worry.
When I’d stormed out of the commune, cursing them for fools, all grief and anger and wounded pride, I told myself I was over her. Now I clutched her body like it would do any good. My hands clawed. The points of her shoulder blades were sharp under her worn shirt. Between them . . . something.
Carefully I turned her over, pulled down the shirt. No way anyone would have noticed the needle’s puncture if it weren’t for the bump around it, red and swollen, as clear an allergic reaction as you could ask for.
“Who found her body?” I snapped.
Juan stopped giving me space, came up to look for himself.
“Oh shit,” he said.
I asked again. Sharper.
“Ly. Lylah. When Kay didn’t come down for breakfast.”
“Tell me someone saved the syringe, Juan.”
Someone had. It was set in a box by the corner, next to the rag they’d used to clean up, waiting for safer disposal. I tore a corner from Kay’s cork-board. My contributions, a couple sketches of us, some bad poetry, and a tattoo design, had been purged long ago, replaced with mementos of other loves. I corked the syringe’s tip, carefully wrapped the whole thing and stuck it in my messenger bag. Pulled out my .38, confirmed it was loaded, and clipped it to my belt.
“The gun, Dora, really?” Juan asked, eyes wide. It wouldn’t win me friends in the commune, but I didn’t give a single shit.
“Someone here killed her,” I said. I could see he didn’t want to believe that, his eyes moving between me and Kay’s body. But he knew it too.
“Fuck,” he said. Our nightmares come to life. Kay killed, and it would be easy for this to tear the community apart.
Well. I’ve always been better in a crisis.
“Gather them up,” I said. “Everyone. I’m solving this.”
I’m no PI, but I’ve seen my share. Since I left the commune, I’d survived by selling my skill in operational security. I hadn’t set foot in the commune in years, which meant I was the only one who wasn’t a suspect.
“Are you sure you’re the right person for this, Dora?” Juan asked. As close as we’d been, now he didn’t want to say the obvious. They’d hate me for this.
“Who else?” I let him do the math. No one here, not the cops, who only came to the ghetto in force, and only then when the rich folks who ran the show demanded it. Not some PI the commune couldn’t afford. Me or no one.
“I’ll ask them,” he said. “You know I can’t make anyone agree.” Good luck making a few dozen anarchists agree on much of anything.
“Convince them. Remind them what it will look like if they refuse.”
He stared at me like I was a stranger. Or a fucking cop. When he left, I searched the room. Nothing more to see, just Kay murdered.
“I’ll find them, Kay,” I told her. As if that would fix anything. My specialty is breaking things.