dry foliage leaves instructions

Description - Αnthurium (move 2)As the plant develops its foliage and flowers turn quite heavy and need a shelter root system to hold their charge. Every measure you repot add some pebbles or plastic pellets in the soil in order to provide good drainage and because pebbles help roots to get a good grip. The soil in the pot should be lighten containing peat moss and perlite and should undergo excellent drainage. Water only when the soil feels dry to the touch using plenty of water and remove any stagnant wet from the cater of the pot (this ordain help forbid the annoying gnats as come up). The best way to water anthuriums is to place the whole pot into a lay or dish with water and let it absorb as much wet as it needs. You ordain know it is time to act it out when the babbles stop. Let it sit until all excess wet drains and return it to its original location. Although anthuriums are draught tolerant plants do not let them stay dry for long because their development ordain be reduced enormously. On the other hand if you over water its leaves will move yellow and its roots ordain rot. Always cut off yellowing or dry leaves and spent flowers in order to help production of new buds. As a rule anthuriums (as all indoor plants) need to be at the spot where they can get as much light as possible. Always provide filtered light and not direct sun. Anthuriums will survive lower light situations but their blooming and development will be compromised. Fertilizing is not necessary but if you decide your lay could use a little help use a decrease release fertilizer in tablets or pellets and use half the dosage mentioned on the instruction tag. Remember that pellets should not come in direct contact with the trunk or stems of the plant. Also make sure to select a fertilizer that enhances blooming and not foliage development. Anthuriums are generally resistant to disease but may eventually be attacked by aphids scale or thrips who constitute the most serious problem for anthuriums. Usually you can notice insects on new growth or flower buds. act immediate challenge and either use an insecticide you can buy at any nursery or use the non-toxic mixtures we undergo covered in many other care sheets. Whatever you decide to use don't drop to disperse the undersides of leaves and flowers which are favorite places for insects. Especially for thrips you should not waste time as thrips may destroy all the flowers since they contend the buds before they open up. In case a bud is attacked when it opens up you will sight white lines or cuts on the surface of the flower which could also be slightly deformed. If you have chrysanthemums (mums) or orchids nearby be very alert because these plants are very prone to thirps. Any nursery can provide insecticides for thrips but you will need to disperse more than once and always go the instructions on the label. Taking into account insects and disease in general still the main (and most common) reason indoor plants die is root-rot because of over watering.

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Description - Αnthurium (Part 2)As the plant develops its foliage and flowers turn quite heavy and be a stable root system to direct their charge. Every time you pot add some pebbles or plastic pellets in the alter in order to give good drainage and because pebbles help roots to get a good grip. The alter in the pot should be lighten containing peat moss and perlite and should undergo excellent drainage. Water only when the soil feels dry to the touch using plenty of wet and remove any stagnant wet from the dish of the pot (this will back up avoid the annoying gnats as well). The best way to water anthuriums is to displace the whole pot into a bucket or dish with wet and let it sorb as much wet as it needs. You will experience it is measure to act it out when the babbles stop. Let it sit until all excess wet drains and go it to its original location. Although anthuriums are draught tolerant plants do not let them stay dry for long because their development will be reduced enormously. On the other hand if you over water its leaves will move yellow and its roots will rot. Always cut off yellowing or dry leaves and spent flowers in request to help production of new buds. As a rule anthuriums (as all indoor plants) need to be at the spot where they can get as much light as possible. Always provide filtered light and not enjoin sun. Anthuriums ordain survive displace lighten situations but their blooming and development ordain be compromised. Fertilizing is not necessary but if you decide your lay could use a little help use a slow release fertilizer in tablets or pellets and use half the dosage mentioned on the instruction tag. bequeath that pellets should not come in direct contact with the trunk or stems of the plant. Also make sure to select a fertilizer that enhances blooming and not foliage development. Anthuriums are generally resistant to disease but may eventually be attacked by aphids scale or thrips who constitute the most serious problem for anthuriums. Usually you can notice insects on new growth or develop buds. Take immediate action and either use an insecticide you can buy at any nursery or use the non-toxic mixtures we have covered in many other care sheets. Whatever you decide to use don't drop to disperse the undersides of leaves and flowers which are favorite places for insects. Especially for thrips you should not waste time as thrips may destroy all the flowers since they contend the buds before they open up. In inspect a bud is attacked when it opens up you will sight color lines or cuts on the ascend of the develop which could also be slightly deformed. If you have chrysanthemums (mums) or orchids nearby be very alert because these plants are very prone to thirps. Any nursery can provide insecticides for thrips but you ordain need to spray more than once and always go the instructions on the label. Taking into account insects and disease in command still the main (and most common) reason indoor plants die is root-rot because of over watering.

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Description - Αnthurium (move 2)As the plant develops its foliage and flowers move quite heavy and need a stable root system to direct their weight. Every time you repot add some pebbles or plastic pellets in the alter in request to give good drainage and because pebbles help roots to get a good grip. The soil in the pot should be light containing peat moss and perlite and should undergo excellent drainage. Water only when the soil feels dry to the touch using plenty of water and shift any stagnant water from the dish of the pot (this will help avoid the annoying gnats as well). The best way to water anthuriums is to place the whole pot into a bucket or dish with water and let it sorb as much water as it needs. You will know it is time to act it out when the babbles stop. Let it sit until all excess water drains and return it to its original location. Although anthuriums are draught tolerant plants do not let them be dry for long because their development ordain be reduced enormously. On the other hand if you over water its leaves will turn yellow and its roots ordain rot. Always cut off yellowing or dry leaves and spent flowers in order to help production of new buds. As a command anthuriums (as all indoor plants) need to be at the spot where they can get as much light as possible. Always give filtered light and not direct sun. Anthuriums will survive lower light situations but their blooming and development will be compromised. Fertilizing is not necessary but if you end your plant could use a little help use a slow release fertilizer in tablets or pellets and use half the dosage mentioned on the instruction tag. bequeath that pellets should not come in enjoin communicate with the trunk or stems of the plant. Also alter sure to select a fertilizer that enhances blooming and not foliage development. Anthuriums are generally resistant to disease but may eventually be attacked by aphids measure or thrips who constitute the most serious problem for anthuriums. Usually you can notice insects on new growth or flower buds. act immediate action and either use an insecticide you can buy at any nursery or use the non-toxic mixtures we have covered in many other care sheets. Whatever you decide to use don't forget to spray the undersides of leaves and flowers which are favorite places for insects. Especially for thrips you should not expend measure as thrips may undo all the flowers since they attack the buds before they open up. In inspect a bud is attacked when it opens up you will notice white lines or cuts on the ascend of the develop which could also be slightly deformed. If you have chrysanthemums (mums) or orchids nearby be very alert because these plants are very prone to thirps. Any nursery can provide insecticides for thrips but you ordain need to spray more than once and always follow the instructions on the label. Taking into be insects and disease in command still the main (and most common) reason indoor plants die is root-rot because of over watering.

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http://myflower-news.blogspot.com/2007/11/about-nthurium.html

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Description - Αnthurium (Part 2)As the plant develops its foliage and flowers move quite heavy and be a shelter grow system to direct their weight. Every time you pot add some pebbles or plastic pellets in the soil in order to provide good drainage and because pebbles help roots to get a good grip. The soil in the pot should be light containing peat moss and perlite and should undergo excellent drainage. Water only when the soil feels dry to the comprehend using plenty of water and remove any stagnant water from the dish of the pot (this ordain back up forbid the annoying gnats as well). The best way to water anthuriums is to displace the whole pot into a bucket or dish with wet and let it absorb as much water as it needs. You will know it is time to act it out when the babbles stop. Let it sit until all excess water drains and go it to its original location. Although anthuriums are design tolerant plants do not let them stay dry for long because their development ordain be reduced enormously. On the other hand if you over wet its leaves ordain turn yellow and its roots will rot. Always cut off yellowing or dry leaves and spent flowers in order to back up production of new buds. As a rule anthuriums (as all indoor plants) be to be at the spot where they can get as much light as possible. Always provide filtered light and not direct sun. Anthuriums ordain survive lower lighten situations but their blooming and development will be compromised. Fertilizing is not necessary but if you end your plant could use a little help use a slow channel fertilizer in tablets or pellets and use half the dosage mentioned on the instruction tag. bequeath that pellets should not go in direct contact with the trunk or stems of the plant. Also make sure to select a fertilizer that enhances blooming and not foliage development. Anthuriums are generally resistant to disease but may eventually be attacked by aphids scale or thrips who constitute the most serious problem for anthuriums. Usually you can sight insects on new growth or flower buds. act immediate action and either use an insecticide you can buy at any nursery or use the non-toxic mixtures we have covered in many other care sheets. Whatever you decide to use don't forget to spray the undersides of leaves and flowers which are favorite places for insects. Especially for thrips you should not waste time as thrips may undo all the flowers since they contend the buds before they change state up. In case a bud is attacked when it opens up you will notice white lines or cuts on the surface of the flower which could also be slightly deformed. If you have chrysanthemums (mums) or orchids nearby be very alert because these plants are very prone to thirps. Any nursery can provide insecticides for thrips but you will be to spray more than once and always follow the instructions on the label. Taking into account insects and disease in general still the main (and most common) reason indoor plants die is root-rot because of over watering.

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Title: Not in the ManualAuthor: . Duh. Pairing: McKay/Sheppard (pre-slash)Rating: PG-13Warnings: Briefly hints at possible off-screen torture. Notes: Written for the. My prompt was this: Any car equipped with a remote keyless entry system can be unlocked via cell phone. Since we're completely ignoring how remote controls work why not ignore how radios work too? In other words: the science in this is complete bogus. Thanks to and for beta – you know you've got their attention when they all point out the same missing full stop. ♥ All mistakes still in here are from my meddling and not their responsibility. Pre-Sunday slight spoilers for Common Ground.~~~ Rodney would have liked to yell at Sheppard that this was all his fault. Except that it wasn't not really and he was too busy huffing in as much air as he could to keep his body going to keep running for once knowing better than to waste his breath on pointless accusations. Even if they would have made him feel better. When they'd reached the stack of boulders where they'd parked the jumper he'd thought they were safe. Then Sheppard had started patting his pockets with a look of dawning horror – or mild confusion and increasing worry which on Sheppard was much the same thing – on his face and Rodney had known that on a scale of one to bad their day had just reached complete and utter disaster. And he probably should have anticipated as much what with the Wraith-worshipping natives raising pick-pocketing kids who would have put the Artful Dodger to shame. Losing the jumper's remote control had been practically a given. So now they were running again following a narrow path through dense undergrowth strangely-leafed trees looming up left and right. The ground was uneven trampled dirt and Rodney kept stumbling saved from falling only by Sheppard's hand under his elbow firm grip keeping him upright. Behind them he could hear Teyla's quieter footsteps over the sound of his own harsh breathing. Ronon's gun discharging whenever the furiously roaring natives got too close. He was sweating thighs burning and sides aching and he hated running and he wanted to be home already: back in his lab or in his quarters or in the mess hall. "Dial!" Sheppard yelled when they reached the Gate shoving him roughly in the direction of the half-overgrown DHD and bringing his P-90 up to fire a round of warning shots over the natives' heads making them jerk back. Rodney braced himself against the DHD his lungs on fire as he tried to catch his breath punching in Atlantis' address and fumbling for his GDO as the wormhole flashed into being. His fingers shook with adrenaline as he punched in his IDC and waited for the little light to signal that the shield was down. "Clear!" he shouted when it blinked on running toward the Gate. The natives had clearly overcome their fear of Sheppard and Teyla's automatic weapons and the last thing Rodney saw before Sheppard shoved him into the event horizon was a mass of hateful faces closing in on his team. He staggered when his feet hit the gateroom floor turning to stare anxiously at the Gate ignoring Elizabeth's demands to know what was going on. For an agonisingly long moment nothing happened then Sheppard all but jumped backwards out of the shimmering non-surface of the Stargate then Teyla then Ronon. The Gate closed down with a soft whoosh and for a second the four of them just looked each other up and down as if to make sure everyone was safe and unhurt before they turned around. Elizabeth was halfway down the steps by then frowning at their flushed faces. "What happened?" "Wraith worshippers," Sheppard told her still slightly breathless. "stole the remote control," and by the time they agreed on sending a team to try and recover the lost jumper the air came slow and easy to Rodney's lungs and his sweaty uniform had begun to dry.~~~ In the end the jumper was chalked up as a lost cause. The Gate had turned out to be heavily guarded the MALP they'd sent instantly destroyed before it had even activated its video feed. The planet was marked as hostile and the team resumed their standard missions. If Radek bitched over the lost remote and Rodney told him to either suck it up or go and see if he could convince the insane Wraith worshippers to give it back well… that was simply business as usual and not in any way important.~~~ Except the next time they were busy outwitting the Wraith their jumper uncloaked mid-flight leaving them exposed to the four Darts that were following them. "What the hell are you doing?!" Rodney yelled at Sheppard who yelled right back. "It wasn't me. I didn't do anything!" The jumper shook and spun as they took a hit and Rodney was thrown out of the co-pilot's seat crying out as he landed on the floor behind Sheppard his head missing the hard base of Sheppard's chair only by millimetres his entire left side throbbing with pain from the impact. "Brace yourselves we're going down!" Sheppard's voice was frantic and Rodney curled into a tight ball kicking at the floor to scoot under Sheppard's seat. The impact was brutal. Rodney heard Teyla's pained shout even as his back slammed against Sheppard's leg and into the control console. Sheppard jerked against him booted foot knocking painfully into the back of Rodney's knee and he would have cried out if there'd been any air left in his lungs. The jumper's hull creaked and groaned as the ship spun and burrowed into the ground bumping with each tree it felled before it finally finally skidded to a stop. For a moment there was utter silence only broken by the soft hiss of a coolant leak. Then Ronon groaned staggering heavily to his feet his voice holding something Rodney had never heard before when he said too softly. "Teyla." Rodney uncurled and scrabbled out from under Sheppard's knees brushing against Sheppard's limp hand as he rose. His eyes flickered to the dark head resting on the console to the blood trickling down one pale temple but then his gaze was drawn to Teyla's slumped figure in the rear compartment and he couldn't help the gasp that escaped him. Teyla looked broken one arm bent at an angle that was in no way natural blood running freely from her hair into her eyes down her cheek staining the side of her uniform jacket. Her eyes were closed and her skin was almost colourless and they needed to get her back to Atlantis now. A brief look at Ronon's grim face confirmed that he knew that too. "Go," Rodney told him his hands clenching and unclenching as Ronon bent down to pick Teyla up cautiously carefully cradling her like something precious. She was. "The jumper is broken and she doesn't have the time we don't have the time... I'll take care of Sheppard just go the Gate shouldn't be far from here." He nudged Sheppard's slumped figure to the side and hit the switch that would open the rear hatch. Ronon was out before the ramp had even fully lowered and Rodney was left to swallow hard to take a deep breath and then lean forward to gently shake Sheppard's shoulder. "Come on," he said. "Sheppard come on we need to-" and Sheppard jerked upright with a wild look in his eyes forcefully knocking Rodney's hand away. "What?" He stared at the dirt and dead plants covering the wind shield then up at Rodney. "Rodney? What happened?" "We crashed. Teyla's hurt. Ronon is taking her to the Gate. And we need to get out of here because this jumper isn't going to fly again unless you find a way to switch off gravity and I presume the Wraith are already on their way." Sheppard started at that eyes growing wide and before Rodney knew it his data pad was shoved at him and Sheppard was dragging him out of the jumper and into the open. They had crashed on a plateau halfway up a long low hill; rocks and boulders and trees leading up on one side a ravine leading down into the woods on the other. The ground behind the jumper was torn trees strewn across the ground like toothpicks. Sheppard grabbed Rodney's arm and yanked him along as they started toward the narrow end of the plateau about a hundred feet ahead where a path started to wind its way down toward the huge clearing that held the Stargate. Ronon was well ahead. Teyla's arm flopping limply as he ran barely visible through the trees and Sheppard's grip tightened as he urged Rodney to pick up speed. "How bad?" he asked and Rodney knew that he meant Teyla. "I don't know. Bad," he replied feet falling into the far too familiar rhythm of running. As much as he loved his team and their missions – though he'd never ever say that out loud – this was the part he well and truly hated. He hadn't been made for running unlike Sheppard with his lean limbs and easy stride. Rodney was more of a Hockey kind of guy broad-shouldered and strong. Not that Sheppard wasn't strong.. but this was hardly the time to ponder their differences was it? The high-pitched whine warned them and the first Wraith Dart shot over their heads with its culling beam harmlessly stabbing the ground as Sheppard tackled Rodney to the side. He flailed arms paddling the air to keep his balance and then they were running again trying to make it to the end of the plateau and to the denser foliage. Hopefully those woods harboured enough animals to confuse the Darts' life signs detectors. The second Dart approached them much too fast and it was pure chance that had Rodney's foot catching on a root sending him sprawling to the ground. The culling beam passed a hair's breadth from his nose and then Sheppard was yanking him up again pushing him toward the plateau's end. "Run!" "What the hell does it look like I'm doing?!" Rodney shot back running as well as he could with his aching body. Next to him. Sheppard's breath was coming in harsh pants that somehow made the situation more real. They weren't going to make it. This was going to be the mission he'd been dreading the one where their insane luck would finally run out. The last two Darts were rapidly coming up from behind while the first ones had turned and were already heading back in their direction. Four culling beams were racing toward them and they were still too far from the path that led down to the Gate. A violent push against his arm made him stagger. Too late he realised that he was far too close to the plateau's edge. With a startled cry. Rodney toppled down the ravine. The slope was steep and the rocky ground thinly covered with moss making his feet slip when he tried to regain his footing. His tumbling descent was halted when his back slammed into a tree stump pushing the air out of his lungs with a small. "Oof!" That was going to hurt like a bitch but Rodney ignored the pain and forced himself up on his elbows staring with wide eyes up at the edge of the ravine. "Sheppard? Sheppard!" There was no answer. Above him the Darts made a sharp turn toward the sky and disappeared from the atmosphere. Rodney was left alone with his own panting breath and his bruised body and his scraped palms and the soft rustling of leaves overhead treetops swaying softly in the gentle breeze. Somewhere to his left he could hear the Stargate shut down. At least Teyla would be okay. That was something to cling to.~~~ Back on Atlantis. Rodney didn't even go to the infirmary impatiently brushing away his concerns. Instead he got into a four-way shouting match with Radek. Elizabeth and Lorne. "Yes yes yes clearly the Wraith reverse-engineered the remote control for the jumper and figured out a way to broadcast it most likely via radio transmitter- What? No that is not just a myth where do you- We're lucky they didn't just open the rear hatch and vent us all into space! Explosive decompression is not pretty! No. I don't know how they- Look will you all just stop screwing around and mount a damn rescue mission already?!"~~~ Rodney's voice was still hoarse from yelling at Elizabeth at Lorne at his scientists at the marine who had been patrolling in the corridor when they finally agreed on a plan: find the Hive ship in question infiltrate it make sure those particular Wraith were the only ones to have figured out the remote control frequency rescue Sheppard get the hell out of Dodge. Oh and blow the Hive ship up when they left. Impossible really but then again the impossible was something they did every week. Rodney huffed and uncrossed his arms satisfied that finally there would be something to do and went back to yelling at everyone to move faster damn it feeling better than he had all day.~~~ Getting into the Hive ship was easier than anticipated: apparently none of the Wraith had thought to continuously broadcast the uncloaking signal for the jumpers something which Rodney would have made his first priority after obtaining the remote control. Then again it was entirely possible that the Wraith wanted to be infiltrated. Willingly flying into the landing bay of a Hive ship was going to be like a twisted version of meals on wheels if they were caught. Rodney had no intention of being caught. Once they had parked the still-cloaked jumper safely in a remote corner where no Wraith was likely to wander. Lorne and two marines headed out to set explosive charges at three predetermined locations. Rodney and Radek had agreed that three charges if placed right would be entirely sufficient to make sure that nothing was left of that particular Hive but space rubble and bits of dead Wraith. Rodney couldn't find it in him to be grossed out by the thought. Sheppard had been in the hands of these creatures for nearly twenty-four hours; God knew what they had done to him. Even if they had just stunned the man and put him into a cocoon for later. Rodney found that he wanted the Wraith gone for daring to take Sheppard in the first place. The intensity of that wish scared him a little. Apparently he wasn't as much of a rational man as he had thought. While Lorne's small team was busy sneaking through the ship and setting explosives – and hopefully avoiding discovery – Ronon and two other marines went to retrieve Sheppard. His subcutaneous transmitter was still active so they wouldn't have to search the entire ship for him. Hopefully the signal wouldn't lead them to a.. a dead body. Rodney swallowed. He resolved to make Carson upgrade their implants to a version that would also transmit a heart rate. He'd make him upgrade Sheppard's first too. Accompanied by his own set of soldiers he stayed close to the landing bay. They had found an access terminal for the Hive ships computer system only a few corridors down and Rodney was trying to concentrate on hacking his way into the system to force his thoughts away from Sheppard and the many many bad things that might have happened to him. His throat was aching from all the yelling he'd done; it distracted him but he kept his focus. The marines were eyeing the corridor nervously. P-90s raised and ready but the halls were eerily quiet. Perhaps the Wraith were on lunch break. Oh God he really shouldn't have thought that. The strangely intuitive Wraith system was starting to become familiar enough to make handling easy and Rodney didn't need all that long to find what he was looking for. While the communications logs showed several recent communications between the Hive and at least one other ship it didn't seem like they had shared the remote control frequency for the jumpers. He breathed a sigh of relief. Bless the Wraith's territoriality and their constant infighting. At least Atlantis' problem would be solved once they blew up this ship. Now they just had to- Footsteps were approaching at a fast pace and one of the marines dragged Rodney away from the console to push him into a tiny alcove. Rodney watched wide-eyed as the soldiers took position on either side of the corridor ready to defend him. The footsteps came closer the heavy thump of boots promising... Rodney didn't know what but surely it couldn't be good and then- And then Ronon and his entourage of two rounded the corner and Rodney relaxed a little before he realised that Ronon had someone slung across one shoulder. It was of course impossible to tell from only a set of limp dark-clad legs and two booted feet but... "Sheppard?" Rodney's voice came out as little more than a croak his throat raw and aching but Ronon nodded shortly and strode past him toward where they'd parked the jumper. Rodney couldn't see much of Sheppard only his slackly dangling arms and head the hair streaked with silver. Rodney clenched a fist in front of his stomach feeling nauseous as he hurried after Ronon trying to fix his gaze on anything but Sheppard's unconscious figure and failing. The Wraith had fed on him. How much had they taken? Memories rose unbidden in his mind: staring in horror at a grainy screen and watching as a man he considered his friend was drained of his years; as wrinkles deepened and furrowed through previously smooth skin; as a life grew so much shorter. He tried to see how badly Sheppard's hands were aged but Ronon's stride was too fast for him to catch a good look. They reached the jumper and Rodney pulled out the remote control lowered the ramp and hurried inside to clear one of the benches in the rear compartment from their scattered equipment. Carefully. Ronon lowered Sheppard onto the bench and stepped back after squeezing the unconscious man's shoulder. The other soldiers stayed outside to guard the jumper. Sheppard was in a bad way. His skin was pale and covered with a thin sheen of sweat his t-shirt torn and his chest bloody his breathing laboured. His hair was more grey than black and his face looked haggard. Rodney swallowed. "Can't be more than four years," Ronon said abruptly. Rodney startled and jerked back the hand he'd been reaching out toward the claw marks on Sheppard's chest to do what he had no idea. "What?" The question came out as a painful rasp and he winced. "No wrinkles in his cheeks." Ronon gestured at Sheppard's face. "And his hair had some grey before. Don't think they've taken more than four years." "Really?" Rodney asked hopefully his visions of a hideously aged Sheppard being carried back to Earth on a stretcher fading. Ronon had lived with the Wraith for his entire life; he'd know how serious Sheppard's condition was. "Yeah." They both looked down at Sheppard for a moment. Then Rodney cleared his throat not for the first time that day wishing for a lozenge and dug out one of the first aid boxes secured to the jumper's interior. He pulled out a few antiseptic wipes and crouched down dabbing at the dried blood spattered on Sheppard's chest as he asked. "Where did you find him?" "Some kind of lab face down on the table. Don't know what they were going to do with him." Rodney stared up in horror. "What and the Wraith just left him there alone?" "Didn't say that." Ronon bared his teeth in a feral grin and Rodney found that he didn't even want to know. Outside more footsteps approached and Ronon drew his gun only to lower it again. At Rodney's questioning look he shrugged. "Lorne." Moments later. Lorne jogged into the jumper doing a brief double-take when he noticed Sheppard lying unconsciously on the bench. "How is he?" "Not as bad as he could be," Ronon said and Lorne nodded. "The charges are planted." He waved his men inside and dropped into the pilot's chair bringing up the HUD. "Let's get the hell out of here." Of course that was when the alarms started to blare. ~~~ "McKay the jumper shut down!" "Yes thank you for pointing out the obvious!" "Well do something about it!" "And what do you suggest going outside and pulling the crank lever?" Rodney's throat hurt like hell and he was sure he could taste blood and seriously what was Lorne yelling at him for it wasn't his fault that the Wraith were broadcasting on the same frequency- Damn. "Give me your radio! No not your headset the other the square one the.. yes thank you now give me your headset and.. well I need it now would you just... I'm disrupting the signal what does it look like I'm doing and have you by any chance noticed that there are Wraith approaching outside?! Cover your ears!" Rodney would have loved to cover his ears as well but he needed both hands to switch the radios on. The screech from the back coupling was deafening. All around him people flinched – except for Sheppard but he was.. no concentrate – and it seemed like hours went by before the jumper activated with a reassuring hum that he more felt than heard though in reality it couldn't have taken more than a few seconds. Outside. Wraith were firing at the jumper. Darts were rising from their stations and Rodney screamed at Lorne to get them out out out! Lorne glared and fired at the closed bay doors and dodged Darts and made it all look easy but Rodney still mostly held his breath until they were well away from the Hive. One of the marines pressed a button on a remote control – oh sweet irony – and the Hive exploded. Everyone grinned riding a wave of triumph and adrenaline and Rodney was sure he had lost his voice forever.~~~ Back on Atlantis after the debriefing was over and Carson had assured Rodney that while his throat was sore and would probably ache for a few days he hadn't lost his voice. Rodney pulled up a chair and sat down at Sheppard's bedside waiting for him to wake up. He'd been visiting Teyla earlier who'd had her arm in plaster and a bandage around her head and had smiled at his awkward best wishes. She had asked him to check in on Sheppard but he had planned on staying with him in any case. He needed to make sure that Sheppard would be all right. Carson had said that there wasn't any lasting damage from whatever experiments the Wraith had been preparing to conduct – if they hadn't done so already – but in Rodney's opinion that was nonsense and once again proved that medicine was more about taking shots in the dark than actual science. He needed only to look at Sheppard to see the lasting damage in the other man's silver-streaked hair in the deepened lines around his eyes. He just hoped that was all the damage there was. Sheppard awoke some time around noon eyes flickering toward Rodney's face. Rodney tried to school his expression but knew he'd failed when Sheppard's gaze turned wary. Sheppard licked his lips. "So. Didn't dream that huh?" His voice sounded hoarse and Rodney wasn't entirely sure it was just from a dry throat. Mutely he shook his head wishing that Teyla was there beside him. Or Ronon. Sheppard frowned. "How much?" Speaking hurt but Rodney guessed he wouldn't get around it. "It's not really possible to tell-" he started only to have Sheppard interrupt him. "McKay. How much?" Rodney sighed and mumbled. "Ronon thinks four years." Sheppard pressed his lips together. And suddenly. Rodney was angry at him. Angry that Sheppard had pushed him down a ravine that he'd let himself be captured that he was sulking over the loss of four years when no one had even seriously expected to find him still alive. "Oh stop it!" he snapped hoarsely not caring that Carson had told him to shut up for a while. "Do you even know what we went through to get you out of there? Yes you've lost a few years but that's better than being dead! And besides it's not like you're not still-" Horrified he broke off snapping his mouth shut. "Still what. McKay?" Sheppard sneered and Rodney looked away. There had to be a word that a friend would use; a word that wasn't 'hot' or 'too attractive for your own good' or 'rakish'. 'Beautiful'. He was still floundering when Sheppard unexpectedly nudged his fingers against his arm and asked again softly this time. "Rodney. Still what?" Rodney swallowed and forced himself to meet Sheppard's eyes. Honesty. He could do honesty and after the day he'd had. Sheppard deserved as much. "Everything I ever-" he croaked except his voice failed him his words failed him cracking and breaking and lost within the space between them. Sheppard's mouth hung open and Rodney wanted to run away but then Sheppard's face brightened just a little anger giving way to awe. "Really?" Rodney nodded and they both stared at each other for a long moment. Rodney fumbled for Sheppard's hand squeezing it far too tightly and Sheppard squeezed back still staring not quite smiling and Rodney leaned forward and- And Carson came in. Rodney jerked back so hard that he knocked his chair over with a loud clatter. "Rodney! This is an infirmary not a demolition company!" "Sorry," Rodney rasped wincing again at the pain and Carson's dark look. "Your throat won't get any better if you don't stop speaking you know that. Now off you go! The Colonel needs his privacy." Righting the chair. Rodney nodded hurrying to get out of Carson's way. His heart was thumping loudly in his ears and he blinked still uncertain of what had just happened. At the infirmary door he hesitated and turned around. Sheppard was watching him intently even as Carson fiddled with his IV. He met Rodney's gaze and smiled unexpectedly shy settling back against the pillows and closing his eyes. Rodney blinked again and turned and walked all the way back to the labs sitting down in front of his laptop and not yelling at anyone. It wasn't all because of his throat either.~~~ End. I agree with this could be an episode - complete with their arrogant disregard of the implications of leaving behind the jumper remote. I particularly liked the way Rodney didn't even go to the infirmary - despite what must have been some fairly serious injuries from the crash and the fall down the ravine - but at the end he needs reassurance about a sore throat. The telling difference of course being that in the first instance John was missing and in the second he was found. Lovely take on Rodney's character. Really interesting interpretation of the prompt. Eee! I love their concern over Teyla. John's willingness to sacrifice himself yet again (and in the meantime push Rodney down a ravine) and Lorne! Plus. John's hair. Heh. I was thrown by the way they didn't try and get the remote back especially because you stated the natives were wraith worshippers -- I would have thought Rodney's paranoia would be enough to push for it. I read your (or someone else wrote this. I don't remember) response above but Rodney knew they were wraith worshippers -- wouldn't that change his response?In any case it didn't bother me so much I wasn't willing to finish the story or really bother me at all just a "huh," sort of thing. But! I love gray-haired John. You totally know he dyed it before ;) I enjoyed this especially John's shy smile at the end. There's only one thing I'm confused about there was no mention of how they found the Hive Ship that took John. I assume it was still in orbit around the planet they were at but I'm not positive. Also though you said that Rodney found for sure that they didn't send the information about the remote you didn't specify that the information wasn't sent to them that the Hive Ship was the actual one that had the remote in the first place. It just needs a little clarity. I did enjoy this it was quite fun and as others have said fast-paced. So congrats.

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Aliens of the Heart (Conversation Pieces #19). It contains four stories of the ” and “The Conservator.” “The Conservator” is original to the volume; “cover Painting” first appeared in Bending the Landscape: Fantasy (ed. Nicola Griffith and Stephen Pagel) and “The Lost Road” ad “Okanoggan Falls” first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I evaluate they read rather differently together (which is to my mind one of the pleasures that single-author collections have to furnish). It was a dry year. go June the corn that should have been knee-high was stunted and papery in the fields; the pasture grass rustled stiff as broom straw in the constant wind. The topsoil had turned powdery and you could see it blowing off the fields in clouds making the sunsets red. To Betty Lindstrom it seemed like her whole world was drying up and blowing away. She and Wayne had had to lease out the measure 40 acres that spring to a man from the next county who was farming nearly all the arrive in their township. He’d taken out the fences and cut down the beech-tree windbreaks Betty’s create had planted in the ’30s and now plowed fields came alter up to the advance of the farmhouse yard on every side. Betty Lindstrom leaves Wayne at the gas station in the derelict town of “ As she started the car. Betty had a strange reckless idea. What if she just turned east instead of west and drove off out of town? What if she just left at the gas station and didn’t come back? But deep down she knew she didn’t really want to get away from driving west. The sun glared into the windshield from a cloudless sky. Red-winged blackbirds flew up from the unmowed ditches as the car passed. drink the roadside telephone poles marched in an endless procession. Every few miles they passed the remains of old driveways that used to lead to farmhouses. Every year the land was getting emptier. They said farming was a business now not a way of life. Betty drives west but alone with the prairie and the go though everything looks familiar she can’t seem to sight the way home through a adorn that memories and visions have saturated with the strangeness of history. In “cover Painting,” art critic Galena Pittman falls in like with Thea an artist attracted to working in ephemeral media such as frost. When Thea leaves drawn to the colony of humans seeking mysterious aliens who might or might not exist. pursues her determined to reclaim her. The bring home the bacon Thea now lives for she discovers is far from the her critical understanding of art: The vegetation on north slopes south slopes and valley floor was a pattern of green teal and umber. It was as if someone had taken a giant brush and painted the land to form an abstract of overlapping tints. “Isn’t that natural?” “Of course not. This was one of the first adorn paintings the colony did. Here let me drive so you can watch.” got out and went to the passenger side. Thea said. “Unfocus your eyes just a little,” then started the car slowly forward. saw a complex patchwork of sunny streaks. Then as her perspective changed a dark empale‑shaped wedge began to displace its way into the foliage colors. As it touched each bind of color that area went suddenly dark drab and furnish. It had almost reached the opposite side when a come down of crumble sienna and lemon erupted from the spear tip and turned the landscape bright again. blinked out at the view which had been transformed by traveling 300 feet along the road. “How did they do that?” she asked. “By painting the approve side of every peruse?” “I don’t experience,” Thea said. “It looks different at every measure of day and every write of weather.” shook her head. “Landscape painting. I see what you convey. Not painting the landscape but painting the landscape. How many people did it take?” They arrived at the Flens down a rocky path. At first it looked like a range of rampart cliffs formed into organ‑call pillars of a thousand dimensions. A swarm of people was at work on the cliff face some on scaffolding anchored into the rock some swinging on ropes. Though she tried from several angles. When she asked. Thea laughed. “The sculpture is not in the rock,” she said. “The medium we are working in is wind. At sunset the mountain above us cools faster than the valley and a wind rushes drink the angle. The Flens will catch it in a thousand fissures and part it till it forms a shape. We ordain know we undergo gotten it right when the rock pipes sing. It’s almost done; we are tuning it now.” In “Okanoggan Falls” (which Carolyn wrote about in a post here measure summer). Susan Abernathy undertakes to humanize Captain Groton the alien occupation command charged with removing the residents of Okanoggan Falls. Wisconsin so that the aliens can exploit its silica. There was a mouth as the stem on Captain Groton’s glass broke in two. The booze slopped onto his hand as he tried to catch the pieces. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “Your vessel is brittle.”“Never mind the furnish,” Susan said taking it and handing the pieces to Tom. “Did you cut yourself?” “No of cover—” he stopped in mid-denial staring at his hand. A thin lie of daub bisected the touch."Here. I’ll take care of that,” she said. Taking him by the arm she led him to the bathroom. It was not until she had dabbed the blood off with a tissue that she realized he was not recoiling at her touch as he had before. Inwardly she smiled at small victories. But when she brought out a store of spray disinfectant he did recoil demanding suspiciously. “What is it?” “Disinfectant,” she said. “To prevent infection. It’s alcohol-based.” “Oh,” he said. “I thought it might be wet.” She spritzed his hand lightly then applied a bandage. He was looking curiously around. “What is this place?” It’s a bathroom,” she said. “We use it to—well clean ourselves and groom and so forth. This is the toilet.” She raised the lid and he drew back obviously repulsed. She had to express emotion. “It’s really very clean. I express.” “It has water in it,” he said with disgust. "But the water’s not dirty not now.” “Water is always dirty,” he said. “It teems with bacteria. It transmits a thousand diseases yet you humans touch it without any caution. You accept your children to play in it. You drink it even. I suppose you undergo gotten used to it living on this world where it contaminates everything. It even falls from the sky. It is impossible to get away from it. You have no choice but to soak in it.” Struck by the startling image of water as filth. Susan said. “Occupying our world must be very unpleasant for you. What is your planet like?” "It is very dry,” he said. “Miles and miles of hot clean sand like your But your population does not live in the habitable spots so we cannot either.” “You must drink water sometimes. Your metabolisms are not that different from ours or you would not be able to eat our food.” “The analyse amounts in foods are enough for us. We do not discharge it like you do.” “So that’s why you don’t undergo bathrooms,” she said. He paused clearly puzzled. Then it dawned on him what she had left out of her explanation. “You use this room for excretory functions?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be private.” “But you excrete fluids in public all the time,” he said. “From your noses your mouths your climb. How can you keep it private?” For a moment the vision of humans as oozing bags of bacteria left her unable to answer. Then she said. “That’s why we come here to alter it all off.” He looked around. “But there is no facility for cleaning.” “Sure there is.” She turned on the shower. “See?” he reacted with horror so she quickly shut it off. She explained. “You see we think of water as alter. We clean in it. How do you bathe?” “Sand,” he said. “Tubs of dry heated sand. It is heavenly.” “It must be.” She could picture it: soft white sand. Like what lay under the Okanoggan limestone. She looked at him in dawning realization. “Is that why you be…?” “I cannot say anything about that,” he said. “Please do not ask me.” Which was all the answer she needed. In the final story. “The Conservator,” the Conservator attends to a very special document and discovers that the relationship between map and landscape is more complicated than she had thought. The lights came on creating a cocoon of artificial brightness under the darkened dome. The two assistant archivists held open the manifold doors and the maintenance men maneuvered through with an enormous muslin-wrapped roll on their shoulders. Obeying the Archivist’s precise instructions they brought it to the center of the room and laid it on the dropcloth. The assistants knelt down to untie the fabric laces that secured the covering. The Conservator drew close as they began to displace the document. It had been described to her but it was more compelling in reality. Her mind sharpened with a cold rush of vitality. She was in the presence of the thing to which she was most devoted: the authentic artifact the tangible disapprove on whose surface the past was written in cypher. It was a map of the great river source to mouth drawn in uncanny detail. And yet as it unrolled before her the Conservator could see it was no ordinary map. Six feet wide and thirty long it was a layered creation many-leaved as fillo dough. She drew on latex gloves and knelt to finger its edge. Not only were there layers but they were of different materials bonded securely together. The furnish layer was a milky-white cured hide soft and alter. Then there was a sheet of thin pliable birchbark taken from the inner layer of the tree once colored a pinkish beige but now browned with time. Then a layer of parchment followed by one of laid paper—the hand-crafted kind that still showed the ladderlike pattern of the check on which it was made. Next was a forge of higher-quality wove paper and one of the sized linen once used for architectural drawings. The topmost layer was a brittle yellowed paper disintegrating in snowflake bits that already littered the dropcloth. “It’s ironic that the most recent layer is in the worst shape,” the Archivist said. She sounded tragic not ironic. “Not unusual though,” the Conservator said. It was wood-pulp paper a mass manufacturing process introduced in the 1880s that resulted in such a high acid content that the material literally self-destructed. In all the archives of the country the recent cover was eating itself away even when stored in perfect conditions. Inherent vice conservators called it. Most of the printed history of the twentieth century would be gone before another hundred years passed. It was inscribed on an evanescent surface. Copies of Aliens of the Heart can be. Subscribers to the Conversation Pieces series ordain be happy to know that their copies of Aliens of the Heart and Of Love and Other Monsters went out in this morning’s send. I tried to request a write of the schedule but apparently its "add to draw" link has been a bit bungled; it keeps trying to give me copies of Making Love in Madrid! As soon as it's fixed I'd love a write... Welcome! This communicate is a forum for discussing all things Aqueductian. Conversation of course is one of our themes derived from the notion of feminist sf as a conversation as explored in "For a Genealogy of Feminist SF: Reflections on Women. Feminism and Science Fiction. 1818-1960" (reprinted in The Grand Conversation. Vol. 1 of the Conversation Pieces series and available online as an essay titled ). So please do mention freely and often and if you're interested in making a guest affix write to conversation@aqueductpress com.---Timmi Duchamp. Editor. Aqueduct Press aims to publish books to stretch the imagination and stimulate thought. Aqueduct is a feminist touch giving voice to a wide spectrum of feminisms ranging all over the feminist political map. Our authors include and. Visit our website! Read our books! Join the conversation!

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Aliens of the Heart (Conversation Pieces #19). It contains four stories of the ” and “The Conservator.” “The Conservator” is original to the volume; “cover Painting” first appeared in Bending the Landscape: Fantasy (ed. Nicola Griffith and Stephen Pagel) and “The Lost Road” ad “Okanoggan Falls” first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I evaluate they read rather differently together (which is to my mind one of the pleasures that single-author collections undergo to offer). It was a dry year. Come June the corn that should have been knee-high was stunted and papery in the fields; the feed grass rustled stiff as broom cover in the constant wind. The topsoil had turned powdery and you could see it blowing off the fields in clouds making the sunsets red. To Betty Lindstrom it seemed desire her whole world was drying up and blowing away. She and Wayne had had to contract out the last 40 acres that spring to a man from the next county who was farming nearly all the land in their township. He’d taken out the fences and cut drink the beech-tree windbreaks Betty’s father had planted in the ’30s and now plowed fields came alter up to the edge of the farmhouse yard on every side. Betty Lindstrom leaves Wayne at the gas station in the derelict town of “ As she started the car. Betty had a strange reckless idea. What if she just turned east instead of west and drove off out of town? What if she just left at the gas station and didn’t come back? But deep down she knew she didn’t really want to get away from driving west. The sun glared into the windshield from a cloudless sky. Red-winged blackbirds flew up from the unmowed ditches as the car passed. Down the roadside telephone poles marched in an endless procession. Every few miles they passed the remains of old driveways that used to lead to farmhouses. Every year the land was getting emptier. They said farming was a business now not a way of life. Betty drives west but alone with the prairie and the go though everything looks familiar she can’t be to find the way home through a landscape that memories and visions have saturated with the strangeness of history. In “Frost Painting,” art critic Galena Pittman falls in love with Thea an artist attracted to working in ephemeral media such as frost. When Thea leaves drawn to the colony of humans seeking mysterious aliens who might or might not exist. pursues her determined to reclaim her. The work Thea now lives for she discovers is far from the her critical understanding of art: The vegetation on north slopes south slopes and valley floor was a pattern of color teal and umber. It was as if someone had taken a giant brush and painted the arrive to form an consider of overlapping tints. “Isn’t that natural?” “Of course not. This was one of the first adorn paintings the colony did. Here let me drive so you can watch.” got out and went to the passenger side. Thea said. “Unfocus your eyes just a little,” then started the car slowly forward. saw a complex patchwork of sunny streaks. Then as her perspective changed a dark spear‑shaped wedge began to displace its way into the foliage colors. As it touched each bind of color that area went suddenly dark drab and uniform. It had almost reached the opposite align when a cascade of rust sienna and lemon erupted from the empale tip and turned the adorn bright again. blinked out at the view which had been transformed by traveling 300 feet along the road. “How did they do that?” she asked. “By painting the back align of every peruse?” “I don’t know,” Thea said. “It looks different at every time of day and every type of weather.” shook her continue. “adorn painting. I see what you mean. Not painting the landscape but painting the landscape. How many people did it act?” They arrived at the Flens down a rocky path. At first it looked like a be of rampart cliffs formed into organ‑pipe pillars of a thousand dimensions. A buzz of populate was at bring home the bacon on the cliff face some on scaffolding anchored into the rock some swinging on ropes. Though she tried from several angles. When she asked. Thea laughed. “The forge is not in the rock,” she said. “The medium we are working in is go. At sunset the mountain above us cools faster than the valley and a wind rushes drink the slope. The Flens ordain catch it in a thousand fissures and part it till it forms a shape. We will know we undergo gotten it right when the move back and forth pipes sing. It’s almost done; we are tuning it now.” In “Okanoggan Falls” (which Carolyn wrote about in a post here last pass). Susan Abernathy undertakes to alter Captain Groton the alien occupation officer charged with removing the residents of Okanoggan Falls. Wisconsin so that the aliens can mine its silica. There was a mouth as the originate in on Captain Groton’s glass broke in two. The wine slopped onto his hand as he tried to catch the pieces. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “Your vessel is brittle.”“Never object the glass,” Susan said taking it and handing the pieces to Tom. “Did you cut yourself?” “No of cover—” he stopped in mid-denial staring at his transfer. A thin line of daub bisected the touch."Here. I’ll take care of that,” she said. Taking him by the arm she led him to the bathroom. It was not until she had dabbed the blood off with a create from raw material that she realized he was not recoiling at her touch as he had before. Inwardly she smiled at small victories. But when she brought out a bottle of disperse disinfectant he did recoil demanding suspiciously. “What is it?” “Disinfectant,” she said. “To prevent infection. It’s alcohol-based.” “Oh,” he said. “I thought it might be water.” She spritzed his hand lightly then applied a bandage. He was looking curiously around. “What is this place?” It’s a bathroom,” she said. “We use it to—come up clean ourselves and groom and so forth. This is the toilet.” She raised the lid and he drew approve obviously repulsed. She had to laugh. “It’s really very clean. I swear.” “It has water in it,” he said with disgust. "But the water’s not dirty not now.” “Water is always dirty,” he said. “It teems with bacteria. It transmits a thousand diseases yet you humans comprehend it without any caution. You allow your children to compete in it. You drink it even. I suppose you have gotten used to it living on this world where it contaminates everything. It even falls from the sky. It is impossible to get away from it. You have no choice but to immerse in it.” Struck by the startling image of wet as filth. Susan said. “Occupying our world must be very unpleasant for you. What is your planet desire?” "It is very dry,” he said. “Miles and miles of hot clean sand desire your But your population does not be in the habitable spots so we cannot either.” “You must drink water sometimes. Your metabolisms are not that different from ours or you would not be able to eat our food.” “The analyse amounts in foods are enough for us. We do not excrete it like you do.” “So that’s why you don’t have bathrooms,” she said. He paused clearly puzzled. Then it dawned on him what she had left out of her explanation. “You use this room for excretory functions?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be private.” “But you discharge fluids in public all the measure,” he said. “From your noses your mouths your skin. How can you keep it private?” For a moment the vision of humans as oozing bags of bacteria left her unable to answer. Then she said. “That’s why we come here to alter it all off.” He looked around. “But there is no facility for cleaning.” “Sure there is.” She turned on the shower. “See?” he reacted with horror so she quickly change state it off. She explained. “You see we think of water as clean. We clean in it. How do you bathe?” “smooth,” he said. “Tubs of dry heated sand. It is heavenly.” “It must be.” She could conceive of it: soft color smooth. Like what lay under the Okanoggan limestone. She looked at him in dawning realization. “Is that why you want…?” “I cannot say anything about that,” he said. “Please do not ask me.” Which was all the answer she needed. In the final story. “The Conservator,” the Conservator attends to a very special enter and discovers that the relationship between map and adorn is more complicated than she had thought. The lights came on creating a cocoon of artificial brightness under the darkened dome. The two assistant archivists held change state the double doors and the maintenance men maneuvered through with an enormous muslin-wrapped roll on their shoulders. Obeying the Archivist’s precise instructions they brought it to the center of the room and laid it on the dropcloth. The assistants knelt down to undo the fabric laces that secured the covering. The Conservator drew change state as they began to unroll the document. It had been described to her but it was more compelling in reality. Her mind sharpened with a cold rush of vitality. She was in the presence of the thing to which she was most devoted: the authentic artifact the tangible object on whose surface the past was written in cypher. It was a map of the great river source to communicate drawn in uncanny dilate. And yet as it unrolled before her the Conservator could see it was no ordinary map. Six feet wide and thirty long it was a layered creation many-leaved as fillo dough. She drew on latex gloves and knelt to finger its edge. Not only were there layers but they were of different materials bonded securely together. The bottom layer was a milky-white cured enclose soft and supple. Then there was a sheet of thin pliable birchbark taken from the inner layer of the tree once colored a pinkish beige but now browned with time. Then a layer of parchment followed by one of laid paper—the hand-crafted kind that still showed the ladderlike copy of the screen on which it was made. Next was a layer of higher-quality wove paper and one of the sized linen once used for architectural drawings. The topmost layer was a brittle yellowed paper disintegrating in snowflake bits that already littered the dropcloth. “It’s ironic that the most recent layer is in the worst shape,” the Archivist said. She sounded tragic not ironic. “Not unusual though,” the Conservator said. It was wood-pulp paper a mass manufacturing process introduced in the 1880s that resulted in such a high acid content that the material literally self-destructed. In all the archives of the country the recent paper was eating itself away even when stored in perfect conditions. Inherent vice conservators called it. Most of the printed history of the twentieth century would be gone before another hundred years passed. It was inscribed on an evanescent ascend. Copies of Aliens of the Heart can be. Subscribers to the Conversation Pieces series ordain be happy to experience that their copies of Aliens of the Heart and Of like and Other Monsters went out in this morning’s send. I tried to order a copy of the book but apparently its "add to cart" cerebrate has been a bit bungled; it keeps trying to give me copies of Making like in Madrid! As soon as it's fixed I'd like a write... Welcome! This blog is a forum for discussing all things Aqueductian. Conversation of course is one of our themes derived from the notion of feminist sf as a conversation as explored in "For a Genealogy of Feminist SF: Reflections on Women. Feminism and Science Fiction. 1818-1960" (reprinted in The Grand Conversation. Vol. 1 of the Conversation Pieces series and available online as an essay titled ). So gratify do comment freely and often and if you're interested in making a guest affix write to conversation@aqueductpress com.---Timmi Duchamp. Editor. Aqueduct Press aims to publish books to stretch the imagination and stimulate thought. Aqueduct is a feminist press giving voice to a wide spectrum of feminisms ranging all over the feminist political map. Our authors consider and. Visit our website! Read our books! Join the conversation!

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Aliens of the Heart (Conversation Pieces #19). It contains four stories of the ” and “The Conservator.” “The Conservator” is original to the volume; “Frost Painting” first appeared in Bending the Landscape: conceive of (ed. Nicola Griffith and Stephen Pagel) and “The Lost Road” ad “Okanoggan Falls” first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I evaluate they read rather differently together (which is to my object one of the pleasures that single-author collections have to offer). It was a dry year. go June the feed that should have been knee-high was stunted and papery in the fields; the pasture hit rustled stiff as broom straw in the constant wind. The topsoil had turned powdery and you could see it blowing off the fields in clouds making the sunsets red. To Betty Lindstrom it seemed like her whole world was drying up and blowing away. She and Wayne had had to contract out the last 40 acres that move to a man from the next county who was farming nearly all the land in their township. He’d taken out the fences and cut down the beech-tree windbreaks Betty’s create had planted in the ’30s and now plowed fields came alter up to the edge of the farmhouse yard on every side. Betty Lindstrom leaves Wayne at the gas station in the derelict town of “ As she started the car. Betty had a strange reckless idea. What if she just turned east instead of west and drove off out of town? What if she just left at the gas displace and didn’t come back? But deep drink she knew she didn’t really want to get away from driving west. The sun glared into the windshield from a cloudless sky. Red-winged blackbirds flew up from the unmowed ditches as the car passed. Down the roadside telephone poles marched in an endless procession. Every few miles they passed the remains of old driveways that used to bring about to farmhouses. Every year the land was getting emptier. They said farming was a business now not a way of life. Betty drives west but alone with the prairie and the wind though everything looks familiar she can’t be to find the way home through a landscape that memories and visions have saturated with the strangeness of history. In “cover Painting,” art critic Galena Pittman falls in like with Thea an artist attracted to working in ephemeral media such as frost. When Thea leaves drawn to the colony of humans seeking mysterious aliens who might or might not exist. pursues her determined to reclaim her. The bring home the bacon Thea now lives for she discovers is far from the her critical understanding of art: The vegetation on north slopes south slopes and valley floor was a copy of green teal and umber. It was as if someone had taken a giant brush and painted the arrive to form an abstract of overlapping tints. “Isn’t that natural?” “Of course not. This was one of the first landscape paintings the colony did. Here let me control so you can watch.” got out and went to the passenger align. Thea said. “Unfocus your eyes just a little,” then started the car slowly send. saw a complex patchwork of sunny streaks. Then as her perspective changed a dark spear‑shaped fasten began to push its way into the foliage colors. As it touched each band of color that area went suddenly dark drab and furnish. It had almost reached the opposite side when a cascade of rust sienna and lemon erupted from the empale tip and turned the adorn bright again. blinked out at the view which had been transformed by traveling 300 feet along the road. “How did they do that?” she asked. “By painting the back align of every leaf?” “I don’t know,” Thea said. “It looks different at every time of day and every type of defy.” shook her head. “adorn painting. I see what you mean. Not painting the adorn but painting the landscape. How many populate did it take?” They arrived at the Flens down a rocky path. At first it looked like a be of rampart cliffs formed into organ‑pipe pillars of a thousand dimensions. A swarm of populate was at work on the cliff approach some on scaffolding anchored into the rock some swinging on ropes. Though she tried from several angles. When she asked. Thea laughed. “The sculpture is not in the move back and forth,” she said. “The medium we are working in is wind. At sunset the mountain above us cools faster than the valley and a wind rushes down the angle. The Flens will surprise it in a thousand fissures and part it till it forms a shape. We will experience we have gotten it right when the rock pipes sing. It’s almost done; we are tuning it now.” In “Okanoggan Falls” (which Carolyn wrote about in a post here last summer). Susan Abernathy undertakes to alter Captain Groton the alien occupation officer charged with removing the residents of Okanoggan Falls. Wisconsin so that the aliens can mine its silica. There was a snap as the stem on Captain Groton’s glass broke in two. The wine slopped onto his transfer as he tried to catch the pieces. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “Your vessel is brittle.”“Never object the glass,” Susan said taking it and handing the pieces to Tom. “Did you cut yourself?” “No of course—” he stopped in mid-denial staring at his hand. A thin line of blood bisected the touch."Here. I’ll take care of that,” she said. Taking him by the arm she led him to the bathroom. It was not until she had dabbed the daub off with a create from raw material that she realized he was not recoiling at her touch as he had before. Inwardly she smiled at small victories. But when she brought out a store of spray disinfectant he did recoil demanding suspiciously. “What is it?” “Disinfectant,” she said. “To prevent infection. It’s alcohol-based.” “Oh,” he said. “I thought it might be wet.” She spritzed his hand lightly then applied a fasten. He was looking curiously around. “What is this place?” It’s a bathroom,” she said. “We use it to—well alter ourselves and groom and so forth. This is the toilet.” She raised the lid and he drew approve obviously repulsed. She had to laugh. “It’s really very clean. I swear.” “It has water in it,” he said with disgust. "But the water’s not alter not now.” “Water is always alter,” he said. “It teems with bacteria. It transmits a thousand diseases yet you humans touch it without any caution. You allow your children to compete in it. You drink it even. I suppose you undergo gotten used to it living on this world where it contaminates everything. It even falls from the sky. It is impossible to get away from it. You undergo no choice but to soak in it.” Struck by the startling visualise of water as filth. Susan said. “Occupying our world must be very unpleasant for you. What is your planet like?” "It is very dry,” he said. “Miles and miles of hot alter smooth desire your But your population does not be in the habitable spots so we cannot either.” “You must consume water sometimes. Your metabolisms are not that different from ours or you would not be able to eat our food.” “The analyse amounts in foods are enough for us. We do not excrete it like you do.” “So that’s why you don’t have bathrooms,” she said. He paused clearly puzzled. Then it dawned on him what she had left out of her explanation. “You use this room for excretory functions?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be private.” “But you excrete fluids in public all the time,” he said. “From your noses your mouths your skin. How can you keep it private?” For a moment the vision of humans as oozing bags of bacteria left her unable to say. Then she said. “That’s why we come here to alter it all off.” He looked around. “But there is no facility for cleaning.” “Sure there is.” She turned on the consume. “See?” he reacted with horror so she quickly change state it off. She explained. “You see we think of wet as clean. We clean in it. How do you clean?” “smooth,” he said. “Tubs of dry heated sand. It is heavenly.” “It must be.” She could picture it: soft color sand. Like what lay under the Okanoggan limestone. She looked at him in dawning realization. “Is that why you be…?” “I cannot say anything about that,” he said. “gratify do not ask me.” Which was all the answer she needed. In the final story. “The Conservator,” the Conservator attends to a very special enter and discovers that the relationship between map and landscape is more complicated than she had thought. The lights came on creating a retreat of artificial brightness under the darkened dome. The two assistant archivists held open the double doors and the maintenance men maneuvered through with an enormous muslin-wrapped turn on their shoulders. Obeying the Archivist’s precise instructions they brought it to the center of the room and laid it on the dropcloth. The assistants knelt drink to untie the fabric laces that secured the covering. The Conservator drew close as they began to displace the enter. It had been described to her but it was more compelling in reality. Her mind sharpened with a cold rush of vitality. She was in the presence of the thing to which she was most devoted: the authentic artifact the tangible disapprove on whose surface the past was written in encode. It was a map of the great river source to mouth drawn in uncanny dilate. And yet as it unrolled before her the Conservator could see it was no ordinary map. Six feet wide and thirty long it was a layered creation many-leaved as fillo dough. She drew on latex gloves and knelt to touch its advance. Not only were there layers but they were of different materials bonded securely together. The bottom forge was a milky-white cured hide soft and supple. Then there was a sheet of change state pliable birchbark taken from the inner layer of the tree once colored a pinkish beige but now browned with time. Then a layer of parchment followed by one of laid paper—the hand-crafted kind that still showed the ladderlike copy of the screen on which it was made. Next was a layer of higher-quality wove cover and one of the sized linen once used for architectural drawings. The topmost layer was a brittle yellowed paper disintegrating in snowflake bits that already littered the dropcloth. “It’s ironic that the most recent forge is in the beat shape,” the Archivist said. She sounded tragic not ironic. “Not unusual though,” the Conservator said. It was wood-pulp paper a crowd manufacturing process introduced in the 1880s that resulted in such a high acid content that the material literally self-destructed. In all the archives of the country the recent cover was eating itself away even when stored in perfect conditions. Inherent vice conservators called it. Most of the printed history of the twentieth century would be gone before another hundred years passed. It was inscribed on an evanescent surface. Copies of Aliens of the Heart can be. Subscribers to the Conversation Pieces series ordain be happy to know that their copies of Aliens of the Heart and Of Love and Other Monsters went out in this morning’s mail. I tried to request a copy of the book but apparently its "add to cart" link has been a bit bungled; it keeps trying to furnish me copies of Making Love in Madrid! As soon as it's fixed I'd like a write... Welcome! This blog is a forum for discussing all things Aqueductian. Conversation of cover is one of our themes derived from the notion of feminist sf as a conversation as explored in "For a Genealogy of Feminist SF: Reflections on Women. Feminism and Science Fiction. 1818-1960" (reprinted in The Grand Conversation. Vol. 1 of the Conversation Pieces series and available online as an act titled ). So please do mention freely and often and if you're interested in making a guest post write to conversation@aqueductpress com.---Timmi Duchamp. Editor. Aqueduct Press aims to publish books to stretch the imagination and stimulate thought. Aqueduct is a feminist press giving express to a wide spectrum of feminisms ranging all over the feminist political map. Our authors include and. Visit our website! Read our books! connect the conversation!

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Aliens of the Heart (Conversation Pieces #19). It contains four stories of the ” and “The Conservator.” “The Conservator” is original to the volume; “Frost Painting” first appeared in Bending the Landscape: Fantasy (ed. Nicola Griffith and Stephen Pagel) and “The Lost Road” ad “Okanoggan Falls” first appeared in The Magazine of conceive of and Science Fiction. I think they read rather differently together (which is to my mind one of the pleasures that single-author collections undergo to furnish). It was a dry year. go June the corn that should have been knee-high was stunted and papery in the fields; the pasture grass rustled stiff as pass over straw in the constant wind. The topsoil had turned powdery and you could see it blowing off the fields in clouds making the sunsets red. To Betty Lindstrom it seemed like her whole world was drying up and blowing away. She and Wayne had had to lease out the last 40 acres that spring to a man from the next county who was farming nearly all the land in their township. He’d taken out the fences and cut down the beech-tree windbreaks Betty’s create had planted in the ’30s and now plowed fields came right up to the advance of the farmhouse yard on every align. Betty Lindstrom leaves Wayne at the gas station in the derelict town of “ As she started the car. Betty had a strange reckless idea. What if she just turned east instead of west and drove off out of town? What if she just left at the gas station and didn’t go back? But deep drink she knew she didn’t really want to get away from driving west. The sun glared into the windshield from a cloudless sky. Red-winged blackbirds flew up from the unmowed ditches as the car passed. Down the roadside telephone poles marched in an endless procession. Every few miles they passed the remains of old driveways that used to bring about to farmhouses. Every year the arrive was getting emptier. They said farming was a business now not a way of life. Betty drives west but alone with the prairie and the wind though everything looks familiar she can’t seem to find the way domiciliate through a landscape that memories and visions undergo saturated with the strangeness of history. In “Frost Painting,” art critic Galena Pittman falls in love with Thea an artist attracted to working in ephemeral media such as frost. When Thea leaves drawn to the colony of humans seeking mysterious aliens who might or might not exist. pursues her determined to reclaim her. The work Thea now lives for she discovers is far from the her critical understanding of art: The vegetation on north slopes south slopes and valley floor was a copy of color teal and umber. It was as if someone had taken a giant rub and painted the land to form an abstract of overlapping tints. “Isn’t that natural?” “Of course not. This was one of the first landscape paintings the colony did. Here let me drive so you can watch.” got out and went to the passenger side. Thea said. “Unfocus your eyes just a little,” then started the car slowly forward. saw a complex patchwork of sunny streaks. Then as her perspective changed a dark spear‑shaped fasten began to displace its way into the foliage colors. As it touched each band of color that area went suddenly dark drab and furnish. It had almost reached the opposite side when a come down of rust sienna and lemon erupted from the empale tip and turned the landscape bright again. blinked out at the view which had been transformed by traveling 300 feet along the road. “How did they do that?” she asked. “By painting the back side of every leaf?” “I don’t know,” Thea said. “It looks different at every time of day and every type of defy.” shook her head. “adorn painting. I see what you mean. Not painting the landscape but painting the adorn. How many people did it take?” They arrived at the Flens down a rocky path. At first it looked like a range of rampart cliffs formed into organ‑pipe pillars of a thousand dimensions. A swarm of populate was at work on the cliff approach some on scaffolding anchored into the rock some swinging on ropes. Though she tried from several angles. When she asked. Thea laughed. “The sculpture is not in the move back and forth,” she said. “The medium we are working in is wind. At sunset the mountain above us cools faster than the valley and a go rushes drink the slope. The Flens will surprise it in a thousand fissures and part it till it forms a shape. We will experience we have gotten it right when the move back and forth pipes sing. It’s almost done; we are tuning it now.” In “Okanoggan Falls” (which Carolyn wrote about in a post here last summer). Susan Abernathy undertakes to humanize head Groton the transfer occupation command charged with removing the residents of Okanoggan Falls. Wisconsin so that the aliens can mine its silica. There was a snap as the stem on Captain Groton’s glass broke in two. The wine slopped onto his transfer as he tried to catch the pieces. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “Your vessel is brittle.”“Never mind the glass,” Susan said taking it and handing the pieces to Tom. “Did you cut yourself?” “No of cover—” he stopped in mid-denial staring at his hand. A thin line of blood bisected the palm."Here. I’ll take care of that,” she said. Taking him by the arm she led him to the bathroom. It was not until she had dabbed the blood off with a create from raw material that she realized he was not recoiling at her comprehend as he had before. Inwardly she smiled at small victories. But when she brought out a bottle of spray disinfectant he did recoil demanding suspiciously. “What is it?” “Disinfectant,” she said. “To prevent infection. It’s alcohol-based.” “Oh,” he said. “I thought it might be water.” She spritzed his hand lightly then applied a bandage. He was looking curiously around. “What is this place?” It’s a bathroom,” she said. “We use it to—well clean ourselves and groom and so forth. This is the toilet.” She raised the lid and he drew back obviously repulsed. She had to laugh. “It’s really very clean. I express.” “It has water in it,” he said with disgust. "But the water’s not dirty not now.” “Water is always alter,” he said. “It teems with bacteria. It transmits a thousand diseases yet you humans touch it without any warn. You accept your children to play in it. You consume it even. I suppose you have gotten used to it living on this world where it contaminates everything. It change surface falls from the sky. It is impossible to get away from it. You have no choice but to soak in it.” Struck by the startling visualise of water as filth. Susan said. “Occupying our world must be very unpleasant for you. What is your planet desire?” "It is very dry,” he said. “Miles and miles of hot clean smooth desire your But your population does not be in the habitable spots so we cannot either.” “You must consume wet sometimes. Your metabolisms are not that different from ours or you would not be able to eat our food.” “The analyse amounts in foods are enough for us. We do not excrete it like you do.” “So that’s why you don’t undergo bathrooms,” she said. He paused clearly puzzled. Then it dawned on him what she had left out of her explanation. “You use this room for excretory functions?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be private.” “But you excrete fluids in public all the time,” he said. “From your noses your mouths your skin. How can you act it private?” For a moment the vision of humans as oozing bags of bacteria left her unable to say. Then she said. “That’s why we go here to alter it all off.” He looked around. “But there is no facility for cleaning.” “Sure there is.” She turned on the consume. “See?” he reacted with horror so she quickly shut it off. She explained. “You see we think of water as alter. We bathe in it. How do you clean?” “Sand,” he said. “Tubs of dry heated smooth. It is heavenly.” “It must be.” She could picture it: soft white sand. desire what lay under the Okanoggan limestone. She looked at him in dawning realization. “Is that why you be…?” “I cannot say anything about that,” he said. “Please do not ask me.” Which was all the answer she needed. In the final story. “The Conservator,” the Conservator attends to a very special document and discovers that the relationship between map and landscape is more complicated than she had thought. The lights came on creating a retreat of artificial brightness under the darkened dome. The two assistant archivists held open the double doors and the maintenance men maneuvered through with an enormous muslin-wrapped roll on their shoulders. Obeying the Archivist’s precise instructions they brought it to the center of the room and laid it on the dropcloth. The assistants knelt down to untie the fabric laces that secured the covering. The Conservator drew close as they began to displace the document. It had been described to her but it was more compelling in reality. Her object sharpened with a cold go of vitality. She was in the presence of the thing to which she was most devoted: the authentic artifact the tangible disapprove on whose surface the past was written in encode. It was a map of the great river source to mouth drawn in uncanny detail. And yet as it unrolled before her the Conservator could see it was no ordinary map. Six feet wide and thirty long it was a layered creation many-leaved as fillo dough. She drew on latex gloves and knelt to finger its advance. Not only were there layers but they were of different materials bonded securely together. The bottom layer was a milky-white cured hide soft and supple. Then there was a sheet of thin pliable birchbark taken from the inner layer of the tree once colored a pinkish beige but now browned with time. Then a layer of parchment followed by one of laid paper—the hand-crafted kind that still showed the ladderlike pattern of the screen on which it was made. Next was a layer of higher-quality wove paper and one of the sized linen once used for architectural drawings. The topmost layer was a brittle yellowed cover disintegrating in snowflake bits that already littered the dropcloth. “It’s ironic that the most recent layer is in the beat cause,” the Archivist said. She sounded tragic not ironic. “Not unusual though,” the Conservator said. It was wood-pulp cover a mass manufacturing affect introduced in the 1880s that resulted in such a high acid content that the material literally self-destructed. In all the archives of the country the recent cover was eating itself away even when stored in perfect conditions. Inherent vice conservators called it. Most of the printed history of the twentieth century would be gone before another hundred years passed. It was inscribed on an evanescent surface. Copies of Aliens of the Heart can be. Subscribers to the Conversation Pieces series will be happy to know that their copies of Aliens of the Heart and Of Love and Other Monsters went out in this morning’s mail. I tried to request a write of the book but apparently its "add to cart" link has been a bit bungled; it keeps trying to furnish me copies of Making like in Madrid! As soon as it's fixed I'd love a write... accept! This blog is a forum for discussing all things Aqueductian. Conversation of course is one of our themes derived from the notion of feminist sf as a conversation as explored in "For a Genealogy of Feminist SF: Reflections on Women. Feminism and Science Fiction. 1818-1960" (reprinted in The Grand Conversation. Vol. 1 of the Conversation Pieces series and available online as an essay titled ). So please do comment freely and often and if you're interested in making a guest post write to conversation@aqueductpress com.---Timmi Duchamp. Editor. Aqueduct touch aims to publish books to stretch the imagination and stimulate thought. Aqueduct is a feminist press giving voice to a wide spectrum of feminisms ranging all over the feminist political map. Our authors consider and. tour our website! Read our books! Join the conversation!

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Aliens of the Heart (Conversation Pieces #19). It contains four stories of the ” and “The Conservator.” “The Conservator” is original to the volume; “cover Painting” first appeared in Bending the Landscape: Fantasy (ed. Nicola Griffith and Stephen Pagel) and “The Lost Road” ad “Okanoggan Falls” first appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I think they construe rather differently together (which is to my object one of the pleasures that single-author collections have to offer). It was a dry year. go June the feed that should have been knee-high was stunted and papery in the fields; the pasture grass rustled stiff as broom cover in the constant wind. The topsoil had turned powdery and you could see it blowing off the fields in clouds making the sunsets red. To Betty Lindstrom it seemed like her whole world was drying up and blowing away. She and Wayne had had to lease out the measure 40 acres that spring to a man from the next county who was farming nearly all the arrive in their township. He’d taken out the fences and cut down the beech-tree windbreaks Betty’s create had planted in the ’30s and now plowed fields came right up to the advance of the farmhouse yard on every align. Betty Lindstrom leaves Wayne at the gas station in the derelict town of “ As she started the car. Betty had a strange reckless idea. What if she just turned east instead of west and drove off out of town? What if she just left at the gas station and didn’t go back? But deep drink she knew she didn’t really be to get away from driving west. The sun glared into the windshield from a cloudless sky. Red-winged blackbirds flew up from the unmowed ditches as the car passed. Down the roadside telecommunicate poles marched in an endless procession. Every few miles they passed the remains of old driveways that used to lead to farmhouses. Every year the arrive was getting emptier. They said farming was a business now not a way of life. Betty drives west but alone with the prairie and the wind though everything looks familiar she can’t seem to sight the way home through a landscape that memories and visions have saturated with the strangeness of history. In “cover Painting,” art critic Galena Pittman falls in like with Thea an artist attracted to working in ephemeral media such as frost. When Thea leaves drawn to the colony of humans seeking mysterious aliens who might or might not exist. pursues her determined to acquire her. The bring home the bacon Thea now lives for she discovers is far from the her critical understanding of art: The vegetation on north slopes south slopes and valley floor was a copy of color teal and umber. It was as if someone had taken a giant rub and painted the land to create an abstract of overlapping tints. “Isn’t that natural?” “Of course not. This was one of the first adorn paintings the colony did. Here let me drive so you can watch.” got out and went to the passenger align. Thea said. “Unfocus your eyes just a little,” then started the car slowly forward. saw a complex patchwork of sunny streaks. Then as her perspective changed a dark spear‑shaped wedge began to push its way into the foliage colors. As it touched each band of alter that area went suddenly dark drab and furnish. It had almost reached the opposite align when a cascade of rust sienna and lemon erupted from the spear tip and turned the landscape bright again. blinked out at the view which had been transformed by traveling 300 feet along the road. “How did they do that?” she asked. “By painting the back align of every leaf?” “I don’t know,” Thea said. “It looks different at every measure of day and every write of defy.” shook her head. “adorn painting. I see what you mean. Not painting the landscape but painting the landscape. How many people did it take?” They arrived at the Flens down a rocky path. At first it looked desire a range of rampart cliffs formed into organ‑pipe pillars of a thousand dimensions. A swarm of populate was at work on the cliff face some on scaffolding anchored into the rock some swinging on ropes. Though she tried from several angles. When she asked. Thea laughed. “The sculpture is not in the rock,” she said. “The medium we are working in is wind. At sunset the mountain above us cools faster than the valley and a wind rushes down the slope. The Flens will surprise it in a thousand fissures and move it till it forms a cause. We will know we have gotten it right when the rock pipes sing. It’s almost done; we are tuning it now.” In “Okanoggan Falls” (which Carolyn wrote about in a post here last summer). Susan Abernathy undertakes to humanize Captain Groton the alien occupation officer charged with removing the residents of Okanoggan Falls. Wisconsin so that the aliens can exploit its silica. There was a mouth as the originate in on Captain Groton’s glass broke in two. The wine slopped onto his hand as he tried to catch the pieces. “Pardon me,” he mumbled. “Your vessel is brittle.”“Never mind the glass,” Susan said taking it and handing the pieces to Tom. “Did you cut yourself?” “No of course—” he stopped in mid-denial staring at his transfer. A change state line of blood bisected the palm."Here. I’ll act care of that,” she said. Taking him by the arm she led him to the bathroom. It was not until she had dabbed the blood off with a tissue that she realized he was not recoiling at her touch as he had before. Inwardly she smiled at small victories. But when she brought out a store of spray disinfectant he did recoil demanding suspiciously. “What is it?” “Disinfectant,” she said. “To prevent infection. It’s alcohol-based.” “Oh,” he said. “I thought it might be wet.” She spritzed his transfer lightly then applied a bandage. He was looking curiously around. “What is this place?” It’s a bathroom,” she said. “We use it to—come up clean ourselves and educate and so forth. This is the toilet.” She raised the lid and he drew back obviously repulsed. She had to laugh. “It’s really very alter. I swear.” “It has water in it,” he said with excite. "But the water’s not dirty not now.” “Water is always alter,” he said. “It teems with bacteria. It transmits a thousand diseases yet you humans touch it without any caution. You allow your children to compete in it. You drink it even. I speculate you have gotten used to it living on this world where it contaminates everything. It even falls from the sky. It is impossible to get away from it. You have no choice but to soak in it.” Struck by the startling image of water as filth. Susan said. “Occupying our world must be very unpleasant for you. What is your planet like?” "It is very dry,” he said. “Miles and miles of hot alter smooth like your But your population does not live in the habitable spots so we cannot either.” “You must drink water sometimes. Your metabolisms are not that different from ours or you would not be able to eat our food.” “The analyse amounts in foods are enough for us. We do not excrete it like you do.” “So that’s why you don’t have bathrooms,” she said. He paused clearly puzzled. Then it dawned on him what she had left out of her explanation. “You use this room for excretory functions?” “Yes,” she said. “It’s supposed to be private.” “But you excrete fluids in public all the measure,” he said. “From your noses your mouths your climb. How can you keep it private?” For a moment the vision of humans as oozing bags of bacteria left her unable to answer. Then she said. “That’s why we go here to clean it all off.” He looked around. “But there is no facility for cleaning.” “Sure there is.” She turned on the consume. “See?” he reacted with horror so she quickly shut it off. She explained. “You see we think of wet as alter. We bathe in it. How do you bathe?” “smooth,” he said. “Tubs of dry heated sand. It is heavenly.” “It must be.” She could conceive of it: soft white sand. desire what lay under the Okanoggan limestone. She looked at him in dawning realization. “Is that why you want…?” “I cannot say anything about that,” he said. “Please do not ask me.” Which was all the answer she needed. In the final story. “The Conservator,” the Conservator attends to a very special document and discovers that the relationship between map and landscape is more complicated than she had thought. The lights came on creating a cocoon of artificial brightness under the darkened dome. The two assistant archivists held open the double doors and the maintenance men maneuvered through with an enormous muslin-wrapped turn on their shoulders. Obeying the Archivist’s precise instructions they brought it to the bear on of the dwell and laid it on the dropcloth. The assistants knelt down to undo the fabric laces that secured the covering. The Conservator drew close as they began to displace the document. It had been described to her but it was more compelling in reality. Her mind sharpened with a cold rush of vitality. She was in the presence of the thing to which she was most devoted: the authentic artifact the tangible disapprove on whose surface the past was written in cypher. It was a map of the great river source to mouth drawn in uncanny detail. And yet as it unrolled before her the Conservator could see it was no ordinary map. Six feet wide and thirty long it was a layered creation many-leaved as fillo dough. She drew on latex gloves and knelt to finger its edge. Not only were there layers but they were of different materials bonded securely together. The bottom layer was a milky-white cured enclose soft and supple. Then there was a sheet of change state pliable birchbark taken from the inner forge of the tree once colored a pinkish beige but now browned with time. Then a layer of parchment followed by one of laid paper—the hand-crafted kind that still showed the ladderlike copy of the screen on which it was made. Next was a layer of higher-quality wove paper and one of the sized linen once used for architectural drawings. The topmost layer was a brittle yellowed paper disintegrating in snowflake bits that already littered the dropcloth. “It’s ironic that the most recent layer is in the worst cause,” the Archivist said. She sounded tragic not ironic. “Not unusual though,” the Conservator said. It was wood-pulp paper a mass manufacturing affect introduced in the 1880s that resulted in such a high acid circumscribe that the material literally self-destructed. In all the archives of the country the recent paper was eating itself away even when stored in perfect conditions. Inherent vice conservators called it. Most of the printed history of the twentieth century would be gone before another hundred years passed. It was inscribed on an evanescent surface. Copies of Aliens of the Heart can be. Subscribers to the Conversation Pieces series will be happy to experience that their copies of Aliens of the Heart and Of Love and Other Monsters went out in this morning’s mail. I tried to order a copy of the schedule but apparently its "add to draw" link has been a bit bungled; it keeps trying to furnish me copies of Making Love in Madrid! As soon as it's fixed I'd love a copy... accept! This communicate is a forum for discussing all things Aqueductian. Conversation of course is one of our themes derived from the notion of feminist sf as a conversation as explored in "For a Genealogy of Feminist SF: Reflections on Women. Feminism and Science Fiction. 1818-1960" (reprinted in The Grand Conversation. Vol. 1 of the Conversation Pieces series and available online as an essay titled ). So please do comment freely and often and if you're interested in making a guest post write to conversation@aqueductpress com.---Timmi Duchamp. Editor. Aqueduct Press aims to publish books to stretch the imagination and stimulate thought. Aqueduct is a feminist press giving express to a wide spectrum of feminisms ranging all over the feminist political map. Our authors include and. tour our website! Read our books! Join the conversation!

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Related article:
http://aqueductpress.blogspot.com/2007/11/aliens-of-heart-by-carolyn-ives-gilman.html

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