This was a stunning compilation of short stories. I often have a hard time getting into anthologies and collections, specially when they’re completely disconnected from each other, but in The House of Illusionists the stories seem to come from a very specific place, which I’ll ramble into later, and most importantly they all have a similar atmosphere, a seemingly singular pool of folklore or history or longing they draw they origins from. I was enthralled from the start.
The stories in this collection range from Black Mirror episodes when they’re good, which are the words I have to explain that they were mostly in the sci-fi side of speculative fiction, to others more on the fantastical, at times historical-ish side. By that I mean, of course, if you’re into either fantasy or sci-fi or both: dig into this immediately.
But if you’ll allow my rambling, mostly what I got from this is that I finally understood something that happened to me when I was a kid. At some point in what I think might’ve been middle school, we had this creative writing assignment to make something up based on a very simple prompt: a mother and her child are playing together in a room. From what I remember, every other kid in my class focused on the playing, on what stories they were making up, on the toys themselves, on the story inside the story.
I wrote about this mother playing pretend with her child, entertaining her, distracting her from the fact that the room they were in was the only room left standing of their house, that they were alone in a desolate war zone, that there was a man on a hill nearby pointing a gun at them. I still to this day have no idea what led me to writing that, but I remember frantically trying to get the words out as they came to me, and I remember being absolutely mortified as our teacher picked up a few of us to read our work out loud in front of everyone else, and seeing that they had all written these sweet, heartwarming stories, and I had the saddest, most horrific story in the world. I finished reading, I looked up to the confused, mostly bored, faces of my peers, and then, nervously, to the side I saw that our teacher had been silently crying the whole time. I later found out that she had gone on to read that story in every other classroom she had, because a bunch of kids I didn’t really know came up to me during recess to tell me she sobbed every single time.
I’m not saying all of this to brag. I think I was eleven at the time, and I didn’t get it then. But I got it now, reading this collection of stories — specially the final, titular one.
What my teacher saw then in my ingenuity, and what I saw now in the genius of this collection, was the very simple, very human need to hold on to hope. To stretch ourselves across worlds, galaxies, time itself, to reach out across the stars and hope that someone will reach back and hold our hand. That someone out there is listening, that they’ll understand, that they also know love, that they have also been looking for it.
To hope, to the possibility that love can be enough. I hope that it is.
Thank you to Netgalley and Interstellar Flight Press for this arc, and thank you to Vanessa Fogg for making me cry into my pillow yesterday, and helping to re signify a memory that kept me awake on countless nights.