INTRODUCTION
The body positive movement started in the mid-90’s as a way of promoting and celebrating Black bodies. It grew to include Trans, queer, disabled, limb differences, scars, and every body type that fell outside society’s current definition of “normal.” Soon, plus sized bodies also joined the activism movement in hopes of showing the world that “fat” isn’t a bad word, and fat individuals are worthy of love, dignity, and respect.
Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology grew out of our combined passion to see fat bodies represented positively in fiction. Too often, the fat character is cast in the shadows of a thinner protagonist, acting as the voice-of-wisdom or the funny best friend. Worse, fat characters are written as morbidly obese or lazy, which only perpetuates the very stereotypes that fat positive activists are fighting against.
In horror fiction in particular, fatness is often used as a (lazy) shorthand for evil, disgusting, and vile. It’s not enough for a character to be a murderer, hateful, or monstrous. We have to make sure they’re fat as well, their jiggles and rolls a warning to the thin protagonists that they–and the ideals they project with their thinness–are in danger. It’s disheartening to read story after story, novel after novel, reminding us day after day what many people truly think about our bodies.
Readers won’t find any of that in this anthology. Here, fat bodies come into their own, celebrate their curves, and save the day. You’ll find babysitters and bakers, thieves and roller derby stars. Young women unsure about their bodies meet demons and water spirits who offer assistance–in their own way, of course. Danger lurks in hospitals, in the mysterious occult shop in the local mall, and in a house filled with cats. Campers, trash collectors, and house flippers alike uncover nasty secrets underground. A myriad of horrors await you–but here, none of that horror comes from fat bodies.
It’s time to reclaim the “f” word.
CINDERELLA AND HER DEMON GODMOTHER
by Stephanie Rabig
“Lucinda? We got a 119.”
I paused the video I was watching and glanced up from my computer, giving the messenger a nod. “Thanks, Jerry.”
He tossed a file onto my desk and scurried off down the hall, his hooves clacking against the tile. I stretched as I stood up, raising my tail and flicking the door closed again. Jerry was a hard worker, but he never did remember to close the doors behind him or refill the coffeepot.
119s were my specialty: a bullied teenager who wants someone dead. I let out a low hum of anticipation at the thought of a surface visit. A mauling or three was always good for the soul—or lack of one.
I conjured a mirror and set to making myself presentable for a mortal audience. Demons don't bother with clothing—Hell being hot, and all—and any urges for individuality are sated by carving and otherwise decorating our horns. But humans, modest little things they are, tend to get all flustered when a naked demon shows up in their room.
I picked up the file, watching the picture of a young girl as it showed her moving around her room, quietly chanting. Her voice came out a little tinny, and I made a mental note to mention that to Pietro up in the Summoning Division. I tapped the girl's forehead, closing my eyes for a moment as I absorbed her consciousness, her past, everything I needed to know.
This one's name was Claire.
I modeled my jeans and chunky necklace after hers, though I chose a crop top rather than the oversized sweatshirt she wore. I regarded myself in the mirror, admiring the way the black crop top set off my stomach, which is a brighter red than the crimson of my arms and legs. On impulse, I added a belly button ring and then returned my attention to Claire's file, touching the chalk circle displayed in the photograph.
In a rush of sulfur-tinged air, I was vaulted topside to the sight of Claire gaping at me.
“Holy shit,” she gasped. “Are you actually—oh my god, you're—”
I waved my hand, sending Claire's mind skipping through the entire 'you're real! It worked!' thought process and straight into acceptance. I'd enjoyed the shock and confusion at first, but it got old after the first hundred or so summonings.
“This is incredible,” Claire said. “I mean, I hoped it'd work but I didn't really think so. I've tried a homemade spirit box before, but nothing ever came of it. Dad said he wasn't surprised; he's a total Shaniac.”
I smiled, noting the Buzzfeed Unsolved logo on her sweatshirt. “That's a fun show.”
“You guys can watch movies and YouTube and stuff?”
“We don't like being bored any more than you do. So, here's the deal. I have two hours topside to solve your problem.” I rubbed my hands together, sparks glinting off my skin. “Who do you want dead?”
Her enthusiasm disappeared, and she stammered as she looked to the floor. “Well, I ... come to think of it, I really shouldn't … this wasn't the best idea, okay, it's just—”
“Fine, fine,” I said, leaving that part of my job alone for now. Some humans had a list of grievances a mile long and were only too happy to talk about who they wanted shuffled off the mortal coil and why, but given what I now knew of Claire and her impulsivity, it didn't surprise me that she wanted to renege on all this once consequences came due. “No death.” Yet.
“What's the problem?” I asked. “Something caused all this.” I motioned down to the summoning circle and to the tear-and-mascara-stained tissues at the top of her trash can.
“There was this guy,” she said. Even without the benefit of having been inside her head, I could feel the humiliation and fury roiling off her as she slowly related the story. She had gone on a quick Walmart run, only to realize as she was heading down one of the frozen food aisles that a man was following her, his phone raised and filming.
“I asked him what the hell he was doing and he ... he puffed out his cheeks and waddled. Then he laughed and walked away. I should have yelled at him or smashed his phone or something, but I was just so surprised and I … I just left the cart there and ran.”
And that frustration had led to this. The dark hope that the summoning would work tempered with knowledge that it surely wouldn't, but Claire had felt good for a few minutes as she made believe that she had some power in this situation, however belated.
“You tell your parents?”
“No. Mom's at work and ... and Dad wouldn't understand.”
“Is he part of the problem?”
“No. No,” she insisted, when she noticed the glint in my eye.
“You really think a demon can't recognize a lie when they hear one?”
“Okay, fine,” she said, huffing out a breath. “He doesn't mean to be. It's just that he's a skinny guy, always has been, and I think he's disappointed I took after Mom. He got me a membership to Weight Watchers for Christmas,” she murmured, looking away in embarrassment.
“Set it on fire,” I advised.
“I will.”
“Here's the thing about your dad,” I said. “I can look. I can tell what his thoughts truly are, if that disappointment is real or something you're projecting onto him because you're insecure as fuck.”
Claire's face reddened, but she didn't deny it.
“How do I know you'll tell me the truth?” she asked.
“Because the truth is usually a shit-ton more painful than a lie could ever be,” I said. “Our whole thing is forbidden knowledge. You can find out, but you have to choose to take that bite. And live with the consequences.”
She hesitated, and then set her jaw. “I want to know.”
“Okay.” I closed my eyes, sending my consciousness through the house until I found Claire's father sitting in the living room, watching some horror movie from the eighties. I slid into his mind, flipping through work concerns and political worries to focus on his wife and daughter.
I saw his wife crying one night, after dealing with her willowy, condescending mother, and felt his helplessness. I felt his love for Claire, an overpowering thing with no conditions or restrictions. He was a genuinely decent man.
I stifled a yawn.
“Answer's no,” I said, opening my eyes and speaking so suddenly that Claire flinched back. “He does wish you were skinny, but only because your mom's been through some shit, too, and he thinks it'd be easier on you if you slid under the radar.”
“And the membership?” Claire whispered.
“He overheard you and your friend Denise talking about it a few months ago, and heard you say you'd love to join her, but you just couldn't afford it right now.”
“That was a brush-off!” Claire exclaimed. “Denise is always trying some diet or another and trying to get me to do them with her.”
“He didn't catch on,” I said. “He means well. Just a dumbass sometimes. He's not disappointed in you.”
Claire burst into tears.
Out of deference to the fact that she'd already had a pretty shitty day, I held back a groan. “Hey, enough of that. I've got 93 more minutes here; deal with this in therapy on Tuesday.”
“How do you know I go to therapy? Or when my—”
“—appointment with Amirah is? You called me. I know everything now. Knowledge is a demon's wheelhouse, remember?”
She nodded, looking wary about that. It'd all hit her later, I knew, when she really thought about the implications of some stranger being inside her mind, inside her father's mind, but that part of it all wasn't my problem. My job was to offer temptation and see how far she was willing to go. If she would end up damning herself.
And if I could get a good meal out of it, so much the better.
“Worry about it later,” I said with a wave of my hand. “If you're not going to let me kill anybody, let's at least go get a bite to eat. Which place around here has the best dessert?”
“No place really close,” Claire admitted. “I've heard Liana's over in Kansas City has some amazing cheesecake, but—”
“Consider it done. You like Christian Siriano's dresses?”
“I guess so,” Claire stammered. “Yeah. He's the one who made that tuxedo dress for Billy Porter, right?”
“That's the one. He's doing some fantastic things with lime green right now. See?” I asked, instantly trading out her sweater and jeans for a strapless tea-length dress and a matching off-kilter hat.
Claire couldn't speak for almost a full minute as she stared down at herself. “Okay, I love this color, but you can't—”
“Steal something?” I asked, grinning as I tapped one of my horns. “Relax, I'll send them back later.” I put myself into a one-shouldered orange-and-black marbled gown. Last year's design, yes, but still a favorite.
Then I changed my skin from devil-red to a human brown and did away with my horns and hooves.
“You can make yourself look any way you want,” Claire said, the longing plain. “Why wouldn't you make yourself thinner?”
“Because I don't want to. And talk to Amirah about that Tuesday. If you got the power to alter your body however you wanted, I'd want you to wish for gills or wings or something fun, not anything about weight.”
Claire nodded, and then I took her hand. “This won't hurt, but it does take some getting used to,” I said. She scrunched her eyes shut, and a few seconds later we were seated at Liana's, with a waitress heading to our table to take our order.
“Hello,” she said softly. “My name's Anabel, and I'll be taking care of you this evening. What can I get you to drink?”
“I'll take a strawberry margarita. One for you, too?” I asked Claire, before she shook her head frantically and I remembered. Sixteen years old, right.
“I'll take an ice water,” Claire said, and Anabel wrote it down on her notepad.
“I've heard you have good cheesecake,” I said. “What flavors?”
“We have classic New York style, white chocolate raspberry, lemon-blueberry, chocolate peanut butter, key lime, and our seasonal is mango cheesecake with a passionfruit sauce.”
“Those all sound good,” I said. “We'll take a slice of each.”
Claire let out an odd squeaking noise and looked warily at the waitress, but Anabel just nodded with a smile and walked away. I'd taken a quick peek and had seen no judgment at us ordering only dessert; just exhaustion after a ten-hour shift.
“I always take time for a restaurant up here,” I said. “The food's a million times better. Everything in Hell tastes dusty, or like it's on the verge of its expiration date.”
Claire made a face, then leaned toward me a little. “I just realized—I never asked what your name is.”
“Lucinda.”
“And you're an actual demon? How does that work? Did you die and go to Hell and become one, or...?”
I shook my head. “Never was human. I'm 18,000 years old, give or take a decade.”
“Wow.”
“You're mayflies. Entertaining, but mayflies,” I said. “And you spend your time worrying about the stupidest shit.”
Claire bristled. “Well, sorry I don't have your thousands of years of perspective.”
I smiled as Anabel brought us our drinks. “Your cheesecakes will be out in a few minutes,” she said.
“Thank you.”
She left again, and I spoke. “Look at how worried you were that the waitress was going to judge you for ordering desserts that people are supposed to want. Humans create things that are designed to taste good, and then you act like it's a sin to enjoy tasting them. I'm pretty familiar with sin,” I said. “That one's not on there.”
“It's just ... embarrassing, I guess,” Claire said. “And you never know who the judgment might come from! So it's easier to be on your guard.”
“It's a classic problem. You feel powerless because your society hates you, and now you want one of society's enablers dead. And I love that anger,” I told her. “Hold on to it. Because you're not going to change the world, or America's attitude on this.”
“I know that,” she muttered, though youthful pride stung her voice.
“I'm not being metaphorical. You will live your life and then die without having changed the world or made society see that fat people are morally neutral. But here's the thing: while you're here, you can either be background noise, or a 'fuck you'. It's easier to be background noise,” I admitted, taking a drink of my margarita. A bit heavy on the strawberry and light on the alcohol, but still tasty. “More fun to be a 'fuck you'.”
Claire wasn't taking my words to heart, at least not yet. ...
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