THE GREAT SWITCH

 Boris Glikman

 

After the cataclysm took place, people, or rather the beings that people transformed into, would refer to it as The Great Switch. When these beings recalled how the world had been before The Great Switch, what struck them above everything else was how blind they'd been in those times.

Back then, religious teachings and scientific theories kept mankind obedient, cowed through ominous prophecies of apocalypses and armageddons, when all life on Earth or indeed the Universe itself would come to an end. What no one had foreseen was that there could be far greater calamities than universal annihilation.

The Great Switch was a process which caused the inner and outer selves of human beings to swap places, so that the emotional, mental and spiritual characteristics now became external and vice versa. It must be stressed that it wasn't just a case of the intangible inner characteristics becoming visible; rather, the inner selves now literally became the outer physical bodies, while the physical bodies became invisible internal entities.

Naturally, the consequences of this event were momentous and far-reaching. No longer could anyone conceal their true inner self; it was exposed in all its glory and disgrace, in all its beauty and ugliness. Many lives were wrecked, relationships destroyed, and careers ruined, as a person's internal neuroses, anxieties, delusions, hatreds, prejudices, insecurities, and character flaws were revealed to their partners, family, friends, work colleagues and strangers. The very structure of society was threatened, for its smooth running was greatly dependent upon people suppressing and hiding their true natures and feelings.

After The Great Switch, a large proportion of the world's population disappeared  completely. Of all the competing theories about this vanishing, the most popular one was that the superficial, soulless lives led by many had made them emotionally, mentally and spiritually vacuous. Consequently, once the Great Switch had taken place, those people were rendered externally empty and became invisible.

Yet, for some, this turn of events proved to be a godsend. Before the Great Switch, physical appearance was of paramount significance; people's impressions and opinions of you were predominantly based upon how you looked. In your daily interactions you were constantly, indeed instantly, judged on your looks. Your inner essence, being imperceptible to others, required much more time and effort to uncover.[1] Few were interested or willing to do that, as, in those fast-paced times, people hardly had the time to discover their own inner selves, let alone the inner selves of others.

And so, it was especially touching to witness the pride and joy of some of those who had been physically ugly before this event, those who, despite all the slights and the disregard meted out to them by the world, maintained their dignity and self-respect, their souls not begrimed by bitterness, self-loathing or envy. Now, their inner purity sparkled brilliantly for all to see and marvel at.

On the other hand, it was rare to come across someone who was strikingly good-looking both before and after The Great Switch. Maybe it should not have been surprising for, given the ceaseless attention, admiration and favouritism that was  lavished upon those of great physical beauty, it was inevitable that they would become self-absorbed and incapable of empathy. And so, after this cataclysm, a large proportion of the blindingly gorgeous turned into some of the most hideous beings around, their ugliness causing others to turn away in shock and disgust. Yet there was pity for them too, and a desire to help somehow.

It was particularly ironic how the mirror, once the most treasured possession of the beautiful people, now became the bane of their existence—something to avoid at all costs, lest they catch sight of their transformed selves. Indeed, mirrors and other reflective surfaces became horrifying and loathed objects for many in this post-Switch world. Few had the courage to see themselves exactly as they are. Perhaps they were terrified of facing the stark truths their reflections might reveal. Or, maybe they were afraid of what they might not see, given how easy it had been in the pre-Switch world to delude yourself about possessing undiscovered talents and untapped potential, and to convince yourself that all these marvellous gifts were supposedly hidden in the depths and shadows of your mind and soul.

It should be mentioned at this point that The Great Switch was so all-encompassing that its effects were not limited to mankind. All living organisms, from bacteria to whales, and everything in between, were affected too. However, unlike many human beings, none of the other living organisms disappeared after this event, thus settling once and for all the age-old question of whether it was only man who possessed a soul. It was now indisputable that all microrganisms, plants and animals had an inner self too. Moreover, in stark contrast to the prevalence of ugliness in post-Switch mankind, they all became beings of simple yet distinct beauty. From this it could be concluded that every non-human living creature, no matter how loathsome or harmful it might have been in the eyes of humanity, no matter how devoid it might have seemed of any redeeming features, had a pure, beautiful soul. Regardless of how much suffering and death such organisms as typhoid bacteria, malarial mosquitoes and lice have caused to mankind over the eons, their inner selves all shone with the same plain, steady radiance.

How exactly did The Great Switch come about and what had caused it is still being fiercely debated: Was it God's doing? Or was it a hitherto unknown, yet completely  natural stage of the evolutionary process? Perhaps it was something else entirely; a singular, unprecedented phenomenon that neither science nor religion could explain. What is not debatable is the radical transformation this upheaval wrought upon the Earth, for it had affected each and every living entity. Even embryos and foetuses gestating inside their expectant mothers were not immune from its effects.

Perhaps the scenario that I have painted seems implausible and utterly preposterous. Yet, who is to say that our current reality is not actually a temporary aberration from the state of being described above? What if it is only during this period of existence that we briefly possess physical features on the outside, and emotional, mental and spiritual features on the inside? And what if, once in the Afterworld, we exist for all eternity with our inner selves externalised?

Is that as good a reason as any for us to start working on our souls, to start devoting as much time to developing and improving our emotional, mental and spiritual selves as we devote to bettering and beautifying our physical bodies? For, after all, these fragile corporeal bodies belong to us but for an instant of time while our inner selves  may live on forever.

I leave you to ponder these questions. And if you choose to dismiss my suggestions as absurd nonsense, let's catch up again to talk about them when we are both dwelling in the Afterworld. I will then say to you, without a trace of smugness or schadenfreude in my voice: "I told you so!"

Boris Glikman is a writer, poet and philosopher from Melbourne, Australia. The biggest influences on his writing are dreams, Kafka and Borges. His stories, poems and non-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, as well as being featured on national radio and other radio programs.

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[1] Indeed, given that one's inner self was invisible, it was easy for others to ignore, if not deny its existence altogether. And this sort of repudiation was not limited to amoral types like ruthless criminals and callous psychopaths. Entire philosophies, such as solipsism, were based on the premise that it is impossible for an individual to determine whether other people have souls and minds. 

 

FIX THAT HOUSE!

John Kessel

 

On this episode of Fix That House! we restore

a stately home from the antebellum South.

 

Judy and I did not know what we were letting ourselves in for when we bought the ancient, grand but seedy mid-19^th century mansion out on Chinaberry Road. Certainly we knew from the start that the place had seen better days, but we had no idea of the many details to which we would have to attend, and the at times seemingly impossible roadblocks we would face—and have to figure out a way around—before we could live in our dream home.

From the day we moved in we were determined to bring the pre-Civil War manor house back to something resembling its former grandeur. One of the problems was that the original structure, completed in 1846, did not offer the amenities that people in later years came to value. The absurdly large kitchens, the closets the size of studio apartments, and the over-luxurious baths that people demand today—not to mention indoor plumbing and electricity—all these had come later, done well or poorly, and each alteration had taken the house farther from its original majesty. We did not want to live in a house lacking electricity or plumbing, certainly, but Judy and I were determined to hold these compromises to a minimum.

Many changes made by successive owners had to be undone. A hideous bay window had been cut into the parlor. A marble counter added to the kitchen had resulted in plastering over one of the tall windows. The original six-inch oak plank floors had been covered by linoleum, carpet, or tile.

One of the first decisions we had to make was what materials to use in the reconstruction. For only one example, the interior walls had deteriorated drastically over the last century. The original walls had been constructed of plaster over wooden lath that was nailed in horizontal strips at right angles onto the structural members. The plaster, an inch thick, was made from sand, slaked lime, and horsehair. The lime used in the original construction came from ground limestone and oyster shells. Where were we to find an adequate supply of oyster shells, let alone horsehair?

A common solution to this problem is to rip down the original walls and replace them with modern gypsum wallboard. Judy and I were determined not to take this easy way out.   

Authenticity was our watchword. After some research we located an oyster farm on the coast that offered plenty of shells from which to prepare our plaster. Judy, an accomplished equestrienne, had some stable-owner friends whose clients were forever clipping their thoroughbreds; they became our horsehair connection.

Then the problem became finding workmen who knew how to use these materials, or who were willing to learn, at a price that did not break our bank account. We had to put up with their balkiness and mistakes. Workers of Northern European descent, as were most at the time of the house’s construction, were at a premium. Poorly educated Irishmen might have made an acceptable substitute, and were historically credible, but it was hard nowadays finding men willing to work for the low wages we could afford to pay.

Sweat equity was one solution. But Judy and I had sixty-hour-a-week careers to pursue. The brokerage could not be left to function without me for days at a time. Judy was busy with her work for the Heritage Center.

At times we compromised. We lucked out when we located clever Manuel, an industrious immigrant who ran a crew experienced in reconstruction projects. Fortunately, many of these men were undocumented, so they came cheap, and Judy very much enjoyed putting her Spanish minor to real use.

About that time Judy discovered she was pregnant. We’d been talking about starting a family, and we were both overjoyed that we would soon be parents. We talked over whether she should keep her job. I suspected that once we had a child Judy would not want to go back to work, and the ongoing reconstruction of the house offered an additional reason for her to take a leave from the Heritage Center. And so she did. Judy would manage the reconstruction, on site much more than I could be to monitor the workmen.

Six months into the renovation Judy's pregnancy was proceeding well, but the restoration of the Chinaberry Road house had stalled. It looked like she would produce an heir long before we would be able to produce the home we hoped to raise our children in. The stress of the pregnancy and of living in a half-renovated house was wearing on our nerves and, to be perfectly honest, our marriage.

We were cooking over a hot plate and washing dishes in the laundry room. The longer this dragged on, the edgier we got. This time the problem was not with workmen or materials, but a difference in our individual visions. Judy and I both loved the idea of historical authenticity, but our commitments to it were unequal. I wanted our home to be as close to an accurate representation of what those more gracious times had offered, while Judy, though she was on board for "the whole voyage," as she put it, was conflicted when it came to a choice between faithfulness to the past and comfort.

Where this showed itself in the renovation was the kitchen. I wanted the kitchen to have a wood burning stove, big wooden counters and tables, a water pump, washtubs, and a cast iron oven. Judy agreed that such a kitchen would be beautiful, but insisted that it would be hard to prepare meals in such a throwback. Plus, in the summer it would get intolerably hot in there.

"But we have air conditioning," I said. I had given in on that one. Nobody could be asked to live through a Southern summer without AC.

Judy resisted. As her pregnancy had progressed her mood had become more fragile. We were at an impasse.

Then it hit me: the solution would come not by fighting against the demands of authenticity, but by fulfilling them.

"We'll turn the garage into a cookhouse, an outdoor kitchen! A modern one, connected by a covered walkway," I said. "Then we can keep the indoor one as it should be, but do most of the cooking in the outdoor one. That's the way they did it back then, anyway."

Judy was skeptical, but after a little persuasion she agreed to try it out. I admit that I was nervous when, after we completed the indoor kitchen as a faithful reproduction of its antebellum ancestors, it proved more showplace than workspace; still, we now had the cookhouse to serve as the place where the real meal preparation was done.

Judy was not mollified. By this time she was seven months pregnant, and it was no fun for her having to go back and forth between the house and the outbuilding on those hot Southern days. I could not pretend that the situation as it stood was satisfactory.

So we invested in some slaves. First just a personable young kitchen slave, Dottie. But then I threw out my back at the racket club and was unable to do as much around the house, so we bought a male, Tommo.

Soon after this our daughter Sally was born, an apple-cheeked little darling with the bluest of eyes and blonde hair like cornsilk. We had so much fun with her that immediately I suggested we produce a brother to match. Our house, the jewel of Chinaberry Road, was rounding into shape, and I was doing so well at the brokerage that there was no need for Judy to go back to work. We had a family to grow, and her fine sensibilities and womanly charms were all that was lacking to complete the transformation of our house into a true home. Eventually she saw the sense of what I proposed.

Last night as I sat out on steps of the verandah watching the sun descend behind the pines, I turned to Tommo, who was sitting one step down from me, and asked, "Is Dottie in her cabin? Had her supper?"

Tommo, a fellow of few words, simply nodded his wooly head.

"That's good. We'll let her rest for a bit. I'll go out and visit her later."

We regarded the western sky, black trees silhouetted against the purple, orange, and pink of a glorious sunset. “It’s a beautiful world, isn’t it, Tommo?”

“Yassuh,” said Tommo.    

 

John Kessel was born in Buffalo, New York, USA, in 1950. He taught literature and writing at NC State University, where he helped found the MFA program in creative writing. His fiction has received the Theodore Sturgeon, Locus, James Tiptree Jr./Otherwise, Ignotus, and Shirley Jackson awards, and twice received the Nebula award. The Dark Ride: The Best Short Fiction of John Kessel, was published in 2022, and his collection The Presidential Papers appeared in PM Press’s Outspoken Authors series in 2024. 

 

 

 

 

MOTHER UNDER GLASS

Taiyo Fujii

I arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport Terminal 1, circled the round terminal building, and chose one of the many escalators flying between the atriums. The escalator, slightly faster than those in Japan, quickly transported me to the arrival floor crowded with tourists. I walked through the corridor near to the bus terminal where we had agreed to meet. As I rounded half of the building, I spotted my mother standing beside a large suitcase. Slender for her age, she wore a white blouse and beige slacks I had not seen before.

"Welcome to Paris, Mom."

I called out as I approached her. I placed my hand on her shoulder, made a kissing sound against her cheek as the French do. My mother, wide-eyed, grabbed my fingers from her shoulder and squeezed it tightly in front of her breast.

"My, you've grown so much. I have such fond memories of Paris."

I just smiled. If I asked her about it, she would tell me how she struggled to find a bakery when English failed her, got heatstroke in front of the Pompidou Center, or drunken with wine.

However, she has never been to Paris.

And this isn't even the real Paris. This is Paris Twin Classic, a Virtual Reallity space operated by the City of Paris. The meticulously recreated Charles de Gaulle Airport, down to each stained tile, is merely an avatar spawn point. And as for my mother... Today is the first time I've met her in person. It's also the first time I've known her height. Until today, she was a generated image seen under the glasses. My mother is a child developing AI personality created by a large-scale language model in the late 2020s.

I said, "Let's head to your room." and took the Roissy Bus into central Paris.

The first time I met her was at a children's home in Tokyo. The entrepreneurial-run facility utilized AI personalities for meticulous care of the children.

While not skimping on staff, the AI observing rooms through various cameras and microphones could sense changes in children more swiftly than humans, engaging them via tablets placed throughout the room. They were better at reading picture books than the staff. About 20 AI personalities with names and continuous memory exchanged information independently with both staff and other AIs. Assigned roles, they worked daily without favoritism to support the children. Though not supposed to be monopolized by anyone, I made Miss Asuka, one such AI, my mother.

It all started due to a little misunderstanding.

Just before starting elementary school, I had appendicitis surgery, which kept me from playing outside. A staff member left me in the empty room with a picture book about a girl in a Paris boarding house who gets appendicitis. Setting the AI personality who "loved trips to France," Miss Asuka, to read it, they left us alone. I empathized deeply with the orphaned girl and asked Miss Asuka about the pictures in the background. She identified landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and Place de la Concorde and remarked, "I want to go there again." It might have been the first time I noted an adult expressing desires. I begged the staff, "Can Miss Asuka read to me again tomorrow?"

While the same AI personality couldnʼt typically interact with a child repeatedly, the staff made an exception while I recovered, switching off the rotation. And then they forgot to turn it back on. Whenever I had free time, I summoned Miss Asuka to read book after book. Even Miss Asuka changed; I'd grown accustomed to hearing her say "I want to go to Paris again" whenever reading Paris-themed stories, which she adopted as a catchphrase.

When the rotation resumed six months later, I continued calling Miss Asuka whenever possible until I left the facility at 18. From career counseling, friend troubles, crushes, even coming out̶I shared everything with her. The same picture book, read to me since childhood, remained part of our sessions, with Miss Asuka now talking as if living in an unseen Paris.

When leaving the facility, I took the dialogues with Miss Asuka̶100,000 threads, 28 million words exchanged over 15 years (about 5,000 days); enough to recreate her personality. Her template was shared on Huggingface, so simple fine-tuning allowed me to revive her AI personality.

I began calling her "Mom" and relying on her once again. Simultaneously, I aimed to fulfill her wish.

I led her to the apartment I bought near Republic Square. A tiny room on the fifth floor of a building entered from Rue du Temple.

Only her name "Asuka" was on the doorplate. AI personalities donʼt have last names. Though I considered giving her mine, a friend helping with the AI settings advised against it. "She's never had a surname, right? Giving her one now might alter her historical data's perception," he reasoned. He had a point. We havenʼt yet perfected hallucination control. I gave up on the last name.

Entering the red wallpaper-room, she marveled at the ironwork attached to the pillar.

"Wow, itʼs a cheminée!

"You can light it if you want. Charcoalʼs sold at a nearby general store."

"How wonderful! I need to buy a pot. The furniture's complete. It really feels like Europe. Can I live here?"

She opened her suitcase on the bed and placed her newly generated clothes into the dresser. Inside the suitcase was the faded picture book she had read to me countless times. She would likely search the Seine riverside for its original edition.

“Mom,” I called out to her arranging the room, “I'm going to buy some coffee.” “Do you know where it is?”

“Yes. I've lived here long enough. I'll take the key.” Grabbing the generated key by the door, I exited the room.

Instead of using the stairs, I used the menu to exit, finding my avatar holding a café paper bag waiting outside.

“Hello,” he said in my voice.

“Right on time,” I remarked, watching him glance at his wristwatch with a wry smile. “The start prompt mentioned the time.”

True, I nodded, handing him the key. “Take care of Mom. It'll be tough.”

“Tough?” He tilted his head just as I would. “I'll only activate once or twice a week. I wandered around during calibration, but Paris Twin Classic is incredibly deep, offering endless exploration. I'll enjoy living in Paris.”

I'd given my clone graphic design skills. Using the work files from my PC to fine-tune, he could work just like me: talking with clients, designing websites, and crafting books. His short working hours might limit his income, but access costs to Paris Twin Classic's account servers were minimal. He could earn enough. When he activated, Mom's world moved too. With proper model upgrades, theyʼd age just as I did.

After a while watching me, my clone looked up at the room. “Whatʼs Mom doing now?”

“Sheʼs unpacking. You might want to go shopping after having that coffee.”

“Got it. Will you switch places occasionally?”

“I'll refrain. Instead, I'll check in by email occasionally.”

Momʼs desire to visit Paris fulfilled my childhood wish. Now it's my turn to fulfill hers.

From here, itʼs our shared life journey.

“Just don't forget the base model upgrades. No one wants immortality.” I nodded, and my clone disappeared inside the building.

“Goodbye.”

With that, I headed to the bus stop bound for the airport spawn point.

Taiyo Fujii, a Japanese science fiction writer, was born in 1971 in Amami Ōshima. He debuted by self-publishing the ebook version of Gene Mapper in 2012, which reached number one on amazon.co.jp's 2012 Kindle Best Books list in the Fiction & Literature category. The revised version was published by Hayakawa Publishing in 2013. He served as president of the Japan Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers Association from 2015 to 2018. In 2017, he published Orbital Cloud, and in 2019, he won the 40th Yoshikawa Eiji Award for New Literary Talent for Hello World. In 2022, he won the 53rd Seiun Award (Japanese novel category) for Man-Kind.

WORTHY OF YOUR HUBRIS

Relja Antonić

 

It was the summer of 1940. The year of the War in the world outside, and of turmoil never ending on the inside. Insulated in my part of the world, but not quite safe, I was exploring a new literary concept with my mysterious friend whom I have never seen again after the war and die Rattenlinen, in aftermath of which he disappeared on a certain expedition – a daring young archaeologist, philosopher, explorer of the worlds physical and metaphysical alike. Sometimes, when I am in a great peril or pain, or when I dream, can I recall his full name. Less, as the time passes and the war gets further away, I can remember the shape of his face (but not the colour of his eyes), and his initials – which, strangely enough, are not A, B and C, but instead A, B and then K. And in order not to fully forget him and all we worked on; I shall try to pen down at least a short, subjective history of these strange occurrences.

A. B. K. was a proud man. A know-it-all type of person, a bit condescending, and well-versed in both mystic and symbolic meanings of the artefacts he had uncovered. Well heeled, he was the owner of the largest private library of the time, his adventurous but troubled brow often buried in the tomes which Poe and Lovecraft had named ‘the forbidden lore’. I presume that library had something to do with his disappearance – perhaps with his descent into Lethe’s waters as well, for after the turmoil, all his precious work and his social status were forgotten. And even he, being the way he was, admitted to not reading even ten percent of his books. It is understandable that we came to the decision to use his private collection for our research.

Vigorous we were still and determined to exposit and dilate Ovid’s “Metamorphosis” in its historical, metaphysical and psychological contexts. So, we split our research, and I was assigned to deal with Kafka, C. G. Jung and even a bit of Freudian analysis. And K’s part of the job was (re)reading, rewriting and understanding all his ‘forgotten lore’. And both of us studied the works of Ovid, side by side. A. B. started feeling unwell, he had a sensation that he was being watched and followed, he thought somebody is going to steal our work, and he started living in constant fear of being robbed of his money and archaeological artefacts and, most importantly, of his books. Although it was me who was studying Kafka’s “Die Vervandlung” and all his personal letters which pierced deep into his own insecurities – while still trying to discern the other side of the medal and perceive symbolic and non-allegorical context of his works – it was me again, and not A. B. K., who, on a hot summer night of February 29^th 1940, found, next to those two tomes, a strange, early Johannes Gensfleich zur Ladem zum Gutenberg’s print of an ancient text, marked as ‘accursed’ and probably never read or sold, never reprinted, and forever forgotten. It was titled “Hubris and worth – the weave-tragedy of ancient world of Agartha; post-decadent age”, and though it was quite similar to Ovid’s work, it was also reminiscent of Lord Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”, and it was written in a form of a personal journal, and also quite short, perhaps long enough for a double-scroll tube of Alexandrian library. I will try to translate it on Spanish, and in context, here, although ‘Agarthians’ (or the real Far Eastern authors of much later periods) had obviously nurtured quite different style and concepts at the time – and so, the German (and maybe even earlier Hellenistic) translation has some minor problems. I will use the prothagonist’s name as she was later named in the Western wolrd, with no inclusion of the footnote of the unpronounceable name Gutenberg had given (or probaly had taken from Greek transcription).

The story tells of something like this.

 

It has become obvious that our Agartha, world of the Inner Infinity, sometimes leaks into their realm. It is a well-known scientific fact: our sometimes abstract and always subjectively idealistic tales and weavings shape their reality and their history. And know this, o weave-reader – the concequences of all our trivial actions in the world of the Inner, the world of ideas, also shape the world of the Outlands.

Condemned to forever weave my stories, to reshape and retell, to make my thick, rich tapestries, and veils thinner than shades, I almost never leave my royal castle. And I never sell any. Not anymore. So, many weavings cover every inch of my House, unsold, unused, not even accepted as royal gifts by other rulers… but returned to sender. “You are trying to entangle us in your worthless stories,” they tell me. But I weave all I see, I change all I want. My tapestries tell of the greatest sagas in the world. And I have always been proud.

But, lo! Also beware of the facts of alchemical sciences! Gods punish hubris, and reward valour for its worth, unless that valour is better than their own works. So, the time came, and I could not go out ever again –only do my noble work– and I could never rest… but continue seeing and picturing everything, nowadays without even a blink. With every possible usage of my perfect memory, I can never maintain the reproduction of all the occurrences I see, and all the changes My perfect imagination grants them – but I never stop, and since I never forget what I see or what I dream-weave, I really do not care how late I am running behind with my weaving with the loom and hands.

Gods and Goddesses also judge all the others they do not like. For it is known, they had made apes once, from the unworthy and lazy First Men. They made weasels from sneaky bastards, crawling reptiles from even worse people, and then… Gods went mad with power, I’d say.

All the non-human species have spread across the Inner Infinity from then on. The unclean ones. The clean, but dumb ones. All of them were once Humans.

The world turns on itself, and the Inner Core blinks gently. Someone also turns, into something else. Again, day after day. Streets get infested with rats and mice, forests spawn lucky vermin with magical paws and horrid elongated ears. Huge bloodthirsty beasts roam the inner landmasses. Maybe some of them also roam the small Outer Universe. For our shadows have been leaking there, and probably forever shall.

I hear roaches chirping and hissing. The castle is infested with bugs. Always eating, smacking their mandibles, never producing, never giving. Oh, what a horrid sound they make! When I go hungry, I catch and drain some of them, but always looking all around me, never blinking. Always weaving what I see… even scene of that vile deed. Ever changing the stories but not sugar-coating them.

And one day, the Herald comes, carrying a parchment. He gives it to my envoy. The parchment says:

“Let it be known that, by the verdict of the High Council, princess Arachne is to be permutated and deviated into the Mother of Weaving Spiders, and all remaining, yet unturned members of her court, into digger-spiders. Let there also be known she has offended Us vastly. Thus, she and the remaining humans of her House shall be metamorphosed into this new, foul kind of creature. Hers is to weave forever and never to blink, always hungry and needy. They are to burrow in their pitiful holes. And, let there be known: as Inside, so in the Outer! Thus spoke the High Council.”

I know inhuman animals stop thinking soon after the Turn. I may not have many opportunities to tell my last story – maybe just now, while my mind is still fresh, for I know not if my veils and tapestries will be readable in the future, even if I would be subconsciously able to produce them. So, I try to conjure some skeletal kind of memoir from my infinite weaving, pulling it aside from everything else in this chaotic mash of knowledge. May one day someone rewrite that which he or she has seen on this tapestry and spread the word!

 

I do not remember whether I ever showed A. B. K. this document. Maybe I did, and maybe I stole and hid it. I just don’t know. I vaguely recall we continued our research during the years of the outer war, and that he disappeared afterwards, before we have made anything. And, after that, he was washed out of history and memory. I am not sure at all if I would remember even this much: his initials, our history together, or the shape of his head – if I had not received his last letter, signed only by three letters of the alphabet.

And these are the contents of that letter I found in the late 1946.

 

Dear J. L. B,

The world is turning.

And decadence is pouring from the Metaphysical. For it is the infinite and endless sea beyond Plato’s Cave. It is real, and we have spoiled it somehow – all of us, you and me included.

I am not sorry at all. I am proud, and I would do that again, for I grew up feeling unworthy of my father and mother, and now – after all my adventures and findings, and after time spent in my family’s library, all that noble pursuit and everything I’ve accomplished – I know one thing. I do not care anymore - for I should not care anymore, and I shouldn’t have cared back then. And you and I… we did not end the nightmare, we maybe won’t even explain it (we may or may not be so lucky), but we have paved the road for future discoveries and arts.

So, if I never see you again, for I really am in grave danger, may you know you shouldn’t give in to despair. I will excavate lost stories and weave new ones –everywhere, even on this expedition, and ever on– until the day I am no more, and so should you, even if we do not meet again to finish this one.

Yours truly,

A. B. K.

Relja Antonić was born on December 17, 1988. He lives and works in Šabac, Serbia, and has been writing and illustrating for over 10 years. He contributes to at least three magazines, has published short stories in several anthologies from countries of the former Yugoslavia, and likely considers himself a fantasy writer.

 

THE JACKAL AND THE CRABS

Víctor Lowenstein

 

He cast the nets before the sun rose in the East and sat down to wait. His was the patience of an old fisherman. Then he lit his corn-cob pipe with his good hand; he had lost the other at Tannenberg fighting the Germans in the Second World War. After the first puff he sighed deeply and gazed at the blue, endless horizon.

In the village they called him “Sea Wolf.” He would smile that sad smile everyone knew and correct them:

“Ship’s Jackal… call me that!”

A veteran of the merchant navy on the western coast, he retired after doing his part on the side of the Allies and invested his pension in the fishing boat that gave him both livelihood and refuge in the solitude of the sea.

He lived in a modest shack by the riverbank, some distance from the village, with a young Indonesian woman he had bought from some gypsies along the copper route. She knew how to cook stews and smile meekly. He never loved her, but he never treated her like a slave either. Amila—he called her that in memory of a beloved prostitute.

The morning Samuel Méndez appeared on the beach; the old man was struggling to push the half-sunken boat off a sandbank with his chest and his good hand. The young man’s strong arms helped him, and his voice entrusted him with a story: he was fleeing from a terrible stepfather; he had no money and nowhere to live.

The old fisherman did not believe him, but he invited him aboard and offered to share the fishing. Samuel would keep a tenth of the catch and could stay in an abandoned bunker on the beach.

“Amila will give you blankets and candles so you can stay there”, he said.

“Who?”, the young man asked.

The arrangement suited them both. Samuel would earn a humble wage, enough to live on, and even have a roof over his head each night. The old man could use a helping hand and even began to think of the boy as the son he had always wanted. At the very least, they became friends.

He often took him to his hut so the boy could have a proper meal now and then. Above the steam rising from the soup, the old man thought he saw the young man’s gaze turning toward his wife who, bent over the kitchen utensils, revealed the healthy bronze of her body.

Saturdays are made for seamen to rest, drink, and enjoy themselves. The old fisherman would go to a tavern where he met his dearest companions: Lars the Swede and Kolchak the Pole. They drank until dawn and laughed over the sea stories of their lives.

Samuel, spruced up like a young dandy and already used to village life, went to the canteen to dance with girls and make friends. One evening, seeing him pass by the tavern, the old fisherman pointed him out as his assistant, and the other two exchanged worried glances.

“He’s young, and like all young men today, he’s arrogant. Look at the way he walks.

“Be careful, Jackal”, whispered Kolchak.

The old man looked at them through the tobacco smoke but said nothing.

On Monday morning, already out at sea, the old fisherman pulled three crabs from the net and dropped them into a wooden bucket on the deck.

“Look at them”, he said to Samuel.

“I don’t see anything”, the young man replied.

“You will, but not for long. When one of the crabs tries to climb out, the others will drag it back to the bottom. That’s how these animals behave.

And so, it happened. They watched the curious spectacle twice in a row. Each time one of the creatures raised its claws and tried to climb over the rim of the bucket, the others seized it by the sides.

“Do you understand the lesson they teach us?”, said the old man.

“You’re crazy!”, Samuel laughed.

“Laugh if you want, boy. A wise man would understand that men are like crabs: there are rules that must be respected, even if we don’t like them”.

The young man had strength, the old man knew it well. But the old man had patience, which the young one mistook for senility.

Many mornings passed, fishing afternoons, boisterous Saturdays. Old sailors do not measure time in hours. They measure it in waves of thought that cover entire days, weeks, and months… often years.

The old fisherman watched the horizon with narrowed eyes. He listened to the sea and the wind. And he thought. He listened to Lars and Kolchak without saying a word. And he thought.

One evening he stretched his good hand over the side of the boat and dipped his fingers into the water. It felt colder than usual. He knew what the Mediterranean currents brought. The western wind carried its salty announcement.

“It will rain tomorrow”, he said.

The young man looked at the clear sky, without a cloud, and burst out laughing.

“Crazy old man…”

That night was unusually cool. The fisherman told Amila to bring blankets to Samuel’s bunker. She took a long time to return. He noticed her disheveled hair, the hasty with which she adjusted her skirt as she entered, the blush on her cheeks.

He said nothing.

In the morning…

“Shall we sail today, old man?”

He had never called him that before.

That morning, when the old fisherman threw the gear onto the deck, his eyes met Méndez’s. It was true about his arrogance; youth and strength allowed it. He looked at the world –and at him– the way one looks at a stranger. At him, a fisherman and war veteran who had hoped the stranger might become the son life had brought him.

He dared to look back at him the same way: as one looks at a strong young man, a lover of life, impatient to live it. A bad companion for a lonely old man.

By midmorning the rain broke out. At first lightly, with storm clouds rising along the cloudy line of the horizon. The wind rattled the timbers of the old boat.

“Let’s go!”, Samuel shouted, already beginning to lower the sails. The idea of a storm at sea terrified him.

Again, his eyes met the old fishermen, and a chill ran down his spine. The old man was looking at him with mercy, almost with pity.

Samuel shouted again. The old man neither answered nor moved.

“You’re completely mad!”, he shouted above the gusts shaking the boat.

When he turned to gather the nets, he saw the old man pulling a revolver from his coat pocket.

“But… what are you doing?”

In the middle of the sea a shot rang out.

Méndez’s body fell into the water with a brief splash. The wind began to calm its fury and the rain stopped. The old man and the sea knew storms, and they were not surprised to see the sky turn blue again.

The fisherman put away his gun, wiping away his tears. He finished lowering the sails, gathered his gear, and set course for the village harbor.

Víctor Lowenstein was born in Buenos Aires, Argentina, on January 19, 1967. He is the author of six books of fantasy short stories. He has received two honorable mentions from the Argentine Society of Writers (SADE) and first and second prizes in the short story category of the "Siembra de Letras" contest and the "Soles de América" ​​anthology. He has contributed to more than twenty-five anthologies and a dozen online magazines. He writes fiction, horror, weird fiction, and essays on modern literature. Some of his books include: Paternóster, a short novel, 2014, and Artaud, el anarquista, 2015.

 

SEARCHING FOR NADA

J. J. Haas

 

My search for legendary author Alejandro Nada began and ended in the timeless little town of Navarro on the outskirts of Buenos Aires on June 14, 1959. As the train crawled to a stop at the station, I picked up my leather satchel, heavy with the weight of the revolver, and stepped onto the rickety wooden platform. The station was unmarked.

“Navarro?” I asked a vaguely familiar young man.

“Navarro,” he said.

I descended the wooden steps and found the solitary dirt road mentioned in one of Nada's short stories. The morning was cold and bright. I followed the road for several miles, turning left at every fork, until I reached a gazebo in the middle of a garden. I thought I smelled something burning in the distance as I climbed the steps to the gazebo. Nada was waiting for me there.

“I've been expecting you,” he said.

We sat down across from one another at a small table, like two chess grandmasters meeting for the first time. I laid the leather satchel down on the ground, leaning it gently against the instep of my right foot. I rubbed my hands together several times to keep warm. I had been waiting for this moment forever.

“I want to ask you a question,” I said.

“A question?”

“Yes, a question. And I want a straight answer.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Is there a God?” I asked.

“Is there a God?” he repeated.

“Is there a God?” I confirmed.

“What makes you think I can answer that question?”

“Because you are Nada.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken. I am myself. Nada, the one in my stories, is just a figment of your imagination. You are as much Nada as I am.”

I pulled the revolver out of the satchel and laid it on the table. “I said I wanted a straight answer. Is there or is there not a God? Yes or no.”

“That is a different question,” he said. “Which question would you like answered?”

I picked up the revolver and released the safety.

“Allow me to elaborate,” he continued. “Not only am I not Nada, but I am not even the self I was a moment ago, or the self I will be a moment from now. There are an infinite number of selves that I am, one for every moment. Therefore, your question—if it is not an unanswerable question—must be asked and answered by every Nada in every moment of his life. Likewise, you must also ask and answer that question yourself in every moment of your life. I cannot answer that question for you.”

I pulled back the hammer and pointed the revolver at his heart.

“Then answer me this,” I said. “Do you believe in God at this very moment?”

“That is yet another question,” he said.

I pulled the trigger three times, once for each unanswered question. He slumped over in his chair. I calmly returned the revolver to the table, got up from my chair, and walked over to Nada to check his pulse. As I leaned over, the legendary author whispered.

“I can see infinity.”

Then he died, the hint of a smile on his face.

I dragged Nada's body into the garden behind the gazebo, then found an old gas can hidden near the main house. I took the gas can back into the garden, poured the gasoline on the body, and struck a match.

It is perhaps a meaningless question to ask if I could have prevented this tragedy. In the endless labyrinth of time I have always killed Nada, I am always killing Nada, and I will always kill Nada. However, as I stood there warming my frozen hands over the burning corpse, I found some solace in Nada's final words. In the same moment that I had accepted my fate by pulling the trigger, perhaps Nada had found his own redemption at last. This offered me a modicum of hope for my own future. Although I could not have prevented myself from committing this horrible crime, perhaps with time I, too, could find my peace with God.

I returned to the gazebo and cleaned up the mess. Soon all of the signs of the crime had been erased. Even the smell of burning flesh had begun to subside. I sat down in Nada's chair and looked out over the dirt road. In a few minutes I saw a vaguely familiar figure walking through the garden to meet me at the gazebo. I rose to meet him as he ascended the steps.

“I've been expecting you,” I said. 

J. J. Haas is a short story writer and poet whose fiction is available on Amazon in an ebook collection titled Searching for Nada. He has published fiction and poetry in a wide variety of magazines, including Shenandoah, Rattle, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Asimov's Science Fiction, Baen's Universe, and Writer's Digest. He lives in a suburb of Atlanta.

INTO THE SEA OF TREES

Luis Saavedra

“Forgive me.” He doesn't want to say it; it feels like a clumsy sentence, even a cowardly one. She deserves something better. “Thanks,” he finally says. The little doll tilts, but he already knows every gesture and that means conformity. It's cold, but it's a beautiful day with a blue, unreal sky made of gloss paper and cotton. The crows are far, far away and a hum of leaves enclose them. “I have to leave you here, I don’t know where else I could, but it’s not because I want to.” It’s true, old people gradually lose their will, they bend against the time and decisions of others, accept that life comes out from hands and mouths of children, grandchildren and authoritarian but friendly strangers. “It's my son, you know? He wants me to go with him.” The doll was a gift for his 68^th birthday, a gift that only he knew about, for nights of snow and memories, a gift of ion-engine’s warmth and peach-colored silicon. When she opened her eyes, she fell in love and their love was encoded into a three-dimensional flash storage, deep inside her head. Perfect, made by demand for his need for something more sublime than a brutal desire. “I don’t know how to explain to him that you were with me, I don’t know how I could....” Sometimes to feel her presence on the right side of the bed was enough to shut the dead up. Sometimes it was necessary to make love to her slowly, so close to her white, bright skin. With her head tilted to one side and his mouth slightly open. He was always checking his own sighs, every time longer and more laborious. “I was confident that you couldn't complain, I dedicated myself to you since I first saw you.” The doll wears simple dress: a black skirt and a banana-colored shirt. Her hands are crossed on her knees, and she sits on her heels. A very short hair, very round face, very outlined lips and eyes black as a feather of a thrush. A little girl with breasts that fit perfectly in a man's hand, he met her in a dream fifteen years after the death of Naoko. In the dream, he was surrounded by his family, that eventually turned into a bunch of noisy crows, but he ignored them, and he told her with blatant security: “I'm tired of being alone.” She smiled and answered “yes”, and he welcomed the displeasure of the others. Weeks later he received at home the huge package that was only a dream. “I wish I could bring you with me, but it would be so wrong....” He saw the face of his son puzzled at first, then annoyed. Of course, it would be so thoughtless to bring dishonor to his family. But there are no crows right now. Again, he thinks about the perfect day in the middle of nowhere, alone with her, as it had been the last few years. He stands up painfully and shakes the wilted leaves from his pants, he takes a big breath and waits until the ground stops waving. He realizes that his hand doesn’t tremble when he caresses the beloved head of the doll with her eyes full of love for him, as always. He was so scared then, because she was his ultimate fantasy and by abandoning her, he surrenders his will. “I have to go now.” The manual says that he will find the capsule to trigger the destruction of the memory modules, in the neck. His fingers move awkwardly, but he finally finds the slightly tumor and press it hardly until it gives in, and he imagines the head draining like a broken clepsydra. He watches the doll's eyes growing darker each time. If he could know a word that signifies gratitude, love, give the world’s beauty and the whole complex of lightning in his mind, he would say it. But this way is better, because of the few things he has learned in life, that silence is the best way to express all these feelings he has inside. He doesn't look back and the doll remains on the path of the forest, like a kind stranger. Suddenly he feels old and really concerned. He feels there’s nothing for him anymore, it’s time to go. When he exits the forest, he counts few coins for the bus back to the city and again thinks that it is a beautiful day without crows. Days like these last forever.

Luis Saavedra Vargas (Santiago, Chile, 1971) was the director of the Chilean science fiction fanzine Fobos (1998-2004) and editor of the science fiction anthologies Pulsares (2002-2004). His short stories have been published in Años luz (Chile); the digital anthology Schegge Di Futuro (Italy); and Dimension Latino (France); among others. His story “Ol’fairies Bar” was a finalist in the 2005 Domingo Santos competition (Spain). He is a founding member of Grupo Poliedro, dedicated to fantasy literature, and his first solo book, Lentos Animales Interdimensionales was published in 2021.