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.

A NEW YEAR LIKE NO OTHER!

Finn Audenaert

 

for my mother

Rosa Holderman is nodding off on the sofa. Around her, confetti in festive colors lies scattered across the carpet. After the fireworks, the silence has come. It is well past one in the morning by now. The new year has begun.

In the drowsiness of those late hours, Rosa thinks of her family. Her son Eerhard is eighty and still single. Whatever will become of that boy? She worries less about her daughter Heraki. Heraki lives with her husband in New Mauritania and suns herself blissfully on endless beaches in the company of her children and grandchildren. If only Rosa could once again visit her bronzed offspring like she did back in 2072. Unfortunately, New Mauritania is not exactly around the corner. A journey across two star systems is quite something at her blessed age. And for Heraki the trip in the other direction is too expensive; wages and pensions in New Mauritania are dismally low. Heraki refuses to accept money from her mother.

Eerhard softly opens the door.

“Mum, are you asleep already?”

A typical Eerhard question. Well meant, but a little awkward. It does not surprise Rosa that the boy still lives with her after all these years.

“No, Hardje, I’m enjoying the afterglow of the joy that lights up the whole world. Come sit with me.”

Eerhard remains standing in the doorway, tilting his head. “It’s so quiet, Mum, after all the festivities and fireworks outside. Shall I turn on the blaster? A bit of holo-music would fit nicely right now.”

Eerhard doesn’t like silence, Rosa knows. All those years with only his mother for company… The boy must be longing for some music, a bit of excitement and cheerfulness. Why did he stay home again today instead of going into town? His legs aren’t what they used to be, but still. Does he even know what he wants? She studies him thoughtfully. Ah well, she loves her son just the way he is—of course she does.

“All right, son, pick a nice ultra-channel.”

Rosa prefers books. When she thinks of the best thing she read last week, a warm feeling spreads through her. Paris in the Pandemonium was devilishly good. And Diederik Thinks Himself Into the Abyss was deliciously tragic. She is addicted to postmodern fairy tales, whimsical stories in which princes suffer identity crises and frogs ask for advice, while princesses watch from the background with a pout. Rosa chuckles. She enjoys a generous splash of despair, followed by an unexpected happy ending.

Ever since she was able to take early retirement five years ago, Rosa reads the hours of the day away. Three meals and preferably two books per neo-day—she won’t settle for less. At the age of one hundred and sixteen she reads a little slower than she used to, but she does her best. Hmm, nothing like getting pleasantly lost in dusty leather-bound tomes. Rosa clings to long-abandoned habits. Her son prefers newfangled things. He immerses himself in holo-music and enjoys watching non-expressive dance on the televisor, especially when ladies in tight costumes perform their solos on stage. Ah yes, the frivolities with which today’s youth occupy themselves. Rosa was young once too.

Eerhard shuffles toward the blaster with small, laborious steps. In truth he walks more smoothly than Rosa, who spends most of her time on the sofa. Eerhard’s ankles crack so loudly that even his mother—whose hearing isn’t what it used to be—can hear the sound from across the room. She nods encouragingly as he bends over the large vintage device.

“Give it a good twist, Hardje. The knob’s a bit stuck, I think. Hmm, perhaps we should listen to music more often.”

A moment later the ultra-channel Roostalgie fills the living room. Ah, the hits of the past! Mother and son just catch the end of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

“So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye…”

The familiar figure of Scaramouche casts shadows across the living-room walls as the final notes fade. The clown dressed in red gives Rosa and Eerhard an elegant farewell wave, then slowly dissolves into the sober old-fashioned floral wallpaper. What a classic.

“Oh, we used to sing this at the academy, Mum, at the start of Imaginary Geography classes. ‘Caught in a landslide / No escape from reality-y-y!’ Thanks for letting me go to the Academy of Fantasy. Business studies weren’t for me.”

He carefully sits down beside her on the sofa.

“Yes, dear boy,” she winks, “everyone has their talents. Your late father was an excellent businessman, and you live for art. I’m very proud of your ultra-casts on the blaster. I can’t wait until your series on philosophical alchemy appears in book form.”

Eerhard laughs broadly. Rosa knows the poor boy receives very little feedback on his ultra-casts, and his pay is nothing to write home about. Yet Hardje spends a great deal of time on them. Her neighbor Alba—also one hundred and five by now—told Rosa some time ago that she had run into Eerhard at the vintage shop around the corner, where he had his books printed at his own expense. He had made Alba promise not to tell his mother. And of course that was exactly the sort of thing Alba would swear to! What a sweet son he is. Rosa knows almost nobody reads books anymore, and that he does it only for her.

The stream reader on the blaster switches to shrill advertisements for hyper-tomb bunkers. Fifteen percent off the standard models. There goes the atmosphere! Must this really happen at the start of the new year? The cruel war with the Fardazor Empire—fought mainly five dimensions away—shows no sign of ending. Rosa sighs deeply. In one hundred and sixteen years, not so much has changed.

“Mum, are you all right? You suddenly look downcast.”

But hardly has Eerhard voiced his concern when the next song blares through the room. Whew, no more commercials for a moment. Rosa is about to reassure him when she recognizes the opening notes. A genuine old classic!

The song takes her back to her childhood—one of her earliest memories. She must have been about six. She vividly recalls blowing up balloons that afternoon until she was out of breath. Her mother had laid her down on the sofa to rest, and then the radio had played this very song. It was a wonderful moment, one Rosa still cherishes after all these years.

“No more champagne

And the fireworks are through”

Eerhard sits up straighter.

“Ha! I know this one too!”

They look at each other. Rosa smiles. She savors the feeling of deep connection.

“Agnetha!” Eerhard cheers. He once told Rosa he thought she was the most beautiful of the two singers. The boy has always had a weakness for blondes.

“And Frida,” Rosa whispers, raising a teasing finger.

“Yes, and the boys too, of course, Mum. Benny and Björn, I think. Didn’t they write the songs?”

“Hey, son, pull the rewind cord. I want to hear the beginning again—it’s so beautiful.”

Eerhard hauls himself up from the sofa and walks in small steps toward the blaster. Several vibration cords hang motionless from the device. The large machine had been a gift for Rosa’s one-hundred-and-tenth birthday. After it was delivered from the vintage shop around the corner—far too heavy to carry himself—Eerhard had cleared his throat and shyly told his mother he wanted to offer her some variety. She had suppressed a smile when he said she couldn’t spend all her time reading. For her sake he had asked Zazi, the friendly shop assistant, to install vibration cords on the front of the machine.

Rosa remembers how Eerhard described every detail of the modifications—and how handy Zazi was. Perhaps he should tell Zazi that himself… In any case, from the sofa you can operate the cords by waving your hand in the right direction. A terribly outdated system, but practical. Because Rosa rarely uses the device, the cords sometimes stick.

“Sorry you have to cross the whole living room again, son.”

“It’s fine, Mum,” Eerhard says halfway across the room, slightly out of breath. “I’d like to hear the song in all its glory too.” His eyes light up. “With the choreography, of course.”

Right—Agnetha. Rosa chuckles. Boys will be boys, no matter their age.

The magical music begins again. What a wonderfully melancholy opening. Mother and son immediately hum along. Eerhard sings a little off-key, but that doesn’t matter. Soon the chorus will open the song into joy and hope; Rosa is already looking forward to it.

They sigh blissfully. In front of them, Agnetha sings enthusiastically. The carpet seems to flow seamlessly into her white party dress—the colors match so perfectly. The blonde singer winks at Eerhard, making him shift awkwardly. Rosa notices her son blushing furiously and giggles. Agnetha is only a hologram… She quickly listens to the lyrics again.

At the chorus, Frida walks straight through the door into the room. Her curls sway with her melody lines. It becomes quite crowded in the living room when Benny climbs through the window and Björn steps out of the televisor. It feels like a second New Year’s party.

During the next verse, Rosa’s and Eerhard’s feet turn into lumps of clay. Ha! Just like in the song.

“Dragging on, feet of clay.”

Well thought out! The two tap their brand-new clods to the rhythm. Their stiffness seems to vanish. Bits of clay splash onto the carpet. No matter—when the music ends, everything will dissolve back into nothing.

“Seems to me now

That the dreams we had before

Are all dead, nothing more.”

Rosa gets an idea. She reaches into the pocket of her colorful dress. Aha—her multi-pen! She raises the gadget into the air and waves it. A small solemn flame now sways to the rhythm of the music. Eerhard quickly follows her example. Automatically, the living-room lights dim. How atmospheric.

“May we all have our hopes

Our will to try

If we don’t we might as well

Lay down and die

You and I.”

A beautiful ending. The four musicians take a deep bow. Rosa and Eerhard applaud enthusiastically. Now that is a wonderful start to the new year.

Eerhard makes as if to stand.

“Mum, does singing and swaying make you hungry too?”

“Certainly. Excellent idea. I think the box of instant pastries is on the kitchen table. Could you bring a few packets?”

He nods and takes a step—almost falling forward.

“Mum, look!” he cries, pointing down. “My feet are still made of clay. How is that possible?”

The song has long since ended. The stream reader is listing an end-of-year chart on the blaster.

From the sofa, Rosa gives him a thumbs-up. “Don’t worry, son. It will be fine soon enough. Just look around you.”

Agnetha, Frida, Benny and Björn are still in the room!

Seeing Eerhard’s astonishment, Rosa bursts out laughing. Her son sits back down beside her.

What an extraordinary evening. Rosa wonders what else may happen. She is completely ready for it. At her age she is not easily surprised anymore—but this truly is a surprise beyond compare.

“We sense so much love in this room,” Agnetha begins.

“Your bond is very strong,” Frida adds.

Benny and Björn nod vigorously.

“Only such strong love can keep us with our dear listeners a little longer,” says Agnetha. “Tonight you may make four wishes—one for each of us.”

There is magic in the air, that much is clear. In a world full of technological wonders, there is still room for another kind of miracle. Rosa pats Eerhard’s knee contentedly. He smiles at her.

Benny steps forward. In a raspy but friendly voice he asks, “What is your first wish?” He looks at Rosa.

She doesn’t need to think long. “I would love to catch up with Heraki and her family after all these years. My daughter. My son-in-law. My dear grandchildren! And the little ones.”

Behind the sofa a sound is heard. The wall slides away. Heraki, her husband Thorhes, and their daughters Mirate, Cantate and Hecate walk into the room. The young women carry their toddlers in their arms. Heraki throws her arms around Rosa’s neck and then embraces her brother. Thorhes—always a quiet man—stands beaming beside the sofa.

It has been an eternity since they last saw each other. Rosa takes her time hugging her granddaughters and great-grandchildren. Eerhard does the same, his eyes sparkling. For a moment it overwhelms Rosa; she bursts into tears. What a night!

Benny smiles and nudges Björn, who steps forward.

“And your second wish?” Björn asks.

Rosa points to her son. “Your turn.” She thinks she already knows what he will ask…

Her son coughs. At first he looks at Agnetha, then changes his mind and turns to Björn.

“Well, um… around the corner there’s a vintage shop, and Miss Zazi helps the old owner there. Zazi looks at me so nicely whenever I buy a little gift for my mother. But whenever I want to tell her how much I like her, my voice fails me. So I was wondering, Mr. Björn…”

Eerhard hasn’t even finished his sentence when a loud click sounds above them. Zazi descends through the opening dome in the ceiling, seated on a purple cloud with a golden rim, landing right in the middle of the living room. She wears a chic silver gown with matching earrings.

“I—I…” Eerhard’s mouth falls open.

Zazi steps elegantly from her cloud and sits down on the sofa between mother and son. Rosa finds it all marvelous. Her son looks shyly at Zazi, who smiles kindly at him, and then at the others, who are now lined up on the sofa, which seems to be growing longer.

“Well, Eerhard,” Zazi says playfully, “did you want to tell me something?”

Rosa nudges her son. At first he stammers, but soon full sentences pour out. How he has always liked her. How kind she always is.

Zazi beams. “I’m glad you finally told me. Honestly, I already knew. A woman senses such things—but she still likes to hear it from a man. You have to dare in life. That’s very important to me.”

Now Eerhard cannot stop talking. He has become a true chatterbox.

“How lovely,” Rosa murmurs happily. At last her boy is a little less timid. While Eerhard and Zazi talk animatedly, Rosa nudges her daughter and whispers, “Look at those two. Something might come of it.”

Heraki leans closer and replies, “There’s music in that.”

“And the music isn’t over yet!” Frida raises her arm gracefully. “Do you have a third wish?” She nods toward Heraki.

“Oh, may we too? We’re already so spoiled.” Heraki closes her eyes briefly. “Well… then I wish there were more room in this world for old-fashioned values and pleasures. When I read Mother’s virtu-letters, I see how much joy she gets from her books.”

Suddenly bright sunlight shines through the window—even though it is the middle of the night. Across the street a shop appears, beautifully painted yellow. The abandoned factory that once stood there has vanished. Rosa peers through the window but cannot quite read the letters on the sign.

“Book Paradise, Mum,” Eerhard says cheerfully. “Book Paradise!”

Then he glances at Zazi and quickly asks, “Not competition for you, I hope?”

Zazi shakes her head. “I’d gladly buy books there myself. It looks like a lovely shop. And… I know you’ll still visit me even when you don’t have to print your ultra-casts anymore.”

Rosa immediately adds, “Oh, I’ll still happily read them on paper in the new year.”

She sinks back into the sofa, quietly daydreaming. All those beautiful novels surely waiting for her in the Book Paradise. And the shop is so close! With the help of Eerhard—and, she fervently hopes, Zazi—she will surely manage the walk across the street and back.

Agnetha opens her arms and steps toward the family. With a broad sweep she makes Rosa’s and Eerhard’s clay feet vanish.

“Before we leave you, dear listeners, we wish to grant one final wish.” She looks at the quiet man on the sofa.

“A son-in-law is also a dear member of the family, Thorhes. What is your wish for the new year?”

Thorhes points at himself. “Me? Well… let me think.” It doesn’t take long. “If it isn’t asking too much… world peace—or, um, rather intergalactic peace—would that be possible?”

Agnetha, Frida, Benny and Björn laugh softly. They wave to the family and dissolve into nothingness.

Before they recover from their astonishment, Rosa, Eerhard and the rest of the Holderman family hear the familiar jingle of the news on the blaster.

“Dear listeners, this message has just come in. We are pleased to bring you joyful news. The Terra Alliance and the Fardazor Empire have just announced official negotiations. Both sides report that exploratory talks have already taken place over the past week. After a war of more than sixty years, hope finally glimmers on the horizon. What better news to ring in the new year?”

“That calls for champagne!” Rosa says. Luckily she had asked Eerhard that morning to chill plenty of bottles. She had already had a feeling when she woke up…

Finn Audenaert (Ghent, Bélgica, 1977) writes short stories: SF and horror, absurd stories and occasionally fantasy as well. He edits In Tenebris, a Flemish magazine on SF/F/H and mystery, and books published by Poespa Productions. In 2025 he will release his first book with stories of his own, Happiness: A How to Guide.

 

A DIFFERENT DAY

Marcela Iglesias

 

This cold June morning, I broke down completely. What I had feared most finally happened: I no longer wanted to go to work. Work had been my escape, my way out of the icy, hostile environment in which my life unfolded. But today, I did not even feel like doing that anymore.

Sitting on that sofa, without even the energy to go get something to keep warm despite the cold, the only thing I wanted was to stop thinking.

This is what I asked for. I spent seven years of my life praying for his conversion, begging, praying, imploring. And God granted it to me. But what for? Why? Was it a test of faith that I failed?

I had always believed I had a good marriage. A stable and happy home. An example to our loved ones. That was why I could not understand why I felt like one of the walking dead. It did not make sense. Or did it? The past few years have gone from bad to hellish.

“What are you doing there, sprawled out like a New Year’s dummy? Get up already. Don’t you have anything useful to do?”

Suddenly his insults pulled me out of my thoughts. It was my husband who, like every morning for the past few years, began the day with some vulgarity.

“I feel sick”, I said to him, “I don’t think I’m going to work today.”

“Suit yourself, but I DO-HAVE to work, so you and your children can stuff your faces, you filthy fat cow. Hurry up. Serve me breakfast.”

I had never dared answer back to his insults, but that morning was different.

“Well then, serve yourself. Everything you need is in the kitchen.”

And I met his eyes. He looked at me defiantly and asked,

“You’re not going to serve me breakfast?”

“I told you I feel sick, serve yourself”, I replied without lowering my gaze, “you have two hands, don’t you?”

A voice in my head sprang to life.

Good, good. Good answer. Don’t give him satisfaction, don’t fall for his provocation. He doesn’t command you. Stay seated.

But another voice replied...

No, what if he keeps yelling at us? I’m scared. He’s getting more aggressive every time.

It doesn’t matter if he yells, don’t get up!

No! We’d better do what he says. Look at his face, he’s getting furious...

No! Don’t get up.

He began moving toward me slowly, holding my gaze, threatening. When he stood in front of me, he crouched down and grabbed my face with his left hand, squeezing my cheeks hard enough to cause a slight pain.

“Are you going to serve me breakfast?” he said in an imperious tone, almost through clenched teeth.

The voices in my head started up again.

See? I told you he was going to get aggressive. I’m scared; it hurts. I want him to let go of my face.

Noooo! Don’t let him. Slap his hand away so he’ll let go.

As if propelled by a spring, I swung my right arm and struck the hand that was gripping my face, freeing myself.

What did you do? He’s going to hit us again. What did you do?

I began to tremble uncontrollably. Really, what had I done?

It’s okay, calm down, it’s okay. Don’t be afraid. Looking at his face, he’s bewildered. Get up and lock yourself in the bathroom. Take advantage of it.

And in fact, he was very surprised. In those eternal seconds, before he reacted, I stood up and ran for the bathroom. Suddenly I felt a painful yank. He had grabbed me by the hair as I tried to flee.

“I told you to serve me breakfast!”

As he said it, he tightened his grip on my hair and dragged me by force into the kitchen.

I’m scared, I’m scared. He’s going to do something bad for us. Like the other times.

Calm down! Don’t struggle. Make him think you’re intimidated so he’ll let go.

But a third voice said:

Open the drawer, the knife is there. Kill him. Enough is enough.

No, please, think of the children, I’m scared.

Kill him.

I’m scared, the children.

Kill him.

Enough! For today, just try to get him to let go without hurting you too much. We’re going to kill him, but we must plan it well.

I stopped struggling so he would release my hair and adopted a submissive attitude. Thick tears slid down my cheeks, burning my skin.

“I’ll do it now, I’ll do it now. Go take your shower. When you come out, it’ll be ready.”

“You’d better, you useless, fat cow.” And after jerking my head, he let me go. “I’ve got a little time, I’m going to soak in the tub and relax. You put me in a foul mood. Witch.”

When he left, the struggle in my head flared up again.

He’s going to get in the tub. Take advantage of it!

I told you, it hurt, it hurt so much. Why do you make him get like this?

Kill him.

We must take advantage of the fact that he’s in the tub. When he relaxes, he closes his eyes.

I began making breakfast. Thank God the children were on a week’s vacation and were staying with my sister. I did not like them seeing those scenes. I kept crying, quietly.

Kill him. Take the knife. Go in with the excuse of bringing him towels. Stick it in his throat.

Let’s think. Let’s go to the bathroom first and see if he’s in the tub.

Please, let’s just make breakfast. I don’t want him to get angry.

I do not understand what drove me to obey the voices and head for the bathroom. I went in quietly. He really was in the tub, his eyes closed. His back to the door.

This is your chance. Go get the knife.

Patience.

Just finish breakfast, please.

As if he had heard them, he turned around and said to me:

“Planning how to kill me?”

I almost fainted.

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing, it was a joke. What are you doing standing there like an idiot? Looking for ‘your reward’? Not today. You behaved badly.”

“I came to see if you had towels.”

“Ah, there aren’t any, incompetent. Bring some quickly, I’m getting out soon.”

“I’ll bring them right away.”

As I headed toward the laundry room to look for clean towels, the voices argued in my head.

With the knife. Grab him from behind and cut his jugular.

A blow would be better.

Pour liquid soap on the floor so he slips and cracks his head.

Nooo, the children!

They’re with your sister. For their own sake you have to do it.

Kill him!

Yes, it’s true. The children and I are afraid. I don’t want us to be afraid anymore. Fear is horrible.

At last, now you’re beginning to understand.

Luckily, there were clean towels. I did not want to imagine what would have happened if I had brought him dirty or damp ones. I took two that were on top of the pile of clean laundry I had not folded in days.

“Hey, the hair dryer”, I said out loud, “I hadn’t seen it in a while. Right, I left it here the day I took the children to my sister’s.”

I picked it up along with the towels to go put it back in its place in the bathroom.

While he gets dressed, I thought, I’ll finish making breakfast. Let him leave quickly so I can have some peace.

I went into the bathroom. He still had his eyes closed. It seemed to me that he was asleep. I placed the towels in his favorite spot, beside the tub.

As I was leaving, I remembered the hair dryer I was carrying in my hand and went back to put it in its place. I plugged it into its socket, but I did not notice that my leg had gotten tangled in the cord. I almost fell, and in the process, I yanked the dryer, which dropped into the tub.

We won’t be afraid anymore...

Marcela Iglesias was born in San Salvador on March 12, 1972. Due to the civil war in her country, she emigrated to Ecuador, where she has lived since 1988. A mathematics teacher since the age of 13, she always had a desire to write. Now she considers herself a writer in progress.