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.