Rachel Cordasco translating Serena Fiandro

Tears and Honey

By Serena Fiandro (originally in Il lettore di fantasia, May 2016), translated from the Italian by Rachel Cordasco

[“trobairitz”: a female troubadour who wrote lyrics that followed the courtly love tradition of the troubadours; these lyrics included themes of adulterous love, the elevation of the lady over the man who loves her, and the torturous nature of romantic love]


“Ten gold coins.”

“Five plus the carcass.”

“Seven.” The poacher’s eyes were tense. Shayreen remained unfazed. For what she was offering, he should be paying her, no doubt about that.

“I don’t deal with scum like you,” said the trobairitz, looking him up and down and pushing the fourth mug of frothy beer toward him to finish. Better not think too much about what she was asking.

Rothar gave up. “Agreed. Five gold coins. Paid in advance.”

“So you can keep the money and the dragon? You will have the money when you bring me the heart.”

Rothar looked at her uneasily. “Agreed,” he said, taking the bag Shayreen held out to him. “It’s light. You’re sure this is all that’s needed to kill Gretthen?”

“A silver knife and net,” replied the trobaritz. “You need nothing else.”

These weapons were purchased on the black market, illegal goods since the Lands of Noon had decreed that the remaining dragons were legally protected.

“All right,” said Rothar, glancing around.

Shayreen knew he was uncomfortable. She didn’t care. “I’ll see you here tomorrow at noon. I swear that if you don’t keep up your end of the agreement, I’ll tear off your balls and feed them to Gretthen.”

The poacher finished his bad beer with a sigh and shook his head. His red beard was covered in foam. “There’s something I don’t understand. You have the silver knife and net. Why not kill him yourself?”

Shayreen stared at him until he lowered his eyes. “I’m paying you. Just do this one.”

He stood up, leaving some copper coins on the tavern table. Rothar had eaten everything that the innkeeper had put in front of him. She, however, hadn’t touched the beer or the food. She didn’t want to end up with a stomach full of rat and rancid beer.

The customers silently turned to look at her, almost fearful of being noticed. She knew the effect that she had on those who met her. Everyone in there had heard about her: a woman, no longer young, but with a spectral beauty, with long blond hair streaked with gray and a long scar that ran the length of her face. She traveled from midday to midnight, carrying with her a harp of dragon strings and a copper rod, the symbol of her order- a rod she no longer had a right to possess.

Nobody knew where she came from or how old she was, but everyone knew that Shayreen, at the right price, was willing to sell any secret.

The trobairitz left the inn. The humid and reddish haze of the fumes coming over the horizon was preferable to the miasma of sweaty, packed bodies in that room with a floor covered in straw to collect vomit. That tavern was the main source of distraction for the miners of Aleyas.

One last night. One last night of stories, tales, secrets.


She walked decisively toward a crumbling building on which remained a single tower where ivy had settled and whose stones had been overtaken by moss and mildew. It had once been a tall castle that had dominated the village, which had changed over the centuries into a dirty and noisy city, inhabited only by miners and the destitute.

Heedless of the heap of glass and bone fragments that obstructed the main entrance, the trobairitz entered through a broken window and went down the stairs into the tower’s basement. The ceiling had collapsed. The dragons didn’t mind the humidity or the drafts, so long as they were free to fly. But this place doesn’t like me. When this is all over, I’ll go to a decent city where there’s no risk of dying of dysentery every time I eat something.

A rich city in the Lands of Midnight, where her services would be rewarded and where she wouldn’t have to perform in front of a few peasants in order to receive stale bread and black cabbage soup. A city where the priests would pay the right price to know the mysteries of her order.

“Shayreen, is that you?” The tower trembled with the voice coming from the basement- a deep voice, but at the same time, a voice as bright as a diamond.

“It’s me,” the trobairitz replied. She took a breath in order to quell her nausea. “I’m here so you can tell me another story.”

I’m truly sorry, Gretthen. But I have no choice.

————————–

Rothar stopped for a moment in front of the dragon. The light of the dawn illuminated its scales, surrounding the creature with a weird halo. Its whole body vibrated, as if it would blend with the sunlight.

What are you waiting for?

One didn’t have to look long at a dragon to risk forgetting what one was going to do. But a poacher is still a poacher and won’t let himself be charmed. The trobairitz could sense his thoughts. Rothar looked at Gretthen’s teeth, reflecting on their worth. The ladies were willing to pay any sum for a pair of dragon-leather boots, and with the bowels of these creatures, they could make harp strings that would stay tuned all winter.

He stopped brooding. The silver knife easily penetrated the scales and met the flesh.

The net. You idiot, you forgot the net.

The tower trembled and a violent noise shook the ancient stone walls. The dragon had risen up and started swaying back and forth with the unbearable pain dealt by the bite of silver. Rothar, panicking, plunged the knife in wherever he could.

“Fuck, I’m ruining the skin,” he had time to say before Gretthen turned on him with his mouth wide open. One of Rothar’s arms rolled across the floor, followed by a stream of blood. Incredulous, the poacher could not even scream and fell to the ground, holding the stump with his remaining hand. The dusty floor was soaked in that green mucus that dragons had instead of blood.

Gretthen writhed in pain. The trobairitz sighed. The dragon was vanquished, even if that idiot had managed to complicate a simple operation. It could have just been one precise blow to the eye. She was now forced to intervene. She needed that heart.

First, I have an account to settle with the poacher.

“Piece of shit,” she said, hitting him with the copper rod.

Rothar lifted his face toward her. The green liquid and the blood on his face prevented him from opening his eyes. “What are you doing?” he murmured in a thin voice.

“Go fuck yourself in Hell, poacher,” Shayreen hissed. She continued to strike him until his head was reduced to a bloody pulp. “Scum.”

“There’s no argument that he’s scum,” Gretthen interjected with his usual ironic tone, in which, however, the trobairitz could detect his weakness.

“It seems like everyone wants to skin me. It’s the third time, since the last moon.”

“Perhaps,” Shayreen retorted. Her voice didn’t tremble, but she worried that the dragon could sense the accelerated beating of her heart.

“I just want you to explain why you want me dead.”

The trobairitz turned to look at him, simulating indignation. But she soon realized that Gretthen wouldn’t let himself be fooled. He knew. She wondered how much.

“Do you really need the money? Or is there another reason?” His voice was getting weaker.

“No reason,” Shayreen said through her teeth.

“I know you, trobairitz; I know you don’t do something for nothing. I’m dying. You can tell me.”

“It’s complicated.” The woman recovered the silver net from Rothar’s bag. Although the dragon was weakened from its “blood” loss, she didn’t dare approach it before paralyzing it.

“Who are you trying to defend yourself against?”

The trobairitz stood for a moment staring at the net in her hand before throwing it over him. “What are you talking about?”

Gretthen laughted but was interrupted by a death rattle that shook his whole body. “Do you not see that I’m dying? You can tell me the truth, I can’t pass it on to anyone. I knew from the first day. Someone wants you dead. It can’t be a man- you wouldn’t be so scared. Is it a god?”

“A goddess.” Shayreen approached the dragon with the knife in her hand. She had to extract the heart before all of the “blood” drained out, otherwise the heart would become a piece of rock indistinguishable from those that made up the castle, and, thus, completely unusable.

“Who?”

“Laas.”

“Laas. The most vindictive among the goddesses.”

“You know her?” For some reason, the trobairitz continued to hesitate.

“I’ve seen two thousand winters, girl. There are few gods I’ve never met. Tell me, which of her trinkets did you steal? The cauldron of abundance? The key to eternity?”

“The horn of the beginning and the end.”

A laugh of pure amusement echoed in the tower. “Trobairitz Shayreen, thief of mysteries and mercenary enchanter, you’re completely out of your mind.” For a moment, a spiral of smoke escaped from his mouth, then all of the heat dissipated. “You didn’t try to play it, did you?”

“Actually, yes.” Shayreen was becoming increasingly annoyed with the turn the conversation was taking. If Gretthen knew all of these things about her, why hadn’t he tried to stop her? Something was missing.

“The sound of that horn can destroy the world and then recreate it, as if nothing had happened.”

“In that case, better in my hands than in Laas’s,” the woman replied, shrugging.

“Depends on your point of view. But tell me, what did you intend to do? Sell it to the highest bidder in the event of war?”

“All right, Gretthen, I’m tired of this. I made a mistake and I have to survive. Try to understand me.”

“A mistake that made you pay a poacher to tear out my heart. You couldn’t do it yourself?”

The trobairitz looked away, uncomfortable. I did as much as possible to make sure you wouldn’t find out it was me. “I can’t do anything now,” she said aloud, “and anyway, you are dying now. I really need your heart.”

For a few moments, silence fell in the tower. Shayreen approached. The silver net had paralyzed the dragon, making it possible for him only to move his mouth. She had to finish this quickly. The whole situation had become grotesque.

“Believe me, trobairitz, eating my heart would give you the power of a god, but in a way you would not expect. I’m dying now. Kill me if you want, but don’t touch my heart. Put my body on the black market, possess my treasure…”

“Treasure- this mound of junk?” Gretthen was crazy. There was no other explanation.

“For being a trobairitz, you’re quite ignorant when it comes to dragons. In the dark, you only see junk, but in the daylight, you will see my secret. My real secret.”

Shayreen didn’t reply. Only the heart of a dragon can transform a mortal into a god, and the heart of a two-thousand-year-old dragon can turn her into a powerful god. Very powerful. “I’m sorry,” she said, sinking the knife into his right eye.

Gretthen leaned forward once more, then emitted a puff of smoke that smeared the trobairitz’s face with soot. There was a crash and the dragon lay motionless. The scales’ glow was extinguished. Shayreen looked at him for a moment, shook her head, and began to skin him. It was useless to waste the carcass. She took the large jute bags she had hidden in the tower and grabbed a knife to extract the heart and divide the most precious pieces of the dragon.

After removing the scales and carefully laying out the skin, she cut the meat and threw large pieces into a sack. She would season and salt it for resale in the Lands of Noon. It would be difficult to convince the buyers that it was authentic dragon’s flesh, but in any case, the meat was scarce and would bring a good price. When she was finished, she wiped her hands, which were dirty with green mucus, on her dress and grabbed the heart. She bit into it, and then washed it down with water from a waterskin. She tasted tears and honey.

She stopped herself from vomiting. It was an unexpected taste, like the sensation that ran through her blood and bones. Her hands started tingling. Feeling her heartbeat accelerate, she looked at her hands. They were covered in scales that shone in the golden morning light.


After earning her doctorate in literary studies, Rachel Cordasco taught literature and composition, and currently works as an editorial assistant at the Wisconsin Historical Society Press. She also writes essays and reviews, and contributes to Book Riot, Tor.comStrange HorizonsWorld Literature Today, and other publications. In 2016, Rachel started SFinTranslation.com, which tracks all speculative fiction available in English, and she’s recently started translating Italian speculative fiction. You can follow her on Twitter @Rcordas, and on the SF in Translation Facebook page.

Serena Fiandro is an Italian musician and author. She collaborates with the cultural association I Doni Delle Muse for which she writes books and lectures on the themes of myth and fantasy throughout Italy.

Rachel Hildebrandt translating Katja Bohnet

As the Sun Crashed

translated from the German by Rachel Hildebrandt

Roger is a whore. Not literally speaking. He doesn’t get paid for it, but he comes on to you as if his life depended on it. Which it actually does, in a way. We’ve been stuck here in this crappy bunker for four years. Time shaped in concrete. Hope and dreams have lost their meaning. Here, now, today. We occasionally talk about the past, but that doesn’t last beyond the first round of vodka. We pass the bottle around until it’s empty. We stop. We don’t want to lose anyone. Our reality hangs by a silken thread.

“Get lost, asshole!” This is the only way to get through to Roger. He’ll trail you like a dog, and I wonder how long he’ll be able to keep himself under control. If Roger is a whore, I’m an entire brothel. I tend their needs by hand, by mouth. When push comes to shove, by big toe. I’m the only one who can still take care of the others. Since Pete sewed me shut, I don’t let anyone inside though. I didn’t make more than a whimper. It has to be this way, even if life and my body won’t let me to do the splits anymore. I sometimes regret my fertility. A child rooted in a moist union, first the egg, then the spark. Life inside of me, out of me, conveyed through me. Pain. Different than now. Golden hair, silken skin. I would nurse it myself. But who would want to conceive or nurse something down here? Slim had watched Pete and me, looking for all the world like a small child whose lollipop had been taken away. Roger had vanished. The coward had fucked off to some remote corner of the bunker. All of these encroachments, the responsibilities to the rest of the group. The only girl. You feel the pressure. You have to free yourself even if you’re locked up.

Roger isn’t picky, unlike Slim. Slim is an idiot, but he used to be really hot. Actually, he’s not really an idiot. He can recite all sorts of algorithms involving any combination of random numbers. Slim is actually a damn genius. The sixth ball picked in the genetic lottery game, the golden calf of theoretical mathematics, or simple evidence of nature’s good moods. He was supposedly an exceptional chess player, whenever he played. But now he can’t even play Sorry or butter his own bread. That wouldn’t work anyway, though. We don’t have any bread. We don’t need it either, considering all the vodka, which is the only thing in any quantity still lying around down here. A huge misshipment must have been delivered shortly before it happened. Slim and Pete survive on vodka, the way an infant lives on its mother’s milk. Not me. A drunken stupor is not how I choose to cope with things down here. We subsist on cookies and brown goo that comes in tubes and tastes like cement. Considering all of it, the only thing that makes sense inside this bunker is survival. Vitamins and nutrients don’t seem to count for anything. I miss foods with fiber. I can still remember lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables. That probably won’t last much longer.

Roger has pissed off somewhere. Insulted, sad, suicidal, whatever. We know his moods. Roger is like a cat, always slinking off down the hall. What does he do there? We’ve asked each other that, over and over again. Maybe he goes down there to jerk off in secret. He hasn’t managed to find an exit yet. He wouldn’t still be here if he had, right?

“Pussy!” Slim calls after him. A cruel reflex – just as normal as the death that surrounds us.

“Let him be!” I say.

“Let him get to it!” The grin dangles from his face like a caricature.

I can’t stand to look at the stupid jerk. But if he were gone, I’d probably kill myself. I’ve had a thing for Slim, for years, just like everyone else. We used to fuck sometimes, until he turned into what he is now. Or I turned into what I am now. Hopeless. Disgusting, exposed, dirty, on a one-way street to insanity. Slim is the fallen god nobody needs anymore. He used to be so handsome. All of our hopes rested on Slim. No one believes in him now. Neither he himself nor I. Does this still count as life if the only things we have left to lose don’t matter? I’m hot, I need air. Have for months now. But the air we’re breathing is stale. Pete thinks we’re poisoning ourselves every time we inhale. Slowly, horribly, mercilessly. I take shallow breaths.

“Has anything moved?” I ask Pete, who has been staring at the monitor for hours. He is turning back into a child. It’s as if he were staring at a still from The Wizard of Oz, a classic film that refuses to let him go. Pete knows it by heart. He sometimes mumbles snatches from the dialogue: “There’s no place like home.”

Slim spit on him once, because this phrase drives him crazy. Pete started laughing hysterically. When he’s like that, he scares us. He spent days clicking his heels. He didn’t have any magical red shoes, just tattered, old sneakers. We’re still waiting on the outcome. Nothing, nobody, is helping us escape from here. Pete stopped laughing when he ran out of air, but he never stopped wishing. When he clicks his heels, it almost looks like he’s dancing. Maybe he really is Dorothy, just without the happy ending. Down here, there’s only one film running: What’s going on out there. Nothing. When the soldiers were building the bunker, there were still moving pictures to watch. The fact that the buildings are all still standing is an ironic postscript to a film that nobody is making anymore. Stills. Earlier it was something good, funny. It was a break when we went to the fridge for refills, laughing at the dumb faces on the screen. Ever since there’s been only one scene – ever since the figures disappeared – there’s been something stifling about the still. The fridge stopped running a long time ago. I sometimes doubt if even we still exist.

I occasionally wake up in a cold sweat, day or night. It’s all the same down here. Outside is the only place where the times of day still play themselves out. Light and dark. The planets haven’t exploded. We’re still orbiting the sun. Movement that none of us can actually feel. We want something to happen out there in the dust. I want to see somebody walk by. In the glaring light, through the dry debris. I sometimes imagine that and reach my hand out, against my will, but my fingertips always crumple against the the glass screen. I wake up, although I haven’t been asleep. I run my pointer finger along the contours of the glass, my long nail scratching noisily across the smooth surface. In the background towers the ribcage of the decaying city. Gray shapes transferred onto the facades of houses and other buildings. As a reminder to us, a manifesto. The flash photographed the dead, marking their outlines. The wreckage of a fighter jet, colors unrecognizable, that will never fly or fight again. Far to the left, a slanting power pole, warped by the explosion’s heat. Wires jut out from the top, flowing down like loose strands of hair. The wind moves them occasionally, which is why I sometimes mistake them for snakes slithering down from the sky. It would be enough for me to see one animal. A dog, a rabbit, a mouse. Something creeping across the cracked ground out there. Not even the cockroaches seem to have survived. Who would have ever thought that?

We second-guess things constantly. What are we seeing out there? This shitty question has practically killed us. Slim believes in the reign of the machines. Satellites and other debris are still orbiting the planet. Nobody is stopping them. Pete claims that at some point the modern gods developed new ideas about purgatory. He spent two days praying the Our Father, continuously. At some point, he stared at us in confusion, his mouth searching for the words. He had probably forgotten the lines. I convinced Roger that we were part of some scientific experiment: the people out there could see us, but we couldn’t see them. It was cruel to push all his buttons. It felt good to have some relief, though, even if it was only short-lived. For a little while, he actually stopped talking about sex. It took Slim and me together to keep him from ripping out the monitors and smashing them to pieces. We both had to sit on him, since he kept trying to get back up and grab things. Until all he could do was sob. We were able to convince him that the pictures were the only thing we still had. Roger continues to scan the walls for more cameras. He’s totally paranoid, but there’s nothing up there in the concrete.

It’s quiet here, except for the constant white noise: the grinding, squeaking, scratching. The backup generators have been running for years. The fact is, though, that even without power, we couldn’t die. Other things kill people. Solitary confinement without a crime, perpetrator, or judge. We’re too scared to kill ourselves, afraid of death. However lethal our reality may be, it still seems to be the more appealing option. We’re lonely. We no longer recognize we or you guys. We only know I and you. Separated by worlds, bound together by hate and the necessity to not do what we want more than anything: to kill ourselves, to escape, to say goodbye to this dreary space and those we once called friends. Machines – they have to be the only survivors. We won’t make it much longer. I used to think it would be a relief to finally reach life after death.

Pete’s pupils keep slipping out of focus. It’s hard to say if this is caused by the exhaustion or the vodka. He used to be bipolar, and now he’s always either up or down. All that remains are the extremes. Pete is a ticking time bomb. But I’m still not afraid of him. I love him. I need him more than I need myself, even if it’s been a long time since he could recognize me. “Who are you?” he asks.

I go over and sit on his lap. He has grown thin, his bones made of porcelain. Neither the hard cookies nor the nutritional paste make any difference. We never feel full, but we consume enough to keep ourselves from dying. The army took care of its own. I cup Pete’s bristly chin in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Hey! It’s me. Your sister.”

“What?” Pete has a hard time pulling himself together. He actually lost it all a long time ago. We keep carrying each other along, because it’s all we’re still able to do.

Years ago, we would sit around the campus, as the sun crashed through the atmosphere onto our skin. We tanned, absorbing the beams. Somebody laughed, we touched each other very lightly, like foreplay. We would kiss, untroubled, as we talked about prime numbers, eternity, and the reason why sometimes points are not points at all. The mown grass would tickle our skin, as the scent of pot encircled us like a caress. At the one end, the joints were as round and large as our pupils. The clothes we wore were snug and short. The shorts, the tops. The clothing licked our bodies. We were young and sexually charged, like batteries that never ran out. The things that didn’t come into our heads, we carried in our hearts. We called each other Sucker and Honey and Sweetie Pie. All of our discussions were naive and loud. Our lightheartedness was a youthful promise, whose fulfillment we expected to come any minute. And then: so much death, so little life. Generation X, Generation Y, Generation Zero.

It was the flash that made the shadows stand out more than ever before. So much so, that the end was seared into, captured in, the concrete. Outlines on the facades of buildings. A final picture, camera obscura. Some simply evaporated, losing their skins.

We weren’t actually supposed to be down here. The reports had been increasing over the years, but at some point, you stop paying attention to the urgency. A couple of countries protested. We were separated by oceans – from each other and from our ideas. We had absolutely no clue who was out there, who hated us so much, although we were deluged by media reports. We armed ourselves and then disarmed ourselves. Slim was sitting on the information, but he didn’t talk much. There were security conferences and emergency drills, and the number of canned goods on the supermarket shelves grew. When the sirens went off, we wearily got to our feet. The shrillness of it upset us, and the mass migrations no longer seemed to make any sense. The bunker was a cool place, and its bleakness appealed to us. Slim was acquainted with all of the instruments. We would have been equally at home on a spaceship.

It was our national holiday. There wouldn’t be any catastrophes if they didn’t happen, if somebody prevented them. It’s just that those who march to their own drums don’t wave little flags. Our political engagement expressed itself in simple opposition. Support, opposition: no one actually cared about our opinions anymore. So we decided to flee the scent of cotton candy, the flurry of national colors, the blaring music. We had rejected all that long ago. It was hot and humid outside, while the bunker was cool and quiet. Almost pleasant. Like a surprising location we kept discovering anew. We didn’t have any other options at that time. We played Spin The Bottle. Truth or Dare. I was still wearing my push-up bra. Roger’s tongue kept running along his upper lip, his gaze fixed on my crossed legs, as if something there mesmerized him. Slim, the brilliant asshole, was sitting in front of the monitors. The Chosen One, the Messiah, the One-in-a-Million. They all wanted him. CIA, FBI, NSA. And other names that we had never heard before. Maybe they were companies or organizations, products of a new world order. We couldn’t understand it. He was just Slim, our friend. A stark raving freak, unbelievably attractive, unbelievably out-of-touch. He knew all the films. “Watch this,” he said, pointing at the screens where people were dying.

“Wicked movie!” Pete laughed louder than usual, as I joined in.

Slim reached for the bottle. Back then, his skin was almost as pale as his hair. “Shut the fuck up!”

Roger farted loudly and shrieked with laughter.

Slim’s mouth finally expressed what his brain still hadn’t grasped, what none of us had grasped: “It’s real.”

The bottle kept spinning, until it stopped with its neck pointing at Pete. He was supposed to go out for the next round of pizzas. Nobody went anywhere. Our final resting place had been dug while we were still alive. Now we are sitting in the chilly darkness, waiting on death. He is a slacker, obviously taking his own sweet time. Torment is his middle name, Bunker his last. We came here secretly to play games, but we had to stay forever. The bottle is still spinning, while life rotates around us. The second after it all happened, we became history’s footnotes. Our families: gone. Our homes: gone. Our context deleted, eradicated without a single trace. What will become of us? What has become of us? We wanted out. We pounded on the door, but we couldn’t get it open back then. The horror has never vanished. We have already started begging to die. Halfheartedly though, because death still frightens us. Maybe we’re already dead and just haven’t noticed. The emergency systems kicked on back then. Today, emergency is our norm. We want to go out, but don’t trust ourselves to take the risk. We could have left the bunker before now, but we didn’t. Aren’t supposed to. The numbers in fate’s lottery have already been drawn. Death is waiting for us out there. We prefer slow suffocation. The silence out there has made us cowardly. We never were all that brave. We feel safe in here – and simultaneously cursed. Our home is a grave. And we are cowards who would rather die slowly than face a quick death. All we have is nothing. What we could have had, though, would have been even less than that.

While carbon monoxide busies itself with poisoning my lungs, I press Pete against me, because it is often the only thing that helps him. “You’re alive,” I repeat once more, then six more times, over and over again. Pete twitches and shakes. He has forgotten how to sob. His misery is as dry as a parched river.

I stand back up. “Still nothing?” I ask Slim. I have to say something. Pete has begun to tremble. The Wicked Witch of the West has him firmly in her clutches. He stinks, we stink.

Slim just shakes his head. Words cost strength. We stare at the monitors. Out there: nothing. Subatomic silence. Occasional winds. Desolation. Dust. Drought. Decomposition. The weather has forgotten how to rain. Drought everywhere, just as dry as my mouth has been as long as I can remember. We’ve gone through what little water we had. We rationed it, even at the beginning. We recently stopped washing. The vodka just makes us thirstier, but I try to imagine that it has been distilled into water. I dream about waterfalls, sweet lakes and ponds. I would swim and drink forever, until I couldn’t possibly keep going. It would be better to go under and drown, than to dry up and wither down here for an eternity. Our today has turned into stone, hard and unchangeable, just like us. The unfiltered sunbeams outside beat down relentlessly, mirroring the mocking laughter of a sad, vanished existence. Nothing is allowed to move. If something did move, it would die. What am I actually still thinking is out there?

When they came to clean things up outside, their clothes were bright and colorful. The advance team wore breathing masks, and the first real faces appeared a few days later. As they danced and laughed out there, I stammered something incomprehensible. Pete’s eyes were huge. He kept calling out for the Wizard of Oz, his saliva spraying all over the place. Slim just stared, and Roger rubbed his prick as if he had experienced an epiphany.

“What are we?” Slim asked, stuttering. “An… an experiment, an accident, a bad joke?”

The ones outside danced – the colors blinded us – we could hear the strains of music and would have cried, if it had been possible. We are sick, our desires are deceiving us.

“Stop it, Pete!” I say. “Stop fucking shaking!”

But Pete can’t. His nerves have all been fried. He crashes to the floor, and the tremors rack his entire body. Slim just sits there in his chair, his arms hanging slack.

“You can lick me, suck wherever you want. Everywhere. But just stop it!” I whisper in Pete’s ear, but he continues to thrash around beneath me. “We have each other. That won’t change,” I lie quietly, without shame. I want him to believe me. Something red dribbles from his mouth.

Slim just stares like an utter moron. Too much vodka. A shitty American who drinks too much vodka. His IQ of over 160 can no longer help us. “We can’t lose anyone else,” he murmurs. He hasn’t stood up for days now. Pisses in a bucket. Maybe he can’t even walk anymore. Handsome Slim.

“Shut the hell up, Slim! Help me!”
    But Slim just laughs. First quietly, then louder and louder. He laughs and laughs, gulping down air like an old man. Something white and foamy bubbles out of the corner of his mouth, as he sits there laughing.

I turn around. Roger is missing, too. “Roger!” My thin scream sounds like glass, as it rasps along the corridor and ricochets off the concrete. Where is that pig?

Pete’s convulsions stop. As I continue to shake him, his body becomes strangely slack. He was the older one. I’m now untethered. Convince me that I’m dreaming. Nothing here is true. Truth is what I make it to be.

Slim laughs, wheezes. Until he abruptly breaks off, suddenly dissolving into coughing and panting. The hysteria has wiped his face completely clean.

For the first time in ages, something moves. The shock ripples out in waves. The pixels quiver on the monitor. Right in front of the bunker. A person. Arms, legs, a face. Everything in motion. So this is how the first man was created. The walls, the power poles, the military machines, everything that had been seared into our retinas suddenly dwindles down to a transfer picture. Did I just feel a breath of air on my skin, the first since who knows when? I must be wrong. This can’t be. Bright cloths, silken fabrics blowing in the wind. Tibetan prayer flags of a lost, western generation. Chills run down my spine. Is something divine touching me?

It’s getting harder to breathe. Maybe I no longer need to. I click my heels, once, twice. I won’t manage a third time. The magical words leave my mouth: “There is no place like home.” My only wish. Think about Pete. Somebody will wake me up any minute. I believe this with every fiber of my ridiculous being. Nothing happens. Trembling, Slim’s thin fingers point at the picture. The scene before us dissolves into its smallest components, as it reaches its half-life. We are alone. We knew it. The monitor flickers, the image shudders as I try to grasp what I’m seeing. A small crash, a loud bang, a white line suddenly stretching horizontally across the wavering picture. I’m still screaming as the screen suddenly goes black. My eyes dart back and forth, but the monitors stay blank.


With degrees in art history and historic preservation, Rachel Hildebrandt worked for years as a historical consultant and academic editor before transitioning to literary translation (German). She has published both fiction and nonfiction works in translation, including Staying Human by Katharina Stegelmann (Skyhorse), Herr Faustini Takes a Trip by Wolfgang Hermann (KBR Media), and Collision by Merle Kroeger (forthcoming, Unnamed Press). Rachel is also the founder of Weyward Sisters Publishing, which focuses on bringing contemporary works of crime and noir fiction by women authors from Germany, Austria and Switzerland to English readers.

Sheryl Curtis translating Laurence Suhner

The Perfect Chord

By Laurence Suhner, translated from the French by Sheryl Curtis

       This evening, I’ll finally do it.
       My fingers will assume the ideal position, they will pinch the strings with the adequate amount of pressure, neither too strong nor too weak, so that the vibration will attain the desired frequency; they will find the correct tempo; will extend their combined efforts toward perfect harmony. The sound will grow, amplified by the large sound box. It will fill the space with the necessary volume, a mixture of delicateness and strength, of gentleness and intensity. I’ve been aspiring to this for months. It’s no more than a matter of tiny adjustments. I feel it.
       I can already imagine the power washing over me as it once did, over there, very far, very high in the sky, during that night spent in the immense primeval forest of Edena, a small telluric planet in the Tau Ceti system, the second to be discovered by our astronomers. An inhabitable exoplanet, as they used to say at that time, three centuries earlier. Now, we’ve gone back to the good old reflexes and we simply call it a colony. Tau Ceti, a system twelve light years away and yet, the heritage of humanity.
       Night fell over the village several hours ago.
       I’m sitting in the circle, almost in the middle of the clearing, where smoke rises from the bonfire and the torches. I see the moon making its way through the gap in the foliage overhead. Around me, a handful of the members of my expedition, weary faces, drawn features, yawning as they wait for the opportunity to go to their tents and abandon themselves to rest. As for the others – the natives, let’s say – they observe us without seeming to do so, glaring, if that expression applies to their insectoid faces, their multiple, impenetrable eyes. Like bottomless black lakes.
       Edena was not supposed to shelter life. Much less, intelligent life. If such primitive creatures can be considered intelligent beings,which, despite everything, I’ve forced myself to do. Since I arrived, three earth years ago, I’ve made every effort to keep the necessary distance, to avoid judging, to avoid making the same mistakes as my predecessors. I try to understand their habits, their customs, even though they’re nothing like anything I may have encountered on Earth. I’m a true ethnologist. Except that there’s nothing human about my subject.
       This evening, it’s my party, literally and figuratively. The natives have organized a ceremony for me. At least, that’s how I understood it. But it’s also possible there’s no connection. Many things continue to slip past me, despite my efforts. Perhaps this festivity coincides with one of their celebrations honoring the moon, the stars, the seasonal rains, the laying period. What do I know?
       The heat is stifling. Despite being specially designed, my clothing sticks to my skin, to such a point that I wonder if I’ll be able to extricate myself from it when I go back to my tent at the end of this exhausting day. I’ll have to. I leave tomorrow.
       After three years on Edena, my feelings are mitigated. Obviously, I‘m happy to be going home… The suffocating heat, the sickness, the insects as large as crows that dive at you, the unbridled, voracious fauna which has eyes for nothing but your meager rations, or for you… Not to mention the incomprehensible culture, the barbaric, often bloody practices… The S’fars, as they call themselves, are pure animists, hunter-gatherers barely out of the paleolithic stage. We have nothing in common with them.
       At the same time, I feel a vague sense of regret. I wasn’t able to do anything. Apart from saving their lives. And as for any guarantee that my efforts will be continued by my successor… The first plan was to eradicate them. No one back on Earth would have known. When we arrived on Edena, we carefully omitted making any mention of the discovery of intelligent life. At the start of my mandate, five expeditions later, I temporized, I knocked myself out looking for traces of art, painting, writing, funeral rites… The jewelry they make with any old thing and display around their long, slender necks, like that of a praying mantis, their grasshopper-like legs, devoid of flesh, the grotesque trinkets they shake, the rawhide drums they beat with an obvious lack of rhythm, all that is art! I shouted at my colleagues. They shrugged, snickered on their large tractors, their excavators, turning over the rich forest soil, looking for oil, gas, uranium, diamonds. We’re here to grow rich, they told me, to dig the soil, to take control of the resources, to adapt the environment for the upcoming arrival of millions and then billions of people from Earth, weary of breathing in the poor, dry air of our dying world. Edena will be our world soon!
       Without me, without my patience, my persistence, the S’fars, decimated by human colonists, would be decomposing in the thick strata of vegetation in their planetary forest. They would be one with their planet. Perhaps it would be as if they had never seen the day under the yellow light of Tau Ceti. Perhaps that would be better. For them, for us. Who knows?
       I focus my attention back on the center of the circle. The racket is deafening. The natives – a good hundred in number – are rubbing their elytra in a rapid, jerky movement. The rustling overlaps, multiplies, saturating the space. It’s unbearable. In the middle of the clearing, one individual, even rangier than the others of his kind, is waving his upper limbs in a hypnotic choreography. Four arms, ending with two fingers that look like claws. The gestures are slow and precise, no doubt pregnant with meaning. Looking at him, he could be taken for an oriental divinity. I tap a few notes on my console. The creature is dancing. I’d bet my life on it. I can’t help but find it beautiful in a certain way, a sense of grace filled with nobility, which touches me despite the racket, the heat, the humidity and the exoticism of the situation.
       Behind me, Stephen, my assistant, sniggers.
       “They’re going to marry you, that’s for sure!”
       I turn around. He’s as red as a beet, as red as the S’fars are a dark, deep green. He continues, jabbering in a way that pleases my colleagues, spluttering to his heart’s desire. Then he’s seized by a coughing fit that drowns in the mouthpiece of his respirator. Fortunately, that puts an end to his childish nonsense. Some of my colleagues here are laughing, some crying, some coughing.
       I resume my contemplation. I have nothing in common with those guys. I came to this world to understand. I learned what I could. I saw. I felt. I will never forget. The experience is engraved on my mind, my heart, my entrails, like a brand. These people may be barbaric, but we can’t just deny the fact that they exist, wipe them away with the back of a hand.
       One day, when I’ve recovered from these three years spent battling in a hostile environment, I’ll come back here. Despite a gravity forty percent weaker than on Earth, Edena is hell. It will have to be worked to the core, gentled, prepared for colonization. That’s the job of the next expedition. The large carriers are on their way. Everything has been planned. In 50 years, this planet, terraformed by humans, will be our second cradle, a new chance for humanity. I’m proud to have been one of the movement’s pioneers. But, somewhere deep down, I already feel nostalgic for this wild nature.
       The laughter – again with that allusion to my marriage! – grows behind my back. It struggles to dissipate in the dusty air mingled with the odor of the local cuisine. Since this morning, something has been stewing in a large furnace. There’s not a breath of wind to freshen the clearing, which is imprisoned in this virgin forest filled with the perfume of the start of the world. “They’re going to cook you!” the men couldn’t keep from joking.
       I’m weary of their never-ending nattering. I’m preparing to gratify my team-mates with a searing remark, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I should do like them, shout over the din. Talking makes my head hurt, so imagine raising my voice… I cough, make an effort to put on a fake smile. I see Stephen wiping a tear away on a corner of his shirt. People here laugh at anything. At anything. Everything is a pretext. It’s the wear and tear, the fatigue of this world which weighs too heavily on our bodies. Too much boredom, too much heat, too much strangeness, too many natives with their obscure customs. Those I recorded and catalogued so doggedly in my console. Over 1000 pages. When I get home, I’ll write a long, well-documented article. I’ve gathered enough information for the Planetary Commission to establish a reservation. Thanks to me, the S’fars will have their own land, a bit of this vast forest with its swamps, its tree-like ferns, its thousand-year-old trees that stretch 300 meters up. I’ll make sure they’re comfortable, that they can live decently, that their ancestral traditions are respected. I sincerely hope that will be enough to protect them from the brutality of men. The reservation is an acceptable solution, compared to genocide, the preferred option. I’m returning to my loved ones – my wife, Celia, and my children – with a clean conscience.
       A new commotion is sweeping through the S’fars. The one I called the dancer is discreetly withdrawing, melting into the mass of his kind. He has no further role to play in the ceremony. Other natives, all limbs and exoskeletons, have just placed something in the middle of the clearing. It’s huge. At first glance, it looks like a piece of wood with several elements and fine stems, stretched along a handle, that sparkle in the light of the fires. The clamor grows in intensity. Then, suddenly, silence falls. No rustling of elytra, no pounding, no growling, no cries. Even the forest, usually overflowing with the stirring of creatures, falls silent. The S’fars stare at the object standing in the middle of the clearing with their black eyes. One of them slowly walks ahead with its four slender legs. It’s a new one; I don’t recognize the markings on his shell. He bends forward, as if bowing, and then places one of the appendages that serve as hands on the object. The gesture is respectful, somewhat sensual. When his claw touches the stems of threads, strident sounds are produced. A long task starts then: the native catches the threads one by one and modulates the tone using what looks likes wooden pegs screwed into the handle.
       A sound box. Neck. Strings.
       What I’m looking at is a musical instrument.
       Using a camera, I obtain a closer view. The object looks old and dusty, a common piece of poorly worked wood. Perhaps they dug it up from some ancestor’s tomb? In any case, that’s the impression it gives. In the three years of my mission, I’ve never seen anything like it. The S’fars are better known for the diversity of their percussion instruments. No doubt they keep the newcomer for major events, such as my departure. Despite my efforts, I’m unable to count the number of strings. Fifty perhaps? Maybe more? Long and shiny, a gap of two or three centimetres between each of them, rising from the saddle, over the bridge and spreading out on both sides of the neck – 1.5 meters long by the looks of it – and finally winding around pegs. Metal? Fishing line, as in the case of certain, old-fashioned lutes back on Earth? Or organic, animal or vegetable fibers? Under the player’s claws, the strings tighten one by one. The native is looking for the adequate frequency, in the same way as people would tune a guitar or a violin. The sound is unpleasant, sharp and resounding.
       “We’ll leave you with the bride, eh?” someone says behind my back.
       Out of patience, my colleagues have started to leave the clearing.
       I force myself to resist for a moment longer, then decide, in turn, to follow them, overwhelmed with fatigue. I don’t make it a meter. All of the natives stare at me. They want me to stay, for me to attend the ceremony until the end. “It’s for you,” the one we’ve taken to calling the chief of the village, nattered this morning in his colorful language. “It’s an honor. You have to stay until the end.”
       For me. Just for me. What does that mean? Is it to thank me for all my efforts? Do they understand that I’ve fought to save them?
       I sit back down and their attention immediately shifts from me back to the musician, who devotes himself to his art. Bit by bit, the sound transforms. I notice a harmonic progression. I can make out notes. I practiced an instrument when I was young, as a means for training my brain. I recognize full tones, natural, but also semitones, sharps and flats. I also detect smaller intervals. Quarter tones? The tuning is very subtle. And takes a very long time. How can this native perform such delicate work with the coarse claws at the ends of each of his upper limbs?
       The tension in the clearing makes me feel uncomfortable, almost ill. Something is happening. But I couldn’t say what. Something that floats above the notes and my understanding. Something primal, fundamental for the S’far culture, something that escapes me. Why didn’t I have an opportunity to attend such a ceremony during the three years of my mandate? Why did this have to happen the night before my departure? I had no idea the S’fars were such accomplished musicians. How could I have missed that? Suddenly, I’m angry with myself. I did my job as an ethnologist badly.


       The moon, the planet’s sole moon, is high in the sky. And full.
       Overcome by the heat, I must have fainted for a moment. Silence bathes the clearing. I notice that all eyes are fixed on me.
       What are they waiting for? For me to wake up, of course! They want me to give them my full attention. As soon as they realize I’m fully conscious, the concert begins… How else could it be described? I’m immediately caught up in it. I’ve never heard such knowledgeable music, so subtle that it transports me, literally, into another world. Yet, my ear recognizes no melodic composition. It’s something else. As if my perceptions have been modified, expanded, to enable me to access different ones, those of the S’fars. As if I’m discovering, for the first time, senses that remained unknown before this. I see things in the combinations of the notes. I literally see them. As if I could reach out and catch them, one yard in front of me. Colors that burst, shapes that take form in the air, fireworks of light that cross through me. I see S’fars walking ahead in the millions, gigantic cities that rise above the forest, like ant hills, spacecraft criss-crossing the cosmos to the very edges of the universe, planets, stars, galaxies… I’m watching a high-speed presentation of the history of a grandiose civilization as it once was. Unless what I’m seeing is their visions of the future… Or a simple dream. After all, the S’fars are merely a primitive people, without technology. They don’t have flight, let alone space navigation. But regardless of the nature, the illusion is captivating. As I listen, I feel jubilation grow. A physical, almost sexual joy, washes over me. I regret that my colleagues left early. Well, not really. Would they have understood? I’m flattered by the honor the S’fars have reserved for me. They chose me. That’s why they insisted that I stay until the end. I alone could understand.
       How long did my modified state of awareness last? I couldn’t say. In the morning, I find myself lying on the grass, exhausted but ecstatic, my clothing damp with dew and perspiration, bathed in a sensual pleasure that balks at leaving my mind and body.
       A young native is standing in front of me, recognizable by his dull shell devoid of marks and his slender build, proof that he has never laid eggs. He holds the instrument at his side. He speaks to me in his language.
       “It’s for you!” my AI translator immediately transcribes.
       A gift?
       Am I entitled to accept it?
       “I’m very honored. Thank you,” I reply
       The young native bows and hands the object to me.
       “And the musician? Where’s he?”
       “He’s… dead, as you say in your language.”
       I stand up suddenly.
       “Dead? I don’t understand. Why? How?”
       “He made the sacrifice. That’s tradition when one plays the H’la, the Great Harp/Lute of Transformations. Now, leave. Go home. Take the H’la with you. It’s a gift from my people. If you don’t take it, the sacrifice will have been pointless.”
       Already, the native is walking away, taking small steps. It’s impossible to determine if he’s proud at accomplishing his mission or sad about the loss of his fellow.
       “It’s all for you,’ he said. “That’s what counts.”
       My hand settles on the body of the instrument. The sound box is made of a large fruit, much like a very large squash, cut into halves. I brush my fingertips against it and it seems to me that a slight vibration runs through me, as if the music of the past night were waiting to come back to life through the fibers of my being. With ease, I lift it and the strings quiver in the fresh, dawn air, gratifying me with a few random notes. It looked heavy to me the previous evening when the S’fars placed it in the middle of the clearing. But gravity is only 0.6 g on Edena. My human physical strength is much greater than that of the natives.
       I don’t know what to do. I’m tempted to leave the H’la, the great harp-lute as the young S’far called it, right there. Something tells me that this splendor does not belong to me, that it should remain with its people. Then, I give in. I pick it up and take it with me. It seems so light in my hand.
       Other rustles respond to the murmur of the forest as it awakens around me. Bit by bit, I notice groups of S’fars watching me through the foliage. Their eyes follow me until I reach my quarters. My ship takes off in a few hours. All my belongings have already been packed in trunks ready to be loaded.


       In the brilliance of the morning sun, standing against the wall of my high-tech tent, the harp-lute has lost its magnificence: it has once again become a simple dented shell cut out of a large, hollowed out piece of fruit, with myriads of strings of varying sizes and diameters. I’m astonished by the state of fascination which it plunged me into yesterday. Was there some hallucinogenic substance in the air, spread by the smoke of the fire? It doesn’t matter. Its raw, primitive look, its dark wood will be all the more appealing in my living room with its white walls and platinum gray furniture with rounded corners.
       “So, what about the wedding?” someone says behind my back.
       That schoolboy joke will follow me until I give in to cryogenic sleep on the ship. I walk past Stephen without stopping. I know he’d like to be in my shoes… leaving.
       “Why are you taking that horrible thing back?” he insists, sniffling.
       “It’s a souvenir. Just a souvenir.”
       “Well, I don’t want any souvenirs from this place! If I were you, I’d chuck that old thing in the garbage. We have to make a clean sweep of this damned forest and those cretins!”
       I take my leave without another word. I’m going to talk to the Commission, that’s for sure. I won’t leave the S’fars in the hands of guys like Stephen. They’ll have their reservation.


       The cabin I’m assigned in the ship is comfortable, but small. I would have liked to keep the instrument there, close at hand, to make sure no one touches it – it’s funny how I’ve already grown attached to it – but it had to go through a complete decontamination process and was placed in a hold, appropriately packaged. I’ll have to wait for the end of my trip. Ten months. That may seem long, but it’s not really. I’ll sleep until we cross through the gateway, the Einstein-Rosen bridge that will take us back to the solar system. Thanks to the theories of Ermann Lô Yuko at the beginning of the 22nd century, interstellar travel has become a reality. Without it, we’d still be subject to the limitations inherent in special relativity. To get to Edena, I’d have had to spend centuries in a space craft with no hope of seeing my loved ones again.
       I prepare for stasis. The ship’s AI will watch over me, as well as a hundred or so colonists who are returning home with me. I’ll wake up in orbit around Mars, fresh as a rose. From there, I’ll take a conventional carrier that provides a regular shuttle service between Mars and Earth. A simple formality. I’m eager to get home.


       Here I am. The harp-lute stands in a glass case in the middle of our living room.
       Of course, my wife, Celia, who I find looks more careworn and tired than I remembered, doesn’t like it. My children, Maxime and Jessica, 12 and 15, danced around it, delighted and excited. As for the little one, Leonore, who was only two when I set out for Edena, she ran and hid in her bedroom as soon as I took the instrument out of its crate. Five-year-olds aren’t impressed by anything. All she knows of the world is our sanitized civilization, without glitches, defects, dirt or the slightest trace of dust. No plants or flowers brighten our apartment and the trees that line our street are artificial, obviously. We have to save our air and our water. We don’t enjoy the luxury of sharing them with other living creatures, let alone with green plants.
       I was overjoyed to be back with my wife and children. Yet, why am I so indifferent to their presence? I don’t understand the source of this feeling of apathy. My doctor told me it was shock, the trauma resulting from my confrontation with the other. Basically, the consecutive side effects of a long and difficult process of acclimation. Apparently, I experienced acculturation. Rehabilitation will take time. Perfectly normal. I let him talk. He prescribed rest. So be it. I make the most of my days at home to write my report on the S’fars for the Planetary Commission.
       “No bulldozer or excavator for two thousand acres,” I stated in black and white. I have to be firm.


       I’m satisfied. I’ve written a powerful article and submitted it to the Commission. But, meanwhile, I got sick. As I lie in bed, fighting an inexplicable and sudden exhaustion, my youngest daughter, Leonore, brings me a mug of hot chocolate.
       “Daddy, you should take it back there!”
       “What, sweetheart?”
       “That wooden thing with the strings!”
       No doubt in an effort to be explicit, she covers her ears with her small hands.
       “At night, it plays all by itself in the glass case. I don’t want to hear it any more. Daddy. It’s… bad!”
       I chuckle gently. My daughter has a vivid imagination. If I don’t keep an eye on things, she could turn out badly, become an artist. A frightening word. That would bring shame on my family, although I’ve softened my tone since that night in the clearing on Edena. Music, as long as it remains practice, has a purpose in the sense that it serves to create new cerebral connections. In that respect, it is beneficial for the development of children. But for them to become musicians or, worse yet, painters or writers… fortunately, there are treatments for that. To nip the evil in the bud, so to speak. I hope we don’t get to that point. Leonore is little. It’s too early to make a big deal about things.


       A month has passed. Fully recovered, I’m spending more and more time in the living room. One evening, glass in hand, I decide to take the large harp-lute, the H’la, out of the glass case. I place it gently on the couch, next to me. Of course, in this incongruous décor, its aura of mystery and exoticism has melted like snow in the sun. But its strings sparkle in the cold light of the apartment. I have no claws at the ends of my arms. Plus, I only have two arms, but perhaps… cautiously, I slide my fingers over the strings. The sound I produce is very distant from what I heard that night in the clearing. My hand moves up to the wooden pegs. They’re used to tune it! I have to find a melodic landmark. I dig through my childhood memories, trying to recall the drills, the scales I practiced up and down on my violin. I had a very good ear according to my instructor. This might be a “C”. Or perhaps a “C#”. I search. I grope my way around. And there, isn’t that a “B”? I identify the intervals, marvel at the subtlety of the stringing. Octave follows octave along the length of the neck in quarter tones.
       I get down to work. First, I take a chance, using only my ear, then I find help in my AI console. Frequencies and harmonic progressions are the same everywhere, on both Earth and Edena.


       I decided to extend my convalescence and stay at home. I still haven’t had any news from the Planetary Commission about my article on the need for creating a reservation for the S’fars. My wife left early this morning with the children. I caught the frightened glance of my youngest, Leonore. She heard me last night. Maybe she even saw me when I locked the harp-lute up in the glass case. With a certain amount of jubilation, I take it back out, and set back about tuning it where I left off the previous night. It has so many strings. Given the change in pressure, temperature and humidity – it’s much dryer here than on Edena – the H’la seems to enjoy growing sharper as I progress. I have to constantly go back, turn the pegs, to the left, to the right, to fight with wood that creaks, with strings that wail and vibrate at the risk of breaking. What frights all day long! The H’la fights me fiercely. For now, the notes I torture from it have none of the exquisite musicality of that night in the clearing. It’s painstaking work, but I persevere, step by step. I want to hear its perfect sound again, the complex harmonies that caused my visions, the total joy of body and soul that no earthly happiness will ever be able to match.
       I’m a bit stubborn. All it takes is patience, constantly getting back to work. One day, I’ll succeed, I’ll reproduce what I experienced that night under Edena’s full moon.


       Sick again.
       I vomit. My hair falls out in clumps. This morning, I even lost a tooth. No doubt a result of the deficiencies harvested during my time on Edena. I have a good reason to stay at home. This way, I can work on my instrument without stopping. What’s a little physical discomfort compared to the endless immensity of the pleasure that modulating sounds, fine-tuning frequencies brings me? I dedicate my days and nights to it. I no longer sleep. In any case, I’m no longer tired. What’s the point of wasting time?
       Around me, I see concern. In the building, in the street, on the news I watch from time to time. This morning, I even felt it for the first time: an earthquake. For ten days, the news has talked about nothing else. Our Earth is stricken with incomprehensible tremors.
       I shrug it off. I think of Edena, its large rivers, its luxurious swamps, its dangerous animals and its conscious creatures, its exuberant youth. A musician gave his life to play the large harp/lute for me, the instrument that is now resonating under my human fingers. Another string, then another. I adjust, I finetune, I constantly go back to orchestrate the harmonies, to cavort with the waves transmitted by the vibration of the strings. The sound grows refined. I already find it much less discordant. I’ll get somewhere, that’s for sure. I thank nature for giving me such a good ear.
       I would have liked so much for my wife and children to hear this. But they left a month ago. Celia returned to her parents’ place to wait for my whim – her word – to pass. Apparently, I was frightening the children.
       She doesn’t understand anything. She never understood me. That’s normal. She never set foot outside her neighborhood, never traveled beyond this clump of houses. So, Edena, the S’fars, light years, the distant stars, Einstein-Rosen bridges, all that is beyond her. But it’s true that I’m thin and bald, that my nails have grown so much they look like claws. That makes it all the easier to play the strings of the Large Harp-Lute of Transformations, the sound is more metallic, more defined, closer to the sound that would be produced by a real S’far. All I feed on now is sounds. I can’t remember when I last ate. In any case, I no longer feel hungry.


       It’s been raining non-stop for the past month. That’s unusual. Our planet has been experiencing droughts for years. It doesn’t matter. As long as I can work on my instrument in peace and quiet. All I think of is Edena, its suffocating heat, its life. Here, on Earth, everything is sanitized, controlled, conditioned. Perhaps this diluvian rain that keeps falling without stop is a gift to wash away our errors, dilute the emotional drought that has spread across the entire planet. So that we can start over again at zero. A major cleansing. Water! Water! I can’t help but think of the Flood. This building looks like Noah’s ark.
       Am I some kind of Noah?


       This morning, the H’la almost got free from my hands. Earth shook more than usual. Gaia is angry. She’s fed up with us. I’ve had enough as well. I’d like to leave, to go back to Edena and its colony nestled in the heart of the forest. And, above all, its inhabitants, its sentient creatures, its musicians. It would be an honor for me to play the harp-lute in the clearing, in front of all the S’fars. I’d give my life for just a moment. A moment that would be worth its weight in gold and harmonics, compared to an entire life of smallness, weakness, mediocrity. I envy the musician who sacrificed himself that evening. His destiny was tragic, of course, but brilliant.
       I called the Commission to get news about my project. But there seems to be some problem with interspatial communications. Beyond the gateway, there’s nothing but radio silence. We’ve lost contact with our carriers and the colonists. It would be easy to believe they’ve vanished into thin air. Now, that’s annoying.
       And my response? And my reservation? It’s big and beautiful in my mind’s eye. Maybe it could be named after me?
       If no one responds, how will I be able to go back there? I’m starting to feel frightened. So, I play, for hours and hours, without pausing, without breathing, sleeping or eating. I’m close to the harmonic perfection to which I aspire. Just a few more adjustments, a few turns of well-adjusted pegs. The ground, which shakes without stopping, complicates the final stage in the tuning process. I attach myself to the couch to the best of my ability. It’s like being on a ship in the middle of a storm. It lists, tosses, pitches. The furniture dances, objects spin in a wild dance around me. On the wall, just behind the glass display unit, a crack has appeared. That’s strange. The material used in the building is supposed to be indestructible.
       From time to time, I still catch the news, when it isn’t brutally interrupted: dams are breaking, the sea is rising everywhere, tsunamis are ravaging the coasts and pushing farther and farther inland. Entire islands have disappeared!
       This was supposed to happen. It’s the natural order of things. Earth has long experienced many major climatic crises and always managed to survive. What’s the point in worrying? I’m staggered by the speed at which people panic. At least now no one has time to worry about me. I receive no messages from my wife, nor from my friends or my children. I would have liked to wish Leonore happy birthday. Six years old already! Where did all those years go? No doubt they’re sealed away somewhere like larva, waiting for the situation to improve.


       I’m alone with my instrument. Alone as I’ve always wanted to be.
       Water pounds the windows. It’s almost as if the rain is beating down on the city horizontally. Down below, where there used to be a street packed with people, a river flows. It carries objects of all kinds: store displays, garbage cans, vehicles. I think I’ve even seen a few bodies.
       Tsunamis, earthquakes, tsunamis. Our Earth is thirsty.
       I no longer catch the news. All broadcasts stopped a long time ago. The public lighting no longer works. I live in the shadow, barely brightened by our Moon, which floats, round and high, above the city.
       I don’t care. I’ve almost reached my goal.
       This evening I’ll get there, I’ll draw the sound from my instrument…
       Just one minor adjustment. One minor adjustment that’s not important at all, an ultimate variation in frequency, and everything will be fine.
       … the Perfect Chord.
       It will leap from the strings of the H’la, the Harp-Lute of Transformations, rise in the dark living room, fill the damp air, fly over the city and its suburbs, mingle with the water that has returned to a wild state. It will be a baptism of sound, colors, shapes, sensations, like those I received on Edena during the transfer ceremony.
       Then, a new world will start. A world transformed thanks to me.
       I understand now. The H’la has only one master.
       It plays only for me.
       For me alone.


Laurence Suhner is a Swiss science fiction novelist. She is the author of QuanTika, a trilogy that stages the encounter between humans and an ancient stellar civilization, which has left mysterious remnants on a frozen telluric exoplanet.  Fond of quantum physics and astrophysics, she loves to collaborate with scientists to create realistic imaginary worlds as depicted in hard science fiction. Before working as a writer, scriptwriter and illustrator, she studied Egyptology, anthropology, English literature and, more recently, 3D computer graphics.  She currently teaches comics, script writing and creative writing at the University of Geneva and in a Swiss special effects and virtual reality school. 

With undergraduate and graduate degrees in translation from the Université de Montréal and a doctorate in interdisciplinary studies from Concordia University, Sheryl Curtis is a professional translator living in Canada. Her translations have appeared in InterZone, Galaxy’s Edge, Year’s Best SF4, the SFWA European Hall of Fame, Expiration Date, The Year’s Best Fantasy and Horror 15, various Tesseracts anthologies, and elsewhere. 

Natascha Bruce and Nicky Harman translating Dorothy Tse

Fish Tank Creatures

by Dorothy Tse, translated from the Chinese by Natascha Bruce and Nicky Harman

      I’m not talking about those streamlined aquatic creatures covered in glistening scales; I mean something transplanted from its original domain and ensconced naked and unadorned in a glass container. For example: a middle-aged man, minus his crisp, well-ironed business suit.
       Through the clear glass sides of the vessel, we see his male flesh: flabby through long neglect. It has begun to droop in soft pendulous folds from his chest to his belly. Lumps and bumps of fatty tissue on his arms and his thighs have caused a web of pale stretch-marks to erupt on the skin. The man looks uncertain as to why he is there. There is a timid expression in his puffy eyes, his lips have lost all definition and color, and long creases bracket his mouth, giving him a comical look. We are on a street in a bustling downtown district and the man-pet in the tank seems to compel other men strolling elegantly along the street to speed up as they pass, as though afraid to spare such a specimen another glance.
​       In truth, however, the people of V City do not really see these creatures on their streets. It’s only in my dreams that the women in bright-yellow rain jackets drive their heavy trucks along tortuous mountain roads, rocking and swaying down to the city center. There, they skulk in dark corners, huge butterfly nets at the ready, and capture middle-aged men whose facial skin has just begun to slacken – they plan to turn them into decorative pets with atrophied brains but highly developed musculature….
​       It has been raining in V City for more than a month without a break. During this time, middle-aged office workers have been reported missing every day. Sometimes they disappear on the way to the toilet; other times it happens when they go into a back alley for a quick smoke. There is no forewarning, and they leave no trace. These men vanish as if swallowed up in a dark whirlpool. So far, the only clues collected by the black-raincoated police officers are fragments of the city dwellers’ dreams. And even though they’ve stepped up their street patrols, all they find is a uniformly grey city where passers-by bury themselves under mushroom-shaped umbrellas, their hurried footsteps splattering like radio static, making the city sound like a dreamscape broadcast over the airwaves. Amid the chaos, the officers glimpse their own hazy reflections in shopfront windows; they don’t say a word, but seem to accept that, at times like this, it is inevitable that some people will quietly disappear.

***

​       So, it’s only a matter of time before my father disappears, Mr. N’s daughter thinks suddenly. But she is soon distracted by her friends’ chatter and spasmodic laughter.
​       They are in a coffee bar on the top floor of a brand-new high-rise in V City. It is deserted most afternoons except for high-schoolers drawn in by the student discounts. Four girls sit in banquette seats around a table by the window, their identical makeup making them hard to tell apart. If you step closer, however, you will see that Mr. N’s daughter is the only one to sport a ring in her right nostril. Mischievously, she has painted her finger and toe nails a poisonous black.
​       Mr. N’s daughter puts her half-smoked cigarette into the metal ashtray, and flips through the latest fashion magazine, yawning lazily from time to time. The June issue features models in summer outfits practically identical to what the girls are wearing. The difference is that these still-growing girls are bored, and it is to escape this boredom that they have bunked off school.
​       At three in the afternoon, the city is deserted, as if they are its only inhabitants.
​       There’s a momentary lull in their chatter. Mr. N’s daughter seems about to say something more, when the waitress ambles over to them, holding a glass of bright red liquid with both hands. The glass is in the shape of a flower vase, and its rim is stuck full of oddly-shaped fruits. Lips parted, Mr. N’s daughter extends a cat-like tongue to lap the vivid red juice. Her tongue goes numb, and she instantly forgets what she was going to say.
​       Mr. N is a typical office worker, managing to arrive home every day too late to catch his daughter awake. If, by some miscalculation, the pair do bump into each other, Mr. N grabs the chance to trot out his oft-repeated homilies. Even worse, he’s still enthusiastically buying his daughter the same kind of presents he’s been getting her for years. More than once, the girl has complained to her mother: ‘He must think I’m a doll in the children’s clothes department!’ Apart from this, Mr. N makes only the vaguest impression on his daughter. She thinks of him today, not so much because she is concerned for his safety, more because his connection to the latest topic of conversation makes him newly interesting.
​       Her real attachment, however, is to Mr. N’s black molly.
​       On his writing desk, Mr. N has a fish bowl, about as big as his head. It is made of clear glass and wavelets ripple slyly at its rim, threatening to spill over the edge. The sole inhabitant is a black molly, its color the same lustrous black as Mr. N’s favourite suit. When she is bored, Mr. N’s daughter likes to glue a rice noodle to one moistened fingertip, then dip it into the icy water. The fish swims over, its lascivious lips close over her finger and it sucks greedily. If she suddenly jerks away, the fish bangs itself helplessly against the glass. The girl bursts out laughing.
​       Everyone looks forward to summer, but the June rains are annoying. For Mr. N’s daughter, not even her friends are enough to dispel the gloom aroused by the silvery rain that snakes down the window panes. Then she looks outside, where the downpour has blurred the contours of the city.
​       ‘Look! What’s that?’
​       Through the coffee bar windows, the junior high-schoolers can see that the city has been submerged. Only the high-rise where they are ensconced sticks above the waters like the tip of an iceberg. From where they sit, they can see men in business suits leaping from their office windows and fluttering downwards, their hair and ties streaming around them like seaweed. It’s been a long time since they took any physical exercise, and in spite of their frantic efforts to swim, their exhausted limbs are powerless to save them from sinking. Only a very few pale-faced survivors succeed in reaching the coffee bar building.
​       As the men cling desperately to the slippery metal balls that adorn the walls of the high-rise, and beat on the window panes, the girls are overcome with spiteful laughter. In the thick glass, the reflections of their laughing faces precisely overlay the terrified faces of the middle-aged men outside.

***

When Mrs. N awakes from her dream, her bleary eyes settle on the slender body of the black molly, flitting back and forth. The phone must have been ringing for quite some time. The voice on the other end tells her that Mr. N left the office at three pm, and hasn’t been back since.
​       Mrs. N hangs up. She can’t help it: she’s indescribably furious. He must have snuck down for a smoke.
​       Don’t smoke, don’t sneak off by yourself, stick with the others when you get off work… she’s warned him time and time again, but he never listens, just like he always makes up excuses not to eat fruit or fish, or use mouthwash before bed. Mr. N has brought this upon himself, because he wouldn’t listen. Angry tears leak from the corners of her eyes.
​       But, this aside, there’s not much to cry about.
​       Some time ago, she secretly went through Mr. N’s bank records and life insurance policy, which names her as his beneficiary. With the pay-out from that, this disappearance certainly won’t make much difference to her or her daughter (in fact, life might be a little easier). She’s even thought through what to do with his belongings – sell off the suits, finally scrap that shabby, falling-apart old desk of his and put up a full-length mirror in its place, tear down all the grey wallpaper and paint everything a nice, milky white; the curtains could do with replacing, too… Mrs. N dabs at her tears, feeling very content indeed.
​       She glances at the black molly on Mr. N’s desk.
​       He never had any particular hobbies, but every so often he liked to sit at his desk, completely entranced by that fish. Mrs. N has never understood the attraction of keeping a fish; she prefers cats. Cats might be arrogant, but at least you can give them a little kick when you’re angry, and listen to them whimper. Pets behind glass don’t even look at their owners, just swim pointlessly around and around, trapped in their own little worlds. Mrs. N can’t resist poking a forefinger into the tank, swirling the water as though mixing cake batter, slowly beating it into a whirlpool. The black molly doesn’t know what to do with itself, and swims frantically against the current. Mrs. N feels her pent-up frustration unwind.
​       “Never mind about your husband, just get a pet to keep your mind off it.”
​       That’s what Mrs. N has heard the other wives saying, to cheer each other up. Get a pet? She shakes her head; a daughter is trouble enough.
​       At three pm, the doorbell rings. She remembers making a date to go to the mall with two other wives, who live nearby. The end-of-season sales are on and, with her husband’s clothes all gone, she’ll have space in the wardrobe to fill. Hurriedly, she dries her eyes.
​       She’s very well-acquainted with the layout of the mall, and knows the clothes shops are on the second and third floors. But, when they enter the lift, a finger reaches past her and presses the button for the basement.
​       “First, we’re going to buy pets,” says the wife to her right, with a smile.
​       “Pets?”
​       The wife to her left nods. “Where did you think all the husbands went?”
​       The lift doors open, revealing an expanse of flabby flesh. At first, Mrs. N thinks they’ve walked into the meat aisle of a wet market, but then realises it’s a row of fluorescent-lit display windows. Inside the windows are men with paper bags over their heads, their snow-white, fleshy bodies on show for all to see. Quite a few are slapping their palms urgently against the glass, but it’s clearly no use. The two wives walk ahead of Mrs. N, and she listens as they nonchalantly continue to discuss these “pets.”
​       “Mrs. N’s husband isn’t bad, but I’ve always quite fancied the hair color on yours. What should I feed him?”
​       “Stick to quick-cook oatmeal, unless you want him to get fat.”
​       “…”

***

At three pm, when Mr. N leaves his office, he’s only planning to nip to the convenience store opposite, to buy painkillers for his headache. There’s a cheap canteen just next door and, as he crosses the road, he sees a few girls inside, smoking and shaking with laughter, sharing gossip over some guy or another. With the window blocking the sound, their smiling faces look even more exaggerated than usual. Instinctively, Mr. N checks his own reflection in the glass: a middle-aged man with a so-so complexion and sagging muscles, his hairline receding a little. Is something wrong? He hurries into the store, feeling his headache worsen.
​       But once he has his pills, he doesn’t go straight back to the office. Instead, he heads for an abandoned lot nearby – it’s where he parked his car. It’s still raining incessantly, as though it might never stop. He looks up at the gloomy sky, thinking that his head has never hurt like this before. A little rashly, he decides not to phone the office, but neither does he prepare to go home to his wife. He climbs into the car and reclines the driver’s seat.
​       Lying there, he has a clear view of the photo of him, his wife and daughter, which hangs from the rear-view mirror. “They could be sisters,” friends always comment admiringly, whenever he gives them rides. Usually, those pretty faces make Mr. N puff with pride, as though congratulating himself on prime specimens in his collection. But this ferocious headache means he’s out of sorts today. He suddenly feels like he hates them.
​       The photo was taken years ago, back when his daughter still wore the clothes he bought for her. She’s wearing an Alice in Wonderland-style pinafore, and has a sweet, innocent face. He looks years older than his wife, like some old pervert standing there with his arms around the two of them. The longer he stares at their smiles, the more it seems like they’re mocking him. Angrily, he flips over the photo and closes his eyes. Mr. N hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in days, but now he falls abruptly into a deep, peaceful slumber, like a princess in a fairy-tale.

***

In his dream, Mr. N turns into a fish.
​       He’s in the glass tank where the black molly used to live.
​       Aside from him, everything seems double its normal size. In the glass, Mr. N sees his muscles, taut again after all this time, and his skin, a rich, glossy black. His waist has become exceptionally small, so tiny it doesn’t seem like a man’s waist at all. He doesn’t find this strange; quite a few breeds of fish change sex at random. He’s more surprised by how huge and innocent the faces of his wife and daughter appear, viewed through the top of the fish tank.
​       As though playing some new and exciting game, they compete to sprinkle fish food into the tank, instantly dyeing the clean water a dark, mossy green. They seem to think he likes those little, fishy-smelling green flakes floating around above him. Mr. N flails his slender legs in protest, splashing their faces, but they just keep smiling their blank, wide-mouthed smiles.
​       Mr. N feels a rush of pride. Now, no one will recognize him. Not his wife and daughter, or his friends, or anyone on the street – not even that woman in the yellow raincoat, still out there waiting on a dark corner, or the patrolling policemen. They think Mr. N’s gone the same way as any other of those unfortunate middle-aged men, disappearing quietly in the V City rain.


Dorothy Tse is a fiction writer from Hong Kong. She teaches literature and writing at Hong Kong Baptist University, and is a co-founder of the literary magazine Fleurs des Lettres. Tse is the author of the short-story collection 《好黑》 [So Black] (2003), which won the 8th Hong Kong Biennial Awards for Chinese Literature. Snow and Shadow, a collection of Dorothy’s short stories, appeared in English in May 2014, translated by Nicky Harman, published by Muse, Hong Kong.

Natascha Bruce is a literary translator from the UK. She was a joint winner of the 2015 Bai Meigui Award (Writing Chinese, Leeds University) for translation of a story by Dorothy Tse. She has translated short stories and personal essays for Asia Literary Review, Pathlight, PEN America’s Glossolalia, BooksActually’s Gold Standard 2016 anthology, and elsewhere. At the moment, she is working on Lonely Face, a novel by Singapore’s Yeng Pway Ngon (forthcoming from Balestier). She lives in Hong Kong.

Nicky Harman lives in the UK and is co-Chair of the Translators Association (Society of Authors). When she is not translating, she works on Paper-Republic.org, the website promoting Chinese literature in translation, organises translation-focused events, mentors new translators and judges competitions. She won first prize in the 2013 China International Translation Contest with Jia Pingwa’s short story ‘Backflow River’. She tweets as @NickyHarman_cn and China Fiction Book Club @cfbcuk

Lawrence Schimel translating Raquel Castro

The Attack of the Zombies, Part 1,523

by Raquel Castro, translated from the Spanish by Lawrence Schimel

There are those who don’t believe in zombies, simply because of the fact that they don’t exist (o people of little faith!). To them I say: fine, zombies might not exist right now wherever you might find yourself, but that doesn’t mean that they couldn’t exist, a century from now, or a year, or even one minute. Any continued refusals from them will just mean that, when the zombie attack takes places, their denial will make them victims who are easier to devour.
       Then there are others who are completely obsessed with zombies. Their fixation is such that they can’t stop thinking about the living dead. And this, of course, affects their daily life, their romantic relationships, their careers: every night they dream of zombies. It’s pathetic but… what can these poor souls do? Would traditional therapy be the best option? Or should they turn to some alternative discipline?


OPTION A
“Doctor, do you remember me? I stopped coming some seven years ago because I had the feeling that, instead of helping me, you were looking for how to get more and more money out of me. Like when you sent me to that Family Constellations workshop in Tlayacapan that cost more than a vacation in Cancún, or when you had me study herbalism as a way of losing weight and improving my mood at the same time.”
       “Oh, yes, Raquel… of course I remember you. But, didn’t you tell me that you were stopping because you had a scholarship to study Esperanto in Finland?”
       “That… oh yes. That was it. The therapy I abandoned for those reasons I just gave was with another shrink, not you, haha.”
       “And how go your Esperanto studies?”
       “Just listen: Hefloffo. Hofow Arf Youf?”
       “Wow, congratulations, you sound like a native. Now, what can I do for you? Why have you returned to therapy?”
       “I dream of zombies, doctor.”
       “…”
       “…”
       “…”
       “Listen, I don’t imagine you’re a Lacanian, Doctor. Give me something so I’ll stop dreaming of zombies.”


No. Traditional therapy is not an option.


OPTION B
“Kiiiitttttyyyyyyyyyyyy.”
       (Silence.)

       “Here kitty kitty.”

       (Silence.)
       
”Kittykittykittykitty!
       “
(Pitter patter of little footsteps running away.)
       “Damned cat!”
       “Meow?”
       (Of course: it only appears when it thinks I don’t want its company.)
       “Scram!”
       (Of course it doesn’t: instead of leaving, it climbs up onto me and begins its concert.)
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
       “Blasted cat, it has to be when you want, doesn’t it?”
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR. PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
       (Pet pet pet purr purr purr.)
       “Hmmm. I think this is working. I no longer remember about the… about the…. what was it?”
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
       (There’s a noise outside: the sound of slow footsteps and a grunt and something that sounds like blood dripping.)
       “Did you hear that, cat?”
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
       (The noise outside might be children playing; it could be an injured dog; but it might be….)
       “A zombie! It’s a zombie, cat, save me!”
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”
       (Because of my fright I squeeze the cat to me. Because this frightens the cat, it scratches me. Because the scratch frightens me, I slap the cat. The cat turns into a little beast from hell who bites and scratches me until I’m all torn up. I save myself as best I can and discover that, after all, my zombies were the neighbor’s children, who are running around barefoot and fighting and grunting and peeing, which is what that dripping sound was.)
       “Children…”
       (Although my intention is good–to tell them that these are not hours for them to  be playing and making such a ruckus–the kids take one look at me and the blood drains from their faces. They flee from me, shouting, terrified by my post-cat attack look.)
       “Heeeellppppppp us! A Zombieeeeee!”
       (I go back inside, defeated. I lie on the couch. The cat climbs on top of me.)
       “PUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.”


No… felinotherapy doesn’t seem to be a good option, either.


OPTION C
“No, Raquel,” my psycho-enterologist says, “zombies don’t exist, they won’t come for you, you don’t need to put up another gate in front of your house nor construct a tunnel leading to your car. Where would you go, anyway?”
       “Where? To my father’s house, of course. From there, hmmm… I think I would go to the mountains of Puebla. I have a theory that the zombie problem won’t last for very long. But it is vital to escape in the very first moments, which is when the majority of people will die or become infected. All because they don’t have escape routes. Or because they don’t react in time.”
       “This is pure madness. How would you manage to reach your father’s house?”
What a foolish man! The key to everything is to react in time: at the first sign of zombies, I’d get into the car, drive down the Anillo Periférico (preferably on the top level), and not stop until I reached my father’s house.
       “And your cat?”
       “What about my cat?”
       “Didn’t you say the other day that your cat absolutely refuses to enter her transportation cage? That the last time you tried to make her do so, she took out your eye with her claws and that’s why your left eye is made of plastic.”
       “It’s polished glass….”
       “Hmmmm.”
       “…from Murano.”
       “Hmmm…. Do you realize that your story is increasingly less believable?”
       “Do you realize that we’re changing the subject? The problem isn’t for us to talk about my glass eye and filigree apliques: the problem is… the zombies!”
       “The zombies.”
       “Yes. That as soon as they appear they’ll try to get into my apartment and eat my brains.”
       “Hmmm.”
       “And the only solution is to put up another gate and to build a tunnel that goes from my apartment to the garage. Can’t you see that otherwise I am trapped without any escape?”
       “And your cat?”
       “He’ll understand. I have a theory that, as soon as the first zombie appears, Primo will have enough common sense to enter his carrier on his own feet.”
       “Paws.”
       “What?”
       “His own paws.”
       “That’s what I said. And once we’re in the car…”
       “You’ll take the Anillo Periférico and reach Iztapalapa in a heartbeat.”
       “Exactly.”
       “And if Alberto isn’t home when the first attack takes place?”
       (Thoughtful silence.)
       (Challenging silence.)
       “Why wouldn’t he be home?”
       “He sometimes works elsewhere, doesn’t he?”
       (Silence to order thoughts.)
       (Triumphant silence.)
       “Then, are you suggesting that Alberto quit his job, because of some hypothetical zombie attack?
       (Open mouth.)
       (Furrowed brows.)
       (Sobs.)
       “Doctor, I think I need to stop seeing you right now. I’d rather use the money for your sessions to build the tunnel…”
       (Copious tears.)


No. There’s probably no therapy that’s any help for this…


Raquel Castro (ciudad de México, 1976) es escritora, guionista, profesora y promotora cultural. En 2012 obtuvo el Premio de Literatura Juvenil Gran Angular y, dentro del equipo del programa Diálogos en confianza de OnceTV, ganó en dos ocasiones el Premio Nacional de Periodismo. Es autora de las novelas Ojos llenos de sombra (SM/CONACULTA, 2012), Lejos de casa (El Arca Editorial, 2013), Exiliados (El Arca Editorial, 2014) y Dark Doll (Ediciones B, 2014). Escribe sobre literatura infantil y juvenil en la revista Lee+ y platica de libros y gatos con Alberto Chimal en YouTube.

Lawrence Schimel is a bilingual (Spanish/English) author and translator, who lives in Madrid. He has published over 100 books as author or anthologist, for readers of all ages, most recently Una barba para dos y 99 otros microrrelatos eróticos (Dos Bigotes). His most recent translation is The Wild Book by Juan Villoro, the first title from Restless Books’ new imprint Yonder. He tweets in English at @lawrenceschimel and in Spanish at @1barbax2

Lynn E. Palermo translating Mélanie Fazi

Born Out of the Front

by Mélanie Fazi (from Le Jardin des silences, 2014), translated from the French by Lynn E. Palermo

       She was born out of the frost, yesterday, on my window.
       Crystals fanned out across the glass panes. Methodically, inside and out. Like a layer of white lichen creeping from the edges in toward the middle. Filtering milky—even brittle—light. Seemed like I should be able to peel it off. A harsh, glacial light that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
       I’d swathed my body in layers of wool, but still it shivered. Shoving up the heat made no difference. Cold was taking over the whole apartment. Seeping into my bones.
       Then a face on one of the panes…took several hours to gain definition. The frost spread out in arabesques too regular to leave room for chance. To melt them, I blew on the glass, with no result. An outline emerged around a still-empty face – a hollow through which I could still make out the street. Light sculpted the raised contours. I hadn’t known that frost could hold so much nuance in silver and white.
       The street disappeared as features completed the face, one by one, in relief. It was a sculpture carved in ice, more than a painting in frost. As if its traits had grown out of the glass itself. Fine, precise, translucent. Silver filaments for hair. A frigid gleam in the eyes. 
       She looked like me.
       I thought it was my portrait, that the panes, or maybe the winter, were talking to me. Which would have been flattering: she was magnificent, everything I’m not.
       Then at last, in the center of the tableau, I saw her mouth emerge. Lips pulled back to expose teeth of glittering frost.
       As she watched me, she laughed. And her laughter was biting.


       She’s living in the mirrors now. Because of me, I think.
       For a long time, I looked myself over from head to foot in the mirror on the armoire. Compared features she’d formed on the window, searching for some resemblance. But I could see only my pale skin and dull, messy hair. Nothing to equal her grace. I clenched my teeth to keep them from chattering.
       Blowing warm air on the mirror, I covered it with my breath. A hazy pool of mist shrouded my face. I tried to trace her face with my finger, the way I’d drawn on the car windows when I was little.
       But my sketch was crude, clumsy. Not even close to her or to me. Not even approaching the delicacy of her features. The mist faded – the mirror drank in my breath.
       I think that’s the moment when she passed through to the other side: when I blew her into the mirror.
       The other face, the one on the window, faded. First the contours, then the hair, until all that remained was a face carved in the ice, or in the glass itself, and losing its mass. Her laugh was the last trait to dissolve from her hollow, dripping face, just after her eyes. Which had never left me for a single moment.


       When I awoke this morning, I found her in the mirror. As if cut right out of the windowpane and deposited there, on the other side, while I slept. She has devoured my reflection. If I stand in front of the wardrobe, it is she who stands before me. With her winter-colored dress, her long, translucent fingers, and her hair full of icy flakes. Her eyes like frozen pools. Her skin dusted with hoarfrost. And as always, the sharp teeth revealed by her laugh.
       She starts by my movements. Then gradually she disengages from them. I watch her acquire a life of her own, with an elegance that ice should not possess. An elegance that flesh never attains.
       Her movements are growing more fluid. Her gait, less stiff. Her skin is slowly taking on color. She has shed the winter like a molting bird.
       On the pane where she first appeared, frost has veiled the window entirely. The street no longer exists.
       I should probably be frightened. But I don’t know how. My mind has been numbed by the cold.


       She plays at being me: a doll of frost, a doll of blood. In the space beyond the mirror, I see her touching the books, furniture, and knick-knacks, learning their shape and texture. Her fingers are still ungainly. She leaves glinting droplets in her path, sowing a trail of glitter and scales that melt as they touch the ground. Under the layer of frost, her skin is a faint pink. She cocks her head with curiosity, shakes the objects, smiles at the rattle of a jar filled with needles or a box of jewelry.  When she sits on the bed and sinks into the quilt, I could swear I hear snow crunching under her feet.
       Now she’s pulled off her dress with its texture of evergreens hanging heavy with snow. She’s trying on my clothes. Clothes I haven’t worn in years, as the colors are too bright. The cherry red and bright orange stand out against her pale skin. Now that her fingers are more limber, she digs into my make-up. Dabs her face with autumnal golds and browns that turn her face into a clownish mask. Grotesque blots of my nail polish dot her fingertips. 
       Despite the caricature, she’s divine. Beneath her disguise, she’s almost me. Me, if I were beyond human. 
       Since she has no name, I give her my own. We have to name things. It’s the only way to hold onto them.


       Spring has arrived in the other bedroom, the one deep in the mirror. Her skin is now pink and warm. Must be where all the heat has gone. On my side, the frost has worked its way into the locks, jamming the front door. I’ve spent long hours probing the mirror for the crack that absorbed all the heat.
       Last night, she slept in a bed that was the twin of my own. I could hear her breathing over there under the other quilt. For most of the night, I tossed and turned under my covers, not wanting to give in to sleep. I was too afraid of having her dreams. I didn’t want to know what images turned round in her head. She might be dreaming of me.
       If she stays, I’m afraid she’ll end up possessing me. I don’t know how to exorcise her.
       Her arms are now bare. Her skin more soft, supple. Meanwhile, mine has lost its color and my lips are turning blue.
       Her face is almost mine. But I can still see hints of frost in the depths of her eyes. And a harshness in her smile that mine has never had. She’s taken every part of me and crafted it into something else: she’s turned a mouse into a wild animal.
       A little while ago, she was studying herself in the mirror before putting on make-up. I reached out my hand to catch her attention. She imitated me. Our fingers joined, mine thrust into the mirror up to my knuckles. Hers sticking out, free. It felt so warm in there; the contact with her fingers slowly warmed my own. Her ring with its sharp corners dug into my flesh. It looked like a silver scorpion.
       Then she pushed my hand away. A drop of blood formed at the base of my index finger. It had no taste at all.
       She disappeared into the living room. I could hear her moving about in there. I heard muffled music through the mirror. It was one of my albums, but I couldn’t remember which one. She seemed know: I could hear her humming along.


       Ever since then, my fingers bear the mark of her touch. Like an infection. Everywhere I lay my hands, colors grow faint. Textures harden. It spreads before my eyes. Sheets of ice cover the walls. I can still make out the paint in a few places. Not many. I’ve already almost forgotten the color, anyway. The floor crazes under my feet. I’m walking on a frozen lake with a shadowy floor beneath the surface. Going into the kitchen, I leave a tracery of spider webs in my wake. The food in the refrigerator is covered with mold. I’m not sure if that’s my fault or the scorpion’s. But I’m no longer hungry. Or cold. My fingernails are blue, but I feel nothing.
       It’s better that way. The bedroom is freezing. The world has turned white. Everything is covered with frost. A book just shattered when I knocked it off a shelf. It split into two sharp-edged pieces. Now I don’t dare touch anything: I’m afraid of breaking it all. Objects that don’t yield might snap off my fingers, leaving my hands with frozen stumps.
       Once again, I take refuge on the bed. I can’t worm my way under the quilt: the frost has fused it to the mattress.
       I gaze into the depths of the mirror at summer. A square of sunlight on the floorboards under the window. Colors that grow more brilliant as my own fade away. Over there, the walls are salmon. The bedspread is red. The curtains hang in vivid colors. She has decorated it all in her image. She’s dyed her hair a shade of copper. She flaunts her grace as she parades back and forth in front of the armoire.
       Sometimes she raps on the mirror to remind me that she hasn’t forgotten I’m here.


       There are people over there. I hear voices and laughter in the summer apartment. Music and the clatter of silverware. But I can’t see them. They’re in the other room.
My bedroom has turned into a closed-up box: a white box. The keyhole has frozen over and frost has veiled the last window. I no longer leave my bed. Huddled atop the quilt and on the pillow with its frozen wrinkles, I can no longer feel them against my skin. Nothing but the exhaustion pressing me to the bed. I can’t close my eyelids. Immobilized, I listen and watch.
       I thought the frost would make my body hard and brittle, but instead, I’ve lost substance. I don’t dare lift my arms for fear that my hands will stay stuck to the mattress, pull off. My fists have less mass than cotton. I’ll no doubt end up completely dissolved. I no longer have a body, I’m a quilt and some clothing. I’m the winter and the bedroom.
       From this point on, the other one lives her own life. She fills her hours with visits and activities. She’s never alone, never silent. She speaks with my voice. I gave her my name, then forgot it.
       It’s all so far away. On the other side of a mirror that I lack the strength to approach. In an apartment that no longer has the same colors as my own. She moves about in conquered territory.
       Around the edges of this mirror, a fine layer of frost has made its appearance. Little by little, it’s growing toward the middle. Soon, it will build a wall between us. And I will no longer even be her reflection.


Mélanie Fazi is an acclaimed author of French fantasy, science fiction, and speculative fiction.  She has published two novels in addition to several collections of short stories, her preferred genre.  Fazi is also a literary translator at Editions Bragelonne in France.  Her short stories, novels, and translations have all been recognized multiple times with the Merlin award, the Masterton award, and the Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire.

Lynn E. Palermo, Associate Professor of French at Susquehanna University, translates literary and academic works. Literary translations, some in collaboration with Catherine Zobal Dent, have appeared in journals including the Kenyon Review Online, Exchanges Literary JournalWorld Literature Today. In 2015, Palermo and Dent received a French Voices Award for their co-translation, Destiny’s Repairman, by Cyrille Fleischman.  Recent academic translations appeared in the 2015 issue of Dada/Surrealism (University of Iowa).

Edward Gauvin translating Anne Richter

The Great Beast

By Anne Richter (from The Tenants, Belfond, 1967), translated from the French by Edward Gauvin

Then they turned to me and said, “It’s settled; you’re the one who’ll be going. Don’t think we made this decision lightly; we had lots of reasons for choosing you. For one, to the victor go the spoils; you’re the one who discovered the beast that washed ashore one morning. Really, all we did was witness your discovery. And so, by law, you should make the most of it. But up until now, you haven’t done a thing. There it lies, inviolate, still as a shipwreck. Can’t you see it mocks us? It’s up to you to unravel this living riddle. That gaping mouth, cool as a mausoleum, is all yours, as is that thick carpet of a tongue of indeterminate color. Think of your parents, your village! Go forth without fear. If the mouth swallows you, too bad. You shouldn’t have been playing hooky on the beach. If it lets you back out safe and sound, so much the better. We’ll know more than we do now. Go! Your parents’ wishes go with you.”
       “Oh yes, go my son,” said my parents, hypocritically, “you have to leave home someday. Lots of boys have jobs already at your age. But what could you have hoped for? You’ve always been scrawny. You’d have had a hard time plying a trade! Lying around the house all day, doing nothing—is that a life?”
And they raised their eyes, brimming with tears, rejoicing inside all the while over ridding themselves of the twentieth hatchling of too ample a brood.
       “Go, my friend,” said the little girl who lived next door. “My heart breaks when I think about the future, but I have never doubted you. Go, and remember your childhood friend!”
       And she clasped me to her fragile breast, inhabiting her role, featherbrained as any woman, thinking all the while about how quickly she’d replace me.
       “We have another reason for choosing you,” the elders went on. “You are the youngest. It is appropriate that youth run risks and that respect be reserved for those older in years. Moreover, the elders are wise; who would keep peace and order in the village if they left? Blessed youth, foolhardy age, go forth and do us proud.”
       “I don’t know what to make of all this,” I said slowly and quietly—not without noticing, to my secret joy, the bored, annoyed looks all around me. “Anyway, I run a great risk. God knows what dangers await me in the mouth of the beast. But if I refuse to go, I’ll have you to face. As far as I know, not a single fellow citizens envies me my fate, and if I refused, my dears, you soon stone me in your fear and frenzy. So I must choose between two monsters. Upon reflections, I prefer the one I don’t know.”
       And to much applause, I leapt into the great beast. The carmine rug of his tongue cushioned my fall. A wind was blowing from the south. The beast’s breath was deliciously perfumed. “Uh-oh!” said I, surprised, and from outside came the crafty echo, “Oh! Glory be to God, he’s alive!”
       I planned on staying that way as long as I could, though God had nothing to do with it. What I didn’t know was that life in my new abode would be so pleasant. I’ve never been one for the company of my peers, but the beast’s, I must admit, was captivating: I hadn’t a chance to feel trapped or bored, not even for a second. No sooner was I on my feet than I started exploring the place; my host graciously gave me free rein. Its mouth was carpeted with lichen of various colors, and its palate had a finer shimmer than the bluest sky. The great organs of its whalebones rang out at the slightest touch, but I refrained from abusing them, appreciating more than anything a silence that I, who’d always lived amidst my parents’ drunken bawling, had never known. A mysterious silence hung in the air like a bird in the sky of this massive maw, a calm punctured only by low digestive notes from the deepest depths. These distant borborygmi cadenced my stay, and as the beast ate on a very regular schedule, I fell into the habit of scheduling my activities by this music from the depths. Such activities were few and far between, but very absorbing, the first being to sleep late. Woken all my life at dawn by fraternal howling or a paternal boot to the backside, I’d never known the pleasures of prolonged sleep. I enjoyed myself to the hilt, and the beast seemed accomplice to my pleasure. All morning long, a ruminant, cud-cradling motion traveled its tongue as it remained unmoving on the sand, not even stirring the slightest tip of a fin. But toward noon, I heard cries from outside. Leaping to my feet, I peered out through the hole of the nearest nostril and glimpsed a few fellow villagers tiny in the distance.
       “Ahoy there!” the delegation hailed me distractedly.
       “Ahoy yourself!” I replied.
       “Are you hurt? We called out several times this morning. What are you up to?”
       “I was sleeping,” I said.
       “Sleeping! What a fine speech you made for someone who was just going to sleep in a fish’s belly!”
       “I’m not the one who made a speech,” I said, “and I’m not sure this is a fish yet. I’ve only explored the mouth so far.”
       “Just remember, you’re not there to daydream,” they said sternly. “From now on, keep your eyes open. Keep on the way you do, and that stupid animal could swallow you before you know it!”
       “Don’t worry,” I said, and dove nimbly right into a little lake in its tongue. I swam around delightedly, flooded with a feeling of well-being. The creature’s saliva was cool and rich. I cupped it in my hands and even drank some of that sweet, springwater-tasting liquid. Not so stupid, I thought, plunging into the tonsils’ grotto. A warm darkness enveloped me, and I emerged into a high-ceiling hallway sparking with stomach juices. I began the difficult descent, using the lumpy surface, and the closer I got to the great vital organs, the more the roar of a forge filled my head, and I felt ever more strongly the shaking of the beast’s inner workings.
       The next day, there they were again, sitting on the sand. The elders were with them, looking displeased.
       “You’ve certainly kept us waiting,” they said. “Where were you?”
       “Where you sent me,” I said. “This time, I went down as far as the stomach.”
       “Ah! What did you see?” they asked, moving closer despite their fear.
       “You’ll never know,” I said disgustedly. “You wouldn’t understand, it’s not a sight for people like you. And even though I could describe it for you, I won’t; I don’t want to.”
       “Now fancy that!” said the elders, striking the ground with their staves. “Shouldn’t you thank us for even being where you are? For your sake, we denied ourselves—so youth might have its chance. We are disappointed. This experiment has gone on long enough. Come out now, it’s raining, a storm is on its way. We can’t wait much longer.”
“Go find shelter then,” I said. “I’m staying right here for now. I won’t return to the village.”
       “We’ll see about that,” they shrieked, “Come out or we’ll come after you!”
       And as they started hurling insults, I burst out laughing.
       But that evening, there was a great eddy, and I almost died, smothered under the tongue of the beast when it suddenly flipped up into the air. I caught a glimpse of an elder tossed into the mouth and caught between two fearsome teeth, which hideously ground up dismantled body. An uproar rose outside. The beast, which had so peacefully offered me asylum, refused it to others. I was grateful to it for so radically discouraging any other attempted attacks. While the storm hurled out lightning on the shore, I gave thanks to the great beast.
       From then on, under a diluvian rain that gave no respite, they came in little groups to bombard me with their entreaties. First they sent my parents.
       “Listen, son,” they said, reaching out their arms toward me imploringly. “We know what you want. Yes, it was shortsighted of us to let you leave. Yes, we used to hit you sometimes, in the heat of anger. Yes, we neglected you a bit, since you were the twentieth. But understand—such mistreatment was the fruit of poverty. Look around you—our lands are flooded. Help us, son! Help us to shelter in the mouth of the beast, against water and cold! Save the village!”
       Perching on a tooth, I spat on their heads.
       The rain stopped, and a hellishly hot sun began shooting out its shafts. A swarm of pests burst forth from the fetid waters and invaded the village. So they sent me the little girl from next door. Her eyes were ringed and her cheeks sunken, her pretty shoulders had withered, and great bug bites covered her arms.
       “My friend,” she said, “We waste away, and it is your fault. It is hot, very hot. Drought has destroyed the harvests. The wells have run dry. Children die in their mothers’ arms. O my friend, this cannot be your wish. Let me come seek cool and shade in the belly of the beast.”
       “Go away, the lot of you! You and everyone else!” I said wrathfully. “May the waters wash you off and the sun burn you to a crisp, I don’t care. You rejected us. Too bad for you. Don’t try coming in here. Peace and warmth are mine inside the beast, pleasure and repose. Leave us alone!”
       But the sun’s fury only increased. It burned everything without pity. Overnight, the village went up like a torch. Those who remained began wandering aimlessly, afflicted by hunger and fever. On the shore, the beast ate and drank. Its massive organs went on with their slow work of life. Its impregnable flanks protected my slumber and dreams. Those below grew furious. They accused the beast of causing all their ills, and decided to put an end to it. The beast had brought their woes upon them; if it went, so too would their woes.
       They gathered their flagging forces and erected a great scaffolding by the sea. Then they set to boiling a great many cauldrons of oil and pitch, which they hoisted up on cables. They poured these into the open maw, amidst a terrifying ferment and a pestilential reek of burning meat. Then the fight with the beast began. But, following natural channels, I’d struck out right for the rear exit and come out laughing into the sea.


       “Oh yes, go my son,” said my parents, hypocritically, “you have to leave home someday. Lots of boys have jobs already at your age. But what could you have hoped for? You’ve always been scrawny. You’d have had a hard time plying a trade! Lying around the house all day, doing nothing—is that a life?”
And they raised their eyes, brimming with tears, rejoicing inside all the while over ridding themselves of the twentieth hatchling of too ample a brood.
       “Go, my friend,” said the little girl who lived next door. “My heart breaks when I think about the future, but I have never doubted you. Go, and remember your childhood friend!”
       And she clasped me to her fragile breast, inhabiting her role, featherbrained as any woman, thinking all the while about how quickly she’d replace me.
       “We have another reason for choosing you,” the elders went on. “You are the youngest. It is appropriate that youth run risks and that respect be reserved for those older in years. Moreover, the elders are wise; who would keep peace and order in the village if they left? Blessed youth, foolhardy age, go forth and do us proud.”
       “I don’t know what to make of all this,” I said slowly and quietly—not without noticing, to my secret joy, the bored, annoyed looks all around me. “Anyway, I run a great risk. God knows what dangers await me in the mouth of the beast. But if I refuse to go, I’ll have you to face. As far as I know, not a single fellow citizens envies me my fate, and if I refused, my dears, you soon stone me in your fear and frenzy. So I must choose between two monsters. Upon reflections, I prefer the one I don’t know.”
       And to much applause, I leapt into the great beast. The carmine rug of his tongue cushioned my fall. A wind was blowing from the south. The beast’s breath was deliciously perfumed. “Uh-oh!” said I, surprised, and from outside came the crafty echo, “Oh! Glory be to God, he’s alive!”
       I planned on staying that way as long as I could, though God had nothing to do with it. What I didn’t know was that life in my new abode would be so pleasant. I’ve never been one for the company of my peers, but the beast’s, I must admit, was captivating: I hadn’t a chance to feel trapped or bored, not even for a second. No sooner was I on my feet than I started exploring the place; my host graciously gave me free rein. Its mouth was carpeted with lichen of various colors, and its palate had a finer shimmer than the bluest sky. The great organs of its whalebones rang out at the slightest touch, but I refrained from abusing them, appreciating more than anything a silence that I, who’d always lived amidst my parents’ drunken bawling, had never known. A mysterious silence hung in the air like a bird in the sky of this massive maw, a calm punctured only by low digestive notes from the deepest depths. These distant borborygmi cadenced my stay, and as the beast ate on a very regular schedule, I fell into the habit of scheduling my activities by this music from the depths. Such activities were few and far between, but very absorbing, the first being to sleep late. Woken all my life at dawn by fraternal howling or a paternal boot to the backside, I’d never known the pleasures of prolonged sleep. I enjoyed myself to the hilt, and the beast seemed accomplice to my pleasure. All morning long, a ruminant, cud-cradling motion traveled its tongue as it remained unmoving on the sand, not even stirring the slightest tip of a fin. But toward noon, I heard cries from outside. Leaping to my feet, I peered out through the hole of the nearest nostril and glimpsed a few fellow villagers tiny in the distance.
       “Ahoy there!” the delegation hailed me distractedly.
       “Ahoy yourself!” I replied.
       “Are you hurt? We called out several times this morning. What are you up to?”
       “I was sleeping,” I said.
       “Sleeping! What a fine speech you made for someone who was just going to sleep in a fish’s belly!”
       “I’m not the one who made a speech,” I said, “and I’m not sure this is a fish yet. I’ve only explored the mouth so far.”
       “Just remember, you’re not there to daydream,” they said sternly. “From now on, keep your eyes open. Keep on the way you do, and that stupid animal could swallow you before you know it!”
       “Don’t worry,” I said, and dove nimbly right into a little lake in its tongue. I swam around delightedly, flooded with a feeling of well-being. The creature’s saliva was cool and rich. I cupped it in my hands and even drank some of that sweet, springwater-tasting liquid. Not so stupid, I thought, plunging into the tonsils’ grotto. A warm darkness enveloped me, and I emerged into a high-ceiling hallway sparking with stomach juices. I began the difficult descent, using the lumpy surface, and the closer I got to the great vital organs, the more the roar of a forge filled my head, and I felt ever more strongly the shaking of the beast’s inner workings.
       The next day, there they were again, sitting on the sand. The elders were with them, looking displeased.
       “You’ve certainly kept us waiting,” they said. “Where were you?”
       “Where you sent me,” I said. “This time, I went down as far as the stomach.”
       “Ah! What did you see?” they asked, moving closer despite their fear.
       “You’ll never know,” I said disgustedly. “You wouldn’t understand, it’s not a sight for people like you. And even though I could describe it for you, I won’t; I don’t want to.”
       “Now fancy that!” said the elders, striking the ground with their staves. “Shouldn’t you thank us for even being where you are? For your sake, we denied ourselves—so youth might have its chance. We are disappointed. This experiment has gone on long enough. Come out now, it’s raining, a storm is on its way. We can’t wait much longer.”
“Go find shelter then,” I said. “I’m staying right here for now. I won’t return to the village.”
       “We’ll see about that,” they shrieked, “Come out or we’ll come after you!”
       And as they started hurling insults, I burst out laughing.
       But that evening, there was a great eddy, and I almost died, smothered under the tongue of the beast when it suddenly flipped up into the air. I caught a glimpse of an elder tossed into the mouth and caught between two fearsome teeth, which hideously ground up dismantled body. An uproar rose outside. The beast, which had so peacefully offered me asylum, refused it to others. I was grateful to it for so radically discouraging any other attempted attacks. While the storm hurled out lightning on the shore, I gave thanks to the great beast.
       From then on, under a diluvian rain that gave no respite, they came in little groups to bombard me with their entreaties. First they sent my parents.
       “Listen, son,” they said, reaching out their arms toward me imploringly. “We know what you want. Yes, it was shortsighted of us to let you leave. Yes, we used to hit you sometimes, in the heat of anger. Yes, we neglected you a bit, since you were the twentieth. But understand—such mistreatment was the fruit of poverty. Look around you—our lands are flooded. Help us, son! Help us to shelter in the mouth of the beast, against water and cold! Save the village!”
       Perching on a tooth, I spat on their heads.
       The rain stopped, and a hellishly hot sun began shooting out its shafts. A swarm of pests burst forth from the fetid waters and invaded the village. So they sent me the little girl from next door. Her eyes were ringed and her cheeks sunken, her pretty shoulders had withered, and great bug bites covered her arms.
       “My friend,” she said, “We waste away, and it is your fault. It is hot, very hot. Drought has destroyed the harvests. The wells have run dry. Children die in their mothers’ arms. O my friend, this cannot be your wish. Let me come seek cool and shade in the belly of the beast.”
       “Go away, the lot of you! You and everyone else!” I said wrathfully. “May the waters wash you off and the sun burn you to a crisp, I don’t care. You rejected us. Too bad for you. Don’t try coming in here. Peace and warmth are mine inside the beast, pleasure and repose. Leave us alone!”
       But the sun’s fury only increased. It burned everything without pity. Overnight, the village went up like a torch. Those who remained began wandering aimlessly, afflicted by hunger and fever. On the shore, the beast ate and drank. Its massive organs went on with their slow work of life. Its impregnable flanks protected my slumber and dreams. Those below grew furious. They accused the beast of causing all their ills, and decided to put an end to it. The beast had brought their woes upon them; if it went, so too would their woes.
       They gathered their flagging forces and erected a great scaffolding by the sea. Then they set to boiling a great many cauldrons of oil and pitch, which they hoisted up on cables. They poured these into the open maw, amidst a terrifying ferment and a pestilential reek of burning meat. Then the fight with the beast began. But, following natural channels, I’d struck out right for the rear exit and come out laughing into the sea.


Anne Richter (1939 – ) is a prominent Belgian author, editor, and scholar of the fantastic. Her first collection, Le fourmi a fait le coup, was written at the age of fifteen and translated as The Blue Dog (Houghton Mifflin, 1956) by Alice B. Toklas, who praised her in the preface. She is known for her twice-reprinted international anthology of female fantastical writers, whose introductory essay she expanded into a study of the genre. She has also edited official anthologies of the fantastical work of Meyrink and de Maupassant. Her four collections have won her such Belgian honors as the Prix Franz De Wever, the Prix Félix Denayer, the Prix du Parlement, and the Prix Robert Duterme. She is a member of the French Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the Association of Belgian Writers, and PEN. Edward Gauvin’s translations of her work have appeared in Ann and Jeff VanderMeers’ anthology of feminist speculative fiction, Sisters of the Revolution (PM Press, 2015), and online at The Collagist.

Edward Gauvin has received prizes, fellowships, and residencies from PEN America, the National Endowment for the Arts, the Fulbright program, Ledig House, the Lannan Foundation, and the French Embassy. His work has won the John Dryden Translation prize and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Translation Award, and been nominated for the French-American Foundation and Oxford Weidenfeld Translation Prizes. Other publications have appeared in The New York TimesHarper’sTin House, and World Literature Today. The translator of more than 250 graphic novels, he is a contributing editor for comics at Words Without Borders, and has written on the Francophone fantastic at Weird Fiction Review. Home is wherever his wife and dog are.

Ken Liu translating Xia Jia

Valentine’s Day

By Xia Jia, translated from the Chinese by Ken Liu

Neither Chen nor Zheng had girlfriends. On Valentine’s Day, as they watched their roommate Huang get all dressed up to go out, they grabbed him by the arms and said, “Come on, pal, how about letting us tap into the feed for your date?”
       “We’re just going to dinner and then taking a stroll together,” said Huang awkwardly. “It’s not very exciting.”
       “If it’s not that exciting,” said Chen, “then you wouldn’t mind if we tap in.”
       “Exactly,” said Zheng. “We just want to take a peek. We won’t give you any trouble.”
       “Besides,” said Chen, “without our excellent advice and selfless service as coaches, do you think Qing would have agreed to go out with you?”
       “A good friend should be generous,” Zheng added.
       Huang was no good at this sort of argument and in the end gave in. He put on his contacts and adjusted the settings to broadcast everything he saw onto the wall of his bedroom. Then he hurried out so he wouldn’t be late for his date.

#

       Huang and Qing met up outside the campus gate and went to a Western-style restaurant for dinner. The restaurant was new, with classy décor and prices to match. Huang had been scoping out the place for a while and finally made up his mind the day before to make a reservation. Holding hands, the two approached the restaurant and saw several well-dressed, potbellied men arguing with the host at the door.
       “We’re regulars!” said one of the men. “We come here almost every week. Why can’t we go in today?”
       The host blocked their way but remained courteous. “I’m really sorry, but you know today is special. Only couples with reservations are allowed. I really don’t have any open tables. Please come back tomorrow.”
       The man’s face grew red, and he was about to start shouting when one of his friends grabbed him. “Forget it. Arguing isn’t going to make any difference. Let’s go somewhere else.”
       Huang watched the disappointed men leave and glanced at Qing, feeling pleased with himself. The host checked the reservation list and welcomed the couple.
       They sat down and ordered. Just as they were finishing their appetizers, the restaurant’s manager came over with a bottle. Huang looked at the label and knew right away that the wine was not cheap.
       “Wait!” he said. “We didn’t order any wine.”
       The manager smiled. “You two have the highest attention rating in the restaurant. From the time you came in, we’ve already taken more than thirty reservations. This bottle is on the house as a token of our appreciation, and you’ll get a twenty percent discount on your bill.”
       Huang was baffled. “Attention rating?”
       “Check for yourself.”
       Huang had a bad feeling about this. He took out his phone and checked the feed from his contacts. Somehow the live feed had been turned into a public broadcast, and tens of thousands were now tapping in.
       Many were leaving comments below the feed:
       – Lucky guy! She’s a 9, or at least a high 8.
       – She needs to see an orthodontist though. Look at that gap in her teeth when she smiles!
       – I know those dudes they turned away earlier! They work in the office next to my company, LOL.
       – I like her shoes, but I can’t tell the brand. Hey buddy, you mind bending down and leaning in so I can get a better look?

       Many of the comments disgusted Huang and made his blood boil.
       “What’s the matter?” Qing asked from across the table, looking concerned.
       Embarrassed, Huang rushed to explain. Then he grabbed her hand. “I’m so sorry about this. Please don’t be mad. I’ll shut off the feed right away.”
       Qing sighed. “I’m not mad. I feel sorry for them, really. They feel lonely and abandoned on Valentine’s Day, and it’s not a big deal that you let them tag along. Let’s just shut it off and ignore them. They’ll get bored and stop soon enough.”
       Huang was moved by Qing’s generosity. He shut off his contacts and his phone, and they continued to chat over dinner.
       As dessert was served, a young man barely in his twenties came over from the next table. He put his hands on their table and leaned down to speak to Huang.
       “Listen, um … I have a proposal. Someone posted a dare online to see if anyone at this restaurant has the courage to kiss your girlfriend. It kind of went viral, and he raised ten thousand yuan in half an hour. Honestly, I don’t care about the money, but it seems kind of fun, right? If you agree, you and I can even split the money. My girlfriend already said she’s fine with it.”
       Huang looked over at the next table. A heavily made-up young woman smiled and waved back. Couples at other tables were all staring at them, and some held up their phones, ready to capture the moment. He looked up at the young man and saw a dim red light winking in his left eye—he had been broadcasting his live feed this entire time.
       Huang felt as though the air around him was filled with people straining for a peek. He was going to suffocate under their gazes.
       Qing stood up and stared at the young man.
       “Get out of my way,” she said.
       After a few seconds, the young man shrugged and stepped back. Qing pulled Huang out of his chair. “Let’s go.”
       They payed at the cash register and left the restaurant. Still holding hands, they ran until they had turned a corner. They stopped and gulped the cold air of early spring.
       “Where do you want to go now?” Qing asked after she had caught her breath.
       Huang looked around at the glass shop displays, the screens filled with ads, and the eyes of other pedestrians—everything seemed to have a dim, winking red light. He frowned, deep in thought, and then his face brightened.
       “Let’s go see a movie.”
       A theater would be dark, and no one would bother them.
       “Good idea,” said Qing, smiling.
       The cinema was also full of couples. They picked a movie that was about to start and bought some snacks and drinks before going into the theater. The lights dimmed and the whole theater went dark. Huang felt himself finally relaxing.
       After the movie started playing, he felt Qing slowly leaning over and resting her head against his shoulder. Waves of sweet joy filled his chest. He looked down, mesmerized by the flickering shadows across Qing’s face. Her lips were so full, like a flower about to bloom. He wondered if he should try to kiss her, but he didn’t want to be presumptuous. He hesitated, waited, and just as he was about to take the leap, the giant screen went dark.
       Huang was confused and didn’t move. Then a tinkling song began to play, and the screen lit up with new images. At first, he thought the movie was continuing, but then he realized that he was wrong.
       Photographs of a baby appeared one after another on the screen: crying, laughing, blurred, hi-def… Edited together, they flowed like some sort of home movie. Gradually, as the child in the pictures grew up, he realized that these were pictures of Qing. From a baby she turned into a girl, than a beautiful young woman. The music built to an emotional peak, and the smiling face of Qing flickered across the giant screen, lovely beyond words. Finally, the last photograph faded away as the music also trailed off. A bright line of text appeared in the darkness:
       Qing, I love you. I love all of you. I love each moment of your existence.
       A pause, and then another line:
       Will you marry me?
       Huang whipped his head around to look at Qing, whose eyes were filled with tears. She swallowed, and tried to speak, “What … what … “
       “It’s not me—”
       The lights in the theater came on. A tiny figure appeared below the giant screen. As he approached them, a spotlight was trained on him. He wore a black suit, and he held a bouquet of ninety-nine red roses. The spotlight was so bright that it was impossible to see his features clearly.
       He stopped in front of Qing, and knelt down on one knee. “Please excuse my behavior. I just wanted to surprise you.”
       Qing’s voice trembled. “I … don’t even know you…”
       “That’s not so important. We all start as strangers, don’t we? I saw you for the first time today on the web, and for some reason, you touched my heart. When I saw you say to the camera, ‘Get out of my way,’ I decided in the very core of my being that you’re the girl I want to marry.
       “I went and searched for images of you and put them together in a hurry so I could come and propose. I don’t care if you’re already with someone, and I don’t care that you don’t know who I am. I just want to tell you, my darling Qing, that I will never marry anyone except you, and I will use everything in my power to love you and to care for you. Please give me a chance! I’ll make you happy.”
       Huang felt Qing’s cold hand slipping out of his palm like a fish. He was soaked in sweat, and he felt he was suffocating again. Red lights flickered around him as everyone in the theater stared at them and recorded them. He felt the world turn surreal. Is today Valentine’s Day or April Fool’s Day?
       He looked at Qing, sitting next to him. Her face was drained of blood, and her lips trembled like the fluttering wings of a dying butterfly. Finally, Qing grabbed a bucket of popcorn from the seat next to her and tossed it with all her strength at the face of the stranger.
       She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Get out of my way, you crazy—”

#

       Huang accompanied Qing back to her residential hall, both in low spirits. Around them, behind trees and bushes, they could see couples with arms wrapped around each other, saying goodbye.
       Qing started to climb the stairs before the building door, stopped, and turned around. She tried to smile. “It’s not a big deal. It will pass.”
       Huang nodded. His head was filled with a buzzing that made it impossible to think straight.
       “Don’t be angry at your roommates,” Qing said. “You still have to live with them.”
       Huang nodded again.
       Qing said, “Stupid people will gossip, and you can’t stop them. But someday, they’ll stop and forget about you and me.”
       Huang nodded.
       Qing said, “Let’s … take a break for a while. We each have to take care of ourselves. Maybe later, after this is over …”
       Huang didn’t nod, and Qing said nothing more. She turned and entered the residence hall.
       A new moon climbed to the tip of the tree nearby, and the branches rustled in the night breeze. Huang stood for a while, gazing up at the moon. Then he slowly began the walk home.


As an undergraduate, Xia Jia majored in Atmospheric Sciences at Peking University. She then entered the Film Studies Program at the Communication University of China, where she completed her Master’s thesis: “A Study on Female Figures in Science Fiction Films.” In 2014, she obtained a Ph.D. in Comparative Literature and World Literature at Peking University, with “Chinese Science Fiction and Its Cultural Politics Since 1990” as the topic of her dissertation. Now she is Associate Professor of Chinese Literature at Xi’an Jiaotong University. She has been publishing fiction since college in Science Fiction World and other venues. Several of her stories have won the Galaxy Award, China’s most prestigious science fiction award. In English translation, she has been published in Clarkesworld and Upgraded. Her first story written in English, “Let’s Have a Talk,” was published in Nature in 2015.

Ken Liu (http://kenliu.name) is an author of speculative fiction, as well as a translatgor, lawyer, and programmer. A winner of the Nebula, Hugo, and World Fantasy awards, he is the author of The Dandelion Dynasty, a silkpunk epic fantasy series (The Grace of Kings (2015), The Wall of Storms (2016), and a forthcoming third volume) and The Paper Menagerie and Other Stories (2016), a collection. In addition to his original fiction, Ken also translated numerous works from Chinese to English, including The Three-Body Problem (2014), by Liu Cixin, and “Folding Beijing,” by Hao Jingfang, both Hugo winners.

Anton Hur translating Jeon Sam-hye

A Spell to Invoke the White Dolphin

By Jeon Sam-hye, translated from the Korean by Anton Hur

They were nine years old, that age when the two of them could roll around the living room floor gorging on the Harry Potter series without their mother telling them they had to get to their after-school hagwon crammer.

Jinwoo had suddenly called out, “Hey, Kim Sunwoo.”

Sunwoo, who’d been reading Volume 2 of Book 4, answered, “I told you to call me nuna.”

While it was true they were fraternal twins born minutes apart, Sunwoo never thought of herself as anything less than an “older sister.” But Jinwoo would never call her nuna unless he wanted something from her.

“Sunwoo, what’s your happiest memory?”

“Happy” was a word they still weren’t quite familiar with. Sunwoo closed her book and said, “Why do you want to know?” Jinwoo pushed the volume he was reading towards his sister. “Look. There’s a spell that works only if you think of your happiest memory. So what’s your happiest memory?”

As Sunwoo mulled this over, Jinwoo answered his own question. “For me it was when we were six and we went to the amusement park and Dad bought us those Hot Wheels. We got the same Hot Wheels and we rolled them around in our bedroom and grandma got mad at us. Said we were leaving scratch marks.” Jinwoo snickered, but Sunwoo couldn’t laugh.

Because she had the same memory as her happiest, too.

The reason that was Sunwoo’s happiest memory was not because she got a shiny blue Hot Wheels car or because she went to an amusement park with her father. It was because that was the only time she could remember when she was allowed to have something that she didn’t have to share with her brother. Sunwoo couldn’t buy so much as a puff of cotton candy without her mother telling her to “share it with Jinwoo” when handing over the money. Whenever Sunwoo begged for toys like Hot Wheels or robots, the kind of toys Jinwoo got to play with, her mother and grandmother would put her down by saying, “you’re a girl,” and push her towards dolls or playing house. Her father was the only person in the house who didn’t force a division of Sunwoo and Jinwoo into girl and boy. But, Sunwoo thought with a sigh, that’s not because Dad likes me better or he’s a feminist. Dad is too busy. He’s just too busy to discriminate between us. Sunwoo fortified herself in advance for the inevitable day when even her father would say to her, “Who do you think you are, you’re a girl.”

And if they both conjured up the same memory, what would happen in that spell? Would its power be halved and the spell rendered useless? If that’s how it worked, would she be forced to make yet another concession to Jinwoo?

“Hey Kim Sunwoo, I said, what is your happiest memory?”

At this urging, Sunwoo put on a wan smile. “Doing the Lucky Dip at the stationary store last week and winning an ice cream.”

A lie.

*

I’m glad we were born when we were. That’s what Sunwoo thought whenever she and her twin brother got into one of their “accidents.” She mused, If we were born decades, or even fifteen years ago, the two of us would’ve grown up being bullied as psychics, mentally unstable, or weirdos. We would’ve been put on TV to make a bit of money, or kidnapped into a circus to live out our lives in misery.

Once a writer in England made it known to the world that such powers as the twins had was actually something called “magic,” the two siblings felt they could breathe a little easier. Not that Sunwoo and Jinwoo’s parents, who had bought them the entire Harry Potter series, bothered to even flip open the cover of any of those books. Sunwoo and Jinwoo, on the other hand, pored over these passé bestsellers over and over to the point of memorizing entire passages. They were nine years old at the time. The Harry Potter series, for nine-year-olds, was a little too much to take in completely, but Sunwoo and Jinwoo had one clear takeaway from these books. And that single takeaway was more important than anything else in the series.

Sunwoo and Jinwoo were wizards.

Thanks to this knowledge, they spent each day waiting for their eleventh birthday, which fell on their fifth-grade year, in eager anticipation. Despite their little accidents such as unwittingly making objects float or trees wilt or walls crack, they could confidently put such mistakes behind them in the wait for their eleventh birthday. It helped that Sunwoo and Jinwoo’s birthday was in May, which was earlier than the month of September when the school year started in Britain. They memorized everything they could find on the Internet that had to do with Harry Potter, and spent the spring vacation of their fifth-grade year bickering over who would get to tear open the invitation when it came.

But because they weren’t living in Britain but in Korea, and in a city full of zealous helicopter moms (although perhaps not as zealous as those of the infamous Eight Schools District in Seoul), their daily lives differed greatly from those of the children in the books. When they came home from school, their grandmother would heat up a snack for them before they started off on their chain of hagwon: math, English, and even essay-writing. Because they were both so-so as students, their parents didn’t try to put them on the admissions track for competitive middle schools. But their parents were still swept up in the frantic mantras that pervaded their neighborhood—”Elementary School Grades Decide What College Your Child Is Accepted To!” or “Elementary Students Should Know the Pythagorean Theorem Like the Times Table!”—and Sunwoo and Jinwoo consequently became more familiar with the insides of their hagwon than with their own home. All the while biding their time until their birthday.

The Harry Potter series gathered dust alongside the self-help books for kids that their parents had bought them, books with titles like: A Twelve Year-Old Takes Charge of Life, I Can Get Into Exclusive High Schools!, or Conquering Princeton. But their hearts were already set on the school for wizards.

So they weren’t surprised when the young man in a neat suit, who looked like he sold insurance or student workbook subscriptions, came looking for them one day. Their birthday had passed a week earlier. No owl had come, but when they saw a white envelope peeking out of their mailbox, they could barely contain themselves with joy. Except Sunwoo, unlike Jinwoo, had a bad feeling that wouldn’t go away, even in the moment the man sat down at their kitchen table and took out a pamphlet.

*

Pretending to have made a mistake, the man slid the English-language pamphlet of that school to one side. Not forgetting to make sure, of course, that Sunwoo and Jinwoo’s mother had glimpsed the full-color photographs of the castle. He then brought out the Korean-language pamphlet, one that featured slogans like “An optimal English-only learning environment” and “A global learning experience.” The school had localized marketing down pat.

The man adjusted his thin horn-rimmed glasses and blithely cast his bait. “This is a study abroad program connected to Sunwoo and Jinwoo’s English hagwon. Seeing how your children are doing, I daresay they could benefit from a program such as this one.” His words were clear and articulate. Even his bit where he gave the slightly cramped apartment a brief once-over was perfect. Sunwoo and Jinwoo went to their room and pretended to do their homework as they hung on every word that slipped through the cracked-open door.

“Because this program isn’t just for, well, so-called rich kids. You see how it says they aim to provide a global learning experience? The school is in Britain, so it’s true there are a lot of British students. But they try to make a point of providing opportunities for children all over the world. Many students from around the world, regardless of whether they’re from an English-speaking country or not, attend our school under this program. This tradition of helping these disadvantaged but talented students passed down from Ms. Helga herself, who was no less than one of the founders of our school.”

“Ms. Helga” no doubt referred to the founder of the least impressive house among the school’s four. Sunwoo pressed down the tip of her pencil onto her math notebook and suppressed a giggle. Not even J. K. Rowling would’ve imagined such a scholarship track existed. Jinwoo had given up on the pretense of homework and was peering through the crack in the doorway. They heard their mother’s voice.

“I’m sure it’s a good opportunity for Sunwoo and Jinwoo but Britain is such a faraway country… and as for studying with children from other countries, I do wonder if that’s really the best for them…”

Cue the type of feigned indifference their mother rolled out whenever she was halfway convinced. Sunwoo sighed. Mother always thought herself a master at bargains. She knew how to seem receptive before pretending to retreat, a surefire way since time immemorial towards getting a better deal. But the man didn’t seem to be in a rush. Of course he was calm. He wasn’t an insurance or milk subscription salesman, he was a wizard.

“I understand your concern, but even in Britain there aren’t many dormitory schools offering full supervision for years one through seven. We also take considerable care to acclimate our students to global manners and the polite customs of England. This is why we insist on having our students room with housemates throughout their years at our school.”

The man tapped his finger on the pamphlet photo of smiling Asian and white eleven-year-olds. “Your children are in grade five. If they were smart enough for the exclusive middle and high schools, their talent would be obvious by now. And if they’re not going to make it here, anyone can see that they might as well go to England and learn the Queen’s English. You do know that British English and American English are quite different?”

As if he had just remembered something, the man plowed on. “According to a recent study, a child’s synapses around the age of eleven are set to the language that they most often use. This is why our school’s entrance age happens to be eleven. Children who are younger need the care of their parents more than anything else. But once their synapses are set, well… there would be no point in having the children go through an English dormitory life.”

The man smoothly lifted the cup of juice on the table before him and took a sip. “In other words, this is not only the best chance your children have, it is their last. But of course, nothing matters more than the motivation of the individual student and the judgment of their parents. Because no one understands a child better than his mother.”

Their mother seemed to hesitate before calling for Sunwoo and Jinwoo. “Sunwoo, Jinwoo. Could you come out here, please?”

Her voice was unusually pleasant. Jinwoo jumped out of the room, but Sunwoo rose slowly. She already knew. Her mother sounded pleasant when she was happy, but also when she wanted one of them to give something up for the other. In their family’s three-bedroom rental apartment, Sunwoo and Jinwoo shared a room, but it was already agreed upon that once they entered middle school, Jinwoo would have his own room and Sunwoo would have to share with their grandmother. She thought, If the main character of Harry Potter had been a girl, Mom and Dad never would’ve bought us the entire series. Sunwoo dragged her heavy feet and sat down at the table. The man gave her a wink. That’s not going to help either of us, she thought. She bowed her head low.

“So,” said their mother, “I’ve been listening to what this gentleman had to say, and I do think this will be a good opportunity for you. Studying abroad isn’t cheap, but even a household like ours…”—their mother’s eyes quickly scanned them both—”… can afford to send at least one of you. It’s not going to be easy going back and forth between Korea and England. It’ll be pretty difficult, actually. But if you still want to go, I’ll let you go.”

Forget about it. You don’t know what it’s like, mother, but the school is another ten-hour train ride from London into the wilds of Scotland. I don’t want to endure seven years of British food. Sunwoo deliberately steeled herself against the idea. Her grades were slightly higher than Jinwoo’s. Like their grandmother said, they were “not high enough to hurt Jinwoo’s pride but just enough for the runt to eke by.” Before Sunwoo could even open her mouth, Jinwoo shouted, “I’m going!”

“Oh my, I guess that settles it for you, Jinwoo.”

Mother gave Sunwoo a look, one that said, And what about you? Sunwoo fixed her gaze down on the rings of condensation left by the man’s cold juice glass, and slowly said, “I don’t really want to go… I don’t want to say goodbye to my friends, and I don’t want to be away from you and Dad, either.” Don’t want. Of course she wanted it. No matter how much she hated something, how could she hate something more than to lose the opportunity to become a wizard? But Sunwoo forced herself to smile. Just like always. Trying to hypnotize herself into thinking that she probably wasn’t missing much, anyway. Struggling to tell herself, that place was always meant for Jinwoo, anyway.

If anything, it was the man who seemed disconcerted at this turn of events. “But we are more than ready to accept both students…”

“No, I really don’t want to go.” Sunwoo got up. “Mother, I forgot I had an extra class at math hagwon. Can I go?”

“Tsch, it wouldn’t do for a girl to be so careless. Fine, don’t be late.”

Sunwoo’s heart was heavy as she returned to her room and packed up for an extra math class that didn’t exist. The man tried to meet her eye, but Sunwoo refused to even look in his direction. She only concentrated on being glad. Now that she wasn’t going to learn magic, she wouldn’t have to hear things like, Why don’t you let Jinwoo have your happiest memory.

*

Once Jinwoo left, the house was quiet. Mother and grandmother constantly worried over Jinwoo’s health. But Sunwoo wasn’t lonely. For the five years that passed since he left, she practiced magic in her room all by herself. Things like half-heartedly making things levitate or flipping cards without touching them. They said wizards who were minors were not allowed to use magic outside of school, but how were they going to go after someone who had never been their student? All the way here in Korea, no less.

There was another good thing. Two years ago, fooling around alone with magic on the playground, someone had suddenly appeared behind her and become her friend.

This was Sao. A friend she didn’t have to share with Jinwoo.

*

“You too, huh?”

Sunwoo was making two pebbles levitate and bump into each other when a wry voice came over from behind her shoulder. A voice from a somewhat exotic face, with slightly darker skin. Sunwoo realized it almost as soon as she turned around. A mixed-race kid. Southeast Asian? Without invitation, the boy came over and plopped down on the empty swing next to hers. He snatched away her floating pebbles and tossed them in the air, catching them and tossing them up again. “Isn’t it the school year in Britain right now? Were you expelled?”

“No, I never entered. We don’t have the money.”

“How mature of you.”

An eighth grader. He had the same jokey way of talking like the boys in Sunwoo’s middle school, which made her smile. He had his regulation name tag pinned to his uniform jacket. “Sao.” A foreign name, but his surname was… oh, it was Ha. Ha Sao. What a name. Sensing a friend, she began telling him things he didn’t even ask her about. Because his saying, “You too, huh?” meant he was also a wizard or something similar.

“I’m a twin. I didn’t go, just my twin brother. He’s been over there for the past three years.”

“Doesn’t he ever come home? He just stays there?”

“I guess. I know he visits London with his friends sometimes, he posts pictures on Facebook.”

“Wait, did you say you ‘didn’t go’ or ‘couldn’t go’?” Sao frowned. “So you’re also a wizard but they only sent your brother?”

Sunwoo nodded.

Sao was annoyed. “I know this is the first time we’ve met and all, but I think your family has a really shitty sexual discrimination problem.” He threw his head back and laughed.

Sexual discrimination. How different those words felt, coming from a mixed-race boy. Trying to hide her blushing, she turned the tables on him. “And you?”

*

Sao was born to a Vietnamese mother and Korean father. His family used to live in the country but they had sold off their property as soon as his grandparents had passed, and came up to the city. Sao’s father’s business was doing better than expected.

“But hey, that Weasley guy in the Harry Potter books? They’re super poor but they sent like five kids to that school. It’s stupid that you guys can’t do that with just two.”

“Please. They have a big house with a garden, right? And their father is a civil servant at the Ministry of Magic? They’re not ordinary people like us. My dad can lose his job at any moment and we live in fear of our landlord raising the rent. Or if the Weasleys are ordinary, they’re British ordinary.”

Sao was possibly resentful of having to live in Korea. He seemed fine with it at first, but if Sunwoo showed any sign of regret when they talked of the school of magic, he’d get angry for her. It was the first time someone was completely on her side. But it was strange and a bit uncomfortable having someone be angry in her stead. So Sunwoo always tried to finish off with a joke.

“If I’d gone too, you would be super lonely. I mean, do you think there’s another wizard in this neighborhood?”

“Eh. The girl’s got a point.” Sao scratched the back of his head.

Sunwoo smiled. “You mama’s boy. You’re the one who’s staying behind because you didn’t want to leave your mom all alone.”

“Can’t you say I’m the epitome of filial piety instead?”

*

Sao was—there was no way around it—a problem student. Along with his dark skin, his hair was always waxed to the hilt. He told her, his expression alternating between embarrassment and pride, that he was bullied in school when he was younger for being small, and that when he moved out of the provinces he had wanted to transform himself into a completely different person, and so became mean. His eyebrows, which were normally scrunched from his making an intimidating expression, would gently relax when he was with Sunwoo, something that she never failed to think was cute.

“Oh, there’s actually one really good thing. Since Jinwoo left, I get to have my own room. If Jinwoo was in Korea with us, I’d have to share a room with my grandmother and he would get a room to himself.”

“Your own room, huh. Well that’s just dandy, Pollyanna.”

Sao was called a chink in school. Despite his protests that Vietnam was an entirely different country from China, the students still called him a chink. Why is that, he would mutter, was it because they were both Communist? Were the North Koreans chinks, too, and the Cubans as well? What a bunch of idiots. As Sao went on and on, Sunwoo lifted some fallen leaves with magic and piled them on his head. Two years had passed since they had first met, and he was now a head taller than her. Sunwoo was beginning to shy away from playfully hitting Sao on the head. The touch of the leaves stood in for her hand. Sao grinned, and willed the leaves to fall into his outstretched palm.

*

“I hate vacation. No cafeteria food,” Sao complained, leaning over his book. It was August, the middle of summer. Sunwoo and Sao, now sixteen, were both high school students. The sight of a Vietnamese mixed-race kid and a Korean girl studying together in a library was an odd sight for many. Especially when the foreign-looking boy spoke fluent Korean. Sunwoo glanced around her and wrote something down in her notebook.

—You actually like cafeteria food?

Sunwoo and Sao went to different high schools. She had no idea why he would want his cafeteria lunches. Sao gazed at Sunwoo’s question for a while and sighed. He scrawled his answer.

—You know it’s my mom who’s the wizard, not Dad. Maybe living in a dormitory for seven years eating nothing but British food takes away your sense of taste. Even the worst cafeteria food tastes better than my mom’s cooking.

Sunwoo tried not to laugh. Sao’s gaze moved to the top of Sunwoo’s head.

—Is British food really that bad?

Sao filled in the blank space underneath Sunwoo’s neat handwriting.

—They boil shit. They just boil everything. They boil it forever. The end. All the Vietnamese food my mom makes is like that so I thought it was a Vietnamese thing. Wrong! It’s a British thing. The Vietnamese food you get in restaurants is delicious.

“I’m hungry,” mumbled Sunwoo, having read over the notebook page full of food talk. Sao twisted his lips and scribbled another line on the page.

—Wanna get some Vietnamese? I know a good place.

Sunwoo shook her head and wrote her answer.

—If my family knew I was having dinner with you, they’d freak out. I mean…

She stopped writing. Her mother had said to her, “It’s bad enough the neighbors talk about you going around with some boy, but did it have to be that Vietnamese mutt?” Surely Sao didn’t need to know about all that.

—Sure. Whatever.

Sao wrote this out in a careless scrawl and went back to reading his supplementary textbook. He gave her a friendly kick underneath the table as if to tell her, “You don’t have to say a thing.”

*

Weird. To wizards, we’re all the same muggles. Your father who married your mother who came from Vietnam, my mother and father and grandmother who still believe patriarchy is God’s own truth. But to muggles, me the wizard, you the mixed-race wizard, and your mother the Vietnamese wizard seem totally odd to them. It’s funny how the slightest change in perspective makes everything look different. That’s one thing I regret not having sometimes; if we were at that school, we’d just be students.

*

Two days after this abrupt end to their conversation, the two found themselves riding on the subway to downtown Seoul. Sao had gone on and on about Vietnamese food, promising Sunwoo he knew a good restaurant. Look, if we go downtown, no one would know who we are. I’d just be another foreign tourist in Myeongdong, right? They love me there more than they love Koreans, right? Sunwoo gave in to Sao’s nagging. The Vietnamese food Sao bought her was ordinary pho and fried rice, the kind they already had in their own neighborhood, but they ate through it while chattering excitedly, and later went walking around in the city crowds. Even when Sao ran straight for the bathroom after taking a curious bite of the cilantro that the waiter, probably thinking Sao was a Vietnamese tourist, had given him a heapful of, Sunwoo felt it was all part of the great day she was having. When a fuming Sao came back after having rinsed out his mouth, she couldn’t help but burst into laughter.

And just like Sao mentioned, no one looked at them strangely in Myeongdong.

“Sometimes I’d have really bad days at school where the kids go too far. I’d go home, change out of my uniform, and come here. I’d go to Myeongdong Cathedral or the Chinese school. My mom speaks Vietnamese and a bit of Mandarin so I can speak a little of both. I can talk to the Chinese kids here. It’s fun. I feel better. Here I’m not a chink, I’m just Sao.”

“Do you ever feel like you want to live in Vietnam?”

Sao shook his head. “They’ll just call me a Korean mutt, probably. I’ve never thought about it. That’s my mom’s country, not mine.”

“I guess you’re mixed-race through and through.”

Sao poked Sunwoo’s side with his elbow. “Yeah, no kidding. I’m a mudblood when it comes to the wizarding world, too. It’s my destiny. Bow down, good sir, bow down.”

The sun began to set. Sunwoo began thinking they ought to be heading back, but she hesitated. She wanted to wrap herself in the anonymity of those crowded streets for just a bit longer.

Then Sao said, “I don’t feel like going home yet. We don’t come downtown every day.”

“It’s just half an hour by subway, it’s not another country or anything.”

Sao pouted. “You want to go home?”

“No.”

The two looked at a map and picked out places they might go. They ended up at the base of the N-Tower at Namsan Mountain Park, but made a face when they saw how expensive the entrance fee was. Instead, they each got an ice cream and started walking around the park.

“It’s so humid,” said Sunwoo. “So humid it makes you wonder if there’s a spell for getting rid of humidity.”

“My mom says Vietnam is much more hot and humid. She loves this kind of weather, she calls it ‘mild.'”

“Well that’s just dandy, Pollyanna.” Sunwoo found herself repeating Sao before she had realized it. “I like the idea of tropical downpours because at least things cool down. But props to your mom for enjoying that kind of weather.”

“Oh. About that.” Sao took another bite of his ice cream. “My mom hates rain.”

*

The two watched the streetlamps in the distance start coming on. They slowed their steps. The path down the mountain was getting steeper.

“When the lights start coming on like that,” said Sunwoo, “it always makes me wish for something.”

Sao looked down at Sunwoo and met her gaze. Because of the sudden appearance of his face in the dimming light, Sunwoo’s pupils dilated wide.

Sao narrowed his eyes. “Wish for what?”

“That I want to bash your face in. Seriously. Go away.”

Sunwoo giggled as she took a step back, and Sao snickered with her.

“Kidding,” said Sunwoo. Her voice settled down a bit. “OK. What I wish is… I wish I got to learn this one particular spell.” Maybe as compensation for giving up wizarding school.

“Ah.” Sao nodded. “Me too. But it’s not when the streetlamps come on. It’s some other time.”

“Like when?”

Sao grinned shyly, which didn’t seem to fit with his imposing frame.

“When my mom has nightmares.”

Being a wizard, his mother could’ve worked for the Ministry of Magic after graduation, but she decided to return to Vietnam instead. A month before graduating, Vietnam was hit by a heavy tropical storm, and Sao’s mother’s family was lost in the resulting flood. Lamenting that not even magic could bring back the ones she loved, Sao’s mother decided to return to the country where at least she had memories of her family.

“On days when it rains, my mom looks like she’s about to cry and laugh at the same time. I guess it makes her think of Vietnam and her house and family that were lost in the flood. She gets nightmares on days like that.”

Sunwoo took another bite of her ice cream and nodded. So this was why Sao was so eager to rush home on days when it rained.

She said, “You know that moment right before the streetlamps switch on. That’s the darkest moment of the day. My mom and my grandma both took Jinwoo’s side. And Dad was so busy I never thought of him as being there for me. So when everything goes dark and I’m facing a long night ahead before the sun comes up, I just wish that something, whatever it may be, would keep me safe.”

A vulnerability for a vulnerability. Sunwoo had never spoken of this to anyone before. Sao placed his hand on the top of Sunwoo’s head.

“Don’t be sad. We’re doing fine without magic. Both of us.”

“I know. But still.” We’ll never get to learn magic properly, anyway. Waving a wand and casting spells is so difficult that it takes seven whole years to learn. But if we were allowed to learn one spell, just one little spell… if only they granted us that one consolation.

The fact that they never will only makes me yearn for it more.

Sao broke the silence. “I wonder if the spell you want to learn is the same as the one I want to learn.”

Sunwoo answered, “Probably.”

Not the one that makes people laugh, not the one that disarms weapons, and none of the ones that do harm. But the one that doesn’t hurt anyone else. The one that protects me.

Expecto patronum.”

As soon as they said it at the same time, the streetlamp right above them lit up.

“Eh?”

“Wow!”

Forgetting about their dripping ice cream, the two stared at the lit-up streetlamp. Even though bugs immediately swarmed around it and the ice cream was making their hands sticky, they couldn’t help but burst out laughing, a laugh like a switched-on light bulb.

“I didn’t know that was the spell for turning on the lights!”

“Damn, I mean, my patronus is a streetlamp? Does it fly around and everything? Wow. That’s so funny.”

The two kept laughing until all the other streetlamps around them had lit up.

Sao held out his hand. “Let’s go. It’s light now.”

“OK.”

“We’ve gotta get home.”

“We should. But not so fast.”

And as if she did so every day, Sunwoo took Sao’s hand.

She thought, this just might be a place where magic happened.

*

“Does your mother use magic?” asked Sunwoo as they slowly made their way down the mountain.

“Only when Dad’s not around. I mean, Dad doesn’t know Mom’s a wizard.”

“What’s your mom’s patronus?”

Sao grinned. “It’s funny. A white dolphin.”

“A white dolphin?”

“I mean, it’s a spectral thing, so it’s going to look white whatever it is. But it’s a ‘white dolphin.’ She says so.”

“Are there lots of white dolphins in Vietnam?” But it wasn’t a matter of calling forth an animal you were familiar with, Sunwoo tried to recall. It had been so long since she’d read any Harry Potter. She’d stuffed the books deep into a drawer and never opened it. She didn’t want to envy the kids who were going to that school.

Sao grinned again. “That’s the funny part. I think they live in the Arctic.”

“But I thought your mom was Vietnamese?”

“Right? Forget about the North Pole, the lady has never been to Northern Vietnam, so why the Hell would her patronus be…”

*

“There’s something I have in common with my mom. She never says so out loud, but I think she finds life hard in Korea, too. But she can’t go back to Vietnam. She has no family there, and she’s tied down by her teenage son.

“I told you why I couldn’t go to that school. You made fun of me for being a mama’s boy.

“Well, maybe I am a mama’s boy.

“I wanted to stand it. If I’d gone to that school, I would’ve become an ordinary student, just like you said. Nobody would’ve looked at me like I was a freak, nobody would’ve made fun of my skin color. But back then when I made the decision, leaving felt like running away and ditching my mom.

“Whenever I came home from a fight, I saw the guilt in her eyes. But I would rather she felt guilty than me just ditching her here.

“I know my mom knows her white dolphin isn’t like a real white dolphin. She’s never seen a white dolphin in her life. But since my mom believes it is… that’s what it is. A white dolphin. Because if you don’t believe it, you’ll never be able to use the magic.”

*

“I wonder what my patronus is,” said Sunwoo when they had almost reached the foot of Namsan Mountain.

Sao pretended to think deeply on it, rubbing the back of his neck and chin. “A dog?”

“What?”

“When I put out my hand back there, you put your paw in it. Just like a doggie. I wonder if your patronus is like, a really brave and valiant dog.”

“How dare you treat a high school girl this way? Do you want to end up as a skeleton buried in Namsan Mountain, Ha Sao?”

“Hey, never speak my full name. It’s embarrassing.”

Even as they playfully batted at each other, the two never let go of their hands as they mixed back into the crowds. To the place where no one looked at Sao strangely and no one nagged at Sunwoo about her life.

*

I wish it were a white dolphin.

A white dolphin is probably a weirdo among dolphins. A hermit of the Arctic, white all over.

But they’re pretty. Seriously, a white dolphin! Swimming alone in the cold, cold sea. Enduring the freezing winters as they come.

*

In the crowds, Sunwoo gave Sao’s hand a squeeze. Sao looked down at Sunwoo. Sunwoo extended Sao’s index finger and gripped it.

Expecto patronum,” they muttered at the same time.

Let’s wait. Maybe a white dolphin will appear. Sunwoo, looking straight ahead, feeling the flow of the people around them, asked Sao a question. “What memory were you using just now?”

“You know, that thing that just happened. The streetlamp coming on.”

“Aha.” Sunwoo nodded.

“And that idiot grin you had when you were looking up at it,” Sao added.

Sunwoo’s face went red. “Hey!” she shouted, holding up a threatening hand. Sao, grinning, obligingly offered his shoulder. As she repeatedly slapped Sao’s shoulder, she kept murmuring to herself. Actually, I used the same memory. But the smiling face I saw wasn’t mine. It was yours, Sao. Which means we can both use this memory. The thought made Sunwoo stop hitting him. It was true. Sunwoo would remember Sao underneath the streetlamp, and Sao, Sunwoo.

In other words, we’re waiting for the appearance of two white dolphins.

They stopped in their tracks, grinning at each other. They turned to stare ahead. Above the waves of people before them was a huge white cloud rising to cover the twilight sky. It so resembled a beautiful white dolphin leaping over the Arctic surf that the two reached for each other’s hands at the same time.


Jeon Sam-hye was born and raised in Korea. She studied fiction writing in college. Lately she has been preoccupied with the stories of “those who were clearly there, in that moment.” She has published two books, the novel International Date Line (Munhakdongnae, 2011) and the short-story collection Boy Girl Revolution (Munhakdongnae, 2015). She has also contributed to numerous literary anthologies. Her Twitter handle is @co_evolution_.

Anton Hur was born in Stockholm and currently resides in Seoul. His translations of Korean literature have appeared in Words Without BordersAsymptote JournalSlice Magazine, and others. He is the recipient of a PEN Translates award from English PEN, a Daesan Foundation literary translation grant, and multiple LTI Korea translation grants. He teaches writing at Ewha University’s Graduate School for Translation and Interpretation.

Natassja Traylor

A Field Guide to Common Edible Plants

Chamomile

Species: Chamaemelum nobile

Family: Compositae

Habitat and Distribution: Species of Chamomile are native to Europe, North Africa, and temperate regions of Asia. For centuries women have cultivated it in gardens around the world, and for as long as you can remember it’s grown in your mother’s garden in the Pacific Northwest. The soil content is mostly clay, rock, and compost, and you will notice the patch of yellow flowers sprouting on the side of your childhood house every summer.

Description: The chamomile plant grows up to 9 inches tall and is composed of lanky green stems that branch out to form a small bush. Chamomile spreads quickly. The seeds sprout slowly in early spring, then shoot up fast, just like you grew before the other sixth graders in the first year of middle school, like your mom bought a bra to hide your new breasts, making it quite a noticeable plant, a centerpiece to the early harvest.

Preparation and Uses: Chamomile is commonly used in tea for its calming effects. For example, at eating disorder clinics in the waiting room on tables with pamphlets that say “You and Your Body” and a canister of hot water, white paper cups. Chamomile is also used as an aid for anxiety and insomnia. Clinical studies show that ingestion contributes to a feeling of well-being, and during the week of your lowest weight you will sleep 4 of 7 nights and clutch a cup of chamomile tea. Recommended dosage is 2 teaspoons of dried herb infused with boiling water for 5-10 minutes, steep to taste. Chamomile should be harvested between late spring to late summer, before the rain makes the flowers too wet.

Red Clover

Species: Trifolium pratense

Family: Papilionaceae

Habitat and Distribution: Many species of Clover grow in varied habitats throughout the West, and you will find a patch of them near a cedar grove when coming off psilocybin in college. The purple flowers will be soft in your fingertips. You will pick a handful of sprigs and declare that you will never buy food at a store again, at least not in the summer when edible plants can be picked for free. It is important to note there won’t be food money anyway. The clover grows in unlikely places: parking lots, grassy hills, the corner store, and alleyways. Clover is common and its growing season lasts from early spring till first frost.

Description: Clover leaf is herbaceous with palmate leaves, divided into 3 leaflets with flowers of white, yellow, pink, and purple. It is common to walk through a patch from the parking lot to the outpatient building. You will often feel tension and guilt on this walk; you and your mother will before the appointment. It is normal to note “3 clover flowers” in the food diary your therapist makes you keep, and to close buds in your palm when you walk to the little hot room to wait.

Preparation and Uses: Can be eaten raw. It is possible to smoosh multiple flower buds into your mouth at the same time and chew on the sweet petals, to believe you’ll never again eat pumpkin pie or fried rice. The high protein content of clover is best digested when boiled or soaked in salt water, and a large volume of clover can be consumed after either of these processes to get the most nutrition. It is recommended to gather a handful for your pocket to eat on the walk home.

You can expect to spend time picking tiny petals from the gaps in your teeth.

Peppermint

Species: Mentha piperita

Family: Labiatae

Habitat and Distribution: Mint species are native to Europe, however species are cultivated in all regions of the world for its medicinal value. As an inhalant, peppermint oil stimulates the brain in moments of lethargy, for example when nodding off in class from low blood sugar. Mint is highly distributed throughout North America and prefers to grow in wet ground, though is hardy and will flourish in many climates. At every place you will ever live, wild mint will grow in abundance. You will look forward to the process of clipping the herbs and hanging bundles upside down from a string laced between the kitchen cabinets.

Description: Herbaceous perennial with opposite, oval leaves. Deep green. From July through September it bears violet flowers, flowers you won’t really remember after the harvest because they’re small and unimpressive, in and out so fast. Your boyfriend will remind you of them in passing. You wanted to be small and unimpressive once. The peppermint leaves emit a strong scent, one you will inhale every summer when you squat in the dirt in old shorts to pull weeds away from the bushes.

Preparation and Uses: Can be made into a concentrated oil, which you will rub into your temples and waft under your nose daily. Peppermint extracts are used as flavoring agents, medicine, and perfume. After three nights on amphetamines, writing, no sleep, it is recommended you step on the scale. These half-awake multi-day experiences are crucial. Steep fresh leaves or a heaping teaspoon of dried herb in boiling water for 10 minutes for the best results. You will feel as though your toes hover just above the tile floor. You will experience a feeling of transcendence. Sudden energy. Step on the scale a second time to account for an inaccurate first reading. If your hair is wet, slump it over the towel rack, head bowed, so the weight of water is removed from the total weight. Peppermint also helps nausea; it will come on in waves. Sip peppermint tea until the symptoms are relieved.

Wild Blackberry

Species: Rubus

Family: Rosaceae

Habitat and Distribution: You encounter them when jogging through the woods, along school fences, the water’s edge. You will get deep scratches on your legs from blackberry brambles when you jog through the arboretum at night and get dizzy. Blackberry is found in mountainous regions and all throughout the West. It thrives in high altitudes. By the time wild blackberry is in season in early August you won’t have brought new food into your apartment for at least a month, maybe more. Time will slip away. Expect a daily ritual of gathering breakfast in your purple-stained palms and blowing the little green worms off before eating them where you stand.

Description: Blackberry consists of a tall, thorned cane with palmate-compound leaves. The 5-petal flowers are radially symmetrical, white. The blackberry sends shoots underground that sprout up around the original, creating a large bush, often invading whole areas, twisted and impenetrable.

Preparation and Uses: The Wild Blackberry is a perennial, one you’ve watched ripen since your grandpa let you step onto his knee to get the highest, largest berries. Blackberries are also used for pie, which you will admire at eye level, smell. Be cautious. Eating any amount over 1/3 of the total slice will divert comments from friends and family.

Rosemary

Species: Rosmarinus officinalis

Family: Labiatae

Habitat and Distribution: Rosemary is found in the Mediterranean in areas with dry rock, and in your mother’s hands when she first gave you a trowel, pink gloves, and rosemary sprigs to plant in terracotta. Your mother’s hands have always held thick bundles of rosemary, fragrant oils strong on her fingertips as she strips the stems of their leaves.

Description: Hardy perennial shrub with needle-like evergreen leaves; can turn into bushes that look like trees when left to grow thick branches, like the ones your mother and grandmother cut off and place in plastic bags to go. They will perform this ritual each time you return and leave again. You will chop the fresh leaves into tiny pieces and inhale the scent of its medicine.

Preparation and Uses: Rosemary is a circulatory and nervine stimulant that calms digestion and psychological tension, it’s what your mother puts on the roasted potatoes she warms in the oven while you drive home from college. She made food even when there was no audience for it, your father body building, you not eating; but her fingers were always covered in the sticky oily resin; the smell of childhood, the smell of your mother scratching your head to calm you to sleep and rubbing your sore limbs with her gentle cold hands.


Glossary

Alternate: Usually in reference to leaves when veins are not directly opposite, but situated singly along the stem. Sometimes used in accordance with the word “methods” to indicate different approaches to treatment when formal treatment is ineffective.

Apex: The tip, or end, of a plant part. Also a high point, climax. For example, the apex of the disorder: the scale, the psychoactives, the acceptance, the delusion, the mania, the detachment from body, the cops, the call, the drop-out, the psychiatrist, the pharmacist.

Basal: Situated near or at the base. Usually in reference to “base weight”, the healthy weight the body settles at without forced dietary restriction; a natural weight. Often the base weight will seem like an impossible weight at the time of your disorder, but one day will be a reasonable place to exist.

Deciduous: A cyclical falling off of plant parts such as flowers, fruits, leaves, etc. after a definite period of growth or function—growth that came when the old leaves were so dry and tired they crumbled off the branch, and in downward dog at yoga class you won’t mind that your spandex pants are caught between the leg crease and thigh bulge. You will leave it there bunched up and focus on the posture, present in the body, cyclical, reaffirming the belief in your ability with each inhale, each time you show up for class.

Lateral: On the sides. Periphery interests that calm the mind, exist on the outside of the disorder. You will bring them into your life again and remember that you are not a disorder.

Linear: Long and narrow, for example a grass blade that you hold in your hand while lying on your back letting thoughts go.

Petiole: The stalk of a leaf, the strong part that holds up the meat of the plant, much like your legs, now thick with muscle and sweat when you climb mountain trails and cycle between cities.

Radiate: Spreading outward from a common center rather than folding inward. To open the body up to the world, to radiate your presence within it.


Natassja Traylor is a freelance writer and editor from Seattle. In 2013 she graduated cum laude from Western Washington University’s creative writing department. Her creative work has appeared in Crack the Spine Literary Journal. In her spare time Natassja walks through the woods, makes magazine collages, and studies the birds of the Pacific Northwest.