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We have original short fiction from Thomas Ha (“Grottmata”) and Megan Chee (“The Museum of Cosmic Retribution”). Our Horror Lab originals include a flash story (“Automaton Boy”) from Sara S. Messenger and a poem (“Phantom Taste of Apricot on My Tongue”) from Richard Leis. Weird fiction philosopher RSL brings us the latest installment of “The H Word,” plus in our “de•crypt•ed” column, Donyae Coles talks about the influence of Edgar Allan Poe.
Cover art by / Adobe Shutterstock
I can’t explain or even begin to fathom the tangled mess of -isms afflicting my nation and my planet. I am a writer and editor of speculative fiction and what I know, what I deeply and profoundly know, is that none of this had to happen this way. That there can and ought to be other worlds than this.
The soldiers start rounding up us factory girls just before sunrise. We smoke cigarettes and stand in a line against the remnants of a brick wall that used to be a bakery, facing the sheer black of the mountains above the town as muted light spills across the fog and folds of the ridgeline. One girl wearing four layers of coats asks if we’re still getting paid, and everyone has a good laugh.
I think both the inspector and Gemma are characters who find solace in each other because they are trying to mediate these brutal social forces that they didn’t choose, but were born into, which is something I relate to. How are you supposed to make decisions for yourself, or even just survive, when you inherit a world other people made for you?
I wrote this story while reading Terrorist Assemblages by Jasbir Puar, and with some songs on repeat from an Iron & Wine album, The Shepherd’s Dog.
There is no working, thinking creature that does not have their thoughts, their life, their whole essence, alienated from them. Whether you work as a labourer, a gardener, a chef, a cleaner, a brickie, a middle-manager, an assistant, you have your very life purchased from you (if you’re lucky enough to be paid). When I worked in grounds maintenance for the council, I certainly sold my inability to feel what is now a continual ache in my hips
Haw Par Villa in the rain was a splash of garish color. The dark red footpath, glistening wet. The ornate tiered gate that greeted visitors with a carving of a tiger, etched in gold and blue. The strange and unsettling statues scattered across the park—a woman’s smiling head on the body of a giant crab, a cluster of laughing mermaids with mouths a little too big for their faces.
I first visited Haw Par Villa as a kid. Weirdly, I was most afraid of the exhibit that shows the “good souls” standing on the silver and gold bridges to cross into paradise. For some reason I interpreted that exhibit to mean that the good souls would be standing on that bridge forever.
Weirdly, I really did pretend juice from fruit canned by my mom was spoonfuls of delicious cough syrup, and one day in elementary school, I really did earn a punch in the arm from choking and coughing juice all over my friends in the cafeteria. From that seed, I branched off over many revisions of this poem to include my fears.
I don’t like “The Raven” by Edgar Allan Poe. This is what I’m thinking while I am helping my daughter through the last bits of her Gothic Literature class. She doesn’t actually need my help, she just wants it. The class was taught by a woman who was clearly passionate about the Gothic.
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