NEW FABULISTS E-Book

• Herausgeber: p.machinery
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 188

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Under the motto "New Fabulists" it includes the following stories: Robert Jeschonek (USA) "With Love in Their Hearts" Dafydd McKimm (Great Britain) "A Lady of Ganymede, a Sparrow of Io" Jetse de Vries (Netherlands) "Connoisseurs of the Eccentric" Gustavo Bondoni (Argentina) "Blossoms" Adriana Alarco de Zadra (Peru) "Neon and the Snake" Frank W. Haubold (Germany) "He Who Picks the Bones" Frank Roger (Belgium) "Variant Readings" Also the already classic story "Our Daily Bread" by Sven Kloepping (Germany) from one of the early issues of InterNova's mother magazine Nova and an insightful guest editorial by one of my veteran collaborators who I hold in high esteem, Guy Hasson from Israel. A special thanks to our proofreaders. Nicole Ashfield and Tasha Bajpal have joined in with this issue.

Leseprobe

InterNOVA online

Volume 03 · 2023

This e-book is free for personal use only. It may be obtained via direct download from www.pmachinery.de/internova/online/in03.zip. It is not permitted to share this e-book via social media, peer to peer networks and the like.

Unauthorized distribution might be persecuted as a copyright violation.

The copyright of all contributions remains with the respective writers.

© of this issue: February 2023

p.machinery Michael Haitel

Editor: Michael K. Iwoleit

Proofreading: Adriana Kantcheva

Cover picture: Stefan Keller (Pixabay)

Layout & cover design: global:epropaganda

Production: global:epropaganda

Publisher: p.machinery Michael Haitel

Norderweg 31, DE-25887 Winnert

www.pmachinery.de

www.internova-sf.de

ISBN ePub: 978 3 95765 782 4

ISBN PDF: 978 3 95765 781 7

Guy Hasson: Editorial

Behind the Curtains of World SF&F

Over the last year and a half I’ve been talking to creators in the SF&F world from all over the world for a podcast called Geekdom Empowers.

In trying to highlight creators who are usually not highlighted in the media, I came across vastly different individuals. Each had his/her/their own story and went down their own path. But there were a lot of similarities for authors from across the world.

I’d like to share some of the patterns I’ve been able to spot. There is, after all, a lot of food for thought here.

A Western Invention

Speaking with Chinese and African SF&F creators (author Gu Shi comes to mind), one thing keeps popping up again and again. It’s the thought that science fiction is a Western thing. That science fiction, as it’s perceived by the Western world, is a Western invention. It’s not that it doesn’t exist in the East or Africa. It’s that it’s perceived differently and that the stories are different. In some places it’s even perceived as part of regular storytelling. In some places, science fiction, fantasy, and folklore blend into each other.

European creators said the same thing but phrased it differently. It’s not that science fiction is a Western thing, rather that it’s an American/British thing.

When speaking about this to an audience at ICon2022 in Tel Aviv, a teenager in the audience couldn’t grapple with the idea that science fiction could be different from what he knew. I tried to explain how SF can change according to the lore of a specific people. But I was unsuccessful. In the end, I sent him to read a few books.

I think the same journey the teenager will now go on is a journey we should all take. Discovering the world’s cultures while the world’s cultures discover how to be unique and not be local copies of American SF are both endless voyages of exploration.

Can We Have Local Superheroes?

I interviewed Jarrel De Matas from the Caribbean Science Fiction Network, in which he highlights only SF&F creators from the Caribbean. He talked about how in one book about superheroes, the characters ask themselves whether there could actually be superheroes from the Caribbean.

Of course, why wouldn’t there be, right? But that attitude is prevalent everywhere that is outside the US, UK, Australia and Canada. This process takes place in every country separately. I’ve seen it begin in Israel more than 20 years ago. Can we have local heroes or are we just copying what the Americans are doing with local names? Is it ridiculous when we do it? Will people accept it? If the story is truly local, will it ever be translatable?

The Publishers’ Easy Solution

Let’s talk about the mainstream SF&F publishers.

Publishers and readers in smaller countries know that someone did the job for them. Someone went through a huge slush pile of a country with more than 300 million people, took out the best of the best (supposedly), and of those only the bestsellers will be translated by publishers in smaller countries.

That mentality, which has great financial justification, means that even a great local SF&F author can’t compete because they didn’t go through the huge slush pile and because they haven’t proven themselves as a writer of bestsellers on that scale. And so they are discarded by both publishers and the readers.

How Small Publishers Make a Big Difference

Now let’s talk about small publishers.

I talked to editor and publisher Elana Lozano from Crononauta, a small publisher in Spain, which only publishes female and non-binary SF&F authors. She described her belief in how big changes can’t come from the big publishers. Big changes have to come from small and brave publishers. One reader at a time the small publishers change opinions, break new ground, publish books and stories that the big publishers can’t take a risk on. And very soon, the lines have moved and what had previously been unacceptable is now taken for granted.

The Economic Barrier

I spoke to Nigerian author Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki before he was a Nebula Award winner and multiple Hugo Award finalist. He talked about the economic barrier around Nigeria. How big companies refuse to transfer money to Nigeria, how banks try to talk magazines out of paying authors in Nigeria because they believe the country is full of scams.

He talked about how without e-mail it was previously impossible for Nigerian authors to be published in the big SF&F magazines because the regular snail mail simply didn’t work in Nigeria.

After the interview, he self-published his Africa Risen anthology on Amazon, and Amazon refused to pay him after books were sold.

It is easy to think that we live in one big global village now. That opportunity is equal around the world as long as you have the Internet. But that simply is not true. Not yet. Economic barriers from centuries ago still exist today.

We Don’t Have to Translate into English

When speaking to Italian author and publisher Francesco Verso, I learned about his journey of hunting down world SF authors across the world who have never been translated outside their own countries. There are gems that easily disappear into history.

He finds as many as he can and then publishes them, translated into Italian and Chinese.

He says that books don’t have to be translated into English to be known. And he is right.

The Success Stories

There are also many stories of success that weren’t possible even ten years ago, as the US and UK are slowly opening up to more international stories.

A lot of the authors I interviewed are getting published regularly in US magazines. More and more of them are winning prizes. Pakistani author Usman T. Malik won the British Fantasy Award and the Bram Stoker Award right out of the gate. He tells the story of how it was up to him and a handful of others to create an SF&F community in Pakistan.

The founders of Kugali began as a podcast that wanted to cover Pan African SF&F creators of all kinds and ended up building a Pan African comics and animation company that now signed a deal with Disney.

The internet helped skyrocket the career of artist and writer Juni Ba when he first published his art online. In the first half hour his art began to be hailed around the world.

And there are so many stories as well.

It’s a long journey and many aspects of it are invisible to most people. As each country goes through the discovery of its authors’ unique voices, the creators and publishers there often believe that they are the first and only to go through it.

The truth is that this process of self-discovery is happening across the world in hundreds of different communities, and its stages are almost always the same.

Guy Hasson

January 2023

Robert Jeschonek: With Love in Their Hearts

“I love you!” Hissing the words through the blood in my mouth, I lunge at my opponent. And I mean those words with all my heart – I have to – even as I swipe my dagger across his chest.

As he dances back out of reach, a line of red opens up where I cut him. His dirty, bearded face clouds… then quickly clears. “I love you more!” He smiles as he leaps at me with both fists forward, aiming them like a battering ram at my face.

Beaming with all the affection I can muster, all the true sweet regard for my friendly fellow man, I spin around out of his way and tag him again with the dagger, plugging the blade deep in his left kidney.

Howling, he stumbles into the thick-trunked oak that was just at my back. He takes it headfirst and bounces off, weaving drunkenly in the mud.

“Friend warrior.” This is how I finish him, all sweetness and light. Without the slightest shred of darkness in my heart. “You are like unto the finest flower in the brightest sunbeam on the loveliest day in all the year.” Darting to one side, I duck down and recover the sword I dropped earlier in this battle – dearest Eros. “God bless you for bringing such joy to my life.”

With that, I swing the sword up, then down and through his neck with a perfect, practiced stroke.

So good am I at this that not a trace of hatred or savage satisfaction punctuates the moment when his head separates from his shoulders and plops into the muck.

Breathing hard, I scan my surroundings. I see the bodies of the three men I've killed, sprawled in various bloody contortions… and the body of Vicka, my partner on the road until now, whom they killed before I could kill them first.

That is what love can accomplish. Its power is arrayed around me for all to behold.

Moving swiftly lest another patrol comes my way too soon, I secure my beaten black body armor, then retrieve and put on my battered helmet with the old red-white-and-blue banner etched into the hard plastic. I retrieve my motorbike too… but the front tire has been slashed, and it won't start. I guess I can't complain; it's over a century old, and I've gotten a lot of use out of it until now.

“Go with God, fair machine.” I drop it in the muck, grab my dagger from the dead man's kidney, and set off at a brisk jog through the woods. The autumn sun is closing in on the horizon, and I need to make my destination by nightfall.

Everything is riding on the completion of my mission. All my people down in Burytown are counting on me to succeed.

Though it is hard to imagine I can succeed this time. The killing of men and women has always come easy to me. It is that very inclination that could make this new mission such a challenge.

Heart pounding, I run through the mud, brush, and leaves, ever up along the steep contour of the mountainside. This part of what was once known as the state of Pennsylvania is full of such mountains – the Alleghenies, as we call them yet today. They have been my home for all five and twenty years of my life, and navigating them is second nature to me.

Reading the wind and the angle of the sun, I know I'm not far from my goal. In spite of the best efforts of my attackers, I will reach my destination, though what happens after that, I cannot say.

Finally, I burst from the woods and find myself at the edge of the old road. I also find myself face to face with two men in camouflage body armor, wielding six-guns.

Slowly, I take off the helmet. “Greetings to you both.”

“Hail and well met, good stranger!” The one doing the talking has the biggest, friendliest smile… and the steadiest grip on his revolver. “State your name and purpose, that we may love you all the better!”

Instinctively, I meet his gaze with the most genuine grin I can muster. “I am Sir Gardner Schell of Burytown,” I tell them. “I have come to meet my bride.”

Expected as I am, the sentinels holster their guns and lead me through the barricades blocking the road. On the other side, my destination awaits – a place I've only visited a handful of times, though Burytown lies but seven miles to the west of it.

The building looks for all the world like an old ocean liner (the kind I've seen only in photos), complete with decks, portholes, and a pair of big smokestacks on the roof, angled toward the stern. It is as if, by some miracle, a seagoing vessel has been stranded in the heights of a mountain range, along the curve of a once-great highway that has seen better days.

GRAND VIEW SHIP HOTEL. That's the old name of it, painted in big black letters on the side of the ship facing the road. SEE 3 STATES AND 7 COUNTIES. That's painted on the prow. Armor plating has been added all around, but those words out of history remain.

The real name, the one it's known by now, is not painted anywhere. But ask anyone within fifty miles of here if they know of Kendall's Keep, and they will point you right to it. Everyone who uses this stretch of road – known in olden times as the Highway of Lincoln – must pay a toll to Kendall's men to pass this point.

“What took you so long?” Lord Rubicon Kendall strides out of the keep in a white sea captain's uniform, looking hale and hearty and overly friendly. A sword hangs at either hip, plus a long rifle at his back, and rightly so; his clan is at war. “You were expected this morning, good sir knight.”

“If not for the second ambush, I most certainly would have been here sooner. And Vicka, my late retainer, as well.” I point at the path that I traveled up the slope. “The Loved Ones grow ever bolder, my Lord.”

Rubicon grins through his neatly trimmed ebony mustache and goatee. “It is a delight we have in common, yes? Your people down in Burytown have been especially showered with their affections, have they not?”

“Such a blessing.” I say it stiffly, though I manage a smile. The siege of Burytown is my whole reason for being here. An alliance with Rubicon's clan would give us the punch we need to break the siege and lay our friends the Loved Ones to rest for good.

Though such an alliance does not come without a price.

“I am in your hands, my Lord.” I bow my head and spread my arms. “Assuming our pact yet stands.”

“It does. My Lady Kendall, God rest her soul, had people in Burytown. I am only too happy to offer you this chance.” He lays a hand on my shoulder. “If you are ready for the challenge, Sir Gardner.”

“I would not be here if I were not.”

“Well said.” Rubicon nods sagely, peering into my eyes with the focus of a hawk. “And would you accept the guidance of an advisor in this quest of yours? He was of much help when I was in your shoes.”

“Thank you, my Lord, but that won't be necessary.”

Rubicon cocks his head to one side, looking amused. “May he provide a benediction, at least?”

Before I can answer, an old man rises on the main deck on the second level of the ship/keep and clears his throat. “Let us pray,” he calls down to us. Like Rubicon, he wears a uniform, though the pieces don't go together well: white cap, black jacket, red ascot, lemon trousers.

Confidentially, Rubicon leans over and whispers to me. “Bon Cloister up there will perform the ceremony, you know. If there is one.”

“In the century since the Great Collapse,” says Cloister, “only love has sustained we few survivors. As this young knight stands on the precipice of the greatest struggle of all – holy wedlock – we pray that he may turn to another face of love and do what we all know he must do to succeed.”

“Amen.” Grinning, Rubicon smacks me on the back.

“Times a million,” says Cloister as he digs out a pipe and lights it with a hellaciously long furnace match.

“Here we are.” Rubicon leads me past armed guards into the keep, then down a short hallway. “Have a seat in the Coral Room, Sir Gardner.”

We enter a room with turquoise walls and red-rimmed portholes. A polished wooden bar occupies most of one side, with a black-cushioned elbow-rest and pink-upholstered barstools with backs. Dusty glasses and bottles line shelves behind the bar, glinting in the last flickers of daylight slipping in from the windows in the dining room next-door.

I sit on a long red bench against the opposite wall. A knight must never sit with his back to the door, as I have learned the hard way.

Just then, I hear footsteps – hard shoes descending a staircase.

“Here she comes.” Rubicon smiles and bounces on the balls of his feet. “Good luck to you.” He winks and whispers that last.

My heart beats fast as the footsteps approach down the hallway. I have fought a thousand battles, but this is new ground for me.

“Sir Gardner.” Rubicon steps aside and gestures at the doorway. “I introduce my daughter, Listy Kendall.”

I rise as she enters the room. Never in my life have I seen anyone so beautiful.

Listy curtsies. “Sir Gardner.” She is in her early 20s, with all the firmness of youth in her pale, porcelain skin. Loose, dark curls frame an oval face with lively eyes, delicate nose, and full red lips. I can see from the fall of her long, creamy gown that her body is perfectly sculpted, bust and hips swelling pleasingly above and below a slender waist.

I manage a bow, but words fail me. Entranced, I can but stare as she watches and waits, smiling.

Rubicon raises an eyebrow and gestures at the bar. “Perhaps you might like a drink, Sir Gardner?”

His question barely registers. I am spellbound.

“My father has pledged my hand to you, good knight,” says Listy. “It might do us well to converse upon this betrothal, don't you think?”

Her voice, as soft and flowing as the song of a meadowlark, freezes me further. I am drawn to her, mesmerized as I have never been before – yet locked down as if shackled and gagged. A man of action I have always been, but now I am turned to stone.

And none of it makes any sense to me.

“Ha. I wondered if this might happen.” Rubicon walks over and squeezes my shoulder. “Perhaps some time with Bon Cloister might not be a bad idea after all, sir knight.”

Fresh air does me some good. As I stand at the railing of the keep's main deck and watch the sun set, my wits slowly return to me.

Without invitation, Bon Cloister shuffles over to stand beside me, lighting a fresh pipeful of tobacco. Up close, I see how withered he is, how ancient in his shabby hodge-podge uniform.

“What is the Story of Love, Sir Gardner?” He puffs twice on the pipe, then exhales sweet cherry-smelling smoke from his nose. “Tell me how love as we know it came to be.”

Everyone knows this story, but I humor him. I'm embarrassed about what happened in the Coral Room and eager to make things right.

“One of the plagues of the Great Collapse in the 21st Century was The Commandment,” I tell him. “Scientists unleashed a contagion to rewrite human DNA and bring about peace on Earth.”

“How so?”

“People became physically unable to harm others out of hatred or anger. This was in fulfillment of Jesus Christ's commandment to love thy neighbor as thyself.”

“Indeed.” Smoke from Cloister's pipe drifts out over the vast landscape sprawling beyond the mountain. The setting sun casts blazing light over the acres of trees in their red, gold, and orange autumn finery. “And how did that work out when the other plagues struck, and civilization collapsed?”

“It made it nearly impossible to fight for survival.”

Cloister smiles. “And so we learned to fight – to kill if need be – the only way we could. With love in our hearts.” He pulls the pipe from his mouth. “And we got very good at it, didn't we? The love-that-kills?”

I nod.

“But!” Cloister jabs the pipe stem at me. “What happens when we get so good at it, we forget what it's like to feel the love-that-cherishes? For some, especially the more… accomplished warriors, like yourself… this can sometimes lead to profound… disharmonies.”

“The love-that-cherishes?” I scowl.

“Caring for someone so much that we don't want to damage or murder them,” says Cloister. “Feeling an attraction so real and profound that we want to join with the other person in a multitude of ways.”

The song of the katydids buzzing in the trees makes more sense to me than what he's saying. “Is that even possible?” I ask.

Cloister narrows his eyes. “Do you want it to be?”

I think of my people in Burytown, who are depending on me. I think also of that beautiful girl in the Coral Room, and the way she seemed to glow when I gazed at her.

“Yes.” I whisper the word. “But how?”

“Righteous discipline.” Cloister clenches his right hand. “And self-control. You must reach deep within yourself and change the love-that-kills to the love-that-cherishes… but only for this one person, your bride. For all others, especially those who threaten kith or kin…” He unclenches his hand and draws the edge of it across his throat like the blade of a knife.

Frustrated, I close my eyes and clench my teeth. I feel like going over the rail and running off into the night with Eros in hand, ready to love all comers. That, at least, would not be like the great unknown I now face.

“So many feelings…” I grip the rail hard. “What if I can't master them, Bon?”

“Then your bargain with Lord Kendall will never be consummated.” Cloister puts the pipe back in his mouth and puffs on it. “For neither he nor Listy herself shall brook a union where there is no true affection.”

“Damn.” I toss my head as if I'm trying to wake myself from a terrible dream. “I don't even know where to start.”

“There are some mental drills that might help.” Cloister pats me on the back. “Perhaps we can get you ready for tomorrow morning.”

“What's happening tomorrow morning?”

“Your first date,” says Cloister. “Also, if all goes well, your marriage proposal.”

I wake, as always, before dawn, springing to full alertness with all the force of old habits. Sleeping too soundly or late can get you killed in the field, after all.

I wash up in a basin of tepid water in my room, then dry and dress. Looking out the window, I see it's still dark outside… but won't be for long. I am early for this morning's meeting, which is just how I like to be.