Mithila Review 12: The Journal of International Science Fiction & Fantasy

By Mithila Review

Mithila Review publishes excellent science fiction, fantasy, poetry, reviews, excerpts, and articles from award-winning and emerging writers around the world. We seek to publish stories that birth creative thought and positive action. Stories that accurately describe our world, and triumph over fear, mistrust and despair. Stories that guide us and the future. Because the world needs saving, and honestly, nothing works better than positive and powerful stories of belief and wonder.

Issue 12: Table of Contents

FICTION

The Kiss of the Water by Malena Salazar Maciá, translated by Toshiya Kamei
Upshot by Drema Deòraich
The Ghost Teas of Sakurajima by Deborah L. Davitt
Flower Arranging at the End of the Japanese Empire by Dean A. Brink
The Executioner General by Raluca Balasa
The Carnival of Human Nature by Dennis Mombauer
Sonya, Josephine, and the Tragic Re-Invention of the Telephone by I. S. Heynen

POETRY

Social Media Manticore by May Chong
Glimmerglimpse & Electrocologies by Logan Thrasher Collins
Talking in Circles, Lesson Plan & Tethered and Tied by Holly Day
Mud Dauber Wasp Nest by R. J. Keeler
Vestiges of you by Z.M. Quỳnh
The Satyr’s Acolyte by Aber O. Grand
Kirby; Or Everything I Needed to Know About Consumption & Super Mario;
Or, Everything I Needed to Learn About Relationships by Michael T. Smith
The Shuttle Took Off / और यान उड़ गया by Arvind Dubey, translated by Kshama Gautam
Litmus / लिटमस by Shirish Gopal Deshpande, translated by Narendra Petkar

REVIEWS

Contingency Plans for the Apocalypse by S.B. Divya - Reviewed by Gautam Bhatia
Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir - Reviewed by Chaitanya Murali

ART/FILM

Our Story: A Conversation with Lorenzo Latrofa & Massimiliano di Lauro by Salik Shah
Cover Art: Macrocheira kaempferi (1911) by Theobald Carreras, Wellcome Collection

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pidgin Studios
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463488393

Mithila Review

Mithila Review is an international science fiction and fantasy magazine founded in late 2015. We publish literary speculative fiction and poetry (science fiction/fantasy), film and book reviews, essays and interviews from across the world. A hypertext of original narratives and home of the translated from around the globe, Mithila Review is also an inquiry into the process of translating and the craft of storytelling.Every issue of Mithila Review has been made possible by generous contributions from our readers, contributors and patrons. Please subscribe to Mithila Review and become a patron to be part of, nurture and support this open, diverse and vibrant community.What we publish?Mithila Review features speculative arts and culture that encompass literary and artistic works in the broad genre with supernatural, fantastical or futuristic elements i.e. science fiction, fantasy, science fantasy, horror, alternative history, magic realism, uncanny and weird. Learn more.What is Mithila?“Mithila is a referent. It is a symbol. It can speak to the times when we have felt that we don’t quite belong. It can speak of the times when we have felt the urge to lurk away and disappear or the times we’ve felt the need to stay. It can speak to the time when we liberated our anger and pain in ways that have only fed the creative river within us. Mithila Review is space for our collective celebration and playful engagement with language. We hope that it can speak in all kinds of ways.” — Ajapa Sharma, Editor

Book preview

MR _ Logo

The Journal of International Science Fiction & Fantasy 

Issue 12, December 2019

Founding Editor & Publisher

Salik Shah

*

Website: MithilaReview.com

Twitter: @MithilaReview

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Community: Asian SF/F

Mithila Review © 2017-19. Copyright to art, poetry, fiction and non-fiction belongs to their respective authors. Cover Art: Macrocheira kaempferi (1911) by Theobald Carreras, Wellcome Collection.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

This Extraordinary Being

Salik Shah

FICTION

The Kiss of the Water

Malena Salazar Maciá, Toshiya Kamei

Upshot

Drema Deòraich

The Ghost Teas of Sakurajima

Deborah L. Davitt

Flower Arranging at the End of the Japanese Empire

Dean A. Brink

The Executioner General

Raluca Balasa

The Carnival of Human Nature

Dennis Mombauer

Sonya, Josephine, and the Tragic Re-Invention of the Telephone

I. S. Heynen

POETRY

Social Media Manticore

May Chong

Glimmerglimpse

Logan Thrasher Collins

Electrocologies

Logan Thrasher Collins

Talking in Circles

Holly Day

Tethered and Tied

Holly Day

Lesson Plan

Holly Day

Mud Dauber Wasp Nest

R. J. Keeler

Vestiges of you

Z.M. Quỳnh

The Satyr’s Acolyte

Aber O. Grand

Kirby; Or Everything I Needed to Know About Consumption

Michael T. Smith

Super Mario; Or, Everything I Needed to Learn About Relationships

Michael T. Smith

The Shuttle Took Off / और यान उड़ गया

Arvind Dubey, Kshama Gautam

Litmus / लिटमस

Shirish Gopal Deshpande, Narendra Petkar

REVIEWS

Contingency Plans for the Apocalypse by S.B. Divya

Gautam Bhatia

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Chaitanya Murali

ART/FILM

Our Story: A Conversation with Lorenzo Latrofa & Massimiliano di Lauro

Salik Shah

About Mithila Review

Editorial

This Extraordinary Being

The best minds of my generation are thinking about how to make people click ads.

— and we lost.

We lost when countless tribes and species were annihilated.

We lost when an oligarch became the president of the most powerful country in the world.

We lost when a fascist was embraced and garlanded by the largest failing democracy on the planet.

We lost when millions were thrown in internment camps inside the largest prison-states of our times.

We lost when we let the enlightened capitalists profit from machines of war, surveillance and oppression.

Stop. Listen — our loss doesn’t make us weak. Our loss is great, and it is the source of our strength — the righteous rage of our generation.

Every issue of Mithila Review is a testimony to our collective resilience — each a dedication to the craft of storytelling and resistance, and also the human capacity for love, change, and forgiveness.

As you read this issue (12), do not forget that we live in a world where reading and writing can make us targets of the government. Tomorrow all the pages of Mithila Review and your favorite books could suddenly disappear from your devices and the world wide web. Anyone holding a forbidden book or a poem might be considered a traitor or a terrorist, lynched, incarcerated or sent for re-education, and-or executed by sword, stone, shock or starvation.

So why do we play with fire? Why do we read, write and publish? Why do we resist?

Because we are human  — we are extraordinary storytelling animals. We use fiction and poetry to come to terms with our collective sorrow resulting from personal loss, injustice, hardships and failures. We read, write and share stories with each other to prevent these demons from defeating us.

The best of science fiction and fantasy is a balm to our wounded soul — our dream to reach the stars, become a caring and responsible star-faring civilization. And it wouldn't be possible for me to indulge in this fantastic endeavor without your generous contribution and support. If you can, please consider donating to Mithila Review to help us continue to exist and function as an open and collective platform.

We have only reached 8% of our funding goal for each issue on Patreon. If you haven’t, please consider gifting, subscribing and supporting us to help pay our contributors for their excellent work. 

Donate: http://mithilareview.com/donate

Subscribe: http://patreon.com/mithilareview

Arigatou gozaimasu!

— @salik

FICTION

The Kiss of the Water

Malena Salazar Maciá

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Malena Salazar Maciá was born in Havana, Cuba, where she still lives today. A winner of multiple literary awards, she has authored several books, including Nade (2016), Las peregrinaciones de los dioses (2018), and Aliento de Dragón (2020). English translations of her short stories have appeared in venues such as 4 Star Stories, Coffin Bell, The Future Fire, and Selene Quarterly Magazine. In addition, her work has been translated into Croatian, German, and Japanese.

Toshiya Kamei translates short fiction and poetry. His translations have appeared in venues such as Abyss & Apex, Cosmic Roots & Eldritch, Fantasy & Science Fiction, Helios Quarterly Magazine, and Samovar.

Lima cleared stones from a false tumulus and buried her bare hands in the sand, which was scorched by the sun whipping mercilessly across Eastern Terra like a beast-god’s worst curse. Lima believed in such a curse. Once, enveloped in a curtain of steam, a woman with a cat’s head appeared before her eyes. That was Bastet of the West. After that, she’d leave a bowl of milk in the glade in the ravine.

Despite the offerings, however, she wasn’t spared divine wrath. Some misfortune was bound to befall her. After all, in the mining settlement, the guards made sure everyone understood that the Daonais were never wrong. Then and there, she was quite willing to throw herself at the feet of anyone capable of invoking dark clouds over her head. However, as always, a crystalline blue sky spread out above her.

Her fingernails had begun to bleed when she grasped handfuls of gravel. Lima trembled. The sand was wet, kissed by the water. She dug a little more and found a large wineskin made of camelid hide. Flattened, the mouth was uncovered. Lima grabbed it ceremoniously as if she held a baby. Not a drop of liquid remained inside.

The Gentium woman would have cried if it hadn’t been for her depleted strength, her dust-filled eyes, and a sore throat. She found other pilgrim hideouts ransacked in Gravel Valley. Once again, the guards had combed through the area to empty the wineskins and leave the desert with the dirty job of killing faceless undesirables who dared approach the Hetta colony.

The Daonais didn’t want any dirty Gentiums from other parts of Eastern Terra in their colony.

Lima needed clean water, which brought life and no more stomach worms, like the ones swimming in the unhealthy pit in the mining settlement. Although they boiled the water, it was always contaminated with metal scraps. Lima got up with the empty wineskin in her hand and started on her way back home.

Next to the foremen’s barracks, a hovercraft supplied the reserve tanks that belonged to the guards who whipped the Gentiums in order to force them to hammer the rocks and extract minerals for the Daonais. Several Gentiums were piled up around the vehicle.

They watched with hungry eyes as the water dripped down the feed hose and fell onto the sand. If someone could put a wineskin there, he would be able to collect clean water. But the guards stood before the tank with rifles to keep anyone from stealing water from the Daonais.

Lima’s throat was so dry that every time she tried to swallow, thousands of spines pressed from the inside. She joined the other Gentiums, their eyes all fixed on the remains of the hose. The dripping water looked fresh. Lima inched forward.

One of the guards guarding the tank yelled at her. He held a hand to his gun and asked her what she was doing. Lima wanted to answer, but she couldn’t talk. She hadn’t been able to utter a word for months because the dust from the mine had gone deep inside her and damaged her throat. The healer warned her she wasn’t going to exist much longer.

In an almost predictable impulse, Lima jumped on the feed hose. She stuck her mouth on the rubber surface and sucked. The water was cold. She had never drunk it so cold. Pain stabbed her right side, it pierced her guts, and her lungs burned with every breath, but that wasn’t what caused her to detach herself from the hose and place the wineskin under the generous stream. The water was so crystalline that she could see through it. The guards grabbed her hair and threw her back on the sand. Lima, trembling and with a sore body, closed the lid on the wineskin, stood up, and ran as fast as she could.

Shots rang out, followed by screams. Disgusting Gentium! Thief! You dung-smeared stone! Lima ran like a desert storm sent by the beast-goddess Bastet of the West and reached the barracks. She opened Room 77 and fell to her knees beside the second bed, where a younger version of herself rested, her cheeks lit with fever and her mind consumed by delusions that she barely articulated with her chapped lips.

Lima felt dizzy. Her hands refused to obey her, but she forced herself to focus. She searched her belongings for the medicine the healer had prescribed for her daughter’s fever. He told her to use it with clean water, the purest kind that existed, the Daonais’ water. The healer didn’t have that water in his possession, but he knew the pilgrims helped the villagers by hiding stashes of goods in Gravel Valley.

Lima found the capsule. She opened it with her blood-stained fingers, threw the powder into the wineskin, and stirred it. But her daughter wasn’t able to drink it on her own, so the woman took a generous sip and leaned over the girl to give her a kiss of the water.

The guards found the thief lying next to a young girl. In the next few hours, they’d recover from fever. Blood trickled down from Lima’s gunshot wound and into the uncovered mouth of the wineskin, which wasn’t completely empty now.

Upshot

Drema Deòraich

Drema’s primary focus is speculative fiction, though she does make the occasional jaunt into literary fiction, poetry, and essays about Life, the Universe, and Everything. Her work has appeared in online publications for Asymmetry, All Worlds Wayfarer, and Across the Margin, where her non-fiction essay Dancing Man was included in the Best of 2018. Drema is a member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of Hampton Roads, and attends semi-regular classes at the Muse Writers Center. She loves chocolate and Brussels sprouts in equal measure, and lives in Norfolk, Virginia, with her husband, two orange floofballs, and all her other characters. Her blog and book reviews can be found at dremadeoraich.com.

My first arrow slices the air in silent uphill flight to pierce my target’s throat, and I nock another shaft. Wet gurgling sounds fill the space between us. His upraised hands flutter like a naavi’ at his wound, but my tip paste works fast. He staggers, turns, falls before he spies his killer. I walk toward him, ready to loose if he twitches. When I am close enough, I can see he won’t move again.

A bird thrashes in the net above my head. This one’s a male, its frantic calls lost in the sound of my own coughing. I shoulder the bow and pull my knife, then step onto the body to reach the net. Greedy bastards. We could not stop the soldiers when they burned our villages, butchered our animals, stole our land, enslaved or killed our people. Now thieves come for our beautiful quetzals or their feathers. Enough. This I can fight.

How many birds have I saved now? Twenty? Fifty? A hundred? Movement in the trees draws my eye and I look up.

Quetzals. Males perch among the leaves and branches, glistening crests and wings and backs as green as the forest canopy, luminous blood-red bellies, white flash under iridescent tails that hang longer than their bodies, jewel-black eyes shining in the mist. A few gathered like this the last time, too, but now more than a dozen sit watching their brother. Watching me. How long has it been since I saw this many in one place?

I look down on the stranger who has come to take our treasure, and I spit on his head. Thieves such as he deserve what I give them.

One slice, two, three, and I rip the net open. The minute I step back, the bird escapes and is gone, its fellows following. I watch them disappear into the cloud-wreathed canopy.

Now to the mess at hand.

The body isn’t a problem. Animals and insects will feast for weeks on its leavings. It’s the synthetic mesh I worry about.

Again I step onto the poacher and reach up. A few hard yanks bring it down. I can’t leave it to ensnare or choke other wildlife, but in a frame it could serve another purpose. The lake isn’t far, and my girls prize delicacies like fish. I stuff it into my pocket. Lupe used to tease me about wearing pants like a man. Now she wears them too, unless we are going to the market. She could use a new pair, but the poacher’s are too worn to save. His boots, too. The rest might prove useful, if I can get the blood out.

I tug free my shaft and strip off the man’s shirt and coat. His pockets hold treasures. When I set out for home, I am rich with wok’ox, tobacco, medicine and money. I nibble the wok’ox to stop the shake in my legs. The girls can use the medicine. I’ll trade the tobacco for supplies. The money will be enough for more ixi’m, for us and for the chickens. Maybe it’ll also buy a few traps. My snares are still empty where I set them days ago, and gods know I’ve shot precious little game of late. My cough makes stealth nearly impossible. I’m amazed I kept it quiet enough to kill this poacher. The last one heard me and ran away before I got close enough to shoot.

By the end of my hike, my tzute bulges with herbs, fruits and nuts. The morning mist has risen to