Mithila Review 14: 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. Issue 14 of Mithila Review contains:

FICTION

"Your Dinner" by Derek Anderson
"Iterations" by Christian Monson
"The Call to Neigh" by Daniel McKay
"Mother’s Blood" by Elijah Petty
"Things Not to Say" by Amy Collini
"Blood Relations" by J. Check
"The Trial of Tesslin VanGlaise" by Chloé Agar
"As Dark As Hunger" by S. Qiouyi Lu

POETRY

"uncas" by Kate Shannon
"cinderella" by Archita Mittra
"Different Boxes" by Rachel Rodman
"Mare Anguis" by Josh Pearce
"Corvid Dreams" by Jennifer Crow
"Still Life" by Pia Bhatia

REVIEWS

"Eclectic Modern Folktales: 2020: An Anthology, edited by Foo Sek Han and Leon Wing" by Prashanth Gopalan
"The Princess and the Frog: A Review of Gorel and the Pot Bellied God" by Anthony Perconti

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pidgin Studios
• Release date: May 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463235195

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

The Journal of International Science Fiction & Fantasy 

Issue 14, June 2020

Founding Editor & Publisher

Salik Shah

*

Website: MithilaReview.com

Twitter: @MithilaReview

Facebook: MithilaReview

SoundClound: MithilaReview

Patreon: MithilaReview

Community: Asian SF/F

Mithila Review © 2017-20. Copyright to poetry, fiction and non-fiction belongs to their respective authors.

CONTENTS

Editorial: Life is beautiful

Salik Shah

FICTION

Your Dinner

Derek Anderson

Iterations

Christian Monson

The Call to Neigh

Daniel McKay

Mother’s Blood

Elijah Petty

Things Not to Say

Amy Collini

Blood Relations

J. Check

The Trial of Tesslin VanGlaise

Chloé Agar

As Dark As Hunger

S. Qiouyi Lu

POETRY

uncas

Kate Shannon

cinderella

Archita Mittra

Different Boxes

Rachel Rodman

Mare Anguis

Josh Pearce

Corvid Dreams

Jennifer Crow

Still Life

Pia Bhatia

REVIEWS

Eclectic Modern Folktales: 2020: An Anthology, edited by Foo Sek Han and Leon Wing

Prashanth Gopalan

The Princess and the Frog: A Review of Gorel and the Pot Bellied God

Anthony Perconti

About Mithila Review

EDITORIAL

Life is beautiful

I’m very excited and honored to release Issue 14 of Mithila Review.

When I was fourteen, I read, scribbled, yearned for a better world plus somebody to love (who has miraculously appeared to fill my heart with love, laughter, renewed purpose, and rare devotion)!

Do you remember turning fourteen?

What did you dream that night?

Did you draw or write anything that night? Do you still have it with you?

Describe your adolescence in one word.

Describe your life today in a sentence.

Tweet your responses to @salik + @mithilareview. Yes!

As always I’m grateful to the universe, all our authors and patrons for making this journey possible.

Stay safe and take care.

Love,

— @salik

May 28, 2020

New Delhi

FICTION

Your Dinner

Derek Anderson

Derek Anderson is a writer in NYC, with short stories and screenplays published in The Chaffey Review, Mithila Review, Alternating Current and Fearsome Critters. He was also a script consultant for the HBO adaptation of Fahrenheit 451 and the Golden-Globe nominated film 99 Homes.

Still a scrap of thumb in my molars as the maître d’ announces the main course:

Courtesy of Chef Vincente, carefully hand-selected from the rainforests of Earth, prepared with exquisite artistry and unmatched expertise, given a gentle, pleasant upbringing and composed exclusively of sublime, all-natural ingredients—waiters, please clear the table.

We're buzzing with excitement. My manager Desmond pounds his fists, gripping knife and fork with a wolfish grin. The Board promised us top dollar after Q4, any restaurant, on or off Earth. We weren’t gonna let ‘em get away with no greasy Leftovers down at Flinger's, not this time. None of us were Mega Rich til last month. I'm late to the party, 134 years old. Can't believe this'll be my first time eating Fresh.

A door whisks open, and Chef Vincente himself rolls out the glittering, diamond-encrusted gurney. It shines brighter than the billions of stars in the windows all around us. I salivate as waiters heave a platter off the gurney, and lower it to the table. There’s a tense pause. We all glance at one another, thinking the same thing—whatever’s under that coverlet ain’t movin’.

We were promised Fresh! Desmond growls at Vincente. I roll my eyes. Yes, he made us 72T this year, but does he have to slash every throat in the room?

Vincente, hands calmly folded on his plump, stares at Desmond with total indifference. His art in the kitchen exhilarates him, but it’s well-known the Chef loathes the dining room. I see it in his beady black eyes: to him, we’re all subhuman. A tingle soars down my spine, and I grin, impish, hoping Vincente will bite Desmond’s cheek.

Instead, he sweeps off the coverlet with a flourish, revealing a perfectly still, perfectly calm young man. His firm naked body glows like the moon on a silver platter. As the hibachi grill warms up, his blue eyes gaze hopefully upward, as if he sees past this reality into another universe, into a peaceful, welcoming heaven. It immediately puts us all at ease. Desmond’s delighted.

And the honors? asks a toady bald waiter, who offers the platinum handle of an extremely sharp knife. I’m about to raise my hand…. when our dinner flinches. A surge of acid crawls up my throat. I watch hawkeyed, as co-workers quarrel over the knife. Was it my imagination? He doesn’t flinch again, but the more I look, the more I see. Almost imperceptibly, he’s quivering. Just a slight shudder in the shoulders, but it’s nauseating. He’s scared, I can see it.

Look, he’s shaking, I nudge Desmond. Now we gotta call this whole thing off, can’t none of us relax if he’s gonna quake and quail - WE WERE PROMISED Fresh with a gentle upbringing! Now my mind’s stuffed with images of the poor boy sobbing, chained in a dark cell his whole life.

He’s fine, Desmond grips my wrist, savage. He’s dreamt of this for decades. See? Both of us stare. The young man lays perfectly still. I’m not satisfied.

Desmond is. He breaks through the bickering and seizes the knife for himself. He winks at Vincente, who seems preoccupied, gazing at the blue-eyed entrée. Desmond steadies the knife over his soft white belly as the sous-chefs line up at the grill. To my surprise, Desmond hesitates, gazing down like a lion surveying the Savannah. Anything rustling? I can’t breathe, heart pounding in my chest. Desmond lowers the knife—but a sharp gasp erupts across the guests. Vincente runs forward but he’s too late, we all see it, we all see the tears gushing down the boy’s cheeks.

—

I’m not sure whether to wipe my cheeks or stay dead. Vincente insisted this morning, every morning, Absolutely still. A stone. Eyes to the sky, searching for heaven. If you stare long enough, you’ll see it. But after 23 years, I’m finally here, and I can’t see anything except a vast dark galaxy above me. The guests are all standing, screaming at the Chef, it’s chaos. If I wipe my tears, will it calm them down? Or make it worse?

I’m so stupid. I know the plan. I know any minute the doors’ll swish open and they’ll storm in, guns blazing. I should’a cleared my mind, detached, but I dreamt of my daughter Delilah, I saw her laughing, running free in a verdant meadow. Terror twists my bowels—my tears could cost us everything. Thankfully Vincente is prepared.

"A moment, if you please, he growls, quelling the cacophony. You misunderstand. Please direct your attention to our supplementary seasonings. Near the grill, a lavish assortment of spices and chopped vegetables are neatly arranged. I suspect none of you have personally chopped onion before, but you are aware of its effect on the eye, yes?"

The diners murmur. A smattering of laughter.

The moisture produced is very common, and not in any way indicative of fear, or emotion. Every meal I serve is meticulously humane. Please, return to your seats.

Thank goodness I didn’t move. The patrons chuckle, and settle down… save one, a middle-aged woman in a golden suit, the one who caught me quivering. I can see her in my periphery, still standing, staring at me—but she’s the one shaking now.

Bring us another, she demands. Vincente tries to speak, but she’ll brook no argument, I can see it, he’s scared. This is completely unacceptable. I’m nauseous.

My intestines scream, grinding like rusted gears. I can’t see Vincente, but this is checkmate, he can’t refuse a patron’s request for a substitute, and that means Delilah is dead, ground to bits in an industrial chipper, that means all my kin are slaughtered (a bad batch). I slow down, and remind myself the usual rules don’t apply—my loved ones must be free by now, armed with malefic rifles, seizing control of the ship this very moment.

Stay on the table, the rebel commander whispered to me, that night behind the barn. Remain still, and keep them unsuspecting. If I arouse suspicion now, we lose everything. I can’t allow it. I need to see my daughter again. Before the Chef can open his mouth—

Please, I whisper gently, gazing up, never making eye contact. The gold woman shudders as she hears my voice. It’s an extraordinary risk, to remind them all that I can talk, that I can think, but there’s no other way. Send me to heaven. Please.

Profound discomfort fills the room. The gold woman stares daggers at Vincente, who looks livid. My sincerest apologies, Vincente sighs. Waiters.

I’m horrified. But before I’m taken away, the gold woman asks, What’ll happen to him?

He’ll be discarded.

To my great surprise the gold woman scoffs, disgusted. Earth gets hotter every day due to wasteful attitudes like that. She stares at me, uneasy.

Then sits.

The grinding in my intestines is replaced by a cold, icy tingle in my blood. Vincente quickly nods, the waiters step away and I hear knives, scraping one another. The bearded demon, Desmond, takes his place above my belly once more as a sous-chef injects a sedative into my spine. The meal might start before we arrive, the rebel warned. Be brave.

Despite a lifetime knowing my existence would end on this table, I’m suddenly terrified. I feel the knife slide across my abdomen. I feel myself yawn open, hear the sizzle of my muscles on the grill. I stare at the stars and await salvation.

I was bred to be credulous. For centuries they’ve plucked and adjusted us, mixing this gene with that, until a perfect type emerged—docile, hopeful and savory. Raised in filthy barns, deep inthe ruins of ashen cities, we’re taught about our ultimate destination, HEAVEN, a peaceful afterlife of infinite bliss.

I never believed.

I’ve always been different.

In fact until the rebel commander took me aside two weeks ago, I dreaded this day, knowing my cynicism would show itself, knowing it would get my entire bloodline slaughtered. But for the first time in my life, I feel hope, like a warm bath. Any moment Delilah will blast through the door and we’ll escape, far from Earth and its sub-status.

"Magnificent," moans the gold woman, masticating. I feel dizzy. Just a little longer.

I smell my thigh on the grill. From listening I know my privates and left leg are gone. After the right leg, my organs are next, then my arms, each piece kept fresh until the last possible moment by tiny fly-sized cauterizing drones that buzz from vein to vein singeing arteries shut to reduce the bleeding. The Mega Rich feel strongly about morality, which I guess is why we sleep in bunk beds and learn about heaven, and why we’re only murdered when we disobey. They believe eating Fresh helps reduce overpopulation, but that makes no sense considering I was born for this purpose. If I don’t want to die, how can killing me be moral?

Where are they? As I stare up at the stars, a rogue thought constricts my throat. What if the rebel commander was a lie? No. No. No.

It made sense, at the time. I’d heard whisper of a resistance, of a plot to free us all from the butchery, brave dissidents, meeting underground. Could it all be Vincente’s doing? It’s vital to the mission that you remain on the table, the commander whispered. He never said why.

Depression soaks my mind. You could argue I’ve had a ‘gentle, peaceful upbringing’, since I never got shredded into tiny pink strips for disobedience, but all my life I’ve felt depression. Even after Delilah, especially after Delilah, knowing she’ll meet the same end. Now I suffocate on doubt, fury rippling in my skin. Is it all a ruse? Is Delilah back on Earth, sobbing rather than storming the ship? If I turned my head, would I see Vincente smirking? I can’t take it. The golden woman sways, drunk, blathering to co-workers. She never sees my fingers snatch her knife.

I grip it fiercely, stashed under my wrist. I could stab her throat, a life for a life if I’m lucky. But I hesitate. If there is a rebellion…

I was bred to be credulous.

My fingers squeeze the platinum handle, worth more than everyone I’ve ever known. Could I even kill someone? Now I worry, perhaps they’ve programmed some mechanism in my genes as a failsafe. Maybe my wrist will spasm mid-slash. A deep, enduring despair consumes me. If it was all a lie, then any rash maneuver will cause my daughter to be tortured. Besides, I’m not a murderer. I lift my wrist to return the knife.

The golden woman sees.

I struggle not to tremble, not to move a millimeter, but the knife is still clenched in my fist. She gawks at it, swaying, intoxicated. For a long moment, neither of us move.

I surrender hope. She’ll summon the Chef, she’ll scorch my entire lineage.

With a glance to make sure no one’s looking, the gold woman slips the knife from my grip. Then leans in close, and whispers, faintly, "Do you hate me?"

If Delilah blasts through the door this very second, this very instant, I’ll scream YES.

She whispers again, nervous, "If you hate me… if you’re angry… I’ll