HyphenPunk Fall 2021: HyphenPunk Magazine, #1

By David McGillveray, Vera Brook, Jennifer Lee Rossman and 13 more

The premiere issue of HyphenPunk brings you fifteen stories from ten different styles of -punk science fiction.

 

Cyberpunk stories from: David McGillveray, Álex Souza, and Ken McGrath

A steampunk story from Gustavo Bondoni

A steampunk graphic short from the team of Elyse Russel, Dany Rivera, & Miranda Leyson

Biopunk from Vera Brook and K. Garcia Ley 

Solarpunk from Jennifer Lee Rossman

Mythpunk from Celia Neri and Mike Douton

Capepunk from Joachim Heijndermans

Dieselpunk from J.G. Grimer  

Arcanopunk from Xan van Rooyen  

Splatterpunk from Eric Raglin

Atompunk from Christopher Mark Rose

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: HyphenPunk
• Release date: Oct 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201507404

Book preview

A black rectangle with a black background Description automatically generated with low confidence

Memories, In the Corners of Our Minds

by David McGillveray

"I remember. I was fourteen years old. I went into town on my own on the bus, all excited and nervous and a bit pleased with myself. I was going to meet my mates in the Ridings Centre. I had ten pounds in change that I had saved up. I could feel the weight of the coins rattling in my pocket.

"I was wary in the crowds walking through the shopping centre. It seemed like some huge labyrinth, the press of people doing their Saturday afternoon shopping, the bustle, the noise. But I was on a mission. I’ve always had a tune going round in my head, especially at that age, always loved music. EGS Records was my church.

And there it was. I turned the coins over in my pocket. Inside they were playing Just Like Heaven" by The Cure, new out. The shop was long and narrow, the counter away at the other end. It wasn’t too busy, mostly young blokes digging through the racks of LPs in ones and twos.

I turned left and then right into one of the narrow aisles, looking for the Alternative section. I had very singular tastes back then, the more out there the better. The racks were alphabetised so I started at the start and began working my way through, fingers flicking. And stopped, transfixed. It had a bright green cover with the name of the band and the LP in big red letters. There was a drawing of a girl’s face in profile at the bottom with her black hair combed forward, eyes closed and mouth open in ecstasy or pain, I couldn’t tell which. The band was Big Black. The album was called Songs About Fucking. That title, so in your face! It thrilled me with its promise of illicit pleasures. How dangerous I thought it was! So did the shop. There was a sticker with EGS Records" over the first four letters of the offending word, but you could still see what it said underneath.

"I’d never heard of Big Black, but I had to have it. I abandoned all my other plans and took it to the counter. The girl that worked there was older, with spiked up black hair and thick eye make-up. She smirked at me as she took my money (£3.99!) and put the record in a red plastic carrier bag. I blushed and looked away, mumbled some thanks and got out of there, clutching my prize.

"I was meeting my friends outside WH Smith, the newsagents. You remember them, doctor? No? Closed down years ago. I couldn’t wait to show them what I had, the rebellion inside that plastic bag.

And here they came, Phil and Mike and Rob. I remembered the clothes they were wearing, the way they combed their hair, every zit on their faces, their smiles as they saw me. I remembered every word they said. Every word, like it was yesterday, like it was an hour ago.

Doctor Nowak removed the monitoring pads from his temples and disconnected him from the memory machine. Your temperature is up, he said, resting his palm on the old man’s forehead, dabbing at the tears wet on his cheeks. Too much excitement, I think.

Don’t fuss, doctor. I feel great.

Was it better than last time, Joseph? Nowak asked. Clearer?

It was incredible. I know what’s happening to me, doctor. I can’t remember my own name some mornings, for Christ’s sake. I come and go, in and out like a flickering lamp, that’s me. But this, it was like stepping through a doorway across sixty years. Jesus, Songs Abut Fucking! Hilarious! I haven’t thought of that in forever.

You’ve been wearing the recorder, then?

Religiously, Joseph nodded, keen to please. I did what you told me, looked at old photos, watched old movies from when I was young, listened to the old music. I’ve been looking through Nicky’s old stuff again. I know it’s morbid, but I never had the will to clean it out. I’ve even been back to a few of our old haunts, places we used to go. Lucky to get back in one piece, the state of me.

Good. The recorder’s building up a library, you see. The more information you feed it from your life, the more it has to build on. The software then augments your real memories, pieces them together with the material in the library. Nowak made some notes on his tablet and set it aside, began shutting down the machine.

Wait, can we go again? Joseph asked.

Nowak smiled. Not now. Keep building up that library. The more we have, the more of you we can preserve.

Doctor Nowak helped the old man swing his legs off the bed and into his walking frame. I’ll see you again in a month, Joseph.

I won’t forget. Well, I might...

---

I’ve been at college a couple of weeks already, met some good people, been to some good parties. I’ve put product in my hair, got my Friday Night Top on. I make my way across campus to the bar, pull open the big green door and stand at the top of the steps scanning the crowd for my mates. Making an entrance.

They’re sitting at one of the big half-moon tables, monopolising it like an interview panel. I squeeze in at one end, with a good view of the rest of the place. It’s packed. Fool’s Gold is on the jukebox, like it always is. No objections here.

Don’t sit down so quick, shouts Chris (he’s always shouting). It’s your round.

Right.

I wait to be served at the bar, nod to a few people. I don’t know everyone yet, but I’m recognising faces. I make it back with four pints held between my hands in plastic glasses, beer running over my knuckles.

Cheers, big ears.

I sit on the back of one of the curved benches, feet on the seat. Two tables away there’s a girl doing the same. I haven’t seen her before. She’s wearing painted Doc Martens and black leggings under a short silver skirt, some sort of baggy blue vest thing going on. Good arms. I’ve got a thing for good arms, slim but toned. Wisps of blond hair fall over her face as she reaches forward for her drink. She laughs at some joke, but only a little. She’s a bit aloof, I think, cool. She’s amazing.

Me and my mates get to drinking, get to laughing. I really like this crowd. But I can’t keep my eyes off that girl.

I’ve had enough now to feel brave. But she’s gone. Where is she? I search the crowd, not frantic, not desperate or anything, but I need to find her. Then I see her, she’s at the bar, waving a fiver at the barman. There’s some space opened up beside her. I take a swallow of my beer.

Where you going? asks Neil.

I stand up and walk towards her.

An alarm sounded in the clinic. Heartbeat’s erratic, shouted Nowak. I don’t like this. We need to bring him out of it. Come on!

Joseph moaned, his head slamming from side to side as if in a nightmare. His mouth was open, drawing in air like a fish tossed on the quayside. Sweat shone on his face. Nowak pressed a syringe to his skin. It hissed and Joseph’s eyes opened wide.

It’s all right, Joseph. You’re back now, at the clinic. It’s Doctor Nowak, remember?

I don’t know what this is, he cried, voice high and cracked. I don’t want to be here. I was in the bar—

That was just a memory, Joseph. It was too much, we had to bring you out.

What am I doing here? This is wrong, all wrong.

Joseph—

No! Take me back. Send me back! he screamed.

Medics clustered around the body in the bed. Warnings bleeped. He’s not readjusting, brain function’s down much worse than we modelled. I’m going to have to put him under til we can stabilise this.

Darkness.

---

Gold’s just around the corner, sings Ian Brown

Hi, I’m Joe.

She looks at me and smiles. I’m Nicky.

---

David McGillveray was born in Edinburgh, Scotland but now lives and works in London. After a long period of silence, lockdown gave him the opportunity to start writing again and this is one of the results. His fiction has also appeared in Kaleidotrope, Space & Time, Wyldblood and others.

Shape Description automatically generated with low confidence

Mira

by Vera Brook

The first time it happened Mira and John were in a restaurant—a posh vegan bar with an underwater theme. The ceiling and most walls were sections of a large aquarium, lit up from within. Shadows of gentle water currents and darting fish danced around the room. The effect was dizzying.

On her way back from the bathroom, Mira passed a glass wall filled with colorful, swiftly moving fish so flat they briefly disappeared when turning around, as if lacking one dimension.

Mira caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the glass.

Except the reflection suddenly smiled a brilliant smile.

Mira froze. Could it be...?

But the woman was already coming towards her—a tight black dress, heels clicking.

I can’t believe it! The woman was giddy with excitement. It’s you. The real Mira! Doubt cut through her glee. Isn’t it?

Mira stared at the woman’s face—at her own face—for loss of words. Every feature was recreated in the last detail and with uncanny accuracy. Her eyes, her nose, her lips.

I...

Mira? John had come looking for her. The direction he’d come from made him face the other woman first. The woman smiled again, her cheeks darkening under John’s direct gaze. He stopped, and his eyes lingered on the stranger’s face.

Mira felt sick to her stomach. I’m here.

John blinked and turned to her. Are you alright?

I want to get out of here.

They left right away, John holding Mira’s hand in the hovercab all the way back to the luxury loft they now owned.

But it was only the beginning.

---

Three months earlier, on the morning of Mira’s appointment, John waited for her in the kitchen. He’d made coffee.

She poured herself a cup and drank it at the counter. Her hands shook.

Hey. John slipped his strong arms around her. Worry creased his broad, plain face. You don’t have to do it. You know that, right?

She couldn’t help but smile. "I know. I want this." He was happy to support her if she only let him. But she wouldn’t.

Okay. I won’t try to stop you. He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, his calloused fingertips at once rough and gentle against her skin.

Every day, he went to the gym to do nothing but climb the same wall over and over again. She never fully understood it, and he couldn’t explain it. But something about it resonated with her. It was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

You have the most beautiful smile in the world, he said. And if they can’t see it, they’re blind.

She kissed him, then gently pushed him away. I have to go.

He meant well, but he got it wrong. It wasn’t rejection she feared.

It was getting the job.

---

The agency building was all glass and polished steel. Her reflection leapt from pillar to pillar as she crossed the lobby, peered back at her from the elevator walls, rushed at her when she approached the agent’s door.

Tall and slim, the agent was clad in a smart-fabric tunic that shimmered like water with their every movement. Subtle eye makeup and an immaculately trimmed beard.

She expected an audition of some sort, but the agent only led her to a chair and handed her a tablet. We want to offer you a contract. I’ve sent it to your lawyer. Any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.

The contract was short. Her lawyer app gave a green light almost instantly, but she forced herself to read through the few pages anyway.

The agency asked for exclusive worldwide rights for ten years. No surprises there. But the royalty rate made her pulse quicken. You’re offering me forty percent on every sale? It seemed insanely high. This type of designer plastic surgery cost a fortune.

The agent smiled. It’s a new territory, and we want to set a good example. Our agency has been a champion of the arts for over two hundred years.

But I’m not an artist, she blurted out, an old disappointment slicing through her.

She sketched every day, painted with oils whenever she could afford a new canvas. But she was never satisfied with the results.

No—you’re not an artist, the agent agreed. "You’re the art."

That hurt more than it should.

She dropped her gaze, quickly signed the contract, and handed the tablet back.

Excellent, the agent said. Follow me.

The photo session and tissue scans took less than an hour. And then it was done.

The agent accompanied Mira down to the lobby. We’ve deposited your advance already, and the royalties are paid monthly. Their fingers brushed hers, the handshake so brief she barely felt it. Congratulations, Mira. You’re rich. Enjoy.

The shimmering tunic departed through the sea of mirrors.

Mira stepped out of the building and logged into her banking app.

She stared at the number, her heart pounding as disbelief turned to joy. The agent was right. She’d never have to worry about money again. She was free to make art all day.

But a sting of fear followed. What if the agent was right, and she wasn’t an artist?

---

All her paintings failed. She was making no progress, even though she barely left her new art studio, often working through the night. Not even John saw her finished pieces.

All the while, her fame grew.

Once the first wave of surgeries had proven safe and effective, Mira’s look became a global sensation and an ultimate fashion statement, with dozens