HyphenPunk Winter 2022: HyphenPunk Magazine

By Jasen Bacon, Artemis, Cameron Craig and 9 more

This issue of HyphenPunk brings you 11 new stories from 7 different types of -punk.

 

Raypunk by Artemis, Cameron Craig, J.D. Harlock, and Nicholas Stillman
Steampunk by Nicki Vardon
Nanopunk by DW Milton
Biopunk by Rob Francis
Mythpunk by Gary Every and Xan van Rooyen
Cyberpunk by Markus Wessel
HopePunk by Zoe Kaplan

Punk Poetry with Complacient

• Language: English
• Publisher: HyphenPunk
• Release date: Dec 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201890476

Book preview

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HyphenPunk

Volume 6

December 2022

Fiction by:

Nicki Vardon  DW Milton  Nicholas Stillman  Cameron Craig

Artemis  J.D. Harlock  Rob Francis  Gary Every

Xan van Rooyen  Markus Wessel  Zoe Kaplan

––––––––

Edited by Jasen Bacon

To all the -punks out there

HyphenPunk is Copyright © 2022 Jasen Bacon

All stories are copyright 2022 by their respective authors

Cover art: Professor Impossible Takes Flight by Paula Hammond

Internal art is all copyright free images from freesvg.org

All rights reserved.

ISSN: 2769-7452

Table of Contents

HyphenPunk

Editor’s Note

By Jasen Bacon

Steampunk

Sleight of Hand

by Nicki Vardon

NanoPunk

Nacho Hitman

by DW Milton

Raypunk

Mad Vision

by Nicholas Stillman

The Merchant

By Cameron Craig

Intergalactic DMV

by Artemis

The Sheer Significance of Intergalactic Parking Enforcement Minutiae

By J.D. Harlock

BioPunk

Asunder

By Rob Francis

MythPunk

Thunderstorm At The House Of Jose Juan

by Gary Every

All that Glitters is not G(u)ilt

Xan van Rooyen

CyberPunk

Some Skills Are Always in Demand

by Markus Wessel

HopePunk

Verity

By Zoe Kaplan

Punk Poetry

A Chat with Complacent

Interview by Jasen Bacon

Reviews

Grammar Free in the U.K. – The Lockdown Letters

by D&D Philpott

Review by Jasen Bacon

Webcomic Reviews

By Absintherian

Thank you for reading.

Editor’s Note

By Jasen Bacon

This quarter has been strange. Twitter died, but then it didn’t. I still made a bunch of new social media accounts though. Let’s see how many I still keep up with by next issue. Also, this is the first issue in which cyberpunk is not the largest show in HyphenPunk. For the first time, raypunk makes up almost 40% of the stories in the issue. I don’t know what aligned for everyone to send me raypunk at the same time, but I kind of like the change of pace.

This issue starts with a couple of heist tales. Nicki Vardon brings us a steampunk heist in a British museum to steal the heights of technology through a little Sleight of Hand. Next, we have the debut sale for DW Milton who gives us a nanopunk twist on the classic info heist. Instead of hacking computers to steal files, Nacho Hitman takes a fantastic voyage to hack his target’s brain.

After the heists we have the raypunk pieces that dominate the middle of the issue. We start off with Nicholas Stillman’s Mad Vision to cure junkies through brain wave manipulation. The Submission Grinder cameo makes this one a riot. Next, Cameron Craig takes us on a raypunk western tale of redemption for The Merchant.

The last two raypunk pieces are both centered around the bureaucracy of driving through the galaxy. First, Artemis brings us a Hallmark movie parody of a small town girl finding love in line for the Intergalactic DMV. Then J.D. Harlock describes The Sheer Significance of Intergalactic Parking Enforcement Minutiae. Both of these pieces feel inspired by Monty Python and Douglas Adams, and I say that as the highest of praise.

We jump from the absurd to the weird with Rob Francis’s piece Asunder. This story bridges the gap of biopunk and philosophy by creating a situation where we can finally learn what lies beyond death.

Two mythpunk pieces come next, both of which are from authors who have published in HyphenPunk before. Gary Every returns with another blend of American Indigenous folklore with modern urban legend in Thunderstorm at the House of Jose Juan. Then Xan van Rooyen brings us a modern take on Medusa through the eerily atmospheric All that Glitters is Not G(u)ilt.

The penultimate piece of fiction this issue is our cyberpunk offering. Markus Wessel imagines a future in which cybertechnology has made training for labor obsolete as you can always slot a skillchip in a new worker when the old ones leave. Although you need to be wary of where the chips come from because Some Skills Are Always in Demand.

We end, as always, on hopepunk. This story is a complete 180 from the previous piece, but a story of falling in love and the lengths you will go through to save it is where I feel we need to end with. Cozy up with Verity by Zoe Kaplan.

This month’s cover is titled Professor Impossible Takes Flight and is a digital composite by Paula Hammond. Paula’s other work can be found at https://www.instagram.com/insta_writer_paula/.

We hope you enjoy all the work from these amazing writers, and if you do find them online let them know.

Steampunk

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Sleight of Hand

by Nicki Vardon

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A bell on the airdeck chimed for ‘land ahoy’ while I perched on our settee berth. I held my oil cannister poised as not to spill on the luxury sheets, lubricating Mordecai’s joints until his hinged segments slicked past one another, more quietly than a whisper.

Mordecai is my left hand; that’s a simple fact, not a metaphor. An unholy matrimony of brass for bones, wires for sinews, and mineral oil as his lifeblood.

You and me, Mordecai, I whispered against his digits as I released the leather harness from my little arm. First heist alone, last one together.

I let Mordecai complete his test round. A scurry up along the wall, around the pendant lamp, timed tightly against my pocket watch. Every tiniest creak scraped my nerves, and I checked the oil level in the cannister.

Larceny was no longer supposed to be my calling, yet the palm I never possessed tingled as Mordecai traipsed across the ceiling with the grace of a metal tarantula. Even caught myself humming a tune; on better days I’d scold Horace for the same. Already I’ve had to hide theatre pamphlets for Whitechapel! slipped underneath our cabin door, because my husband loved shows in bad taste. What was it? Not ten years since the first Ripper murder?

Instead, I had waved a circular from the Society for the Promotion of Science in his face, bouncing like a giddy school girl. Even though I’d known weeks ahead that the exhibition would be on the Revolution of Communication without Wires with a lecture by Guglielmo Marconi to boot, and my objective had long been predetermined.

It’s what I do. I lie and I steal. I fix clocks and mend watches. I build limbs out of cogs, hinges, and filaments. At first for myself, then for war veterans, factory mishaps, or others birthmarked like me. I created Mordecai. And then I taught him to steal, too.

It’s a living. Or at least it used to be.

I secured Mordecai’s leather straps, covered him with my glove, and stepped out onto deck. The considerable wind rustled the petticoats around my legs as the dirigible swept through the sky. My hair at its unfamiliar length stung my eyes and tucking the black strands behind my ears proved futile. I’d never have myself talked into a fringe again.

At front-stern I joined my husband under the ballonet’s shade, where he shied away from other passengers playing shuffleboard among seagull chatter. Sunlight filtered through the grey haze of clouds hovering above the chalk-fronted landmass the airship approached.

Look. Horace gestured, resting his other hand on my little arm, where Scarlett ended and Mordecai began. The white cliffs of Dover.

Well, they are white, I sighed, snuggling against him. As advertised.

Don’t start. You’ll like London, if it’s still how I remember.

There’s rain ahead.

Horace smiled as he gazed out over the sea, steeling himself against the railing. "Exactly how I remember."

Thankful for the shimmer of joy on his face, I took his hand to silence my worry. His waistcoat flapped in the wind, unbuttoned, so it wouldn’t press against the swelling. He stood on top of his shoes instead of in them and his casual lean against the balustrade would betray to no one else that bending over helped him to breathe. My English Rose was wilting, and I had precious little time to save him.

Horace withdrew and rubbed his fingers. He frowned, puzzled. You weren’t off powdering your nose.

Verdammt. My glove dripped with lubricant.

Is this why we’re visiting the museum? he asked. You plan to have your hand drag Michelangelo’s David through the front entrance?

Don’t be silly, I answered. That’s a cast, it’s not worth stealing.

Horace tugged his shirt and shook his head.

I could take his figleaf, cause some uproar. I nudged him, but he turned away.

You’re better than this.

It’s only tonight, Horace. It’s the last time, I swear.

It’s always the last time. He sighed, then coughed, found his handkerchief, and dabbed his clammy skin. There’s always one more after.

If anything could stop me from putting on another heist, it would be my husband’s disappointment. I wished I didn’t have to fight this electric thrill, wired deeply through my being. ‘Cut it out’ may work on a bruised apple, not so much on a person and their proclivities. It would require an invasive surgery that had not yet been invented.

Scarlett, you heard the physician. I’m a lost cause. Speaking of surgery... Don’t let me be the one to have you slip back.

If you think I’m going to let —

It’s not worth it. You’re young enough, you’ll remarry. He looked at me, in sorrowful earnest. I don’t want you to risk your life for mine.

Still dripping oil, I reached out for Horace. I wanted to say that he wasn’t made of clockwork; I couldn’t slice him open and fix him myself. Moreover, I wanted to shake him and scream: don’t you want to live? Instead, I smeared the droplets on deck with my shoe. I should change gloves.

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With the ease of a swan landing on water, the dirigible anchored onto