Ipseities: A Collection of Unclassifiable Compositions

By Tod Foley, DeAnna Knippling and Shawn Koch

Eleven visionary indie writers deconstruct The Human ConditionTM in this mind-bending collection of short stories in a variety of genres. Each of these unique voices explores a divergent world as unnerving as it is unknown, unsettling, and unresolved. These stories are guaranteed to take up residence in your head. 

<

• Language: English
• Publisher: As If Books
• Release date: Jul 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989120208

DeAnna Knippling

DeAnna Knippling is a freelance writer, editor, and book designer living in Colorado.  She started out as a farm girl in the middle of South Dakota, went to school in Vermillion, SD, then gravitated through Iowa to Colorado, where she lives with her husband and daughter. She now writes science fiction, fantasy, horror, crime, and mystery for adults under her own name; adventurous and weird fiction for middle-grade (8-12 year old) kids under the pseudonym De Kenyon; and various thriller and suspense fiction for her ghostwriting clients under various and non-disclosable names. Her latest book, Alice’s Adventures in Underland:  The Queen of Stilled Hearts, combines two of her favorite topics–zombies and Lewis Carroll. Her short fiction has appeared in Black Static, Penumbra, Crossed Genres, Three-Lobed Burning Eye, and more. Her website and blog are at www.WonderlandPress.com.  You can also find her on Facebook and Twitter.

Book preview

Ipseities

Stories by

Beau Blackcrow

Irene Bloodrose

Tod Davies

Jens Durke

DeAnna Knippling

S.L. Koch

Adrian McCauley

M.W. Orth

Miriam Robern

Rick Rosenkranz

&

Leigham Shardlow

Edited by

TOD FOLEY

Published by

As If Books

IPSEITIES

Copyright © 2023 by Tod Foley

Published by As If Books

ISBN: 978-1-7335769-9-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Next — copyright © 2020 by M.W. Orth

Dopesick — copyright © 2020 by Beau BlackCrow

BB Gun — copyright © 2020 by Rick Rosenkranz

Evil Twin — copyright © 2020 by DeAnna Knippling

NQ-4 Hole Generator™ Operations Manual

— copyright © 2023 by Leigham Shardlow

Watch Her Disappear — copyright © 2020 by Jens Durke

What Vaughn Saw — copyright © 2020 by Irene Bloodrose

Wave Runna — copyright © 2023 by Adrian McCauley

The Axe on the Wall — copyright © 2020 by Miriam Robern

I Felt You Through The Pain Vine — copyright © 2020 by S.L. Koch

Denny Donahue's Ghost — copyright © 2020 by Tod Davies

PATREON SUPPORTERS:

James Bass · Carl · Black Cat · Mamading Ceesay · Chromatic Chameleon

Jeremy Clark · Anton Dominic · Jeremy Friesen · Paul R Gauthier

Brian Isikoff · Goblins Henchman · Shawn Koch · Brian Koester

Legends Of Tabletop · Ralph Lovegrove · David McKinney

Catherine Nichols · Kell Shaw · Devoni Umair · Todd Zircher

Cover Art by MidJourney

Used under Creative Commons License

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Introduction

The stories in this collection differ broadly in genre, tone, and theme; they're told in different voices, drawing attention to different difficult aspects of The Human Condition™ in ways that only speculative literature can, and they're guaranteed to leave you thinking.

From the staggering posthuman beauty of M.W. Orth's Next to Tod Davies' folksy recounting of Denny Donahue's Ghost, each of these authors has created an Ipseity for your consideration: a singular unusual arrangement of ideas and inferences, often crossing genre lines or eschewing the well-trodden traditions of western narrative structure, leaving you to ponder what it all means for yourself.

What these tales have in common is a certain ambiguity of events and messages, as each author explores the crossing of some literal or metaphorical boundary, entering into a liminal space where all is not as it seems, but more importantly: everything is always in the process of becoming something else. These uncomfortable tales remind us, in no uncertain terms, that everything is liminal, nothing is ever resolved, and nobody can tell you what it means.

I hope you find them as deliciously unsettling as I do.

— Tod Foley

Las Vegas, Nevada, 2023

Next

Posthuman Science Fiction by M.W. Orth

* * *

I FIRST ENCOUNTERED NEXT as a cold submission for the UbiquiCity series, back when that project was just starting out. I was quickly taken by the author's deft intimation of an entire socio-economic and techno-historical milieu, all within a very short — almost minimalist — piece of writing; somehow evoking a whole hauntological world in the span of a mere two thousand words.

Its author, Matt Orth, turned out to be an exceptionally nice fellow. He was very understanding when I had to reject the story for worldbuilding reasons — because the transhuman tech level of the Next world goes far beyond the Fractopian Future of UbiquiCity.

But that rejection letter was written with a sense of sadness, since I hate saying no to authors whose work I like, and Matt's story has lived rent-free in my head ever since.

I knew that eventually there'd come a day when I could share it with you, and here we are.

- TF

Next

by M.W. Orth

Next.

The pharmatect’s flat voice matches her gray eyes.

I step up to the window. A dead fly lay on its back near the registration monitor.

Check in, she says.

My wrist passes under the flickering line of red. She checks the number and gives a small grunt.

Prescription. 

Pulling up the QPR on my microtab, I place it below the scanner. My hands glow green in the fluorescent light of the DrugHub.

Since I'm unable to sweat there's a delay between the beep of the initial scan and the boop of approval, long enough for my remaining skin cells to recall the hot stab of panic and the standing-to-attention of a million tiny hairs. 

The pharmatect groans and slides off her stool like greasy eggs from a tipped pan. As she waits by the dispersal unit for my order to process, I scan the wrinkles of her white coat for patterns.

There's a rough poke in my back.

Whatchu waitin’ on, Greenie? Eyes? Toes? 

Behind me, a bent-backed man breathes from his mouth.

I face him.

Not eyes, he says, starting a leer from my head to my feet. Not legs either. Toes maybe? No? Let me have a look then, pretty? Heard the toes’re the worst.

My silence lingers.

Fine. How about a blink then with them goldens? Heard they flip up from the bottom. Would love to see that. I’m still on the ration-pills. Just stomach fillers. If only I didn’t have a brain. Heh-heh.

Sweat on his lips, the man pants as he speaks, shifting from foot to foot, shoes stained with red clay. My compassion synapses trigger and I blink slowly.

Whoo-wee. I knew it! Up from the bottom! Creepy as hell, that. Wait 'til mum hears I was in line with a greenie and got to see the goldens flap!

Order up. 

The pharmatect’s voice cuts through the celebration like a guillotine.

I hold the crisply folded bag in front of me like a priest with an offering and exit the DrugHub. Behind me, the Downgrade’s ragged voice trails off: Mum needs a set, and me too, if you don’t mind. If we had food, we’d eat it of course… 

* * *

On the street, other Downgrades huddle for warmth, scrawny ones piled on the obese ones like sticks in a dam, as the watered-down whiteness of early morning light leaks through the haze. Other Fortifieds walk and fly by me in spurts of agility and awkwardness.

Steven waits at the corner, poised and proper. From a block away, his lips move and the whispered words catch in my ears.

You did it. You really did it.

I whisper back. Jealous? He smiles and dips his hhead. 

Another Downgrade sits in the middle of the sidewalk, legs crossed, a torn cardboard box full of pills on her lap, withered fingers caressing the multi-colored vitamins.

Steven approaches as she makes her pitch.

"Greenie, I know you’re good, she tells me. But I’ve some original Mantis in here somewhere..." 

Steven interjects. "Original Mantis? In that box? I highly doubt it. Besides, what makes you think we can’t already see sixteen colors?" 

Mantis shrimps're extinct, says the woman. Ev’ryone knows that. Twenty years. Be surprised if you could see all them colors. You ain’t first generation. 

True, I say. I’m second. But my parents made sure my transformations contained the Mantis series. 

Steven smirks at my gentle rejection. The unfortunate woman licks her lips, looking for another angle.

Steven touches my elbow and whistles for a rickshaw.

Save your breath, I tell her. I don’t need anything else today. I laugh and shake the little bag. The sound rattles like the future.

* * *

My teeth are clattering as the mechanical porter lurches over broken concrete. One eye scans the crowd of true humans for threats; the other reads the flickering digital signs.

CHEAPEST NANOTINS ANYWHERE

BULK UPGRADES ONLY AT SAM’S DRUG CLUB 

MAKE THE JUMP! LAYAWAY PLANS AVAILABLE!

A shrimp. Hard to believe, isn’t it? asks Steven.

What’s that?

All this madness started from the mantis shrimp.

I nod.

One minute our minds are exploding that a critter we dip in cocktail sauce has a prettier rainbow than we do, and the next we’re injecting its DNA into our veins, says Steven. He looks sideways, into my eyes. And now… now… my sister-in-law is about to swim with the robots. 

They’re not robots, I say. You know that.

"What are they, then?" he asks, arching one flawless eyebrow.

They’re more than robots, I say, upset at the defensiveness in my tone.

His tiny sigh is not disapproval, but it’s not belief either. 

The rickshaw bounces in a pothole.

A Downgrade on the corner holds eye contact with me. My threat matrix reports there’s a 54% chance he approaches our vehicle. I shake my head slightly. He takes one more step towards us. 63%. I take Steven’s hand and hold it out the open window. The would-be attacker sees the curved claws. 21%.

Our rickshaw passes.

* * *

There is salt on the wind blowing into my sister’s kitchen. Flanked by a large sink for washing and a stove relegated to heating water, a magnificent fern sits where the useless refrigerator once stood. 

Steven removed the fridge six months after she died.

The plant shines like a lamp in the drab brownness of the room, and I miss her cooking. Steven wheels in Tina’s recovery pod and begins to fiddle with the settings.

I think I’ve programmed out all the failures, he jokes.

Neither of us smiles.

One last look at it all, before you take it? he asks, changing topics.

And one last breath too, I guess. Up this high, the trees scrape and tap the edges of the house, and the bay kitchen window frames the dirty blue ocean. My nostrils flare as I inhale the sandy pine breeze.

I know I’ll still be able to smell, I say. But not like this.

You don’t have to do it, Taryn. You can stay here with me. I know it might be awkward at first, but I like having you around.

Doubts flare. Myriad predictions flash probability assessments. Eventual environmental degradation: Absolute. Survival: Possible. Thriving: Doubtful. 

But it’s not the statistics that make up my mind. 

No. He’s out there — under there. I can’t just not… try. But thanks for the offer, I say, placing my webbed fingers on the downy fur of his forearm. 

There may be more than loneliness in his disappointment, but I have no time to consider it. He pushes the DrugHub bag across the windowsill toward me. Okay, then. It’s time. 

The bag crinkles as it opens, a sound like the cracking of a secret door.

The box is velvet, gold-lined. Who knew that dingy hub could honor such a purchase with class? But I deserve it, I tell myself. I bartered and saved for five years, spending most of that time in stasis. I slummed with Downgrades. I fought with Fortifieds. With shreds of hope I'd kept my faith alive for this moment, and now it had come.

The lid of the box flips up like a treasure chest. Thick as my smallest finger, the pill is purplish and charcoal in color. Steven brings me a cup of water.

Gawd, it’s huge, he says.

It’d have taken me two more years to afford injection, I say, picking up the pill.

It feels like warm glass on my tongue.

Water swirls in puffed cheeks and my chin lifts up. Gulp. The pill catches… then slides down my throat as if yanked against its will.

Steven presses the button and the clear door of the pod lifts, vertical and reverent.

He helps me balance as I enter.

Flat on my back, the release begins. A tingle spreads from my gut to my neck as the nanobots speed to their goal. The first wave arrives at my organic motherboard and hits its designated switch.

The world closes in darkness.

* * *

Nine months later, my webbed toes report that the ocean water is seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

The surf gathers and circles my ankles before slipping back to its home.

Steven had not come with me. His part over, he'd wished me well. A whispered you’re always welcome here left his thin lips, and I left him, in the gray chill of dawn. 

* * *

My path is straight as the waves fold over me.

Walking on the bottom soon becomes inefficient, and I begin to kick with methodical strokes, swimming into the deep. The seal on my lower eyelids is perfect: swarms of plankton and blooming algae appear before me as if I was watching them on my microtab.

And then I remember I’m not breathing. 

Do the fish hear me laughing?

* * *

Twenty miles later I stop.

My sensors predict the location holds a high rate of possible success.

I broadcast my message in quick bursts of three. Fish scatter.

Tucker, it’s Taryn. Tucker, it’s Taryn. Tucker, it’s Taryn.

* * *

I hover in the translucent, pearly dark.

Every three minutes the signal repeats.

* * *

Tucker, it’s Taryn. Tucker, it’s Taryn. Tucker, it’s Taryn.

Please, I beg the silence. Please.

Shutting down voluntary systems, my mind repeats the word patience like an incantation.

Two days later, senses fire awake at the familiar voice.

Taryn. 

* * *

Tucker hovers effortlessly twenty yards away. His eyes are the only thing I recognize.

Alloy the color of mercury covers most of his body. Ears and nose gone, his head seems grotesquely round. Tentacles radiate from his shoulder blades like ribbons in an angry wind.

I do not know if I am jealous.

The ocean throbs around our silent reunion.

Aren’t you lonely? I ask. 

Tucker is not alone, beams a voice into my consciousness.

The massive A.I. floats behind me.

Made of the same alloy that covers Tucker, its rounded hull is shaped like a child’s top, the curves drawn from a god’s pen. Sleek and silver, shimmering and beautiful, portals open on the robot like a hundred eyes blinking awake. From each hole shoots a football-sized replica of the larger A.I., tiny triangular appendages flapping at their sides. These smaller bots hover in the water, suspended like an army of metallic penguins. With no breath to be taken, I simply worship the gorgeous sight. 

Not alone, repeats the A.I.

* * *

I face Tucker again.

These aren’t your family. I am, I say. Tina is gone.

I know, says Tucker.

The A.I. pods begin to spin in the water. One by one they rocket up to the surface, flashes of yellow trailing behind them.

Where are they going? I ask.

Everywhere, answers Tucker.

"Do they know what a home is?"

They don’t need to.

But what about you? Do you need a home? I ask.

The next frontier is home, says the A.I.

Tucker is motionless and quiet.

Do you want to go with them? I ask.

Yes. Do you?

Pause.

Exploration isn’t a home. Progress isn’t family, I say.

We could change that, says Tucker.

A fat second of possibilities lingers… then pops as our minds communicate simultaneously:

Come with me?

Stay with me?

* * *

The standoff ends when I snatch one of the departing A.I.s in my hand. It is wonderfully made. Intricate. And delicate. A technological snowflake that I crush in my hand. As the crumpled pieces release into the current, gravity tugs them into blackness.

I address the large A.I. in my mind. Did that make you sad?

I can build another, it responds. 

So it was not your child? Your family? There is no sense of loss for you? Can I build another brother, if you take mine?

It does not answer.

My brother’s silver eyes meet my golden ones as the last of the glimmering constructs propels itself up into the atmosphere to search the edges of the universe.

The vastness of the ocean shrinks to the three of us.

Brother?

Tucker smiles.

Sister. 

Home.

Dopesick

Pharmico-Magical Realism by Beau Blackcrow

* * *

LET IT NOT BE SAID that Facebook is one-hundred percent useless. It's just ninety-nine point ninety-nine. But amidst the ads, flamewars, and political idiocy, within the blustering confusion of a million so-called writers groups (mostly consisting of meaningless link swaps and predatory publishing scams), you can sometimes find a gem. There's no reason or rhyme to it: just one day, there it is in front of you, like a reward for being good.

That's how I first encountered DOPESICK, and entered the sardonic world of Beau Blackcrow.

Beau is a GenX rebel with a list of