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I have been alone before I knew what that word meant.

I drank down poems about solitude as a teenager
and savored its treacly sadness, sweet like gula melaka
and as smooth as P. Ramlee's voice wooing
a sarong-clad school teacher in black-and-white cinema.

It was a melancholy romance that cushioned the bleak blow
of surviving only on one's own limited energy reserves.

I grew adept.

I became a generator not just for myself
but for others, stray travelers and passers-by.
Generating light, warmth, and comfort.


It was such a delicious word,
filled with sad nobility,
the taste of dark cherries
swirled with dark liquors
Hades would not turn down.


Solitude became less palatable one day;
it carried the bleakness of unwatered gravel.
It was an isolation that had lost the romance of salvation.

Perhaps someone would change this fundamental condition—
perhaps love or desire would transform this dynamic.
This too was a romance, too luscious for words,
like the libido-teasing scent of fingers burned by guitar strings
or lychees, drizzled with the syrup of cane sugar.

That particular flavour died the night someone taught me
that to be possessed was to witness my body
transformed into a party I was not invited to attend.

It danced its own dance while my soul remained
in a dark hall encircled by bleak mirrors;
my face staring back at me as mathematics, theoretical physics,
eternal debates circling around a priori versus a posteriori
distracted me from staring at the dance that happened,
separate from my conscious self,
constructing a textbook endorsement for
epiphenomenalism out of my profound dismay.

This too was foreordained within the confines
of black-and-white cinema.

The generator switched off.

Switching it back on required
a shift in frequency and voltage.
I learned to embrace the bleakness
and to reverse my polarities.

My generator is now fueled by dark matter
exuding enough pull to repel and to swallow universes.

Nin Harris is an author, poet, and tenured postcolonial Gothic scholar who exists in a perpetual state of unheimlich. Nin writes Gothic fiction, cyberpunk, nerdcore post-apocalyptic fiction, planetary romance, and various other forms of hyphenated weird fiction. Nin’s publishing credits include Clarkesworld, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons, and The Dark.
Current Issue
26 Sep 2022

Would a Teixcalaanli aristocrat look up at the sky, think of Lsel Station, and wonder—with Auden—"what doubtful act allows/ Our freedom in this English house/ our picnics in the sun"?
I propose that The Expanse and its ilk present us with a similar sentiment, in reverse—a warning that for all the promise of futurism and technological advancement, plenty of new, and perhaps much worse futures are right before us. In the course of outrunning la vieux monde, we may find that we are awaited not simply by new worlds to win, but also many more which may yet be lost.
where oil slurped up out of the dirt, they drink the coffee
Science fiction is a genre that continues to struggle with its own colonialist history, of which many of its portrayals of extractivism are a part. Science fiction is also a genre that has a history of being socially progressive and conscious – these are both truths.
Bring my stones, my bones, back to me
If we are to accept that the extractive unconscious is latent, is everywhere, part of everything, but unseen and unspoken, and killing us in our waking lives, then science fiction constitutes its dreams.
they are quoting Darwish at the picket & i am finally breathing again
Waste is profoundly shaping and changing our society and our way of living. Our daily mundane world always treats waste as a hidden structure, together with its whole ecosystem, and places it beyond our sight, to maintain the glories of contemporary life. But unfortunately, some are advantaged by this, while others suffer.
Like this woman, I am carrying the world on my back.
So we’re talking about a violence that supplants the histories of people and things, scrubbing them clean so that they can fuel the oppressive and unequal status quo it sustains.
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By: Cat T.
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