Cora Buhlert's Blog, page 11

Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre: “Artistic License”

Blogging will be light in the coming weeks, because I am doing the July Short Story Challenge again, though I’m only committing to a week for now.

However, in the meantime enjoy this Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre photo story. The name “Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre” was coined by Kevin Beckett at the Whetstone Discord server.

I got a lot of new toys recently, because Smyths Toys (chain that took over the European Toys R Us stores after the demise of their parent company) got a bunch of new Masters of the Universe Origins and Masterverse figures in stock all at once.

One of the new figures I got is the Masterverse version of Faker, an evil robot doppelganger of He-Man created by Skeletor.  Now Faker is a weird character, since he is essentially a repaint of He-Man (cheap to produce for Mattel, since he doesn’t require any new parts) in a bright blue and orange colour scheme. There are a couple of He-Man repaints in different colour schemes such as Prince Keldor a.k.a. He-Skeletor, Anti-Eternia He-Man, Wun-Dar and Horde Slime Zombie He-Man, who hasn’t yet been produced in either the Masterverse or Origins line to my infinite surprise. Here is a photo of the Masters of the Universe Classics version.

Faker is ready to conquer Eternia for Skeletor. I like this version of the character a lot, not just because of the striking colour scheme, but because his sword and axe aren’t just repaints of He-Man’s weapons, but look worn and cobbled together, adding to the overall appearance of Faker as a cut price He-Man knock-off.

Faker is a popular character (and has featured in one of my Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre photo stories before). Fans like him because of his striking colour scheme and Mattel likes him because he is cheap to make. However, he’s also a rather absurd character, because he is about the least convincing robot doppelganger ever. And indeed, whenever he has appeared in the cartoons or comics (most recently in Masters of the Universe Revelation), he’s usually depicted as an actual robot doppelganger of He-Man with steel underneath. There actually is a Masterverse version of the Terminator type Faker that appeared in Revelation, though I don’t have that figure.

As for why Faker looks the way he does, the real world reason is that some Mattel designer forty years ago thought a blue and orange He-Man looked cool. As for the in universe reason, well, here is one potential answer:

Artistic License

Snake Mountain, Tri-Klops’ workshop:

“Behold my new robot doppelganger of He-Man, Lord Skeletor. Those accursed Masters of the Universe will never know what hit them, when we plant this Faker in their midst. And now arise, my Faker.”

“I Am He-Man.”

“Is he not glorious, Lord Skeletor? I daresay he is my best invention yet.”

“Why is he blue?”

“Excuse me, boss?”

“He-Man is not a Gar. So why is he blue?”

“He-Man also doesn’t have red hair. Or creepy blank eyes. Or a sword riveted together from randoms bits of trash.”

“I… I don’t understand, boss.”

“You do know the difference between humans and Gar, don’t you, Tri-Klops?”

“Yes, Gar have a two point five lower body temperature on average.”

“Gar are blue. Humans are beige and brown. So why is your robot He-Man blue?”

“Listen, boss, I’m blind and only perceive heat signatures through my visor. I don’t know what colour anything is supposed to be.”

“Sigh. Let me guess. You got Trap Jaw to help you paint your fake robot He-Man.”

“Yup, Lyn. Tri-Klops built him and I painted him. Isn’t he awesome?”

“And why, pray tell, did you paint the He-Man robot double blue, Trap Jaw?”

“Uhm, artistic license, boss. I like bright colours and He-Man is just beige and tan and boring. And besides, Gar are prettier than humans. That’s the reasons humans don’t like us, because they’re jealous of our pretty blue skin.”

“Oh please, not another rant about how the poor Gar are so mistreated. As if this world treats anybody well, when they’re not privileged and rich.”

“You blistering boobs! That robot is supposed to look like He-Man and He-Man is not blue. And now fix him or I swear I’ll beat the two of you black and blue. Is that understood?”

“Yes, boss.”

“Idiots. I am surrounded by idiots, Lyn.”

“Now you know how I feel.”

“Hmm, on the other hand, if we deploy our fake He-Man and reveal that he is in truth a Gar, then maybe the people will turn against He-Man like they turned against me…”

“Because obviously the fact that you’re half Gar is the only reason that no one likes you.”

“What were saying, Lyn?”

“Uhm, nothing, Lord Skeletor. Just thinking out loud.”

***

“Well, I like him, Tri-Klops.”

“Shut up, Trap Jaw. This is all your fault.”

***

As established in the 2002 cartoon, Tri-Klops’ vision is enhanced by his visor, giving him infrared and X-ray vision, but without it, he is blind. This can be seen in one episode, where all sorts of electrical systems, including Tri-Klops’ visor, malfunction and Tri-Klops is shown bumping into walls and stalgamites in Snake Mountain.

The 2002 cartoon also established Tri-Klops as Skeletor’s chief engineer and inventor, a role that Trap Jaw fills in the Filmation cartoon and the recent Netflix CGI cartoon. At any rate, Tri-Klops and Trap Jaw are Skeletor’s tech guys, so it makes sense that they would build Faker.

Gar is the name of the blue-skinned inhabitants of Eternia. Skeletor/Keldor is the most famous Gar (half Gar, actually, since he is the son of King Miro and a Gar woman), but there are several others such as Sy-Klone and Kronis a.k.a. Trap Jaw.

There have been blue-skinned people on Eternia since the Filmation cartoon and the early comics. However, the name “Gar” does not show up until much later. I always assumed that it originated in the 2002 cartoon, which not only introduced Keldor as Skeletor’s original identity, but also gave names to many of the Eternian races. But while there is an episode set on a largely deserted island called Anwat Gar, whose magical artefacts are protected by Sy-Klone, it is never said anywhere in the 2002 show that Gar is name of the blue-skinned Eternians or indeed anything other than the name of the island.

The name “Gar” for the blue-skinned people of Eternia may have originated with the characters bios and mini-comics of the Masters of the Universe Classics toyline, where a lot of character names and terms come from. But as far as I can tell, the blue-skinned people of Eternia are first referred to as Gar in the 2012 DC Comics run, which also established that the reason the Gar are disliked is because some of them rebelled against King Grayskull and murdered him. Oddly enough, this completely contradicts the 2002 cartoon, where King Grayskull is killed in battle with Hordak.

In the comics, the Gar are banished to Anwat Gar and the island is declared off limits to the rest of Eternia, until Adam and Adora travel there and Adam, who is king at this point, decides that he is not okay with banishing an entire race of people to a small island because of something that may or may not happened centuries ago and lifts the decree. Which is totally what Adam would do. Meanwhile, Adora, who has only just shaken off her Horde conditioning and hasn’t quite gotten the hang of this heroism thing yet, is frequently frustrated that Adam constantly interrupts their quest to rescue random Eternians.

Of course, King Miro was also shipwrecked on Anwat Gar many years before and even had a relationship and a baby – the future Prince Keldor a.k.a. Skeletor – with a local woman, but he never used his position to actually help the Gar. In fact, King Miro, who is portrayed as a kindly elderly man in his two appearances in the Filmation cartoon, looks more and more like an arsehole, once it was established that Keldor/Skeletor is Randor’s half-brother. Keldor clearly didn’t get all the bad traits from his mother.

I had another Masterverse figure arrive on the same day as Faker, namely Grizzlor, henchman and prison warden of the Evil Horde, who is basically a giant four-fingered alien gorilla. So of course, I put them opposite each other:

Bonus: Faker meets Grizzlor

“I’m He-Man.”

“No, you’re not. You’re just some bargain basement knock-off.”

“I have a sword. And an axe.”

“So what? I have an axe, too, and mine is bigger.”

***

And that’s it for today, folks. I hope you enjoyed this Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Photo Story, because there will be more.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, I just bought some toys, took photos of them and wrote little scenes to go with those photos. All characters are copyright and trademark their respective owners.

Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month for June 2023

It’s that time of the month again, time for “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”.

So what is “Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month”? It’s a round-up of speculative fiction by indie and small press authors newly published this month, though some May books I missed the last time around snuck in as well. The books are arranged in alphabetical order by author. So far, most links only go to Amazon.com, though I may add other retailers for future editions.

Once again, we have new releases covering the whole broad spectrum of speculative fiction. This month, we have epic fantasy, urban fantasy, cozy fantasy, fantasy romance, paranormal mystery, space opera, military science fiction, Cyberpunk, Steampunk, weird western, horror, dwarves, elf assassins, alien invasions, airships, banished sorceresses, murderous ghosts, living stars, haunted funhouses, celibate monster hunters, crime-busting witches, crime-busting ghosts and much more.

Don’t forget that Indie Speculative Fiction of the Month is also crossposted to the Speculative Fiction Showcase, a group blog run by Jessica Rydill and myself, which features new release spotlights, guest posts, interviews and link round-ups regarding all things speculative fiction several times per week.

As always, I know the authors at least vaguely, but I haven’t read all of the books, so Caveat emptor.

And now on to the books without further ado:

A Funhouse of Nightmares: Twisted Tales for Trouble Grown-ups by Robert L. Appleton:

Step into a twisted realm where the lines between reality and the bizarre blur, and prepare to be captivated by “A Funhouse of Nightmares: Twisted Tales For Troubled Grown-ups.”

In this macabre anthology, five tales transport you to surreal landscapes of the mind, where the strange, supernatural, and occult intertwine with a touch of humor and absurdity.

In “Static,” a troubled young man discovers that the static on his radio holds prescient advice, leading him on a dark and unpredictable path. “Toad” introduces us to a lovely young woman possessed by the spirit of an Inca priest, as she plots to destroy her unfaithful spouse in a spine-chilling quest for vengeance.

Witness the fall and redemption of Beelzebub in “The Book of Fallen Angels,” a haunting exploration of divine rebellion and the pursuit of redemption. Prepare for a poignant tale in “Tears For Topsy,” where a circus clown makes a fateful exchange, sacrificing his soul for happiness in a world consumed by darkness.

Finally, embark on a mind-altering journey with “Mould,” as a hallucinogenic truffle transports a young woman into a mesmerizing realm inhabited by anthropomorphized woodland creatures.

These stories weave together elements of the supernatural, occult, and the absurd, delivering a captivating experience that oscillates between unease and laughter. Described as modern Kafkaesque, “A Funhouse of Nightmares” promises to entertain, thrill, and leave you questioning the boundaries of reality. Get ready for a rollercoaster ride through the bizarre and delightful, where nothing is quite as it seems, nor should it be…

The Measure of Sorrow by J. Ashley-Smith:

Shirley Jackson Award-winning author J. Ashley-Smith’ s first collection, The Measure of Sorrow, draws together ten new and previously acclaimed stories of dark speculative fiction. In these pages a black reef holds the secret to an interminable coastal limbo; a father struggles to relate to his estranged children in a post-bushfire wilderness; an artist records her last days in conversation with her unborn child; a brother and sister are abandoned to the manifestations of their uncle’ s insanity; a suburban neighbourhood succumbs to an indescribable malaise; teenage ravers fall in with an eldritch crowd; a sensitive New Age guy commits a terminal act of passive-aggression; a plane crash opens the door to the Garden of Eden; the new boy in the village falls victim to a fatal ruse; and a husband’s unexpressed grief is embodied in the shadows of a crumbling country barn. Intelligent and emotionally complex, the stories in The Measure of Sorrow elude easy classification, lifting the veil on the wonder and horror of a world just out of true.

Wanted by Lindsay Buroker:

Half-dwarven craftswoman, enchanter, and badass hammer-wielder Matti Puletasi has achieved most of her goals and even found the love of the handsome elf assassin Sarrlevi.

Unfortunately, there’s still a bounty on her head. That makes it hard to return to a normal life, start a family, or even visit the Coffee Dragon without being shot at.

Worse, one of Sarrlevi’s old elven lovers shows up, hinting of changes back home that mean his exile could be lifted and his nobility returned—if only he’ll dance to her tune.

Matti knows Sarrlevi loves her but worries he’ll be tempted. A chance to return home and be a hero instead of an outcast. Who wouldn’t long for that?

Seer of Epera by Christine Cazaly:

What will you give to save the future?

At the Court of Skies, Theda Eglion, Chief Librarian, is famed for three things.
Her acerbic tongue, her profound knowledge, and her beautiful, charismatic daughter, Briana.

Despite the status granted to members of the Blessed, Theda has a closely guarded secret.

She’s the Seer of Epera, blessed by her God with the gift of Farsight. Her role – to protect the nation’s magic and the Blessed population who wield it.

But when her daughter falls under the beguiling spell of an ambitious young courtier, Theda will need every ounce of her faith to ensure the future of magic.

Even if it costs her everything she holds most dear.

Rat and Demon by Chris Fox:

The War Is Over. We Lost

The war in Hasra is over. A monstrous puppet sits upon the throne. Valys has fallen, and the Praetor rots in prison while his daughter remains a public hostage. Calmora is under Khonsu’s rule, the dragonflight’s plaything. Worse, my aunt and the other demon princes have fostered a new religion, which is sweeping the west.

Our only choice was to flee to Olivantia, where we huddle with the dreadlords who are under assault by the Tree of Blood and its armies of consumed. Things have never looked so grim. I have no more tombs. No more miracles from friendly gods.

Yet I do not stand alone. I’ve gathered my friends. We will prevail. We must. The cycle depends upon it.

Stargun Messenger by Darby Harn:

Astra Idari must keep the last living star alive in a galaxy lost to shadows.

Astra Idari is a mess. She drinks too much, remembers too little, and barely pays for it all as a Stargun Messenger. She hunts down thieves who steal filamentium, the fuel that allows for faster-than-light travel. When Idari meets Gen Emera, she meets the girl of her dreams and the last living star. There’s just one problem.

Filamentium is only found in the blood of living stars.

Once Idari knows the truth, she faces a stark choice. Either she turns Emera over to her employers who control the filamentium monopoly or risks everything to help Emera fulfill her quest to save her people. The choice should be simple, but it’s not losing her life that terrifies Idari. It’s finally living. Idari knows she’s human despite outwardly appearing to be an android with a failing memory stitched together by her ship’s irascible AI, CR-UX. She’s been just getting by for longer than she remembers, assured in her humanity, but not enough to risk it. If she does now, she may lose her life.

If she doesn’t, she may never live.

Poltergeist Rider by Lily Harper Hart:

Spring has hit Casper Creek. That means construction on Hannah Hickok’s future home with her fiancé Cooper Wyatt is finally commencing, and work on the new restaurant in town is getting close to completion. Everything should be perfect in her world.

There’s just one little problem.

A ghost from the past has decided to haunt the present…and he’s not a normal ghost. He’s riding a ghost horse. And, oh yeah, he’s firing a gun. Ghost bullets shouldn’t be a threat, and yet these bullets are killing people.

A scarf left at one of the scenes leads Hannah to look at the area’s bootlegger past. It seems there’s a cabin not far from Casper Creek, and their ghost might have originated from there. Where has he been for the past century, though? And, more importantly, why is he back?

As the bodies begin to stack up, Hannah begins to suspect they’ve got more than a murderous ghost on her hands. The human element of the equation is impossible to uncover, however.

Hannah is determined to find answers. She just needs a place to start looking.

It’s a fight to the finish, and ghost bullets aren’t the only thing Hannah and her friends need to worry about. There’s a new evil afoot…and this time, the gang might not be up to the challenge.

A Dance of Illusion by Savanah James:

The Drakari call him their savior.

For 3,000 years, elven aristocrats have subjugated their hybrid counterparts, suppressing their magick and forcing them to live in the slums of great imperial cities.

Twins Vivani and Valyn Tyrea refuse to perpetuate this gory cycle. To destroy a tyrannical body, they know they must sever the head.

While born of noble, elven blood, something else surges through their veins, allowing them to hide in plain sight. Valyn is determined to conquer the empire through cunning and manipulation. Vivani longs to save her people. Together, they must combine their strengths if they hold any hope of survival.

When a rebel group of drakkin hybrids surge from the slums of the capital, Vivani and Valyn are introduced to Kraven Crausya who maintains connections to the rebel undergrounds. Through him, they learn of the Serpent of Civel… a legend to the hybrids and their proclaimed savior. He was thought to be long dead, but the whispers of the oppressed tell a different tale.

When facing the Drakari’s so-called savior, will Vivani find the peace she hopes for? Or will a shattered illusion cause her to choose between the life she has built and following her conscience?

Murder at the Pontchartrain by Kathleen Kaska:

I’m Sydney Lockhart. I solve murders, most of which I’m the primary suspect. My fiancée, Ralph Dixon, and I came to New Orleans to get married. Instead, he’s been arrested for a double murder, and I’m hunting for the real killer. Assisting me are a twelve-year-old voodoo queen, a ghost detective, and my crazy cousin Ruth. Wish me luck. I’ll need it.

 

 

The Alien Anomaly by Amanda M. Lee:

Charlie Rhodes has seen it all. Witches. Ghosts. The Chupacabra. Now she’s about to head down a different road … and it’s one she’s not prepared for.

When three bodies show up drained of fluids in Roswell, New Mexico, the Legacy Foundation is sent out to investigate. The assumption, because of where it happened, is aliens. Charlie isn’t so sure, though.

As the team leader, Chris is gung-ho to chase visitors from another planet. That means camping out at Bottomless Lakes Park, something nobody but Chris is keen to do. Between alien enthusiasts whooping it up at the far end of the park and Charlie’s belief that she’s being haunted by a ghost, the group has their hands full.

Roswell is a weird place. It’s also the sort of place where secrets can be hidden for a very long time. The caves beneath Bottomless Lakes run deep. There just might be a different sort of monster hiding there, however.

Charlie knows she has a big fight in front of her. This trip will help her get ready … as long as she survives the darkness that’s threatening to take over the area.

Charlie’s past ghosts are about to collide with her future dreams. The collision promises to be out of this world.

Unspeakable Horror 3: Dark Rainbow Rising, edited by Vince A. Liaguno:

The third terrifying volume in the award-winning anthology series of original queer horror.

Like the final girl in a slasher film, the LGBTQIA community knows first-hand what it’s like to fight for its survival. Beaten and bloodied after an extended chase scene through modern-day politics and the courts, we think we’ve triumphed and conquered our oppressors. We breathe a little easier knowing our rainbow is ascending in the distance. But—like the indestructible slasher villain—our enemies rise up again and again, as if on a looping third-act jump scare. It’s a seemingly never-ending return to battle as the pendulum of progress swings back.

In this third volume of the award-winning anthology series, the darkest minds from both the LGBT+ and horror literary communities join forces to bring readers an all-new collection of terrifying tales from that line on the horizon where the dark rainbow rises.

Stories by Chad Helder, Hailey Piper, Mathew L. Reyes, A.P. Thayer, J. Daniel Stone, Yah Yah Scholfield, Oliver Nash, Holly Lyn Walrath, Paul Tremblay, Carmilla Voiez, James Cato, Lucy A. Snyder, Maxwell I. Gold, Zachary Rosenberg, Matthew Blain-Hartung, Maryse Meijer, Vincent Kovar, CG Inglis, Craig Laurance Gidney, Dan Coxon, Kaitlin Tremblay, Michael Thomas Ford, Craig Brownlie, Amanda M. Blake, Sara Tantlinger, and Eric LaRocca. Edited by Vince A. Liaguno.

The Engineer’s Apprentice by J.R. Martin:

This alternate-history steampunk western contains action, adventure, magic, and a mystery that will change the Western Native Lands forever.

In 1860s Dallas, Texas, Annie Sakdavong has just graduated top of her class from college as a steam engineer but must still do an apprenticeship with a master steam engineer. No man is willing to take her, and she fears she may have to become a Sword Maiden for a merchant of her father’s choosing when she runs into an African man who wants an apprentice as much as she needs a master, Issa Obasi.

One of the premier steam engineers of the age, Issa wants to leave a legacy in the form of apprentices and the publication of groundbreaking research combining rune magic with steam power. These two sources of power are at odds with each other, but Issa sees there could be a better way to unite them.

Their world changes when a Native American from the Western Native Lands who can walk through walls comes to steal that research and destroy Issa’s laboratory during a fight. After seeking help from the police, Issa and Annie are left to fend for themselves when the police don’t want to help the black man and the Asian woman with the investigation.

Now, their adventure takes them to the Western Native Lands while death tolls rise and villains close in on Issa and Annie’s life and work. As they get closer to the truth, will they overcome dangerous enemies and their own self-doubts to win the day?

Sisters, Rivals, Monster Hunters by Caylen McQueen:

Imagine 30 strapping young men, all stuck in a convent and all hopelessly pure. It sounds like Kathleen Laveau’s ultimate fantasy… until she crashes her airship in the middle of their sacred abode.

Kathleen and her sister, Cinnabar, find themselves stranded in a cursed land, where the dead rise from their graves, dragons swoop down from the sky, and metal monsters wreak havoc. But that’s not even the worst of it. The sisters soon realize the convent’s chastity is being strictly enforced by “The Grand Mother,” a fussy guardian who won’t let Kathleen anywhere near the innocent boys.

Undeterred, Kathleen takes matters into her own hands, flirting with as many boys as she can, much to the chagrin of “The Grand Mother.” In the middle of the flirtation fest, the sisters meet the rebellious pyromaniac, Wendall. In him, they might have gotten more than they bargained for.

Will Kathleen and Cinnabar survive the cursed land and the fires of the convent? Will they succumb to the boys’ innocent charms, or will “The Grand Mother” put an end to their shenanigans? Find out in this madcap steampunk adventure!

Forsaken Commander by G.L. Ogden:

Humanity’s only hope is the commander they spurned.

Once, Master Commander Carter Rose was the Union’s secret weapon. An augmented, bio-engineered officer in command of the most powerful warship ever devised by human minds, Rose brought them victory against the post-human Aternien Empire.

Then they cast him aside.

A century later, living alone on a distant forest moon, feared and forsaken by the people he fought to save, Rose has grown bitter and resentful, while his superhuman body refuses to age.

When Major Carina Larsen seeks his help to save Earth from becoming the last frontier of humanity, Rose is reluctant to return to duty. Until Larsen reveals the real peril: the Aterniens are on the rise again, hell-bent on revenge.

And after a century of peace, the Union has forgotten how to fight.

But even if Rose can recover his marooned warship and assemble a crew, his allegiance is now a valuable commodity — and a secret weapon is only ever as dangerous as those who wield it…

At the Winding Path’s End by Stew Shearer and Carolyn Smith:

Curl up with fantasy poet Stew Shearer in this fully illustrated collection of cozy poems.

Poet Stew Shearer has written cozy fantasy poetry for years. Now, Wyngraf is proud to release a chapbook featuring the best of Stew’s work, including some brand-new, never-before-seen poems! Even better, every single poem features an original illustration by artist Carolyn Smith.

These twenty-four little celebrations of hearth and backpack are packed with beauty, humor, and heart.

Exile of the Wolf by Jessie Sprague:

She’s a one man, one country type of sorceress.

Too bad she’s been banished from both.

Exiled from for aiding enemy nations, Ziza hasn’t seen Vaash—the man she loves and the heir to the Bouraster throne—in a year. She’s accepted that the only way home is to let the wasteland take her. But fate has other plans and instead of death, she finds the emerging nation of Slyke. Here Ziza encounters Iroguese, an evil spirit who seeks a way to reenter their world in the flesh. He offers her a deal that is too good to be true: Give him the body of Slyke’s ruler to inhabit and he will broker an alliance that can get Ziza home.

Meanwhile, Vaash is tasked with eradicating Slyke, the upstart nation on Bouraster’s borders. To prevent an uprising, he needs to show his people he’s strong enough to rule, but when he discovers Ziza sheltering with his enemies, he’s torn between his duty and his desire for the sorceress.

They must both choose whether to follow the paths laid out for them or to forge a new way… and either way they face the deadly consequences of their broken vows.

Absolution by Glynn Stewart:

A homeworld is not always home.
Family is not always blood.
Enemies are not always who you expect.

Captain Evridiki “EB” Bardacki wants nothing more than to quietly ride off into the sunset with his fiancé, his crew, and his adopted daughter, Trace. But when a strange message brings them all to Trace’s home star system of Icem, it turns out the fragments of the crime syndicate that kidnapped her have one last trick to play.

An old enemy has betrayed their former compatriots and set into motion events that may allow EB to save hundreds of children like his daughter from the traffickers who stole them away. When that enemy shows up dead, the crew of Evasion must decide whether to chase the leads left by a dead monster or protect themselves.

Those leads will take EB and Trace into the dens of crime lords, the homes of judges, the hearts of secret bases—and the presence of the foster parent Trace ran away from at the beginning of everything…

Ruins of the Prime Ones by James David Victor:

If you’re gonna save the galaxy, you might as well get paid for doing it.

Captain Melias Volery is a Sentinel, a warrior who travels the galaxy protecting those that can’t protect themselves. If they can afford to pay for his services. Whether you call them mercenaries or heroes, there’s no denying their effectiveness, but even these experienced warriors may be in over their head in the ruins of the Prime Ones. Can Melias and his crew unravel the secrets of this long lost race and save the galaxy from an ancient alien power trying to destroy the galaxy?

Ruins of the Prime Ones is the first book in the Sentinels series. If you like sci-fi adventures, space battles with complex alien invaders, and unexpected twists in humanities exploration of the stars, this could be your new favorite series.

Indie Crime Fiction of the Month for June 2023

Welcome to the latest edition of “Indie Crime Fiction of the Month”.

So what is “Indie Crime Fiction of the Month”? It’s a round-up of crime fiction by indie authors newly published this month, though some May books I missed the last time around snuck in as well. The books are arranged in alphabetical order by author. So far, most links only go to Amazon.com, though I may add other retailers for future editions.

Our new releases cover the broad spectrum of crime fiction. We have hardboiled mysteries, cozy mysteries, small town mysteries, historical mysteries, Jazz Age mysteries, 1950s mysteries, 1960s mysteries, paranormal mysteries, crime thrillers, adventure thrillers, action thrillers, police officers, FBI agents, amateur sleuths, assassins, serial killers, drug cartels, revenge, murderous ghosts, alien invasions, deadly book clubs, crime-busting witches, crime-busting socialites, crime-busting seamstresses, crime-busting dogs,  murder and mayhem in London, Seattle, Mobile, New Orleans, the British Seaside, New Zealand, the Caribbean and much more.

Don’t forget that Indie Crime Fiction of the Month is also crossposted to the Indie Crime Scene, a group blog which features new release spotlights, guest posts, interviews and link round-ups regarding all things crime fiction several times per week.

As always, I know the authors at least vaguely, but I haven’t read all of the books, so Caveat emptor.

And now on to the books without further ado:

The Rat Catcher by Rebecca Barrett:

November in Mobile, Alabama is a long way from the horrors of the sweltering jungles of Vietnam.

In the fall of 1968, what passes for winter is coming to the heart of the deep South. And so are death, deception, draft evasion, drugs, and heartache.

Hugo August has come home, or at least the nearest thing to a home he has ever known. As a newly minted detective in the police department, he must investigate the murder of a wealthy socialite.

The appearance of Bebe Prescott, the forbidden fruit of Hugo’s late-night longings and lifelong obsession, complicates the case. A product of the Catholic orphanage, Hugo is well aware of the social stratification of Mobile society. Bebe is as far removed from his reality as the moon, and yet, they have always had chemistry.

Spurred by a desire for justice and to prove his worth, Hugo must wade through the complications of the wealthy family’s business, social connections, dark secrets, and often tragic history while guarding his own demons.

Murder on the Downs by Beth Byers:

Jack and Ham are facing the loss of a dear friend. A final visit, a final goodbye is ahead with the limited time left.

Soon, however, things are amiss. What seems innocent becomes sinister as the days pass, and they start to wonder just what they’ve fallen into.

 

 

 

Fortune Teller by Jana DeLeon:

With Carter off on a military mission, there’s a new sheriff in town, and Fortune, Ida Belle, and Gertie have been tasked with not interfering. But then a young girl is pulled out of the swamp, unconscious and with no memory of how she got there. And when no one comes to claim her, Fortune knows they have to help.

For decades, a mysterious group known only as the Brethren has been rumored to live deep in the swamp, their contact with civilization rare. Some suggest the girl might have been one of them, but if so, why was she alone in the swamp in the middle of the night? Swamp Team 3 is on the case, but long-buried secrets like to stay that way, and finding the Brethren proves to be a difficult and dangerous task. The deeper they dig, the more pieces of the puzzle they expose, but can they put the pieces together in time to save the girl?

Vengeance Strike by Brian Drake:

Betrayal puts Sam Raven on a course for revenge.

It was the kind of job Raven couldn’t turn down. A daughter dead from a drug overdose, a father who wants the man responsible dead—and not only the street pushers. Kendrick Ward wants the cartel boss responsible removed from existence. Raven agrees, and he and his team of mercenaries fly into Colombia. Mission: kill narco boss Martin Sevilla and crush his empire.

But when the job is done, Ward pulls a double cross, and makes a big mistake. Only Raven survives the ambush.

Now Raven is ready to give back twice as much as received. He crashes through the heart of the betrayal to find a conspiracy of epic proportions, American Big Business and other cartel bosses working hand-in-hand. Raven’s fighting a war without end, and the circle of violence spares no one. It’s go time.

Murder by Multiples by Rachel Ford:

Quiet Fenwood-On-Sea is the perfect place for an heiress with secrets to hide. Or a killer.

Beautiful heiress Meredith Thatch married for love, and scandalized her community in the process. But her neighbors don’t know the half of it. These days, she and spouse Alec keep a low profile, managing her hospital for recovering soldiers and invalids – and growing the finest roses in the county.

But when the most despised landowner in the area winds up dead shortly after feuding with the hospital, the finger of suspicion turns on the couple. And that’s only the first murder.

With a Scotland Yard inspector asking uncomfortable questions and a killer on the loose, they need to solve the crime sooner rather than later. But how can they find a killer when there are suspects everywhere they turn, and motives all over the place?

The Silent Threat by Elle Gray:

After the bodies of six young girls were discovered in a shipping container that had been dumped in a scrapyard, FBI agent Blake Wilder is summoned onto the horrific scene. A closer inspection of the bodies reveals strange markings, similar to Spenser’s victims in Sweetwater Falls.

Could it be the markings used by the ruthless Yokai Syndicate, led by the shadowy figure called Enenra? The Syndicate responsible for the disappearance and death of hundreds of young girls over the years.

Fearing blood in the streets and containers full of young girls’ bodies popping up everywhere, Blake reluctantly turns to her old ally, Fish, for help.

As betrayal and deceit surrounds her at every turn, Blake isn’t sure who she can trust. With the help of her former colleague Spenser Song, and Caitlin Tanaka will Blake be able to put an end to The Syndicate’s sadistic crimes for good?

It seems to be reunion time in the Seattle field office for Blake Wilder. Unfortunately, with death knocking on their doorstep the reunion may be short lived…

Poltergeist Rider by Lily Harper Hart:

Spring has hit Casper Creek. That means construction on Hannah Hickok’s future home with her fiancé Cooper Wyatt is finally commencing, and work on the new restaurant in town is getting close to completion. Everything should be perfect in her world.

There’s just one little problem.

A ghost from the past has decided to haunt the present…and he’s not a normal ghost. He’s riding a ghost horse. And, oh yeah, he’s firing a gun. Ghost bullets shouldn’t be a threat, and yet these bullets are killing people.

A scarf left at one of the scenes leads Hannah to look at the area’s bootlegger past. It seems there’s a cabin not far from Casper Creek, and their ghost might have originated from there. Where has he been for the past century, though? And, more importantly, why is he back?

As the bodies begin to stack up, Hannah begins to suspect they’ve got more than a murderous ghost on her hands. The human element of the equation is impossible to uncover, however.

Hannah is determined to find answers. She just needs a place to start looking.

Book Clubs Can Be Fatal by Jinty James:

Can senior sleuth Martha and her cute puppy Teddy discover who killed a member of their book club – before it’s too late?

When Pru, the new assistant librarian at the Gold Leaf Valley library, knocks on Martha’s door asking to be her roommate, she has no idea she’ll soon become a member of the Senior Sleuthing Club, despite being a lot younger than Martha.

In charge of setting up a new book club at the library, Pru is worried not enough people will join. So Martha agrees to come, although she dislikes the book they have to read.

When Pru and Martha stumble across the dead body of one of the book club members, Martha decides they must investigate, along with her fluffy white puppy, Teddy!

They snoop around the Gold-Rush era small town, and visit their friends Annie, Lauren, and Zoe at the Norwegian Forest Cat Café to discuss the case.

But when they respond to an anonymous note, the three of them find themselves in peril! Can they discover the killer and escape in time, before it’s too late?

Murder at the Pontchartrain by Kathleen Kaska:

I’m Sydney Lockhart. I solve murders, most of which I’m the primary suspect. My fiancée, Ralph Dixon, and I came to New Orleans to get married. Instead, he’s been arrested for a double murder, and I’m hunting for the real killer. Assisting me are a twelve-year-old voodoo queen, a ghost detective, and my crazy cousin Ruth. Wish me luck. I’ll need it.

 

 

The Alien Anomaly by Amanda M. Lee:

Charlie Rhodes has seen it all. Witches. Ghosts. The Chupacabra. Now she’s about to head down a different road … and it’s one she’s not prepared for.

When three bodies show up drained of fluids in Roswell, New Mexico, the Legacy Foundation is sent out to investigate. The assumption, because of where it happened, is aliens. Charlie isn’t so sure, though.

As the team leader, Chris is gung-ho to chase visitors from another planet. That means camping out at Bottomless Lakes Park, something nobody but Chris is keen to do. Between alien enthusiasts whooping it up at the far end of the park and Charlie’s belief that she’s being haunted by a ghost, the group has their hands full.

Roswell is a weird place. It’s also the sort of place where secrets can be hidden for a very long time. The caves beneath Bottomless Lakes run deep. There just might be a different sort of monster hiding there, however.

Charlie knows she has a big fight in front of her. This trip will help her get ready … as long as she survives the darkness that’s threatening to take over the area.

Charlie’s past ghosts are about to collide with her future dreams. The collision promises to be out of this world.

The Last Survivors by A.J. Rivers:

When Dean receives a distraught phone call from his ex-girlfriend.
He rushes to her home to find a horrific and dreadful scene…
A ransacked house and her bloodied body lying on the floor.

As the police and her husband arrive at the scene, Dean learns that his ex’s son is also missing.
While Dean searches for answers behind her death, a bombing kills a friend from his days in the military.

At the memorial service, Dean has to confront people he hasn’t seen in years while facing memories of a tragic event that left them all scarred.
The situation takes a darker turn as mysterious classified documents appear in his hotel room, leading to even grimmer twists.

With the body count rising, it seems someone is after the survivors for their secrets.
Dean just has to stay alive long enough to figure out who and why…

Liable Charity by Wayne Stinnett and Kimberli A. Bindschatel:

Charity Styles had been the catalyst for the demise of many. But in the past that usually meant the end of a human life. As an assassin for the CIA, it came with the territory.

But this time she feels responsible for the end two of her friend’s relationship.

She sets out on a voyage to find one of the partners in the hopes of rectifying the rift she helped create. Along the way, she encounters a deadly foe, bent on becoming rich regardless of how many must suffer or die.

Charity finds her friend but before they can reconcile the problem, they must join forces with an animal rights activist to rescue an innocent woman from a Mexican cartel involved in the trafficking of endangered wildlife.

Facing down armed and powerful cartel members will be child’s play compared to the fight yet to come when Charity admits what she’s done.

It’s the height of summer in Campeche, but when Charity Styles is around, things tend to get even hotter.

Seams Like Murder by Tilly Wallace:

There are two things that can’t talk—moving pictures and dead showgirls…

1920, Wellington, New Zealand. Grace Devine is poised to build her thriving dress design business as the twenties begin to soar. But when a fashionable client is murdered, suspicion falls on Grace as the last person to see Agatha alive.

As wary clients cancel and business begins to fail, Grace decides there’s only one way to prove her innocence and save her career…this seamstress will turn sleuth to find who really murdered the showgirl.

The more she learns, the more she uncovers of the darker side of the dead woman’s personality. Agatha liked to collect secrets and use them against people. But what target snapped that fatal night? Can Grace stitch together the clues before her life is torn apart…

Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Pride Month Special: “Ambush in the Mystic Mountains”

It’s time for another Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre photo story. The name “Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre” was coined by Kevin Beckett at the Whetstone Discord server.

Last year, I posted a Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Pride Month Special called “Fisto’s Significant Other”, in which Fisto and Ram-Man announce that they are a couple. This is only my head canon BTW, but the various cartoons hint quite strongly that Fisto as well as various other heroic warriors are not straight. And besides, they do make a cute couple.

Eternia’s favourite gay couple, Fisto and Ram-Man

Therefore, I decided to do another Pride Month Special featuring fan favourite Malcolm a.k.a. Fisto and his significant other Ram-Man a.k.a. Krass. Especially since I had just picked up the new Masterverse Deluxe Ram-Man figure.

So enjoy…

Ambush in the Mystic Mountains

In the Mystic Mountains:

Yes, I included a Delftware snail as a little Easter egg. As a kid, I used to collect snails – real life snails – so a neighbour gave me the Delftware snail as a gift.

“Ah, the Mystic Mountains, my old stomping grounds. Back when I thought that miner was a more viable profession than Master of the Universe. I mean, it’s certainly safer, even with all the cave-ins, glowing evil gems and the occasional Arachnid attack. But there’s no Skeletor, no Evil Horde, no Snake People…”

“Right, who am I kidding? I always knew that I couldn’t just hang up my sword and walk away from my hero days. After all, someone’s got to keep an eye on Duncan and he’s never going to walk away. And Teela, of course. And Prince Adam, since Duncan aparently adopted him. Besides, I like being a Master of the Universe. Okay, not the constant attacks and ever-present danger, but I like hanging out with the other Masters, feasting, drinking, watching Orko’s magic tricks or one of Manny’s performances. And then there’s Krass…

“Halt! Thou shalt not pass without paying road toll to Whiplash, King of the Caligars.”

“You’re not King of the Caligars, Whiplash. Your brother Ceratus is and he hates your guts. And now let me pass or eat steel knuckles. Cause this is my holiday and I’m really not in the mood.”

“Oh, I’ll let you pass, once you’ve paid the road toll. And since you’re a Master of the Universe, I’ll give you an extra discount. I’ll only take your head and that iron fist of yours. They’ll look great on my trophy wall.”“So you want to fight? Okay, shithead, then eat steel knuckles.”

“Shut up and fight!”

“No one tells me to shut up. Except my brother Duncan and that’s only because I like him. And now bring it on, arsehole!”

CLASH! CLATTER! SLAM!

“Ha! Axe beats sword.”

“Yeah and fist beats jaw. Say goodbye to those tusks.”

“You’ve got to get close to me first. And you’re not fireproof. And now say goodbye to your head, Fisto.”

“Hey, that’s my man  you’re threatening. Leave him alone or I’ll ram you into the ground.”

“Get lost, you puny little man! This is between me and Fisto.”

“If you pick a fight with Malcolm, you pick a fight with me.”

“Oh yeah? Your armour can protect you from my torch, but it won’t protect you from my axe. And your head will look great on my trophy wall as well. Maybe I’ll put it right next to Fisto’s.”

“Oh no, you won’t.”

PUNCH! SLAM!

“Crap! Two Masters are too much for me alone. I should’ve brought Clawful. Or Beast-Man. But then I’d have to share the loot with them.”

“Yeah, run away and crawl back to Snake Mountain like the coward that you are.”

“And tell Skeletor that he can lick me in the arse!”*

“Uhm, actually that sounds kind of disgusting, Malcolm.”

Unfortunately, the male Masters of the Universe figures are a bit too bulky to hug or kiss, though they can gaze deep into each other’s eyes.

“Are you all right, Malcolm?”

“I’m fine. Just a few bruises and a dented sword. But what are you doing here, Krass?”

“I was visiting my brother and his family. And since I was here in the Mystic Mountains already, I thought I could join you. Good thing that I did.”

“And it never occurred to you to take me along when you visit your family?”

“Uhm, I never thought you wanted to meet my family. They’re kind of boring and also still sore that I left to join the Royal Guard.”

“They’re your family, so of course I want to meet them. And besides, you know my family.”

“Yeah, because your brother is also my boss. But yes, if you want to meet my family, I’ll take you to see them. They don’t live far away, only beyond that mountain.”

“I’d love to meet them, Krass. And talking of family, I’d better call Duncan to let him know that Whiplash is waylaying travellers in the Mystic Mountains.”

***

In the 2002 cartoon, Malcolm is first seen working as a miner in the Mystic Mountains. Well, actually he’s first seen in a bar, getting drunk and picking fights, but it’s implied that he left the Eternian Guard to become a miner, before running into his brother and the Masters of the Universe during a mission brings him back into the fight and also costs him his hand.

Malcolm’s offer that Skeletor may lick his arse is of course a paraphrase of the famous line that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe wrote for that other iron-fisted warrior, 15th century rebellious German knight Götz von Berlichingen. I have no idea if Götz von Berlichingen was an inspiration for Fisto – and I even asked someone who’d worked on the Masters of the Universe toyline once – but the parallels are notable.

Whiplash, the reptilian Evil Warrior with the mighty tail, is shown to be a member of a subterranean species called the Caligar in the 2002 cartoon, though why a species of aligator people is living in caves rather than in a swamp is never explained.

Whiplash ready to take on the world.

I recently found the brand-new Masterverse Whiplash figure at Smyths Toys (chain that took over the European Toys R Us stores) and took him home. The purple armour and helmet are based on some very early concept art for the character. I think the colour contrast looks great on him. What is more, I had completely forgotten that Whiplash gave his minicomic debut fighting Fisto.

***

And that’s it for today, folks. I hope you enjoyed this Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Photo Story, because there will be more.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, I just bought some toys, took photos of them and wrote little scenes to go with those photos. All characters are copyright and trademark their respective owners.

Two Links and a Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Double Feature: “New Dad” and “Orko Interruptus”

Today, I have another double feature of two new Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre photo stories for you. Since both stories are quite short, I decided to run them as a double feature. The name “Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre” was coined by Kevin Beckett at the Whetstone Discord server.

But before we get to the stories, I also have a link to share. Because the always excellent Christopher Rowe has compiled a list of contemporary sword and sorcery series characters and where to find their adventures. My own Kurval and Thurvok are included as well.

If you want even more sword and sorcery to read for free, issue 7 of Whetstone Amateur Magazine of Sword and Sorcery has just come out, so check it out! 

I had a surprise new arrival show up this week, when I received the Masters of the Universe Origins Young King Randor figure in the mail – without receiving a shipping notification first.

Masters of the Universe Origins Young King Randor

This version of King Randor is based on the 2002 cartoon, where Randor was protrayed as a somewhat younger and more active character than his Filmation counterpart. While the Filmation Randor mostly set around on his throne and occasionally gave a speech, the 2002 Randor charged into battle alongside his warriors on occasion and also seemed to do more actual governing. The 2002 cartoon also established that Randor was captain of the guard, i.e. Teela’s current, before he became king. All in all, I’d say that the 2002 cartoon features the best overall King Randor – and Randor is a difficult character, because his raison d’etre is to be the parent who does not understand or even see their child – though the Netflix CGI features the best version of Randor as a father. In case you’re wondering which version of King Randor is the worst, that would be the King Randor of Masters of the Universe Revelation, who narrowly missed winning the 2021 Darth Vader Parenthood Award.

King Randor with little Prince Adam, portrayed here by Bobby from the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon

We mostly see Randor interacting (and frequently clashing) with a teenaged or young adult Adam, but there are very few scenes that show Randor as a young father across the various iterations of Masters of the Universe. So I decided to make one. And since today is Father’s Day in the US (in Germany, Father’s Day coincides with Ascension Day, which was on May 18 this year), this is the perfect time to post it.

New Dad

Eternos Palace, the nursery:

“I don’t know if I can do this, Duncan. I’ve led armies, I’ve defeated the evil forces of Keldor and I try my best to be a good king for my people, but I don’t know if I can be a father.”

“You’ll do just fine, Sire. Trust me.”

“Easy for you to say, Duncan. You’re a natural at this father thing and I honestly don’t know how you do it, especially since you have no one to help you out.”

“It’s really not so difficult, Sire. Just trust your instincts.”

“And what if my instincts mislead me, Duncan? They’re so small and so fragile and…”

“Waaah!”

“Oh no! Now one of them is crying. What do I do?”

“Maybe you should just pick up the baby, Sire. That tends to calm them down.”

“But what if I drop it?”

“You won’t, Sire. Trust me.”

“Come on, little Adam. You are Adam, aren’t you? Cause I can’t tell them apart. Marlena colour coded the clothes, but I forget which one is supposed to be pink and which blue. There, my little one, that’s better.”

“Coo.”

“Waaaaah!”

“Oh no, now the other one is crying, too. What do I do, Duncan?”

“She’s probably just lonely. Maybe you should pick her up, Sire.”

“If you think so, Duncan. Come here, little one. Daddy has got you.”

“Coo.”

“Amazing. They stopped crying. And I think the pink one just smiled at me.”

“See, Sire? I told you you’d get the hang of this. Sniff. Though I think you’d better check their diapers. Unless it’s Teela. Sniff. No, not Teela. It’s one of the twins.”

“Diapers? You mean that smell is…”

“Exactly, Sire.”

“And… uhm… how do I change the diapers? And where are the diapers?”

“Sigh. I’ll show you, Sire.”

***

Fast forward some twenty years and Adam, Adora and Teela are all grown up and engaging in plenty of shenangigans and more adult activitiess of their own. So enjoy:

Orko Interruptus

Eternos palace, Teela’s bedroom:

“Smooch. Are you sure our parents won’t notice that we snuck away from the party?”

“Absolutely sure. My Dad and your parents are both at the reception for the High Council and your Dad is holding one of his endless speeches.”

“I’m certainly not sorry to miss that. But what about the guards?”

“I’m Captain of the guard and ordered them to patrol somewhere else. What about Cringer?”

“He’s a very discreet cat and knows when to make himself scarce.”

“So the coast is clear. And now kiss me again. Smooch.”

Puff!

“Guys, guys, do you wanna see my new magic trick?”

“ORKO!”

“Uhm, am I interrupting something?”

“YES!”

***

The next morning:

“And then he said, ‘Teela, I love you. I’ve always loved you’.”

“And then?”

“Then I said, ‘Adam, you talk to much’.”

“And then?”

“Then I kissed him.”

“Oooh!”

“And then?”

“Then Orko showed up.”

***

I got some dollhouse furniture at IKEA to use as props for my Masters-of-the-Universe-piece Theatre photo stories. The size works perfectly with both the Origins and the larger Masterverse figures. The cute dinosaur plushie came with the set, by the way. And yes, Teela would totally have a plush dinosaur.

That’s it for today, folks. I hope you enjoyed this Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Photo Story, because there will be more.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, I just bought some toys, took photos of them and wrote little scenes to go with those photos. All characters are copyright and trademark their respective owners.

Same Old Debate, New Clothes: The Cozy Horror Controversy

Sigh. It’s that time of the year again and we’re having the same old debate again whether some interlopers are trying to ruin the purity of the genre and gentrify it by writing and reading the wrong sort of books.

This time around, the focus is not Hopepunk or what a certain podcast termed Squeecore, but cozy horror, cozy fantasy’s spookier sibling.

The current debate seems to have been sparked by an episode of the Books in the Freezer podcast about cozy horror (which I haven’t listened to yet), which received some pushback on Twitter, and in particular by a recent article on The Mary Sue by Julia Glassman on the cozy horror phenomenon and the backlash against it. Though the term “cozy horror” isn’t new. Here is an article by Jose Cruz from Nightmare Magazine, a horror mag, about cozy horror from 2021 and I’m pretty sure Cruz didn’t invent the term either. The phenomenon is much older anyway. What is now called cozy horror goes back to the ghost stories of the nineteenth century. A genre that – as Jess Nevins pointed out on Twitter – has triggered criticism and backlash for almost two hundred years now. And the reason was that ghost stories were mostly read and written by women. So yup, it’s plain old misogyny.

Okay, I’ll say it: cozy horror began w/19th century women’s ghost stories (dominant form of horror in the 19th century–women authors outnumbered men by more than 2:1), and the backlash against cozy horror now has its roots in the past misogynistic criticism against cozy horror.

— Jess Nevins (@jessnevins) June 10, 2023

Currently, most of the backlash seems to focus on Julia Glassman’s article from The Mary Sue rather than on the podcast episode that prompted the article. This criticism is not entirely unjustified, because the article is something of a mess.

Julia Glassman begins by discussing her issues with the horror genre and her problems finding horror she actually enjoys. I certainly sympathise, because I also had problems finding horror I enjoy. Though my problem wasn’t so much that horror was too gross or too scary for me, but that I found much of particularly filmic horror rather silly, sometimes to the point of self-parody. As a result, my attempts to write horror either turned into horror parodies or “Let’s find out was the supernatural entity wants” or both. In fact, I should maybe try to rebrand the Hallowind Cove series (which started out as an attempt to write horror and became a sort of horror parody set in a quirky small town) as cozy horror, since nothing else has worked to help those stories find their market. It was only when I realised that I actually prefer older styles of horror like the sort of thing that would have been found in Weird Tales during its heyday that I figured out how to write horror.

However, horror is a wide field and eventually Julia Glassman found that she enjoys folk horror. Then she explains how she discovered cozy horror, lists some examples and then sums up the debate that broke out on Twitter, when Sadie Hartmann, author of the non-fiction book 101 Horror Books to Read Before You’re Murdered (which would make a good subject for a non-fiction spotlight), linked to the Books in the Freezer episode about cozy horror and also offered some examples. Both Twitter threads are mostly people recommending books and films or asking for recommendations, but apparently there was some blowback, which has since been deleted.

Julia Glassman then continues to wonder why on Earth some people are so offended by the mere existence of cozy horror rather than focussing on genres and subgenres they actually enjoy? It’s a legitimate question. However, plenty of people decided to take issue with the answer Glassman offers.

Julia Glassman notes that for certain horror fans the only metric that counts is how much blood and gore there is and how viscerally terrifying it is. Basically, for some people horror is an endurance contest where he or she who can tolerate the most blood, gore and jump scares wins. Of course, horror is more than just blood, guts and jump scares and both Julia Glassman and Sadie Hartmann link to this 2021 article by Brian J. Showers, which makes exactly that point.

In the paragraph above, I wrote “he or she who can tolerate the most blood, gore and jump scares wins”. However, Julia Glassman points out that the person who reduces horror mainly to the blood, gore and jump scares is more likely to be a he. I’d add that this person is also more likely to be young, because horror is a genre that appeals to the young. Not that there aren’t plenty of older horror fans, but there is a reason that so much horror features bad things happening to teenagers.

So far, Julia Glassman has made mostly reasonable points. However, then she wrote this paragraph which is what caused most of the backlash:

It’s also undeniable that this problem is gendered. Endurance is associated with masculinity, and coziness is associated with femininity. Maybe that supposed femininity is what makes cozy horror feel so threatening to people who consider themselves hardcore horror fans. The cozy horror debate is almost identical to the YA debate: instead of recognizing that genres are fluid and multifaceted, people run screaming from anything associated with teen girls.

Of course, there are plenty of female horror fans – including plenty of women who love reading the hardcore bloods and guts stuff. Indeed, I suspect that the majority of horror readers are probably women, because the majority of readers of almost every fiction genre are women. Women are also the majority of readers of horror’s somewhat more respectable sister genre, the serial killer thriller. So no, female readers don’t shy away from blood and terror. And indeed, plenty of female horror fans showed up on Twitter to point out that they enjoy horror in all its blood-splattered glory. There are also many female horror writers. So in short, claiming that the readers and writers of the darker and bloodier forms of horror are male is nonsense.

However, there is a kernel of truth in that paragraph, because there definitely is an undercurrent of misogyny in the rejection of any genre or subgenre perceived to cater to female readers. You see this in the blanket dismissal of romance, of YA (even though there is a huge variety of YA books out there these days, a lot of people still think it’s all teen romance with a thin paranormal veneer), cozy mysteries, urban fantasy, cozy fantasy (even though some of the best known cozy fantasy writers are men) and now cozy horror. And considering that what is now called cozy horror grew out of the ghost story of the nineteenth and early twentieth century, the gothic romance of the 1960s and 1970s as well as paranormal romances, paranormal mysteries and paranormal chick lit, i.e. all genres associated with women, there definitely is a misogynistic element in the backlash against cozy horror, as Jess Nevins points out the tweet embedded above. The fact that several of those dismissing cozy horror are women doesn’t contradict this, because internalised misogyny is a thing.

The initial criticisms of The Mary Sue article and also the more reasoned ones came from within the horror community, but the debate quickly spilled out into the wider genre sphere. And that’s where we started getting seriously bad takes. Coincidentally, that’s also when several names familiar from previous debates popped up.

Raquel S. Benedict, whom regular readers of this blog may also remember from the “Squeecore” debate of early 2022, explained why she believes cozy horror is a bad thing in this Twitter thread. In the course of that thread, Benedict also links to an episode of the Rite Gud podcast, which she hosts, where she and her guest Andrew F. Sullivan discuss the supposed gentrification of horror. The Rite Gud episode (transcript here) dates from March, i.e. it predates the current debate, so this is clearly a subject close to Benedict’s heart. Simon McNeil, another name people may remember from last year’s “Squeecore” debate, also weighed in on his blog.

As for why Benedict, McNeil and Sullivan object to the existence of cozy horror, there are several arguments, most of them familiar from previous debates. McNeil’s main point is that he believes that horror should make people uncomfortable and that cozy horror is therefore an oxymoron. He also dismisses several of the examples given in The Mary Sue article, particularly the 2014 animated series Over the Garden Wall, as “children’s media”. Now Over the Garden Wall may well be aimed at children – I haven’t seen it. Besides, as I’ve pointed out above, horror is a genre that appeals to the young. However, there is a certain sneering undertone in the way McNeil dismisses “children’s media” that you often find with a certain type critic, who tend to conflate “I don’t like this” or “I’m not the target audience for this” with “This is YA”, whereby YA is inevitably viewed as a bad thing.

Indeed, I got into an argument on Twitter with a member of the anti-cozy horror brigade (not anybody mentioned above, just some rando, likely young), who responded to a tweet of mine pointing out that while “cozy horror” may be a new label, the phenomenon itself is far from new and listing several examples with “That’s all just YA shit”. Of course, nineteenth and early twentieth century ghost stories, gothic romance and the lighter edge of urban fantasy are not YA and neither are the extremely popular paranormal cozy mysteries, but the tweet is very telling in that for some people, anything they don’t like is automatically assumed to be YA. This is not limited to the anti-cozy-horror brigade, but a far more general phenomenon. SFF with romantic elements is often hit by “That’s just YA” accusations, as if only young people want to read stories about people falling in love.

Both Benedict and McNeil also talk about the gentrification of horror, a metaphor likely inspired a handful of haunted house stories and movies they don’t like. Basically, the worry seems to be that since horror is experiencing a resurgence in popularity following the massive crash of the genre in the 1990s, more writers and bigger publishers will move into horror fiction and that horror will become sanitised and bland. Cozy horror is apparently viewed as a vanguard of this process – the first mainstream coffee shop or wine bar to open in the neighbourhood to run with the gentrification metaphor. Though personally I find the metaphor hugely problematic, because gentrification does untold harm in the real world by displacing and destroying whole neighbourhoods. People writing and publishing books some folks don’t like is in no way comparable to the real world harm done by gentrification.

Never mind that there is absolutely no real evidence that horror is becoming bland and cozy and sanitised. The examples offered are a mixed bag as well and include clueless articles about final girls on mainstream SFF websites, the recent versions of The Haunting of Hill House and Candyman, both of which were inferior to the source material (the new Candyman in particular completely missed the point of the original) and also got very mixed reviews, The Book of Accidents by Chuck Wendig, which I haven’t read, and two short stories by John Wiswell. However, clueless and shallow articles on genre websites are not exactly a rare phenomenon nor a new trend. Neither are bad remakes of better movies. And while John Wiswell uses horror tropes in his fiction, I wouldn’t call him a horror writer. Instead, he borrows the furniture of the horror genre, the haunted houses and the vampires and mystery portals to nowhere, to tell completely different stories.

The main issue seems to be a worry that writers some people don’t like – Benedict calls them “some of the most toxic, puritanical hacks in SFF” – are moving into horror and that they will turn the horror into “bland sludge”. As for who these toxic puritanical hacks are, they’re the writers who are currently appearing on the Hugo and Nebula ballots. I suspect I might be one of them. So in short, it’s another round of “writers we don’t like are writing books we don’t approve of and are ruining the genre in the process”.

The kernel of truth in this claim is that we have seen more fiction with horror elements appear on the Hugo and Nebula ballots in recent times, both published in explicit horror magazines like Nightmare Magazine or The Dark as well as in more general SFF magazines like Uncanny or Tor.com. However, it’s also notable that many of the authors in question – Sarah Pinsker, T. Kingfisher, John Wiswell, Catherynne M. Valente, Chuck Wendig – have been deploying horror elements in their fiction for a long time now. As for why we are seeing more fiction with horror elements on the Hugo and Nebula ballot these days, a) horror of all types is currently experiencing something of a renaissance following the collapse of the genre in the 1990s, and b) if Hugo and Nebula nominators read more horror and horror-tinged fiction, more of it will wind up on the ballots.

Also, the current generation of Hugo and Nebula voters are more open towards horror, whereas previous generations of voters had strong prejudices against both fantasy and horror. That’s why classic horror movies like the 1958 Hammer version of Dracula or 1976’s Carrie were no awarded, in spite of being very good movies. But they were horror and Hugo voters at the time did not want any horror in their science fiction. That said, the first non-SF story ever to win a Hugo Award, “That Hell-Bound Train” by Robert Bloch in 1959, was a horror story. Nonetheless, there is no great conspiracy here, just a shift in reader tastes and the boundaries between science fiction, fantasy and horror, which were always artificial anyway, gradually becoming more porous again.

As for claiming that some nebulous clique of toxic and puritanical hacks (never mind that the writers in question are all lovely people, at least those I’ve met) is moving into horror for commercial reasons, i.e. to make more money, that’s completely ridiculous. If you want to write solely for money, horror is about the worst genre you could choose, because it’s still a small niche dominated by small presses. Science fiction and fantasy are both bigger markets and for fiction, YA, crime/mystery/thriller and particularly romance are far more lucrative than any flavour of speculative fiction. And the big writing money is in non-fiction and tech writing anyway. So even if horror is more popular these days, it’s not a genre where you will make big money. And indeed, Benedict even says so herself in that Rite Gud episode.

Furthermore, there is absolutely no evidence that “cozy horror” is in the process of overtaking the entire horror genre, because of the currently big and up-and-coming names in horror fiction – Stephen Graham Jones, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Catriona Ward, Gabino Iglesias, Josh Malerman, Chuck Wendig, Christina Henry, V. Castro, Grady Hendrix, Cynthia Pelayo, Alma Katsu, Paul Tremblay, etc… – very few are even remotely what I’d call cozy. And writers borrowing horror tropes to write different kinds of stories has little impact on the horror genre per se.

In general, the fear that horror – and science fiction and fantasy for that matter – are being ruined by big publishers shying away from more extreme material and insisting on happy endings – is just weird. For starters, there is no evidence for any of that happening. Manhunt by Gretchen Felker-Martin, a horror novel that’s popular with the Rite Gud crowd, was published by Tor’s Nightfire imprint, i.e. the biggest publisher of science fiction, fantasy and horror in the English-speaking world.

In response to a tweet by Ellen Datlow (who really should know better) claiming that SF readers no longer want downbeat endings, Camestros Felapton pointed out that the Hugo winners for best short story (as well as the finalists) of the past six years just don’t support this claim. Also, I don’t think anybody should be judged for wanting fiction with happy endings or fiction that is comforting. A lot of people have a lot of shit doing on in their lives and if a reading a romance novel or a cozy witch mystery makes them forget their problems for a little while, then more power to them.

And even if the Big Five Publishers really did suddenly decree that all horror fiction must be cozy and have a happy ending – and there is no sign that this is happening – horror has a robust ecosystem of small presses, which kept the genre alive and afloat during the wilderness years after the 1990s collapse, so other types of horror would still find a home and an audience.

So in short, the whole cozy horror debate is very much a tempest in a teacup. What makes the whole debate even more wearying is how depressingly familiar all of the arguments and many of the protagonists are. We’ve seen the same arguments trotted out during last year’s “Squeecore” debate or the Hopepunk debate of 2019 or – coming from the opposite side of the political spectrum – during the puppy wars of 2015/2016 – and approx. fifteen years ago, when YA SFF, urban fantasy and paranormal romance exploded in popularity around the same time and brought new readers and writers into the genre, who were not exactly welcomed with open arms. We’ve seen the very same arguments made by clueless German pop culture critics – who ironically hated horror with a passion – in the 1970s. And if you go back even further, you’ll find similar debates and uproars fought out in the letter pages of magazines and vintage fanzines.

In 2016, I wrote a post about the Three Fractions of Speculative Fiction, three groups of readers and fans with different preferences who have clashed repeatedly over the course of the past hundred years. In the past, most clashes have been between the traditionalist fraction and the anti-nostalgic fraction with the character-driven fraction sitting on the sidelines, but since the turn of the millennium, most conflicts seem to be either the traditionalist (e.g. the puppies and their various offshoots) or the anti-nostalgic fraction going up against the character-driven fraction. And while the traditionalist and the anti-nostalgic fraction will never agree on which books they like, they are usually eerily united in which books and stories they don’t like, namely the ones that are currently winning awards and acclaim. It’s notable that Chuck Wendig is hated by both the Far Right (for daring to put gay people in a Star Wars novel) and the Far Left (for being not radical enough).

In general, the argument boils down to a few points: “There is a new trend in SFF and I don’t like it. There are authors winning awards and I don’t understand why. This new trend is destroying the genre and these new people are all just in it for the money and the accolades, but they’re not real fans, they use the furniture of the genre without understanding it and they are violating the purity of the genre. This new stuff is not even SFFH, but it’s romance, YA or some other inferior form of literature. This means the impending death of the genre.”

In short, it’s all depressingly familiar and I probably should have just ignored this latest flare-up of this ages old argument, but the whole cozy horror debate annoyed me enough to put in my two cents.

Comments are open for now. Don’t make me shut them down.

Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre: “The Prisoner of Castle Grayskull Revisited”

It’s time for another Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre photo story. The name “Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre” was coined by Kevin Beckett at the Whetstone Discord server.

Back in March, I posted a Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre toy photo story called “The Prisoner of Castle Grayskull”, set during the time in part 2 of Masters of the Universe: Revelation, when Duncan is imprisoned up in the dungeons beneath Castle Grayskull, after Skeletor took over the Castle, murdered the original Sorceress and turned Evil-Lyn into the new Sorceress, something Lyn isn’t particularly happy about. So Lyn eventually takes matters into her own hands, steals the Sword of Power from Skeletor and becomes the champion of Grayskull herself.

Mattel recently made a figure of the powered-up Lyn, called Dark-Lyn. She’s gorgeous, so I got her for my collection.

Dark-Lyn in her full powered up glory.

Dark-Lyn, Goddess of the Hugo Award

The three versions of Evil-Lyn. I think I might have a Lyn problem.

Masters of the Universe: Revelation never really goes into what happens to Duncan, after Lyn gets the Power. We only see him again, after he has escaped from the dungeon with the help of the tentacled creature known as the Orlax of Primeria and joins the battle outside Castle Grayskull.

But would Lyn really ignore her favourite prisoner? I don’t think so, so let’s see what happens when the powered up Lyn goes to see Duncan in the dungeon.

In the dungeons deep underneath Castle Grayskull:

You’ll have to imagine the Orlax of Primeria, since I still haven’t managed to procure a good substitute.

“All right, Orlax, just give me some more of that disgusting but conductive slime, so I can get the hell out of here.”

EEEYUUUBBB!

“Orlax? What’s the matter? Footsteps. Seems someone’s coming to see me. But who? Lyn? Skeletor? Or dare I hope for rescue?”

“Sigh. It’s Lyn. And that frog critter.”

“Well, hello Duncan. Still hanging out, I see…”

“Hi, Lyn. Can’t say it’s a great pleasure to see you.”

“The prisoner is still secure, Mistress. I’m a good dungeon master, I am. I am very scrupulous about my duties. You will not be sorry that you appointed me.”

RIBBIT!

“I did not appoint you as dungeon master and neither did Skeletor. You appointed yourself, you slithering little salamander.”

“Frog. I’m a frog, Mistress. And I do good work, yes I do.”

RIBBIT!

“Well, whatever. Leave us alone now, Frog-Boy. Duncan and I have things to discuss.”

“It’s Frog-Monger, not Frog-Boy. But yes, I know when I’m not wanted. You want to sing the mating song with the prisoner again. Then go ahead. Sing mating songs and make little tadpoles. In the meantime, my friend and I will go hunting for tasty flies outside the Castle.”

RIBBIT!

“What did you do to the Orlax, Lyn? Did you hurt it again? Cause it screamed.”

“Why are you so concerned about the Orlax, Duncan? Shouldn’t you rather worry about yourself?”

“Because the Orlax is a living being and it’s hurting. Not that you’d understand.”

“Oh by the way, the Orlax is scared of her. Always has been. He says she’s the Destroyer of Worlds. But then, the Orlax has always been a little dramatic.”

RIBBIT!

“Ah, alone at last.”

“Whatever you have to say, Lyn, make it quick, cause I’m really not in the mood.”

“Why so grumpy, Duncan? Don’t you have anything to say about my new look?”

“Well, it seems Skeletor managed to make you wear even less clothing than the last time around, which is certainly a feat.”

“Not Skeletor. Skeletor is history. I took the Sword of Power from him and kicked him out of the Castle.”

“Good. Then could you maybe give the sword back to Adam, cause he needs it. And maybe you could let me out of here, too, while you’re at it.”

“Give up the sword? Not a chance. I am my own champion now. And it seems that revealing attire comes part and package with the Power of Grayskull. After all, how else to show off those impressive muscles?”

“The sword isn’t yours, Lyn. It was never meant for you – or Skeletor. It was always intended for Adam.”

“Well, if Little Prince Weakling wants it back, he can always come and get it. But I’m afraid that he is much too busy sticking his own very unimpressive sword into your daughter Teela…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t pretend to be stupider than you are, Duncan. In this very moment, as we’re talking, Little Prince Weakling is making out with Teela – yes, with your precious daughter – in the Talon Fighter at Point Dread. Though he apparently has some problems figuring out which part goes where.”

“Why exactly are you telling me this, Lyn? Do you think I mind?”

“Well, given the tendency of the Eternian Kings to sow their wild oats and then not follow through on their promises, you certainly should. Just ask Keldor – if you can find him, that is.”

“Listen, Lyn, even if what you say is true…”

“Oh, it is. Or would I lie to you?”

“You’d lie to me without a second thought. Lying is your second nature. Always was, always will be.”

“Ouch. Low blow, Duncan. I should punish you for that. You’re lucky that I like you.”

“So even if Adam and Teela are sharing an intimate moment with each other, why would I mind? They love each other. Always have, always will. And Adam is one of the best and bravest men I know. Though I do hope they’re being careful…”

“Ha, so you are a worried father, after all. And anyway, why did you give the sword to Little Prince Weakling, when you could have taken the sword and the power for yourself, could have been the champion of Grayskull – and of your darling Sorceress – yourself?”

“Because that’s not how it works. Adam is the chosen one. He has been since the day he was born. My job… and my privilege was to watch over him, be there for him and make sure he was ready to take on the burden of the champion, when the day comes.”

“Oh please! I’m sick to death of chosen ones. Your little Prince Weakling, Randor, even Keldor for all his whining about how Daddy didn’t love him, they were all born to privilege. Whereas you and I had to fight for every little thing we have. So who’s the chosen one here? The little Prince born with a silver spoon in his mouth or people like you and me who clawed our way out of the gutter?”

“That’s not how it works, Lyn.”

“Of course it is. I chose myself. I raised the sword, said the magic words and now I have all the power in the universe at my fingertips. I could rip Randor’s soul out of his body, if I wanted, or Skeletor’s for that matter. I could hurl a lightning bolt from the sky and put the fear of Zoar into Little Prince Weakling and your precious daughter…”

“Leave them alone, Lyn.”

“Or what? You’ll stop me? You’re my prisoner, Duncan. And even if you were free, you couldn’t stop me, cause I have the Power now. I am the ruler of Eternia.”

“But a queen needs a king. So what do you say, Duncan? Will you be my king and rule Eternia by my side?”

“Eternia already has a king. And I swore an oath…”

“Spare me your misplaced loyalty. You’ve spent more than twenty years basically running the kingdom and commanding Eternia’s forces, while Randor set around on his throne in his gilded armour, looking regal. You’ve even raised Randor’s son for him, because Randor couldn’t be bothered. And then, the moment something goes wrong, Randor kicks you out of the palace and throws you away like a broken sword. So no, Randor, deserves none of your loyalty. He never did.”

“Randor is my king, Lyn. And my friend.”

“King before friend, always. And anyway, after everything you’ve done for Randor, for Marlena, for Adam, for Teela, for the Masters of the Universe, for all of them, where are they now? Cause I don’t see any of your friends coming to rescue you.”

“There are more important things than rescuing…”

“Oh, I’m sure there are. Like Little Prince Weakling and your precious daughter making out. Or Randor peering very intently at a bunch of maps, pretending that he’s actually fit to lead anybody. You know what, Duncan, you’re an idiot. Time and again placing your loyalty and your faith in people who won’t do the same for you. You’ve wasted years supporting Randor who’s always treated you like a lackey. And you’ve wasted years on a woman who would never commit to you, who’d never even acknowledge you and your daughter, but would rather devote her life to this crumbling castle….”

“If I wasted years of my life, then I at least wasted them on people who are worthy and causes that matter. Whereas you wasted years of your life on Skeletor.”

“Yes, but I got wise and kicked him out. He’s running for the Mystic Mountains now, crawling back to his brother. But that reunion won’t go the way Skeletors hopes and I for one just wish I could be there to see Randor kick his arse and throw him in the deepest darkest dungeon… But wait, I can. I have the Power now and I can see anything, go anywhere in the whole universe.”

“If you can go literally anywhere in the universe, then why are you down here in the dungeon with me?”

“Isn’t it obvious, Duncan? Because I like you. And because having all this power at my fingertips, seeing the entire universe, seeing how lonely and desolate and devoid of meaning it all is makes me want to find solace in the arms of another human being. Skeletor was right, you know, whenever he went on about the loneliness of good and evil. Your little Prince knows it, too. That’s why he’s hanging out with imbeciles like Orko or Cringer and seeking comfort in the arms of your precious daughter, provided he can finally figure what to do. Because it’s lonely being a god. And I don’t want to be lonely…”

“Lyn…”

“Hush, Duncan. You know loneliness, too, don’t you? All those years pining after a woman who didn’t want you, who would not commit to you and your daughter…”

“She had her duty…”

“Oh please! Teela-Na could’ve found a way to make it work, if she’d wanted to. But she didn’t. And deep down in your heart you know. You know that this crumbling pile of stones always meant more to her than you and even her own child. Just as this crumbling Castle and the power buried within it always meant more to Skeletor than I ever could. So yes, Duncan, we’re both lonely. So why shouldn’t we find comfort in each other’s arms?”

“Will… will you unchain me? Cause otherwise this might be difficult.”

“You don’t like a woman to take control, do you? But no, the chains stay on. Trust me, it’s more fun that way.”

“Will you at least power down? You’re not used to the power and don’t know your own strength yet.”

“Oh please! Do you think I’m stupid. That’s how I got Skeletor. I seduced him, persuaded him to power down and stole the sword from him. Do you honestly think I’d fall for the same trick?”

“It was worth a try.”

“You know what, Duncan? I’m sick of you, sick of Skeletor, sick of it all. You can stay here in the dungeon, pine for your dear departed Sorceress and rot for all I care. Me, I’ve got a whole universe, no, a whole multiverse to explore. And since this whole multiverse is lonely and desolate and uncaring, maybe it’s time someone put it out of its misery.”

“Lyn, wait….”

“Great, Duncan. You just blew another chance at finally getting out of here. And why? Because you couldn’t submit to Lyn? Couldn’t lay back and think of Eternia just once. Oh well, back to Plan A. Orlax, are you still there?”

Eeeeeyoooo!

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Can you give me some more of that disgusting but highly conductive slime.”

SCREECH.

“Sigh. What now? Lyn, is that you?”

“Oh. It’s you. What do you want? Gloat some more? Listen, if you want revenge for being imprisoned down here, you’ve got the wrong man. You’ve been here since before I ever set foot in this Castle.”

“I don’t want revenge. I just have some advice, from one prisoner to another. That one, the tall female, she be crazy.”

“Lyn? Yes, I know.”

“But you don’t know all of it. The Orlax, he’s scared of her. He says she’s the Destroyer of Worlds, the one he came to warn all of you humans about, except that you wouldn’t listen, that you never listen.”

“Listen how? No one can even figure out what the Orlax means to say.”

“Well, I’m telling you what the Orlax means to say. He says that one, the tall female, is the Destroyer of Worlds who brought death and destruction to the Orlax’s homeworld and laid waste to entire universes. Now I don’t know if the Orlax is right, but I know that the tall female is crazy. I also know that she likes you. So sing mating songs with her. Make little tadpoles. Anything to stop her from destroying the universe.”

RIBBIT!

“Why do you even care, Frog Monger?”

“Why I care? Because I live in this universe, too. It’s not always been kind to me, but I still live here. And besides, this universe also has nice things like big fat flies, cool ponds and shady swamps. I don’t want all that destroyed.”

RIBBIT!

“So you want me to do what exactly? Offer up my body, so that Lyn won’t destroy the universe?”

“Now you understand, human.”

RIBBIT!

***

In Masters of the Universe: Revelation, Lyn does suffer an existential crisis at the realisation that she lives in an uncaring universe where God is dead and everybody is alone. In many ways, she’s a Lovecraft protagonist faced with the horrors of the cosmos. But while Lovecraft protagonists curl up and go mad, Lyn decides to put the entire universe and everybody in it out of her misery and is only barely stopped by all the heroes and even Skeletor working together.

It is also notable that unlike almost everybody else who wields the Power of Grayskull, Adam does not go mad, does not rip out anybody’s soul nor does he try to destroy the universe because it’s cold and uncaring. However, unlike almost everybody else who wields the Power of Grayskull, Adam also has a strong support system of friends and loved ones.

As for Lyn and Duncan, both of whom are alive and single at the end of Masters of the Universe: Revelation, will they eventually get together? I guess we’ll find out in Masters of the Universe: Revolution next year.

That’s it for today, folks. I hope you enjoyed this Masters-of-the-Universe-Piece Theatre Photo Story, because there will be more.

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters, I just bought some toys, took photos of them and wrote little scenes to go with those photos. All characters are copyright and trademark their respective owners.

Non-Fiction Spotlight: D20 or Die!: Memories of Old School Role-Playing Games from Today’s Grown-Up Kids, edited by Jim Beard

The finalists for the 2023 Hugo Awards still haven’t been announced, though the announcement is expected later this month.

However, after the Hugos is before the next Hugos, so I’m continuing my Non-Fiction Spotlight project, where I interview the authors/editors of SFF-related non-fiction books that come out in 2023 and are eligible for the 2024 Hugo Awards. For more about the Non-Fiction Spotlight project, go here. To check out the spotlights I already posted, go here.

For more recommendations for SFF-related non-fiction, also check out this Facebook group set up by the always excellent Farah Mendlesohn, who is a champion (and author) of SFF-related non-fiction.

I’ve already featured quite a few RPG and gaming related books in the course of the Non-Fiction Spotlight project. Today’s non-fiction spotlight is another RPG related book. However, this time around the focus is less on the development and history of RPGS, but on the experiences and memories of people who played those games as children and teenagers.

So I’m thrilled to welcome Jim Beard, editor of D20 or Die!: Memories of Old School Role-Playing Games from Today’s Grown-Up Kids, to my blog today.

Tell us about your book.

D20 OR DIE! is a collection of essays by writers who grew up with all the classic table-top role-playing games like D&D, Traveller, Call of Cthulhu, Gamma World, etc.

Tell us a little bit about yourself.

I’m a writer, editor, and self-publisher. I have two publishing “houses,” Flinch Books with John C. Bruening, and Becky Books by myself. Becky Books is in honor of my late wife, Becky.

What prompted you to write/edit this book?

It’s the fourth volume in my ongoing “Memories from Today’s Grown-Up Kids” series of childhood recollections and observations. I like to pick tpocs that I know will resonate with pop culture fans, as well as ones that aren’t covered in this way in publishing.

Why should SFF fans in general and Hugo voters in particular read this book?

Because no matter what the theme is, they will see themselves in the personal essays. That’s the beauty of these books, I think, that we all have these shared experiences and we like to see echoes of our own lives in what we read. Beyond that, if you love RPGs and began playing as a kid, you’re going to love this book.

Do you have any cool facts or tidbits that you unearthed during your research, but that did not make it into the final book?

That some of the essayists actually connected with important figures in early gaming, and that the so-called “Satanic Panic” of the 80s impacted people more deeply than I realized.

SFF-related non-fiction is somewhat sidelined by the big genre awards, since the Nebulas have no non-fiction category and the Best Related Work Hugo category has become something of a grab bag of anything that doesn’t fit elsewhere. So why do you think SFF-related non-fiction is important?

Maybe because it gives us that look behind the curtain that many of us love, as well as providing inspiration for burgeoning creators to see what it was like for others at young and impressionable points in their development. I personally really dig knowing how things came together and the sometimes-struggles we never really hear about once things get big and popular.

Are there any other great SFF-related non-fiction works or indeed anything else (books, stories, essays, writers, magazines, films, TV shows, etc…) you’d like to recommend?

Wow! Too many! That said, I’m currently reading the Prequels edition of the STAR WARS ARCHIVES books and enjoying the vintage interviews with George Lucas and his staff while they’re making the films.

Where can people buy your book?

Amazon, Amazon, and Amazon!

Where can people find you?

I’m on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/thebeardjimbeard/, Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/author/jimbeard, and on Twitter @writerjimbeard.

Thank you, Jim, for stopping by and answering my questions. Do check out D20 or Die!: Memories of Old School Role-Playing Games from Today’s Grown-Up Kids, because it’s a great essay collection.

About D20 or Die!: Memories of Old School Role-Playing Games from Today’s Grown-Up Kids:

ROLL FOR INITIATIVE!

A secret society once existed across the land, a roving band of thrill-seekers who defied the conventional pursuits of their elders to take on new personas in strange adventures that would shock the world! In basements, on back porches, and under barn roofs, they rolled the dice to decide their fates, hungry to play the ultimate games of chance!

This titanic tome will transport you back in time to the 1970s and 80s, an era when role-playing games such as Dungeons & Dragons, Champions, and Traveller were new and exciting, attracting kids of all ages to draw fire from dragons, battle baneful bad guys, and surf the spaceways—all from the safety of a common card table.

In D20 or Die! writer-editor Jim Beard acts as a game-playing guru as he expands his “Memories from Today’s Grown-Up Kids” series of pop-culture reminisces to crack the covers of all the classic, old-school, tabletop role-playing games of legend and lore! Just watch those hit points, adventurers!

Cover illustration by M. Mrakota Orsman
Interior design and formatting by Maggie Ryel

About Jim Beard:

Jim Beard pounds out adventure fiction with classic pulp style and flair.

A native Toledoan, he was introduced to comic books at an early age by his father, who passed on to him a love for the medium and the pulp characters who preceded it. After decades of reading, collecting and dissecting comics, Jim became a published writer when he sold a story to DC Comics in 2002. Since that time he’s written official Spider-Man, X-Files, and Planet of the Apes prose fiction, Star Wars and Ghostbusters comic stories, and contributed articles and essays to several volumes of comic book history.

His prose work also includes GOTHAM CITY 14 MILES, a book of essays on the 1966 Batman TV series; SGT. JANUS, SPIRIT-BREAKER, a collection of pulp ghost stories featuring an Edwardian occult detective; MONSTER EARTH, a shared-world giant monster anthology; and CAPTAIN ACTION: RIDDLE OF THE GLOWING MEN, the first pulp prose novel based on the classic 1960s action figure.

Jim is also the co-publisher at Flinch Books, a small-press pulp house.

***

Are you publishing a work of SFF-related longform non-fiction in 2023 and want it featured? Contact me or leave a comment.

First Monday Free Fiction: “Mementos and Memories”

Welcome to the June 2023 edition of First Monday Free Fiction.

To recap, inspired by Kristine Kathryn Rusch who posts a free short story every week on her blog, I’ll post a free story on the first Monday of every month. At the end of the month, I’ll take the story down and post another.

June is Pride Month, so this month’s free story is a sweet gay romance in my In Love and War> space opera series called Mementos and Memories.

So accompany Anjali and Mikhail as they follow the trail of…

Mementos and Memories

The rim world of Sentosa was a planet of oceans and swamps, shrouded in clouds that rarely tore open to let the rays of its sun shine through. Islands were scattered across the world ocean, none of them large enough to qualify as a continent.

The capital Kota Terapung was built on an archipelago, its islands connected by a maze of bridges and causeways. The city was famous for its floating market. Vendors flocked here from all over the planet and beyond to moor their boats along the wooden walkways or dock their spacecraft on the floating platforms. Here — it was said — one could find almost any good, legal or illegal, in the known universe.

A young couple strolled along the wooden walkways of the floating market hand in hand. The man was tall, with pale skin, striking blue eyes and long dark hair that he wore pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He was clad from head to toe in black, boots, utility pants, shirt, topped with a long coat of black synth-leather. On his hip, he wore a blaster, Republican standard military issue. This was Captain Mikhail Alexeievich Grikov, formerly of the Republican Special Commando Forces, now a wanted traitor and deserter.

The woman by his side was a good head shorter, with brown skin, dark eyes and glossy black hair that fell down her back in gentle waves. She was clad in a flowing skirt with a matching top and bejewelled sandals, all in shades of green and maroon. On her waist, she wore a dagger with an ornate crested hilt. A necklace with a striking gold and garnet pendant gleamed at her throat and on her wrist she wore a matching bangle. This was Lieutenant Anjali Patel, formerly of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps, now a wanted traitor and deserter.

Anjali allowed herself to lean against Mikhail and soak up the atmosphere. In many ways, the floating market of Kota Terapung reminded her of the markets of her homeworld of Rajipuri. Of course, the markets of Rajipuri — at least those in the Gurung Highlands, where Anjali had grown up — were on firm ground and not a tangle of boats and walkways. But the calls of the vendors, the array of wares on offer, the smells and the whole atmosphere were similar enough to give her a pang of homesickness.

Anjali ruthlessly swallowed it down. After all, she could never go back to Rajipuri. Neither of them could ever go back. At least, Rajipuri was still there, still safe, still like it had always been. That was more than Mikhail could say for his homeworld.

So she decided to focus on the good things instead. For while she wasn’t sure whether the floating market really offered every good in the known universe, she had found some spice and tea merchants whose selection that could match what would be found on a Rajipuri market.

The food sold here was great as well. There was a bewildering variety of rice and noodle dishes, fried in big pans and inevitably tasty. Other stalls offered bits of tofu or fish or — if you wanted to go really luxurious — chicken stuck on skewers, grilled and served with a spicy peanut sauce. And finally, there was the full bounty of Sentosa’s world ocean, offered in the form of steamed spicy clams, crispy fried shrimps and fish, steamed or fried and coated in spicy chili sauce.

But the floating market had more to offer than weapons, spices and food. For Anjali had also come across some fabric vendors who offered an assortment of tantalising print fabrics with beautiful patterns in bright and cheerful colours. Apparently, fabric dyeing, printing and production was a traditional industry on Sentosa, though the gods alone knew where they found enough dry land to build the factories.

The fabrics were gorgeous, though. They’d make nice skirts or kurtas or maybe even a saree. Cause Anjali hadn’t worn a saree in way too long. Not that she had much opportunity, given their line of work and the fact that they were both on the run.

“You don’t need a new saree,” Anjali told herself firmly. Because those beautiful fabrics didn’t come cheap and money was tight, as it always was with them. And there were so many things they needed more urgently than pretty print fabric for a new saree.

A gust of wind blew across the market, tugging on Anjali’s long flowing skirt. The leaves of the trees that grew in the brackish water around the market rustled and the wind shook loose a plethora of pink and white blossoms, causing them to rain down onto the walkway. Anjali caught one in mid-air and sniffed its sweet, intoxicating scent.

“We’d best find shelter,” Mikhail said to her, “There’s a rainstorm coming.”

Anjali didn’t ask him how he could know that. Unlike her, he’d been here before, just as he’d visited many rim worlds in his time as an operative of the Special Commando Forces. Besides, the locals were suddenly in a hurry as well. And so she just trusted Mikhail and followed along as he quickened his step.

A few seconds later, the rain began to fall in thick drops that quickly turned into a downpour. Puddles formed on the walkway and water splashed up at Anjali’s feet and ankles and drenched the hem of her skirt as she ran.

By the time Mikhail pulled her into the shelter of the awning of a market stall, Anjali was drenched from head to toe. Mikhail had fared somewhat better, if only because his long black synth-leather coat offered more protection.

Anjali looked down at herself. Her top and long skirt were plastered to her body, the hem of her skirt was sprinkled with splotches of dirty water and her hair was a wet tangled mess.

“I look like a drowned puppy,” she said, trying and failing to squeeze the water from her hair.

“No, you don’t.” Mikhail flashed her a fond smile. Rainwater was dripping from his ponytail and formed a little puddle at his feet. “You look beautiful.”

Anjali was about to object to Mikhail’s definition of beautiful, but before she could, he closed her mouth with a quick kiss.

“You’ll always be beautiful to me. Even when you’re dripping wet.”

Kota Terapung was near the equator and the climate was hot and tropical. But nonetheless, the cool rain and the wet clothes clinging to her body made Anjali shiver. So Mikhail pulled her close, crushing her to his chest and wrapped his long black coat around both of them.

“Don’t,” Anjali said, though she made no movement to resist. Instead, she allowed herself to rest against his chest, savouring the warmth and strength of his body, “I’ll only get your clothes wet.”

“I already am wet,” Mikhail whispered into her hair.

“Not like me,” Anjali said, though she still did not even try to pull away. Instead, her treacherous body huddled even closer to him, soaking up his warmth to drive the chill from her bones. “I’m completely soaked and you’ll get soaked, too, if you hold me.”

Mikhail smiled down at her. “Then I’ll get soaked.” Gently, he ran his fingers through her wet hair to untangle it. “It doesn’t matter. Clothes dry and those tropical rain showers never last long.”

Anjali enjoyed the feeling of his hands in her hair, of his body crushed against hers.

“My skirt isn’t just wet, it’s ruined,” she said against his chest. For some reason she could not quite fathom, the thought brought her to the edge of tears. It was silly, she knew. After all, it was only a skirt. But it was her nicest skirt, damn it, made from abhla bharat fabric embroidered with mirror shard highlights. You could only get fabric like that on Rajipuri and Rajipuri might as well have been on the other side of the universe, considering she could never go back there.

Mikhail, on the other hand, was completely unbothered. “Then we’ll get you a new skirt,” he whispered, still fuzzing with her hair, “You liked the fabric we saw earlier, didn’t you?”

“It’s too expensive…” Anjali replied, well aware how weak her protest sounded.

“We can afford it,” Mikhail said and planted a kiss onto her forehead, “And you’re worth it.”

“It’s frivolous.”

“Maybe it is. But sometimes, you need to buy frivolous things. Because frivolous things make us happy.”

“We can’t afford…”

Mikhail closed her mouth with a kiss again.

“Of course, we can.” He ran his hands through her wet hair. “There are so many things I want to give you. A stable home, the best weapons, the nicest clothes and jewellery to match every single thing that you wear. I’d give you all that and more, if I could. If I still were an officer of the Special Commando Forces, paid a ridiculously high salary I never used up anyway, because I had no one to spend it on.”

He paused, a hint of frustration entering his voice.

“But I can’t. All that was taken away, just when I had finally found a good use for it. And yes, I know we don’t have much money and I know that living the fugitive life is expensive. But damn it, sometimes I just want to buy something stupid and frivolous to make you happy. Because what sort of man would I be, if I couldn’t even do that.”

“You’re the best man anybody could ask for,” Anjali whispered against his chest, “And I don’t need you to buy me things. Because I’ve already got the greatest gift. I’ve got you.”

“I know I don’t need to give you anything,” Mikhail said, “But I want to.”

He pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth, a long, lingering kiss that stole Anjali’s breath away and made her forget the world around her, made her forget the rain and that she’d ruined her favourite skirt and that they had no money and that half the universe was hunting them. Made her forget everything but Mikhail and that she loved him and always would.

After a while — Anjali didn’t know how long, except that it was still too short — their lips parted, because even with the military grade medical nano agents coursing through both their bloodstreams, they still needed to breathe.

“The rain has stopped,” Mikhail said, as he let go of her, “We’d best get back to the inn, so we can both change into something dry.”

“That makes sense,” Anjali said, though in truth all she wanted to do was kiss him, kiss him until the universe exploded and turned into a cold, chaotic place, even colder and more chaotic than it already was.

Reluctantly, she let go of Mikhail and returned to the real world, still wet, but no longer quite as cold. Water was still dripping from the awning, but the rain itself had stopped.

She realised that the two of them had been pressed against a market stall and that the bemused vendor, a women with greying hair, clad in a sarong kebaya made from the kind of colourful fabric that Anjali had been admiring earlier, had been watching them the entire time. And because Anjali felt a bit guilty about using the awning of the woman’s stall for shelter, even though they didn’t intend to buy anything, she decided to at least take a look at the wares on offer.

The stall was selling jewellery and decorative objects, mostly second hand and all displayed in a wild jumble. Anjali even spotted a Rajipuri made lamp and a few examples of Rajipuri jewellery, mostly the cheap glass and brass stuff. Then she froze. Because there, amid a jumble of cheap pearl necklaces and glass bangles, sat a Shakyri dagger, twin to the one she wore on her waist.

“What’s wrong?” Mikhail asked quietly.

Anjali pointed at the dagger.

“Where did you get that?” she asked the vendor, sharper than she had intended.

The woman promptly launched into her spiel. “Ah, I see you’ve got a keen eye for interesting objects.” She picked up the dagger to which she had no right and it took all of Anjali’s self-control not to knock it from the woman’s hand. “And this is the piece of the highest quality. Imported from the Empire, handmade…”

“…the blade forged from the titanium steel stabiliser coils of decommissioned starships,” Anjali whispered, “Yes, I know.”

“I see you are a true connoisseur, madame,” the vendor continued, “And for a true connoisseur, I’m always willing to make a good price.”

“We’re not looking to buy,” Anjali said and shifted, so the woman could get a good look at the dagger on her waist.

“Oh, I see you already have a companion piece,” the woman said, “In that case, I’m going to make you an extra good price.”

“I don’t want to buy,” Anjali snarled, leaning across the table into the woman’s face, “I just want to know where you got this.”

The vendor was taken aback. “Why so hostile? I promise you, you won’t find another blade of this quality on the entire floating market and you won’t find as good a price anywhere either.”

“No, I won’t find another blade of this quality here,” Anjali repeated, “Because this isn’t supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to have it.”

Mikhail put a calming hand on her shoulder.

“I think this honoured lady might be unaware what exactly this dagger means,” he said smoothly in the Imperial tongue. But then Mikhail had always been the diplomatic one. “For you see, this…” He pointed at the symbol on the hilt. “…is the crest of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps. Surely, you’ve heard of them. The Empire’s elite warriors, the fiercest and most fearsome hand-to-hand fighters in the entire galaxy. Sounds hyperbolic, but I assure you it’s all true.”

The woman eyes them warily, suddenly defensive. “As I said, this blade is Imperial made. Of course, they’d use an Imperial crest.”

“It’s not just a crest,” Mikhail continued, perfectly polite, but with a subtle hint of menace in his voice, “These daggers are the signature weapon of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps and only Shakyri warriors are authorised to carry them. Furthermore, a Shakyri warrior is never parted from their dagger, not even in death. And so my partner and I are of course curious how you came by such a rare and unusual piece.”

The woman glanced from Mikhail to Anjali to the dagger at her waist. Sweat appeared on her brow and she took a step backwards.

“I didn’t steal it,” she said, her hands raised in defence, “I swear I didn’t. I’m an honest trader. I don’t deal in stolen or forged goods.”

“No one is accusing you of anything,” Mikhail assured her, “We merely want to know where you got this most unusual piece.”

The woman crumpled. “I got it from a man called Wayan Sampono. He… well, he sometimes drops by and sells stuff. I suspect the things he sells are stolen, but…” She lowered her eyes. “…Sampono is not a man you refuse.”

“Where do we find this Sampono?” Anjali demanded.

“He hangs out at the Sundirman Coffee House. White suit, rakishly tilted hat, pretends he’s a vid star. You really can’t miss him.”

“Thank you very much,” Mikhail said with a short bow, “One more thing. About that dagger…”

“Take it.” The woman all but thrust the dagger at them. “If this thing will bring down the wrath of the Empire upon my humble stall, then I don’t want it.”

“Thank you.” Mikhail accepted the dagger and handed it to Anjali. “I assure you that the Empire will not target you over something that you had no knowledge of. And besides, you did do your best to help us in our inquiries. Just one more question: Did this Mr. Sampono sell you anything else together with this dagger?”

The woman scrunched her already wrinkled forehead, trying to remember. “A ring,” she finally said, “Nothing special and not from the Empire either, I bet. Wait a second…” She rummaged through her offerings and produced a ring. “…here it is. You can take this one, too. If it’s stolen I don’t want it.”

Anjali accepted the ring and put it into a pocket of her utility pants along with the dagger.

Meanwhile, Mikhail bowed formally to the woman. “The Empire thanks you for your assistance and offers you this token of our gratitude.” He handed her a bill of the local paper money.

The woman accepted it and shoved it into a hidden pocket in her sarong. “I don’t supposed you have any Imperial thalers,” she grumbled.

Anjali shot her a sharp look. “Don’t push your luck.”

“You really do want a quick trip to the gallows, don’t you?” Anjali hissed as they walked away, hand in hand.

Mikhail shot her a questioning look, so she added, “Impersonating an officer of the Empire is a crime punishable by death.”

Mikhail shrugged. “It got the lady to talk, didn’t it? Sometimes a little friendly persuasion is all that’s needed.”

“It’s still a capital crime.”

“Your people would hang me anyway…” Abruptly, Mikhail paused and pulled her close. “…for stealing the Empire’s greatest treasure.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips. “And no, I’m not sorry. Cause some rewards are worth the risk.”

Anjali shook her head. “You’re crazy.”

Mikhail smiled. “Takes one to know one.”

The found a spot where the walkway widened and paused. Anjali pulled the dagger out of her pocket to examine it.

“We need to return this to its owner,” she said, “Or their family.”

“Is there any way to find out to whom the dagger was issued?” Mikhail asked.

Anjali nodded. “Service number engraved just below the hilt.”

She pulled the dagger out of its sheath just enough to see the number.

“This is old,” she said, “Imperial service numbers are consecutive. Mine is 8947351. This is 7856031.”

“Any chance of matching the service number to a person?”

“If I still had access to the Imperial military database, sure. But they deleted my log-in, when I…” Even after more than a year, Anjali still couldn’t bring herself to say “defected”. “…quit.”

Mikhail shot her a devilish grin.

“Then we’ll use mine. Or rather Brian Mayhew’s. I’m sure he won’t mind. After all, it’s for a good cause.”

They found a public info terminal and Anjali watched Mikhail call up and log into the Imperial military database.

“How does Brian Mayhew of all people have access to our military database anyway?” Anjali wanted to know, scandalised on behalf of an Empire that wanted her dead. For Colonel Brian Mayhew of the Special Commando Forces was Mikhail’s former commanding officer and a nasty piece of work besides.

“The same way your spies get access to ours, I bet,” Mikhail replied, “And don’t worry, this is only the most basic level of access. Looking up service numbers, public service records and the like. Everything confidential requires much more hacking.”

“Did you look up my service record?” Anjali wanted to know. Though even if he had, he wouldn’t have found anything. For everything she’d been, everything she’d done, everything she’d achieved had been erased the day she went rogue.

Mikhail paused and looked at her. “I know who you are. I don’t care who the Empire thinks you are.”

He finished tapping the service number on the dagger into the terminal.

“Uhm, this can’t be right. It says ‘Entry not found’.”

“Maybe you mistyped the number.”

So Mikhail tried again, with the same result.

“Does the Empire purge older records?” he asked.

Anjali shook her head. “The database is maintained all the way back to the very first men, women and non-binaries to serve the Empire.”

“And you’re sure this is the real thing and not a forgery?” Mikhail probed.

“Of course. I know a Shakyri dagger when I see one. And besides, no one would dare to forge a Shakyri dagger. It…”

“…carries a mandatory death sentence,” Mikhail completed, “Yes, I know. So, do you have any idea why the owner of this dagger is not in the database?”

“Maybe,” Anjali admitted, “Though it can’t be.”

“As a wise man from Old Earth once said, ‘If you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’. So what is your theory?”

“When a Shakyri warrior or any other member of the Imperial Forces is disgraced, their name is stricken from the public register. Those with a higher security clearance can still access the relevant records, of course, but for everybody else it is as that person never existed. If you entered my service number into that database, you wouldn’t find anything either.”

Mikhail reached out and squeezed her shoulder. He knew how painful losing her career still was for her, even more than a year later.

“As a theory, this makes sense though,” he said, “We cannot find the owner of the dagger in the database, because they are disgraced and were erased.”

“But that can’t be,” Anjali said, “No Shakyri warrior has ever left the Corps in disgrace.” She lowered her eyes. “Until I came along.”

“How can you know that?” Mikhail countered, “If the public records are erased, you’d never learn about it, unless you had access to the confidential files.”

“There would be stories, rumours, cautionary tales,” Anjali insisted.

“Not if it was too long enough ago,” Mikhail said, “After all, you said this was an old service number. It’s quite possible that no one currently serving remembers.”

“The great Vijaya Rai lived more than seventy years ago and we still remember her.”

“Yes, but a heroine is good for propaganda purposes. A disgraced warrior not so much. Still, it seems this is not going to help us find the legitimate owner of the dagger.” Mikhail logged out and shut down the terminal. “So, any other ideas?”

“That ring,” Anjali said, “That woman she got it together with the dagger, so it might offer a clue.” She fished in her pocket for the ring, pulled it out and examined it.

The vendor had been right. This ring wasn’t from the Empire. It was too ugly and too shoddily made, a chunky thing of gilded brass with some kind of insignia and a blue synth-stone. There was an inscription, too. “Sworn to uphold liberty and equality”.

“I have no idea what this is,” Anjali said and handed the ring to Mikhail, who suddenly became very still.

“I do,” he said quietly, “Such rings are worn by graduates of the Republican Flight Academy — fighter pilots. Not quite as exclusive as a Shakyri dagger, but not something you’d willingly sell or give away either.”

Anjali wasn’t surprised that the ring was Republican. After all, it was chunky and ugly, like all their designs. However, there was one question that remained.

“How in the universe did a disgraced Shakyri warrior come by the ring of a Republican fighter pilot?”

“Or how did a Republican fighter pilot come by the dagger of a disgraced Shakyri warrior?” Mikhail asked.

“A trophy maybe?” Anjali suggested, “The Shakyri warrior took out the Republican pilot and kept the ring.”

“Or the Republican pilot somehow managed to take out the Shakyri warrior and kept the dagger,” Mikhail said.

“That would never have happened,” Anjali said, “No offence, but you guys have never been good enough to take us down in a fair fight. And besides, this ring belonged to a fighter pilot. Shakyri warriors are hand to hand fighters. It’s unlikely that their paths ever crossed.”

“Or maybe both items belong to a collector of military memorabilia,” Mikhail suggested, “Both have a high sentimental value and are not easy to come by. A challenge for any collector. Still, there’s only one way to find out.”

Anjali nodded. “We must talk to Wayan Sampono at the Sundirman Coffee House.”

***

The Sundirman Coffee House was a floating structure of glass and steel that had been built around the trunk of one of the large mangrove trees that flanked the walkways of the floating market. It was a pleasant, airy place with tables and chairs scattered under a natural roof of leaves and blossoms with clear plastic sheets warding off the rain showers.

They spotted Wayan Sampono at once. He was lounging at a table near the trunk, sipping a cup of flat white. As the woman from the market had said, he was clad in a white suit with a black shirt and a rakishly tilted white hat with a black band. His skin was brown, his hair was black and he had a pencil thin moustache. A golden necklace gleamed at his throat. He couldn’t have looked any more like a gangster, if he’d tried.

Anjali and Mikhail casually strolled over to Wayan Sampono’s table and sat down.

“Excuse me, but this table is occupied,” Sampono began, “Fucking tourists.”

“We’re not tourists,” Anjali said.

“We’re here on business,” Mikhail added.

“No business without appointment,” Sampono snapped, “And certainly not with people I don’t know.”

Mikhail shrugged. “Well, if you don’t want to make money, a lot of money, that’s your choice.” He nodded to Anjali. “Come on.”

“Wait,” Sampono said, “I have a bit of time, so it can’t hurt to listen to what you have to say. But I’m warning you, my next client is arriving in…” He glanced at an ostentatious gold watch. “…ten minutes.”

“We’ll only need five,” Mikhail said.

They were interrupted by a waitress in a brown and cream sarong. “Good afternoon. What may I bring you?”

“A double espresso for me and a cappuccino for my partner,” Mikhail ordered.

“And put it on his tab,” Anjali added and pointed at Sampono who glared at her.

“So about this business?” Sampano asked, once the waitress had left, “And make it quick, cause the clock’s ticking.”

In response, Anjali pulled out the dagger and the ring and placed both on the table.

“You sold these to a woman who runs a stall near the intersection of the Meradang and Talabessy walkways,” she said, “We want to know where you got it.”

“Ah, so Megawati Sumadi sent you,” Sampono said with a dismissive wave of his hand, “Whatever she told you, it’s a lie. Megawati is the biggest fence and the worst scammer on the whole floating market.”

So much for the woman’s “I’m just an honest trader” spiel.

“Did you sell these objects to Megawati Sumadi?” Mikhail asked.

“So what if I did? What’s it to you?”

“Simple,” Anjali said, “These objects were stolen.”

“If Megawati sold them to you? Sure they were. Again, what’s it to you?”

In response, Mikhail leant across the table, making sure that his blaster was visible. “These objects are the property of a citizen of the Empire of Worlds. We’d like to reunite them with their lawful owner. So if you’d just tell us who that is, we’ll be on our way.”

Sampono could have made it easy on himself and just given them a name or an address. But no, he had to be obstinate.

“The Empire has no jurisdiction here.”

Anjali shifted to reveal her own dagger, though she did not draw it, not yet. “In cases of extremely grievous crimes, such as stealing a weapon that only the members of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps may carry, the Empire needs no jurisdiction.”

“And the Empire’s justice is swift and deadly,” Mikhail added.

They were interrupted once again by the waitress who brought them their coffee. Anjali took a leisurely sip, savouring the frothy milk foam.

Mikhail took a sip of his espresso, never taking his eyes of Sampono.

“So, if you do not wish to experience the Empire’s justice first hand, I’d suggest you tell us what you want to know now.”

Part of Anjali hoped that Sampono would remain obstinate, if only because that would allow her to get some payback for the theft of a Shakyri dagger. But Sampono, coward that he was, folded.

“All right, all right, I’ll tell you. I got it from some old man in Sebutang. A fisherman, occasionally rents out boats to tourists. The bastard caught me and gave me a thrashing, too. Probably would’ve put me in hospital or worse, if I hadn’t shocked him.”

Mikhail and Anjali exchanged a glance. “I guess we can put ‘assaulting an Imperial citizen’ on the tally as well then,” Anjali said.

Sampono pulled out a white cloth handkerchief and wiped some sweat off his brow.

“No, please, I beg you. I didn’t know he was an Imperial citizen. I thought he was a local, just some old man. And I don’t know where he got those things either, honest. You have to believe me.”

In response, Mikhail and Anjali downed their coffee and got up.

“All right, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Mikhail said, “But be warned, if we find out that you lied…”

“…we’ll be back,” Anjali completed.

“You’ve done it again,” she whispered to Mikhail, as they left the coffee house.

“Done what?”

“Impersonated an officer of the Empire.”

“Which is a capital offence. Yes, I know. But they can’t hang me twice. Or three times, for that matter.”

***

Sebutang was a fishing village an hour’s boat ride from Kota Terapung. The place was idyllic and peaceful, not unlike the holiday resort on Brahimi Prime where Anjali and Mikhail first met more than a year ago.

Houses on stilts, linked by walkways, were set among a cluster of mangrove trees. Like those at the floating market, the trees were in full bloom, raining petals down onto the walkways.

A few questions about an offworlder who fishes and rents out boats to tourists brought Anjali and Mikhail to the door of a pleasant little house with an orange roof and shutters of the same colour. Colourful windchimes with a thousand tiny bells dangled from the porch, filling the air with gentle music.

“Those chimes are from Rajipuri,” Anjali whispered to Mikhail.

“Looks like we’re on the right trail then.”

Hand in hand, Anjali and Mikhail walked up walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

There was no camera spy eye. The door simply opened, revealing an old man with brown skin and silver white hair. A golden band gleamed on his finger and he was clad in the traditional lungi and batik shirt combination favoured by the men of Sentosa, but nonetheless, he was unmistakably a son of Rajipuri.

“Can I help you?” he asked in accented Standard, “If you’re here to rent a boat, I’m afraid that they’re all out.”

“We’re not here to rent a boat,” Anjali replied in the language of Rajipuri, the language of both their ancestors. She reached into her pocket and held out the dagger, hilt first. “We’re here to return your property.”

“Who is it, dear?” a voice called out from within the house.

The old man gave Anjali and Mikhail a strange look, taking in the dagger on Anjali’s waist. “You’re not here to arrest me, are you?” he asked in the language of Rajipuri with the accent of the tropical province of Thimandoo, “Or take me out? Not after all this time.”

Anjali shook her head. “Whatever happened, it is not our business. We just want to return something that should never have been taken from you in the first place.”

“You’d best come in then,” the old man said.

Unbidden, Anjali took off her sandals and stepped inside. Mikhail followed her lead, struggling with his impractical Republican military issue combat boots.

Not long thereafter, Anjali and Mikhail were sitting on a rattan two-seater. The old man bustled in the kitchen and returned, bearing a tray with tea, proper chai masala, and a type of flat round biscuits Anjali did not recognise.

He was followed by another man of a similar age, though this man clearly was no son of Rajipuri. His skin was pale, his hair white, his eyes a watery blue, giving him a washed out look that even his dark blue utility pants with a matching shirt could not dispel.

“I am Sergeant Gautam Dasgupta, formerly of the Imperial Shakyri Expeditionary Corps,” the old man introduced himself, “But I guess you know that already.”

“Not your name,” Anjali said and introduced herself and Mikhail in turn.

“And this…” Gautam Dasgupta seamlessly switched to Standard. “…is my husband, Henk Ten Bos. After more than forty years, he still doesn’t speak the language of the homeworld, so we’ll have to switch to the Republican tongue.”

“And after more than forty years, he still can’t bring himself to call it Standard like the rest of the universe,” Henk Ten Bos added with a fond smile.

Mikhail pulled the ring out of his pocket and placed it on the table. “I suspect this is yours then. Where are you from? Van Houten?”

Henk Ten Bos nodded. “What gave me away? The accent?” He picked up the ring and returned it to his finger above his wedding band.

Mikhail shook his head and pointed at the platter of biscuits. “The stroopwafels. They only make those on Van Houten.” He took one, broke it in two and handed the other half to Anjali.

“And you’re from Jagellowsk, I’d say,” Henk said, “I’m very sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Mikhail replied.

“Still…” Henk turned to his husband, a twinkle in his eyes. “…I don’t think we have to worry that these two will rat us out, if either the Empire or the Republic even still care. After all, it seems like they’re in the same situation.”

Mikhail smiled. “Indeed, we are. But I don’t think we have to worry that you’ll rat us out either. But if I may ask a question, how…?”

“…did an officer of the Shakyri Corps and a hotshot Republican fighter pilot ever get together?” Henk shot a fond look at his husband. “Do you want to tell them or shall I?”

“I was on a mission in Thayame,” Gautam Dasgupta began, “Alone in hostile territory, when I came across a downed Republican fighter. The pilot was wounded, but still alive, so I decided to take him prisoner for the glory of the Empire.”

“And I promptly proceeded to seduce him into letting me go,” Henk added with a devilish smile, “Never mind that he was very handsome and very dashing.”

“And so were you,” Gautam added, “Anyway, by the time I could rejoin my squad, I couldn’t bring myself to hand him over to my commander. And so I let him go, promising myself that this would be the end of it, that we’d never see each other again.”

“But of course we did see each other again,” Henk continued, “We met in secret on neutral worlds, when we were both on leave.”

“And so it went for two long years,” Gautam added.

“And then you ran off together?” Anjali asked.

“Of course not,” Gautam replied.

“Is that what you did?” Henk asked, “Cause in that case, the Empire and the Republic must be after you like the devil after a doomed soul.”

“It was either defect or die,” Mikhail said, “Not much of a choice really.”

Gautam nodded thoughtfully. “For a Shakyri, it shouldn’t be a choice at all. Or so the propaganda says.”

“So you were unlucky and got caught?” Henk wanted to know.

Anjali shook her head. “I was unlucky and got caught,” she said, “By him.”

Mikhail took a sip of tea. “I was an operative, supposed to seduce and capture a Shakyri warrior for the good of the Republic. So I did. Only to find that I couldn’t hand her over to the Scientific Council, knowing what they’d do to her.”

“And I tried to do my duty to the Empire, tried to make sure that I wouldn’t be taken alive.” Anjali lowered her eyes, part of her still ashamed at her failure. “But he wouldn’t let me…”

She nibbled on her waffle. It tasted of caramel, filled with a layer of toffee-like syrup.

“And since neither of us could ever go back, we decided to make a run for it and head for the rim,” Mikhail finished.

“With both the Empire and the Republic hot on your tails,” Henk said, “I can vividly imagine. In many ways, we were luckier than the two of you, it seems. We were always careful and no one ever suspected anything.”

“We both handed in our resignations and retired to Sentosa, where we got married,” Gautam explained, “We’d picked this world because it was neutral and far away from everything and because reminded me of the coast of Thimandoo.”

“That was… what… forty-three years ago,” Henk added, “We’ve been here ever since. Not that we could ever go back to either Rajipuri or Van Houten, even if we wanted to. Though I don’t miss it. Except for the chocolate and the stroopwafels. And the cheese. No one here can make decent cheese.”

“You have stroopwafels,” Mikhail pointed out.

“Imported, yes, and they’re not bad. But not as good as fresh and homemade.”

“But the Corps must have found out about you eventually,” Anjali said carefully, “We checked your service number…”

“…and got ‘Entry not found’. Yes, I know. My commander disapproved of me anyway, because of who I am and because I retired, though Shakyri are supposed to die gloriously in battle. And when he heard that I’d left the Empire and got married to a Republican man…”

“And I still don’t know which of the two was worse, Republican or man,” Henk piped in.

“…he was furious.”

“He couldn’t do anything about it, of course,” Henk added, “After all, it’s not illegal to emigrate to a neutral rim world, meet someone there and marry them. And no one knew that we’d known each other before.”

“But my commander promised me that he’d have me disgraced and stricken from the records of the Shakyri Corps,” Gautam continued, “Which he did.”

“The Republic doesn’t exactly like me, either,” Henk added, “Again, there’s nothing they can do about it, but marrying an enemy is still frowned upon. And marrying a Shaykri warrior… well, you know that the Scientific Council would just love to capture one alive.”

Anjali and Mikhail nodded, for they knew only too well.

“They sent operatives and bounty hunters after us, but we dealt with them.”

Gautam did not elaborate, but Anjali knew what he meant. He was a Shakyri warrior, after all, and the oceans of Sentosa were deep. Deep enough to hide the bodies.

“Though I think they’ve lost interest by now,” Gautam continued, “At any rate, we haven’t had any trouble with either the Empire or the Republic in more than twenty years. When I caught that bastard breaking in here, I at first thought he was a bounty hunter. But it turns out he was only a common thief.”

“A common thief who managed to get you with a shockstick,” Henk pointed out.

“I’m no longer as young as I was and besides, I gave him a good thrashing first,” Gautam countered.

He turned back to Anjali and Mikhail. “But anyway, we thank you for returning the dagger and the ring. Maybe it’s wrong to be so attached to mementos of a life that’s no longer ours, that hasn’t been ours in a long time now…”

“But they remind you of who you were,” Anjali said.

“And who you fell in love with,” Mikhail added.

Gautam picked up the dagger and fastened it to his waist. “You know, I haven’t even used this in nigh twenty years now. But I still missed it. After all, it’s the only memento I have left of the man I used to be. Though I don’t miss the Shakyri…”

“…or the Republican Fighter Corps,” Henk added.

The two old men reached for each other’s hand.

“Because what we have now is so much better,” they said as one.

The End

***

Author’s Note: Of Floating Markets, Stroopwafels and Jack Reacher

Like several stories in the In Love and War series, Mementos and Memories was born during the July short story challenge, an annual event where the idea is to write a short story per day during the month of July.

The inspiration for Mementos and Memories was somewhat unusual, because it was the blurb for a completely different book, namely the 2017 Jack Reacher novel The Midnight Line by Lee Child. According to the blurb, Reacher sees a West Point class ring on display in the window of a pawn shop. Since no one would willingly sell such a ring, he tries to find the owner of the ring and — being Jack Reacher — promptly lands himself in deep trouble.

When I read that blurb for The Midnight Line in the Bültmann & Gerriets bookshop in Oldenburg, I thought, “Actually, that would make a great inciting event for an In Love and War story.” And since I was doing the July short story challenge at the time, I decided to write it. So I sent Mikhail and Anjali to the floating market and made them come across a stolen Shakyri dagger.

A lot of the settings for the In Love and War stories have been inspired by pieces of concept art, but not Mementos and Memories. Instead, instead the ocean world of Sentosa with its walkways, mangroves and floating market appeared fully formed in front of my mind’s eye. Though Sentosa does bear some similarities to the way the planet Venus was depicted in science fiction stories of the 1930s and 1940s — a lush and tropical world of oceans, swamps and jungles. And I just happened to read several Golden Age science fiction stories set on Venus for the 1944 Retro Hugos at around the same time I was doing the July short story challenge.

The planet of Sentosa was named after an island resort off the coast of Singapore, that briefly found itself at the centre of international attention, when the summit between US-president Donald Trump and North Korean leader Kim Jong-un took place there in 2018, some thirty-five years after I visited the island as a young child. The name of the capital Kota Terapung means “floating city” in Indonesian. And indeed, the names, clothing, culture and food suggest that the original settlers of the planet Sentosa hailed from Indonesia, Malaysia and Singapore.

Food normally plays a big role in the In Love and War stories and indeed, most of the author’s notes for the series involve either food or recipes. By the standards of the series, food features comparatively little in Mementos and Memories. The only food item explicitly named are stroopwafels, the syrup-filled Dutch waffle cookies that Henk ten Bos is so fond of.

Though the blurb for The Midnight Line was the initial inspiration for Mementos and Memories, I haven’t actually read the novel yet, so I have no idea where Lee Child took his story. Mine eventually led to a sweet elderly couple, a tale of forbidden love and the realisation that in an eighty-eight year conflict, Anjali and Mikhail can hardly be the first Republican-Imperial couple to fall in love against all odds.

That said, there are some similarities between the Jack Reacher books and the In Love and War stories in that both follow the same basic pattern of an ex-military protagonist (or two, in the case of Anjali and Mikhail) who travel around the US/the universe to solve other people’s problems. It is a very common pattern. For example, The A-Team and — without the military angle — The Fugitive and the 1970s Incredible Hulk TV-show also have the same basic premise. Furthermore, I suspect that Anjali and Mikhail would get along just swell with Jack Reacher or the A-Team or Dr. Richard Kimble or the Incredible Hulk, should they ever find themselves in the same universe.

***

That’s it for this month’s edition of First Monday Free Fiction. Check back next month, when a new free story will be posted.

Cora’s Adventures at Metropol Con in Berlin, Part 2: The Con

As you probably know, I was at Metropol Con, a new SFF convention in Berlin, last week. For my pre-con wanderings around Berlin, check out this post. And now, let’s get to the con itself.

Day 1: Thursday, May 18, 2023:

Thursday, May 18, 2023, was a public holiday (Ascension Day) in Germany. It was also the first day of Metropol Con. I got up around half past eight and got dressed, including attaching my Hugo pins to my t-shirt. Then I had breakfast at one of the Turkish cafés in the area. There was a great Turkish bakery and café called Simit 24, operated by three generations of Turkish Berlin women (we jokingly called them “the new three ladies of the barbecue” after a popular 1980s German TV show about three generations of Berlin women operating a sausage stand), right across from the con venue.

Turkish breakfast, courtesy of Café Simit 24.

After breakfast, I headed for Metropol Con. It was not a long trip, all I had to do was walk through a public park named after Max Josef Metzger, a Catholic priest executed by the Nazis who was the parish priest of the St. Joseph Church directly opposite the park.

The Catholic St. Joseph Church in the Wedding neighbourhood of Berlin, completed in 1909.

The so-called Ruin Column in Max Josef Metzger Park in the Wedding neighbourhood of Berlin commemorates the rebuilding of Berlin after WWII. The column consist of rubble of bumbed out houses and businesses.

Just in case you missed Metropol Con, someone drew this chalk sign onto the pavement outside the venue.

The con was held at the silent green cultural center in the Wedding neighbourhood of Berlin. Now is probably as good a time as any to talk about the very unique con venue. Cause before it became a cultural center, silent green used to be a crematorium.

Another sign points towards Metropol Con.

There’s a detailed history of the crematorium on the website of the silent green cultural center. The short version is that cremation was considered controversial in Germany for religious reasons well into the 20th century. An atheist group lobbied to build a columbarium and mourning hall next to the Wedding cemetery. The columbarium and mourning hall were completed in 1909 and expanded with a crematorium in 1912. The crematorium was expanded several times since then, the last time in the 1990s, until it was shut down in 2002 and converted into cultural center and events venue. The result is a striking and ever so slightly morbid ensemble of buildings.

But see for yourself:

The former Wedding crematorium, now the silent green cultural center, seen through the entrance archway. Note the stylized flames on the gate.

The domed mourning hall and columbarium of the silent green cultural center with the chimney of the actual crematorium rising behind the building.

A closer look at the mourning hall and courtyard through the gates of the complex.

Griffin gargoyles guard the gate to the mourning and columbarium.

The domed mourning hall of the silent green cultural center.

A female figure in a long robe adorns the entrance to the domed mourning hall of the silent green complex. The figure was kept deliberately neutral and might depict a Christian saint or a pagan goddess or a female mourner.

The mourning hall and columbarium complex is certainly an evocative and fascinating building and made for a great con venue.

Viewed from the walkway of the adjacent building, the silent green columbarium looks almost like a medieval castle.

Since my hotel was only about 350 meters from the con, I arrived fairly early, when the line at registration was only two people ahead of me. I also ran into the first people I knew before I even got the registration desk, which is always a sign that you’ll have a great con.

The Metropol Con banner adorns the former administration building of the crematorium that has now been converted into panel rooms.

Since I’m the first and so far only German person to win a Hugo, I got several in person congratulations. I was also asked to sign things – a laptop, that was later auctioned off, two postcards and a book (not one of mine, but someone had everybody he met sign a book purchased in the dealers room). Of course, people also wanted to see the trophy – which of course was at home, because it weighs 4.5 kilograms – but luckily I had photos on my phone. Though I should probably find a better way to organise them, so I don’t have to scroll through umpteen unrelated photos to get to the Hugo.

My Metropol Con badge with ribbons and a Glasgow 2024 button.

Once I got my badge and wristband, I descended into the bowels of the silent green cultural center – quite literally, since much of the complex is underground, accessed via a ramp wide enough for a truck. It’s very practical and also easy enough to descend… at least until you remember what the ramp was originally for.

The ramp leading down into the bowels of the silent green cultural center.

At the bottom of the ramp, there was an area with notice boards, a freebie table and a giant Playmobil Mr. Spock who greeted con goers. The Mr. Spock figure was later auctioned off to help pay for the con.

At the bottom of the ramp, this giant Playmobil Mr. Spock greets visitors.

Notice boards with information about other upcoming cons. Dave Lally painstakingly set these up.

Another notice board with information about upcoming cons.

Beyond the notice boards and freebie tables, there was a subterranean bar called the “Betonbar” (concrete bar), because this part of the silent green cultural center is very much a concrete bunker. It would probably survive a nuclear strike and would also be an excellent place to hole up during the zombie apocalypse. Yet another level down was a large open space that was once used to store bodies and now served as the dealers room, exhibition space and gaming area.

A look across the gaming and exhibition area at Metropol Con.

The exhibition space hosted a travelling exhibition about literature in East Germany as well as an exhibition dedicated to the late Austrian science fiction writer and computer art pioneer Herbert W. Franke.

“Leseland DDR” (Reading country GDR) is a travelling exhibition about literature in East Germany that was displayed at Metropol Con.

The “Leseland DDR” exhibition had sections on various genres, including an extensive section about science fiction in East Germany.

More of the science fiction section of the exhibition about East German literature at Metropol Con. This exhibition just won the Kurd Laßwitz Preis.

An exhibition dedicated to the pioneering computer artwork by Austrian science fiction writer and artist Herbert W. Franke.

Because it was still fairly early and there wasn’t a lot of programming yet, I took a stroll through the exhibition area and the dealers room. I chatted with people and also purchased yet more books, though once again I womanfully restricted myself to only two books. If you’ve been keeping count, means I had six books to take home now versus two books I’d bought to Metropol Con to donate to the auction.

I also bought a Metropol Con mug, which meant that I also had two mugs to take home now, since I’d bought a souvenir as a present for my Dad.

A look across the vast dealers room at Metropol Con.

Another look at the Metropol Con dealers room

One last look at the Metropol Con dealers room.

Once I emerged from the catacombs of the silent green cultural center, I realised that I was lugging around two books and a mug, so I took them back to the hotel. Then I returned to the con, had a coffee and a chicken banh mi sandwich and attended a panel on science fiction in East Germany.

Now I do have a bit of experience with East German SF as a reader. Because when I was a kid, my Great-Aunt Metel, who lived in East Germany, would send me books and records for my birthday and Christmas, because books and records were fairly easily available in East Germany. Once she figured out I liked “space books”, she sent me science fiction books. Some of them were translated editions of East European authors like Stanislaw Lem and the Strugatsky brothers. Others were SF novels by East German authors. However, I don’t really have any systematic knowledge of East German SF, I just read whatever my aunt (or whoever went book shopping on her behalf, since Aunt Metel hardly ever left the house) could snag at the bookstore.

So in order to learn more about something I only have a cursory knowledge of, I not only bought a non-fiction book about East German science fiction in the dealers room, but also decided to attend a panel on the subject. The panelists were science fiction scholar Hans Frey, science fiction writer, critic and scholar Dietmar Dath, science fiction writer Emma Braslavsky (international readers may know her as the author of the story upon which the movie I’m You Man was based) and science fiction writer Karlheinz Steinmüller, who co-wrote Andymon, voted the best East German science fiction novel of all time in 1989, with his wife Angela Steinmüller. Braslavsky and Steinmüller grew up in East Germany, Dath and Frey in West Germany. Below you can see my photo of the panelists, which isn’t very good. A better photo of the same panel by Roger Murmann is here.

The panel on “Science fiction in East Germany” featuring – from left to right – Karlheinz Steinmüller (half hidden behind someone’s head), Emma Braslavsky, Dietmar Dath (also half-hidden behind someone’s head) and Hans Frey.

The panel was very interesting and went into what distinguished East German science fiction from West German and Western science fiction in general. One of the points made was that since East Germany has an official vision of what the future would look like, namely a Socialist utopia, the questions East German science fiction asked was not so much, “What will the future look like?”, because they already knew, but “How do we get there?” and “How do we do this?” The above-mentioned novel Andymon by Karlheinz and Angela Steinmüller is actually a good example for this, because it’s about some young people landing on a planet they’re supposed to colonise, only that the planet is not as advertised, so they have to figure out how to make it habitable anyway.

Emma Braslavsky pointed out that by the 1980s, when East Germany was visibly declining and falling apart (which tracks with what Aunt Metel told me, namely that East Germany continued improve and progress, albeit slowly, into the 1970s, then it stagnated and gradually fell apart), the Socialist Utopia was more of a promise, much like Christmas. Just sleep one more night and Christmas – Socialism is here and everything will be wonderful. Emma Braslavsky also noted that when she watched things like Star Trek on West German TV (a large part of East Germany could and did watch West German TV), someone muttered some complete nonsense like “Reverse the polarity” and it actually worked.

Even though the panelists grew up in two very different countries and systems, there were some things that united all of them. For example, it was never easy to be a budding SF fan in a small rural village or town, whether in East or West Germany, because library selections were limited and books or comics not always easily available in local shops. Karlheinz Steinmüller talked about what an important influence the Digedags from the Mosaik comics (I wrote a little bit about Mosaik and the Digedags in this Galactic Journey article) were on him and how the comics were often hard to come by, because they were hugely popular (due to being actually good) and quickly sold out. Karlheinz Steinmüller also talked about how he was eager to learn Russian (which was the first foreign language taught in East German schools), so he could read American science fiction writers like Isaac Asimov or Clifford D. Simak in Russian translation! Asimov or Simak were available in German, of course, but the translations were published in West Germany and therefore difficult to access for East Germans.

The panelists also discussed mistaken ideas and assumptions they had picked up from reading science fiction from an early age. One point made by both East and West German panelists was the assumption that religion would cease to matter and that the future would be largely atheist. I found myself nodding along to that point, because that was also very much my assumption. After all, in US science fiction of the so-called Golden and Silver Age, religion is either a scam (Foundation by Isaac Asimov, Gather Darkness by Fritz Leiber) or for aliens or both (The Gods of Mars by Edgar Rice Burroughs). Or it involves nubile beauties being sacrificed to some tentacled monstrosity. And in East European science fiction, the future was atheist for obvious reasons.

One assumption that I’m surprised no one brought up is that as a teenager I was absolutely certain that this whole Cold War nonsense would eventually stop – provided that the politicians didn’t manage to blow up the world first – because I’d seen Pavel Chekhov on the bridge of the Enterprise and Tamara Jagellowsk on the bridge of the Orion. Meanwhile, East Germans would have seen the American nuclear physicist Harringway Hawling defying the evil capitalists (TM) to travel to Venus aboard the Kosmokrator in The Silent Star. So I at least was totally convinced that this whole Cold War nonsense would eventually cease and we’d all go to space together – after all, I’d seen it happen on TV. And of course, I did see the Cold War end and the Iron Curtain fall as a teenager, only for both East and West to promptly put space exploration on the backburner. Because I had also never believed that the space race was a real thing – I assumed that “The Soviets or respectively Americans will get there before us” was just an excuse used to get funding from politicians who believed in that sort of nonsense and that the true reason to explore space was because space was cool. Yeah, joke’s on me.

After the panel, I hung out some more at the con. Then I returned to my hotel, rested a bit and went out for dinner. For some reason, there were several Korean restaurants within walking distance of the hotel and the con, so I headed for one of them and had a very tasty tofu bibimbap.

Tofu bibimbap

I returned to the hotel and went to bed fairly early by my standards, because my two panels were both on Friday, the first of them at 9:30 AM. And I did want to have a coffee and some breakfast before the panel.

Day 2: Friday, May 19, 2023:

The title of my first panel was “Translation: What is lost and what is gained”. One unexpected thing we lost was two panelists. German writer and translator Bernhard Kempen had a scheduling conflict and Czech writer and translator Julie Nováková fell ill just before the con. So we were down to three panelists, Claudia Rapp, C.D. Covington and myself. Luckily, Julie Nováková recommended a replacement panelist, Czech translator (she translated the first six of Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake books into Czech) and fantasy writer Lucie Lukačovičová (I hope I managed to persuade WordPress to spell her name correctly, since WordPress hates carons), so we were four panelists after all.

We talked about false friends, translation pitfalls, accuracy versus poetic licence, what to do if there isn’t an equivalent in the target language, how to deal with quotes from religious and other texts and why machine translation can’t replace a human translator and often leads to nonsense such as translating brand names (a lot of webstores use machine translation, since they apparently believe that customers can’t make sense of English and want garbled nonsense) which a human would never do. I also shared my favourite example, the Masters of the Universe character Snout Sprout (who is already pretty silly in general, because he’s a guy with an elephant head) which an overzealous translation program decided to turn into “Schnauzen Auslauf” for a German webstore.

I’ve done a lot of translation panels over the years, because I tend to get put on translation panels, even though I’m not a literary translator. Therefore, I have plenty of experience with translations panels and this was a really good one. The audience seems to have enjoyed it as well. At any rate, several audience members told us afterwards how much they enjoyed the panel. After the panel, the discussion also spilled out of the program room onto the walkway outside, which is always a sign for a good panel. The translation panel was recorded and someone took photos, but I can’t find either the recording or the photos online.

The former administration building of the crematorium has been turned into program rooms connected by a walkway.

The translation panel ended at 10:30 AM and my next panel was at 12:30 PM, so I theoretically had two hours of time between panels. However – as mentioned above – we continued chatting after the translation panel, so the two hours were closer to one. I wanted to have lunch before the panel, so I headed to a Pakistani restaurant next to my hotel, which supposedly opened at 10 AM. Alas, it turned out that the sign on the door was inaccurate and the restaurant only opened at 10 AM on Sundays. On weekdays, it opened at twelve, which was a little tight for my taste. So I had a pogača filled with feta and dill at a Turkish café instead.

My second panel was entitled “SFFH around the globe: developments, themes, trends” and took place in the great domed mourning hall. The other panelists were Metropol Con GoH Mary Robinette Kowal, Peter J. Maurits, a scholar specialising in African, specifically Mozambiquan literature, and Spanish horror writer Jesús Cañadas. The moderator was SFF writer Sabrina Železný. Once again, I hope that WordPress did not butcher Sabrina’s surname. And actually, this would have been a good subject for both the translation and world SFFH panel. Because how can it be that one of the most widely used blogging and content management systems keeps butchering East European names and words containing carons, even if you use the HTML character code workaround? There actually are photos of this panel, though none of them are mine for obvious reasons. You can see a few of them below, credited to the respective photographers.

The global SFFH panel also had a last minute panelist switch, because Ugandan SFF writer Dilman Dila, who was supposed to be on the panel, didn’t get a visa, so Jesús Cañadas took part in the panel instead. Unfortunately, this also led to a panel on world SFF with five white panelists, which is a less than ideal situation.

This isn’t my photo, obviously, but was taken by German science fiction writer Theresa Hannig and shared on Twitter. You can see the weird light in the domed hall, which turned everything and everybody purple. From left to right, we have Jesús Cañadas, Mary Robinette Kowal, Sabrina Zelezný, yours truly and Peter J. Maurits. Also note the gallery and the recesses originally intended for funeral urns, though they’re empty now.

The original tweet by Theresa Hannig is here BTW. Roger Murmann also took some great photos of this panel such as this one, this one or this one. Here’s also a great photo of me by Roger Murmann.

One aspect that we discussed was that SFFH from Africa, Asia, Latin America and the Middle East is a lot more visible now, because e-mail submissions, self-publishing, print on demand, webzines, etc… have made submissions more accessible and also given writers from all over the world the chance to publish their work, though there are still plenty of hurdles. Peter J. Maurits pointed out that African SFF is actually a huge field of different national literatures written in a variety of different languages and that his specialty is actually SFF from Mozambique, which is written in Portuguese. He also plugged Omenana as a free venue to check out English and French language SFF from Africa, while I noted that the anthology Africa Risen, edited by Sheree Renée Thomas, Zelda Knight and Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki, was available in the dealers room right there at the con.

Also, as the examples of Dilman Dila or Oghenechovwe Donald Ekpeki or almost every African SFF writer who wanted to attend the Dublin Worldcon in 2019 show, increasingly restrictive and – yes, racist – visa policies make in-person cons very difficult to access for writers from Africa, the Middle East, parts of Latin America and Asia, etc… This is also an issue that the SFF community can’t resolve on its own, because it’s part of the larger political issue of restrictive visa policies and the tendency to view any traveler from certain parts of the world primarily as a potential illegal immigrant or terrorist. Worse, writers, artists and musicians are often denied visa, because they often have no employer, are often young and have no partner or children and don’t fit into visa criteria for e.g. business travelers. Organisers of music festivals, art shows, theatre festivals, SFF conventions and any cultural event have been complaining for years now how difficult it is to get visa even for invited artists. However, less restrictive visa policies aren’t something that wins elections – quite the contrary, sadly, with all the panic about illegal immigrants and refugees – and usually not a political priority and there is little the SFF community can do about it. One thing we can do, however, is make sure that more cons have virtual components, virtual guests of honour, etc… Virtual cons exploded in popularity due to the covid pandemic and even though in person cons are great, we shouldn’t neglect the virtual elements, especially since virtual cons benefit not just people from non-western countries but all people who have problems participating due to disability, family commitments or jobs which make travel difficult, etc…

We also briefly got into the hostile reception that non-western Worldcon bids such as Chengdu or the bid for Jeddah in Saudi Arabia sadly still often get from the western and particularly American SFF community. This was partly in response to a question if Middle Eastern SFF might be the next to become more visible on the global stage. I pointed out that while the Jeddah bid wasn’t viable at the time, the treatment that the people behind that bid – fans like us – received was appalling. Referring the failed Jedi Con bid actually got me into a nice conversation with someone who translates Arabic SFF into English after the panel.

Furthermore, we also talked about the accessibility of writing workshops. Mary Robinette Kowal talked about the Writing Excuses cruises cum workshop and how the participants were still very white and very American, in spite of attempts to make them more accesible to people of colour via grants and to European participants by holding one during a Baltic cruise. However, cruises – and the reason the workshops are held on cruise ships is because the costs are actually lower than a residential workshop like Clarion or Viable Paradise would be, plus cruise ships are accessible for disabled people – have a certain reputation such as that they’re for white people or – particularly in Europe – they’re for old people.

On a more general note, we also discussed how science fiction, fantasy and horror are perceived in various countries – which is often still negatively – and also how that perception has changed over the years. Jesús Cañadas and Sabrina Železný had both been at the Leipzig Book Fair earlier this year, which had a special science fiction, fantasy and horror section… kept safely apart from the main Book Fair. I talked about how SFF was dismissed as “trivial literature” or outright trash literature, when I was a teenager – to lots of nodding in the auditorium, because I suspect every single German person in there probably hates the term “trivial literature” (which was and sometimes still is the official scholarly term for popular fiction in Germany) as much as I do. I also pointed out that things are changing and that e.g. Dietmar Dath (who actually may have been in the audience) actually made the longlist for the German Book Award a few years ago, as have other SFF works (most recently Theresia Enzensberger for At Sea in 2022), but that those books are usually considered to – another hated phrase, as we agreed – “transcend the genre”.

In general, it is notable that if you take a stroll to the dealers room at Metropol Con or check out a bookstore with a good SFF selection such Kulturkaufhaus Dussmann or an SFF specialty shop like Otherland, that there is a lot of German SFF, much of it published by small specialty presses. We also have a lot of younger German SFF authors in their 20s and 30s, including a lot of women, non-binary and LGBTQ authors, though SFF writer Alessandra Reß notes in her Metropol Con report that the membership skewed older, whiter and more male than the current German SFF scene. Nonetheless, the current situation is a far cry from the situation in the 1980s and 1990s, when I started reading and writing SFF and there was very little in the way of German SFF beyond Perry Rhodan, John Sinclair and Professor Zamorra as well as a few established, older male authors in West Germany and some SFF in East Germany. But the vast majority of what was available was British and American SFF in translation, which is also the reason I started to write in English – because there was no market in Germany at the time. And I pointed out that I probably would never have been nominated for, let alone won a Hugo, if I wasn’t writing in English.

I also mentioned German science fiction writer and Perry Rhodan co-creator Walter Ernsting, who had to invent a fictional American science fiction writer named Clark Dalton and pass himself off as the translator of Dalton’s works in order to get his own stories published. Walter Ernsting also came up in the translation panel BTW (he was a very prolific translator of golden and silver age science fiction) as an example of a translated title spoiling the plot of a story by Rosel George Brown.

Jesús Cañadas pointed out that there is a lot of speculative fiction and horror published in Spain and Latin America, but that very little of it is translated. And what is translated – Jesús specifically recommended Mariana Enriquez – is often not really packaged or marketed as science fiction, fantasy or horror. In general, many countries around the world have vibrant, active and fascinating SFF scenes – which are completely invisible to people from other parts of the world due to the translation gap and language barrier. Mary Robinette Kowal pointed out that trying to read a books in a foreign language would be an ethical application for machine translation in the absence of a translated edition, though official translations done by human translators are still preferable.

All in all, it was a great panel and I’m thrilled to have been a part of it. Directly after the World SFF panel, Mary Robinette Kowal held her keynote address about lady astronauts in fiction and reality in the great domed hall.

After the panel, I switched on my phone again to find that my Dad had tried to call me. He tends to call my around noon and the panel was at 12:30. However, a ringing phone on a panel is a distraction, so I switched it off. I talked to my Dad and got some coffee and a chocolate chip cookie.

Mary Robinette Kowal had finished her keynote address by now and we wound up chatting in the line at the Little Mars coffee shop in the former gatehouse of the crematorium and later at one of the tables set up outside the Little Mars. That turned into a rotating group of people chatting about all sorts of topics and actually made me miss the panel I wanted to see in the afternoon. Though I was later told that I didn’t miss much with regard to the panel.

Later that afternoon, I ran into German fan Peter Schmitt, who blogs about sword and sorcery and other topics at Skalpell und Katzenklaue and we wound up chatting for an hour or so, which unfortunately meant that I missed the other event I’d planned to attend that afternoon, too. That said, the conversations with people you just happen to meet are one of the best things about in person cons that hybrid and virtual cons can’t really emulate.

I left the silent green cultural center around 6 PM. By now, I was running a little low on cash, because the dealers room vendors as well as the cafés in the neighbourhood didn’t always accept cards. So I hopped into the subway and headed for Friedrichstraße station, because there is a branch of my bank on Friedrichstraße. Supposedly, there was at least one branch that was closer, but since I knew where the Friedrichstraße branch was, I went there. Since I was already in the neighbourhood, I took a brief detour to Gendarmenmarkt, which is one of Berlin’s most beautiful squares – flanked by two stunning and nigh identical baroque churches, one Lutheran and one for the French Huguenots who’d settled in Prussia escaping persecution in France.

Alas, Gendarmenmarkt is currently in the middle of a massive reconstruction project. The concert hall is hidden behind scaffolding and the entire square has been torn up and is cordoned off, though at least you can still access the German and the French church. I also managed to get a few nice photos.

The German church at the Gendarmenmarkt in the foreground and the French church in the background. Neither church is still active and both of them house museums today.

A look at the French church on Gendarmenmarkt.

The French church on Gendarmenmarkt with a strategically placed con trail behind the dome.

After that little detour to Gendarmenmarkt, I returned to the Wedding neighbourhood to have dinner. Of course, there are plenty of restaurants around Friedrichstraße and Gendarmenmarkt, but they’re also quite pricy, so I decided to have dinner in the Wedding area instead. I went to another Korean restaurant – there are several in the area – and had yet another bowl of bibimbap.

Day 3: Saturday, May 20, 2023:

On Saturday, I woke up fairly early, had breakfast and headed for the con once more. Since I had no panels of my own that day, I checked the schedule and decided to listen to German science fiction author Emma Braslavsky talk about her upcoming novel Erdling (Earthling), because I happen to like her work. International readers will probably know Emma Braslavsky best for writing the story “I’m Your Man” upon which the eponymous 2021 German science fiction movie is based.

Emma Braslavsky waves a phaser around during her presentation at Metropol Con.

Erdling sounds fascinating and I’ll probably get the book, when it comes out in November. However, the presentation also inadvertedly showed another issue of bringing German (or any other language) SFF to a global audience. Because a lot about the book is very German. Will audiences understand why it’s funny that leftist firebrand Sahra Wagenknecht has been abducted by aliens and that the protagonist, washed-up would-be private detective Emma Erdling, is recruited by Wagenknecht’s husband, leftist politician Oskar Lafontaine, to find her and embarks on a romp through time and space, accompanied by German weird fiction author Hanns Heinz Ewers. For a non-German audience, a translator would not only have to explain who Wagenknecht, Lafontaine, Ewers and a host of other characters are, but also the connotations these people have to a German audience. Because almost every German person will immediately have an image in their head, when they hear the names Sahra Wagenknecht or Oskar Lafontaine, and their minds will supply speculations what might happen if one of them were abducted by aliens. Will Sahra Wagenknecht lead the aliens to revolution? Or will she annoy them so much that they return her? A non-German reader simply doesn’t have those associations, unless they have followed German politics extremely closely.

Initially I was planning to attend an interview with Karen Nölle, who has translated Ursula K. Le Guin’s works into German, after the Emma Braslavsky presentation. However, towards the end of the previous program item, I suddenly got very tired. And because falling asleep on a panel is very rude, I decided to skip the Ursula K. Le Guin translation panel and get a coffee and a blueberry muffin instead.

Enjoying a latte macchiato and blueberry muffin at the Little Mars café.

The next panel I attended was about dubbing movies and TV shows and how the process works. Now in Germany, every movie or TV show is dubbed into German. But while dubbing is ubiquitous, though in the age of streaming and DVD you increasingly have the option to watch the original version, with or without subtitles, I found that I know very little about how the process actually works. Therefore, I found this panel incredibly interesting. The presenter was Stefan Kaiser who is a dialogue director responsible for dubbing e.g. Wellington Paranormal or Parasite into German. And in fact, Stefan Kaiser used a scene from Wellington Paranormal as an example for how the dubbing process works.

Once again, the panel spilled out into the café area afterwards, where I realised that my phone showed ten missed calls from my Dad. As I said above, he tends to call me around noon, which was exactly when the panel took place. Though this time, I didn’t switch off my phone, because the dubbing panel took place in the so-called cinema, which was in the concrete reinforced bowels of the silent green complex, where there is no cell phone reception anyway. So I excused myself to talk to my Dad and then returned for a continuing of the dubbing industry.

Around three PM, I took a break from the con to go on an errand. I wanted to buy a comic, which had just come out that week, so I asked in the dealers room where to find a comic shop that carries all the latest US comics in Berlin. I was recommended Black Dog Comics in the Prenzlauer Berg neighbourhood, which turned out to be only two S-Bahn stations away. So I headed to Black Dog Comics, only to find that they didn’t have the comic I wanted, because since the pandemic they get new comics one week later than the US. That said, I still found something to buy and also had a nice chat with the owner. BTW, Black Dog Comics are curently running a 50 percent off sale on all Red Sonja comics to celebrate Red Sonja‘s fiftieth anniversary.

After my little excursion to Prenzlauer Berg, I headed back to the silent green cultural center, where the con was gradually winding down.

Con goers emerge from the domed hall, where various items were auctioned off to support the con.

I bade good-bye to plenty of people, returned to my hotel and then went out for dinner. This time I had Pakistani food, namely vegetable pakora and chicken biryani, because my train home left the following day. I’ll probably do a part three about my post-con odyssey around Berlin on the first hot day of the year, where everything was either closed or overcrowded, while waiting for my train home to go at 4:38 PM, because that’s a different story.

All in all, I had a great time at Metropol Con and I’m glad that I attended. And even though I’m wholly in favour of virtual cons due to their accessibility, in person cons are another matter altogether. The Metropol Con website includes links to several other con reports – mostly in German, though this one by Wenzel Mehnert is in English – as well as videos and photo galleries.

The next Metropol Con is planned for 2026 and I’m looking forward to going, even if it means braving Deutsche Bahn again.

Finally, take a look at my Berlin trip haul, some of it purchased at the con and some in various shops around Berlin. And yes, I’m terrible at getting stuff signed, even if the author is right there in front of me. Largely, my problem was that the author was there in front of me, but the book was back at the hotel.

My Metropol Con haul includes the first three issue of the Masterverse comic mini-series by Tim Seeley, Eddie Nunez and various other artists, The Red Scholar’s Wake by Aliette de Board, The Daughter of Doctor Moreau by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Ghost Talkers by Mary Robinette Kowal, which I failed to get signed, Doomsday Morning by C.L. Moore, Tales of Nevéryon by Samuel R. Delany, the non-fiction book Vision und Verfall: Science Fiction in der DDR by Hans Frey, which I also failed to get signed, a presenter gift in the form of cute candy and two mugs.