PLANNING MEETINGS, EMAIL CHAINS, WORKSHOPS, EDITORS MEETINGS, SUBMISSION DEADLINES, DESIGN DEADLINES COLLAB COLLAB COLLAB…

A CITYWIDE EFFORT BIRTHS APIARY MAGAZINE‘S 8TH ISSUE

SOFT TARGETS

WITH US AS GUEST EDITORS

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In conjunction with Philadelphia-based DIY postcolonial sci-fi collective METROPOLARITY, the staff of APIARY Magazine are proud to announce that APIARY 8, SOFT TARGETS, HAS OFFICIALLY LANDED!

Thank you to all who came out to our launch party to celebrate the release! This was truly a luminous event, and we could not have pulled it off without your love and support!

If you missed our launch party, you can pick up a copy of APIARY 8 SOFT TARGETS at any of the following locations at this continuously updated list here.

The Apiary crew is busy distributing stacks and stacks of the free magazine all across the city – you can see where in almost real-time via their Instagram here.

Meanwhile, we’re shipping out a copy with any t-shirt purchase from our webshop.

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What’s inside?

In this issue our authors interrogate fear. They recode the technologies of terror and depravity into a language of bravery, beauty, and tenderness. APIARY 8 asks: How do we live freely? How do we prevail against violence? How do we, also, resolve the injustice in our own hearts?

We don’t pretend to have the answers. Instead, we’re letting the visions, poems, stories, and artwork of local Philadelphians speak to our city.

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Here’s a few choice pics of the launch party from July 9th at The Painted Bride in Olde City, by Erin Pitts Photography. The full album with 200+ pics can be viewed here.

 

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Thanks Apiary staff and everyone who wrote, read, showed up and otherwise busted their ass to contribute to this thick slab of magazine!

 

PSSST…

WE’RE STILL WORKING ON THE #SOFTTARGETS METROPOLARITY CUT EDITION…

all danger all softness no geolocation
1 nite revelry spells and sanctuary
texts songs dances
against the gathering data storm

this portal exists when we begin
this portal ends at midnight

APIARY MAGAZINE x METROPOLARITY
:
SOFT TARGETS
issue 8 of APIARY in collabo with sci-fi collective METROPOLARITY.
read philadelphia’s visions of vulnerability, violence and ecstasy;
survival strategies in our contested city;
the monstrous and tender contending inside us

7 PM: PARTING OF TIME AND SPACE // AIRPLANE MODE
enter.
drinks (government ID checked at door)
new names (memorywipe your government ID)
anti-surveillance face & body art

8-10 PM INCANTATIONS FOR INVISIBILITY
readings by 25+ storyspinners and poets
frequency lifting by the URBAN SHAMANS word/sounds/power:afrobeat funk jazz

10-MIDNIGHT DANCE PARTY
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ FEATURING ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
⚡ Anti-facial recognition face painting and body art by Kitakiya Davis
♪ Live musical performance by Philly’s URBAN SHAMANS: afrobeat funk jazz grooves, WORDS, SOUNDS, and POWER!
♪ DJ wizardry by Alex Smith (of METROPOLARITY)

MIDNIGHT-??? AFTERPARTY @ SILK CITY
may the ephemeral gather strength and carry us through the night

PAY WHAT YOU CAN: $7-10 SUGGESTED DONATION

all danger all softness no geolocation
1 nite revelry spells and sanctuary
texts songs dances
against the gathering data storm
this portal exists when we begin
this portal ends at midnight
APIARY MAGAZINE x METROPOLARITY
:
SOFT TARGETS
issue 8 of APIARY in collabo with sci-fi collective METROPOLARITY.
read philadelphia’s visions of vulnerability, violence and ecstasy;
survival strategies in our contested city;
the monstrous and tender contending inside us
7 PM: PARTING OF TIME AND SPACE // AIRPLANE MODE
enter.
drinks (government ID checked at door)
new names (memorywipe your government ID)
anti-surveillance face & body art
8-10 PM INCANTATIONS FOR INVISIBILITY
readings by 25+ storyspinners and poets
frequency lifting by the URBAN SHAMANS word/sounds/power:afrobeat funk jazz

10-MIDNIGHT DANCE PARTY
☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ FEATURING ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆
⚡ Anti-facial recognition face painting and body art by Kitakiya Davis
♪ Live musical performance by Philly’s URBAN SHAMANS: afrobeat funk jazz grooves, WORDS, SOUNDS, and POWER!
♪ DJ wizardry by Alex Smith (of METROPOLARITY)

MIDNIGHT-??? AFTERPARTY @ SILK CITY
may the ephemeral gather strength and carry us through the night
PAY WHAT YOU CAN: $7-10 SUGGESTED DONATION

 

“SCI-FI AS MEMOIR IN THE REALITY OF APOCALYPSE”

(1) #SOFTTARGETS WAS A DAY OF WRITING CRITIQUES + WORKSHOPS + PERFORMANCES ON A SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT THE PHILADELPHIA FREE LIBRARY CENTRAL BRANCH.

This was an day-long event held in preparation for the submission deadline to APIARY Magazine’s 8th issue and collaboration with our collective, themed SOFT TARGETS. APIARY is a volunteer-run, freely distributed literary magazine based in and featuring Philadelphia writers. Before METROPOLARITY got started, Ras was one of the fiction editors for the mag. APIARY’s staff has always supported us, and we’ve been meaning to do some sort of collaborative effort ever since. So the SOFT TARGETS issue is a sci-fi one collaboratively edited by us at METROPOLARITY, along with the standing editors at APIARY.

THE DAY CONCLUDED WITH METROPOLARITY SQUAD READING IN THE MAIN BRANCH’S FAMOUS AUDITORIUM. IF YOU MISSED IT, THANK THE COSMOS FOR A LIVESTREAM, M I RITE???? AUDIO IS PROVIDED BY NYFOLT & MOOR MOTHER GODDESS/BLACK QUANTUM FUTURISM CREW

Eighteen says: It was sooooooooooo nice to be at the central branch of the library for this event, and super starry to perform in the famed auditorium. Like a lot of Philadelphians out there, I spent a looot of time in the library growing up (Olney & East Oak Lane branches whut up). Really grateful to APIARY staff and Adam from the Library for making things possible, and very appreciative of everyone who came out to the writing critique session and workshop, and all those who stayed for the performances.

(2) THE LASER LIFE QUEER SCI-FI READING SERIES MARCH EDITION WAS FIRE

ALEX SMITH READS AT LASER LIFE

THE LASER LIFE AT LAVA ZONE
HASHTAG QUEER SCI-FI HASHTAG FUCK GOD HASHTAG FUCK LANDOWNERS HASHTAG UP THE HERETICS
#METROPOLARITY

THANKS TO ALL WHO CAME. THANKS TO JOYCE HATTON FOR THE MOST EXCELLENT DEBUT, MOOR MOTHER GODDESS FOR THE STORM, CHASKA FOR THE PERFECT AUDIO/VISUAL ATMOSPHERE & EVERYONE WHO CAME OUT <3 <3 <3 <3 IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN READING/PERFORMING AT THE NEXT LASER LIFE, CONTACT THEYAREBIRDS AT GEEEEEMAIL.

What nobody seems to have pics of is the powerful trailer for M. Asli Dukan‘s INVISIBLE UNIVERSE documentary on black speculative fiction… but check this out:

INVISIBLE UNIVERSE DOCUMENTARY (FUNDRAISING DEMO) from MIZAN MEDIA PRODUCTIONS on Vimeo.

In 2003, independent filmmaker, M. Asli Dukan, set out to make a documentary about the 150 year history of Black creators in speculative fiction (SF) books and movies. What she didn’t realize at the time was that she was about to document a major movement in the history of speculative fiction. A movement where a growing number of Black creators were becoming an effective force, creating works that had increasing influence on the traditionally, straight, white, cis-male dominated SF industry. However, while these Black creators imagined better futures for Black people within their fictional works of SF, in reality, the everyday, lived experiences of Black people in the United States – e.g., the rise of massive inequality, the prison industrial complex, and police brutality – stood in stark contrast. She began to wonder if these phenomena were related.

Told through the ever-present lens and off-screen narrator voice of the filmmaker, Invisible Universe will explore this question by examining the work of Black creators of SF through the ideology of the emerging Black Lives Matter movement, which addresses the systematic oppression of Black lives. Since she began the documentary, the filmmaker has compiled an extensive interviewee list of Black writers, artists and filmmakers of SF who have been creating works where Black people not only exist in the future, but are powerful shapers of their own realities, whether in magical lands, dystopian settings, or on distant worlds. In addition, she has documented an ever-increasing number of academic, community and arts events dedicated to the work and critical analysis of Black SF, as well as building connections between the creators, thinkers, organizers and fans. In the past decade, the filmmaker has documented the cultural shift around Black SF and its explicit connections to Black liberation. This documentary explores the idea that in a world of capitalist exploitation, anti-Black oppression and state violence, Black creators are speculating about better worlds as a means of resistance and survival.

The documentary will also consider how “Black Speculation” is rooted in the history of “Black Struggle” in the United States by exploring two previous eras of Black creators speculating about Black lives through the genres of SF. The first era occurred during the nadir of African American history in late 19th and early 20th centuries, when slavery, war, lynchings, race riots, disfranchisement and segregation inspired Black writers to pen narratives about international slave rebellions, secret, Black governments and powerful, long lost, African kingdoms. The second era occurred during the 1960’s and early 1970’s, when the work of Black writers of SF seemed to extrapolate on the possible futures that would occur as a result of the successes or failures of the Civil Rights or Black Power struggles. This documentary will explore how this current moment, which the filmmaker considers the third era of Black Speculation, compares and contrasts with the earlier two eras.

This timely documentary includes interviews with Black writers of SF like Samuel R. Delany, the late Octavia E. Butler, Steven Barnes, Tananarive Due, Nalo Hopkinson and Nnedi Okorafor, actors like Nichelle Nichols and Wesley Snipes, cultural organizers like Rasheedah Phillips and her AfroFuturist Affair, academics/artists like John Jennings and Nettrice Gaskins, social justice workers/artists like adrienne maree brown and Walidah Imarisha, as well as numerous other filmmakers, artists, academics, archivists, and fans. This one-of-a-kind project is essentially an archive of a “Who’s Who” of Black speculative fiction.

Join Metropolarity, APIARY Magazine, and the Free Library of Philadelphia for an afternoon of writers’ workshops and readings. This year, Metropolarity and APIARY Magazine have joined forces to produce a sci-fi themed issue exploring the nature of vulnerability in our present realities of mass incarceration, mass surveillance, social media, and the potential for revolution. This event is part of the Free Library of Philadelphia’s local iteration of the national 7 Days of Genius Festival #thatsgenius

11:00 A.M. – 1:00 P.M. One-on-one writers’ coaching with Apiary Magazine. Bring your own writing, and you’ll receive feedback. First come first served. (Grand Lobby)

1:00 P.M. – 3:00 P.M. SOFT TARGETS: Science Fiction as memoir in a reality of apocalypse. A workshop with the writers from Metropolarity about living under capitalism/militarism and using that as inspiration for writing (Room 108).

3:30 P.M. – 5:00 P.M. Reading and Q & A with Metropolarity and friends (Montgomery Auditorium).

Join Metropolarity, APIARY Magazine, and the Free Library of Philadelphia for an afternoon of writers’ workshops and readings. This year, Metropolarity and APIARY Magazine have joined forces to produce a sci-fi themed issue exploring the nature of vulnerability in our present realities of mass incarceration, mass surveillance, social media, and the potential for revolution. This event is part of the Free Library of Philadelphia’s local iteration of the national 7 Days of Genius Festival #thatsgenius

11:00 A.M. – 1:00 P.M. One-on-one writers’ coaching with Apiary Magazine. Bring your own writing, and you’ll receive feedback. First come first served. (Grand Lobby)

1:00 P.M. – 3:00 P.M.  SOFT TARGETS: Science Fiction as memoir in a reality of apocalypse. A workshop with the writers from Metropolarity about living under capitalism/militarism and using that as inspiration for writing (Room 108).

3:30 P.M. – 5:00 P.M. Reading and Q & A with Metropolarity and friends (Montgomery Auditorium).

RSVP with these Free Tickets or on Facebook.

VIA OUR FRIENDS, APIARY MAGAZINE
Us Philly poets and writers are lucky to have a beautiful & eccentric extended literary family. Over the last 5 years, APIARY’s met many newfound brothers and sisters, weirdo cousins, inspiring aunties and uncles, adorable nieces and nephews, and wise grands. After a busy spring, it’s time to catch up with everyone!

So on June 8, we’re throwing the first annual Philly Literary Family Reunion in Clark Park. No planned readings, no speeches, no bios. Just a grill & music & any Philly poet, writer, and reader who considers themselves fam.

Bring food or drink (it’s a public park, and there will be folks of all ages, so booze just needs to be non-visible and lowkey … don’t want it to be THAT kind of family reunion…). If you like, one of your chapbooks, CDs, etc to swap. And bring your family, too!

VIA OUR FRIENDS, APIARY MAGAZINE
Us Philly poets and writers are lucky to have a beautiful & eccentric extended literary family. Over the last 5 years, APIARY’s met many newfound brothers and sisters, weirdo cousins, inspiring aunties and uncles, adorable nieces and nephews, and wise grands. After a busy spring, it’s time to catch up with everyone!

So on June 8, we’re throwing the first annual Philly Literary Family Reunion in Clark Park. No planned readings, no speeches, no bios. Just a grill & music & any Philly poet, writer, and reader who considers themselves fam.

Bring food or drink (it’s a public park, and there will be folks of all ages, so booze just needs to be non-visible and lowkey … don’t want it to be THAT kind of family reunion…). If you like, one of your chapbooks, CDs, etc to swap. And bring your family, too!

See you soon. Love,

APIARY

1.

Men are in the village. Tall men, healthy, but not like the last men who planted wooden stakes or tied orange ribbons to bushes in the nearby fields – not white men. Their skin was like ours a bit, their rubber suits pipe lightning down their arms and legs and their chests shine brighter than moons. They are here to see Hatim.

“There.” Nairobi points to the hut that shakes in the barely there breeze, that sheds sticks and coarse grass from its roof. “This is where he is.” Nairobi, as ever, willing to sate the curiosity of outsiders, guides them down the narrow pathway connecting our houses. The men stomp past those of us aroused from slumber, past sick men lying without mercy on the dusty earth floor, past women who have huddled several small children as close to their breasts as they can, scolding any who dare to venture into the path to touch the glowing garments of these men.

Nairobi stops ten feet from the door of the small hut where Hatim is sleeping; even he, the crier, pauses. The men look back at him for a second, then at each other, until the one in front nods, signaling all three to continue moving.

We saw their vessel erupt out of the sky, just appear in the stillness of the night. Nasir and I, we sat by the river and listened to wild cats hissing and jostling on the other side, to things swimming underneath the water and imagined a strange world calling to us. We imagined that the world under the river’s surface was vast and filled with creeping and crawling things, with scaly demons whose bites were worse than a piranha’s, that they were spawn from the souls of the dead bodies we sometimes saw float down from the some nearby city. Until the ship announced itself with a roar, we had not thought of anything more terrifying, more loud. It fell into the atmosphere and hovered over the ground. The air got thick and felt wet. My skin felt like it was being stung by mosquitos and ticks as the machine hummed and whirred. We ran back as fast as we could, yelled at the elders, and when they would not believe us, we hit under our mats and clutched sticks and waited.

They flash lights into the hut, checking machines and pushing buttons on their arms. When the third one pulls out his gun, a collective moan rips through the village. These men who look like us, they have come to murder us all! The elders tell of such things, when evil men come and burn down homes and kill all of the men, leaving the survivors to long walks through the jungle for a hundred days, some dying along the way.

The man with the gun lifts a finger to his lips as the other two went in. Was this happening? And why our village? We were of no consequence to the rebels, my father had told, because we had nothing they wanted, no resources we could be forced to mine or leave our land for. I believed him, until strange men started showing up and so many of us started disappearing.

The men rush from the hut, barking. One of them is carrying Hatim, who is limp and barely dressed and foaming at the mouth. Their boots move so quickly that dust billows into clouds. I cannot make out what they are saying, but they are frantic. Their voices are mechanical and wiry and muffled by the strange devices emanating out of their ears, eyes, mouths. They run until they are far off into the distant fields, by the river, until we can no longer follow the trace of the glow of their suits, until all the light that’s left is from the stars in the sky.

We strain to see where they have disappeared over the horizon. Nothing. Then, a bright white explosion peels outward from the direction of the river, accompanied by a thundering that knocks the weaker of us to the ground, including the hut that housed Hatim until he was taken by the strange men. The gravity around us increases and presses into us as something shoots out over our heads. The ship! When it passes seconds later, we find pieces of the hut’s thatched roof scattered for yards. Hatim had grown sicker and sicker and spent his days in that hut; some of us envied him that he did not have to tend to the goats or hunt wild boar or carry crumbling clay pots of dirty water in the radiant sun. Only Djinji, the man who can make sweet liquids from plants that can pass through a body and kick out that body’s demons, was allowed to enter.

“I am sorry,” he told Hatim’s mother after a month of trying to care for him. “There’s nothing I can do. The ancestors are all that’s with him now.” Hatim’s mother sank to her knees, cradled her son in her arms, sobbing violently. As Nasir and his brother tore her away, she had run off into the forest never to be seen again. I am remembering this when Nasir puts his hand on my shoulder. I am reminded that I am in the village, that tomorrow I will take the goats far up north to pasture and that I will carry my longest stick in case a tiger shows himself, starved and bold and insistent on a feast.

2.

I miss his wiry fingers on my cold flesh. I miss calling out to him from the bathroom with soap in my eyes. I miss sitting on the couch reading bad romance novels while he made appliances dance to his will, the kitchen echoing a determined clang and rattle, wondrous alien scents whisking out to greet my nose. I miss even the tiny ridges of his forehead that canyoned up every time he got nervous or angry.

And he was often angry. Or bruised, broken up in some way. He’d be on the fire escape landing, tapping on my window with bloody knuckles, gasping.

“What the fuck, Hatim?” I’d scream. He’d put a long finger to his lips and motion to open up the window. I’d let him in, and, in a quiet rasp again: “What the fuck, Hatim?”

A ubiquitous “they” were always after him. Goons in glowing red costumes or thugs carrying scepters crafted from bones of rare sea life and imbued with black magic, anti-spies in grey suits with machine gun boots, or weaponized wood nymphs with telekinetic mollusks for their brains. I never saw any of them, only heard glimpses of stories, only saw strange lacerations and wounds cut into his body in ways I didn’t know the human body could be cut. I only saw the artifacts and memorabilia, usually some small exploding thing I’d have to pry out of his elbow with a hot pair of scissors. “No! No we can’t go to the hospital. They will find me there.”

My apartment is cold, too small, and poorly ventilated, but sometimes, even on the most wintry nights, I keep the window open in my room and just pile on the blankets my aunts have given me over the past few Christmases and huddle in front of an old space heater. I leave the window open so that the dust from the heater can circulate and rise out, and also I leave it open for him. Tonight, I hope he returns.

The cold gets unbearable, so I go into the living room and watch Jay Leno squeak out tired anecdotes at some beauty obsessed starlet and try, to no avail, to stay awake. I think that through the haze of a dream, I can see his length emerging in front of me. He is all arms and legs, springy and powerful. “Kevin.” His voice is reverberating in heavenly tones and it sounds like bells falling on concrete. “Kevin.” I’m dreaming that I can hear him, that he’s surrounded by low floating clouds and cosmic rainbows, until I feel something hot grip my arm. With a start, I’m up. He is standing before me.

“Kevin, I have come to you.”

“My arm.” His grip is inescapable, the more I try to pry myself away, the more taut his grasp becomes. “It’s fucking burning, Hatim.”

“I am sorry.” Slowly, he lets me go. Hatim looks at his hands wide-eyed, turning them over in shock. There’s a strange glow to them, a crisp orange light that I’ve never seen before. I feel guilty for having cursed and reach out to stretch and wrest myself out of sleep.

“That‘s new,” I say, pointing to his pulsing hands.

“I should not have come!” he exclaims, backing away. When he starts toward the window, I‘m suddenly panicked. I may lose him again to coyness. I reach out for him; his skin is taut, woodlike. I notice finally that he’s not wearing a shirt, just the leather pants he begged me to buy for him at that goth store in Fishtown – no shoes, nothing. His hair is spikey, and his eyes flash in a swirling aura-like array of color. I’m afraid, but I’m tethered to him, lost in his mystery.

“I should not have come. I am sorry.”

He is outlined by a slow, growing light hovering just beyond the invisible barrier of the window. His eyes slowly dim; now he is more normal than I have ever seen him, standing there, looking at his hands, whispering to himself, “I should not have come.” As the light increases, a large ship appears in the alleyway, just hovering there at my apartment window. There’s a deep hum that I can feel in my stomach that seems to roil through the building’s walls. It’s barely audible, I simply feel it. Then, nothing. Hatim puts a flared fingertip to his lips that, in the darkness of my apartment, looks like a pixie flitting in space. My ears pop, as glass shatters, raining down into the room. Shards fall onto our bodies, tearing through our flesh, mostly just bouncing off of his. I fall to my knees in agony. Dark clad mercenaries on wires rip through every window, smash down my apartment door, kick over my furniture, all while screaming in eerie robotic timbre. Without warning, I’m wrapped in one of my aunts’ blankets and pushed to the floor. Through a sliver, I can see boots stomp by or bodies fall to the floor; I can hear things breaking and blowing up, all in a cacophony like a rave in a casino beset with fireworks. There’s a two second silence, and suddenly the ground beneath me disappears. I can’t see anything, as the blanket has grown tighter around my body. Is someone carrying me? Hatim? I try to call out to him, but I grow faint. There’s nothing there, just the vastness of the current around me that increases exponentially as I drop. It feels like I’ve been drugged. I shut my eyes and Hatim’s blurry visage ricochets in my head again, until it all dissolves into blackness.

When I awake, it’s broad daylight and I’m on a beach. A seagull has been poking at my dried-out lips. It stands before me with a piece of my skin in its mouth. I am barely able to move, so I let him have his lunch in peace in the high, beaming warmth of the sun. The beach stretches far, but not wide. A steep craggy hill is only a few yards behind me. I crawl towards it and sit against the rocks, waiting for the relentless sun to smash into the abyss of the sea.

3.

I am Hatim Muzambo. I am the pilot of this ship. I am the ever light being of Earth, I am the Star Sparkle of the universe, the lamp of God, traversing the ghost-strewn path of the cosmos. I am the lightning avatar, the creeping hot death of heat, the burning bright light of the cold of Pluto surrounded in the gate Nebula. I came to you as Horus. I came to you as Ahkenaton. I came to you as Vishnu. I came to you in parabolic visions and far-flung tales of the mystics. I came to you with my arms open and eyes blind, with my heart rendered into fragments as big and wide as the heavens itself. I gave you the sweet nectar of the rain, the cooling breeze, the Amazon. I, Hatim Muzambo, whose great grey ship sits aloft clouds, hovers amongst the innermost regions of your dreamscape, baring down on nightmares and shifting those dark, ominous clouds into the gutters of all reality, whose legions are armed and amassing, poised and sharp-willed and righteous and baring the artillery of love, whose love is laser and light, I! With a horde, a fleet of gods whose vessels’ afterburners dot the sky, whose souls streak auras and whose eyes, alit and flashing, race across galaxy after galaxy, whose very light is simply a star. I am the pilot of this ship, the master of this, the sword and the pen; I am why men fight wars, why love tears apart kings, and why princes die valiantly or vainly in wanton massacre. I am why there are dug-out pits filled with dead bodies after the revolution. I am why there are landfills and choking pelicans stricken with mutating disease or choking on their own bile or strangled by plastic six- pack lids. I am why there are roses growing on West Philadelphia sidewalks, why these roses’ thorns push through dried cement and still flower, are trampled on and fed exhaust and hate; yet, I am why this, the rose, still rises and flowers. I am the ghostking, I am the nebula, I am the abandoned parking lot littered with mattresses and glass and caskets. I am that great, seeking, raging, god king, berdache. When they came for you in black masks, with their batons held high, when they knocked on your door at midnight and called out for your sons, for your daughters, for your souls, I and I alone, I, whose lonesome army descended upon them and did so smite them, who blew up buildings for you. Who poisoned their water, who sent locusts, who burned the bush. I, who built the mountains, who found your lover cold and naked and who fed and clothed them, who sent the butterflies. I, who would paint Rothko’s on the side of a train, when you are sleeping, I am the pilot of this great ship. I am rising, I am a star. Buddha, Texaco, America, cosmic, nova, nuclear, unicorn, Microsoft, pixel, gravity, I am rising, I am a star.



If you ever see Alex Smith’s name on a flier, do yourself a favor and go listen to him read. It was Eighteen’s great pleasure to hear him read this piece at the first Laser Life, and it is a further pleasure to see its recent printing in Apiary Magazine‘s fifth installment, which can be found for free around the city here.

The following is reproduced from APIARY Magazine‘s CROSSPOLLINATE series with permission.

The first in a series of features documenting literary friendships in Philadelphia. One writer shares a story or poem, then invites a friend to comment. This month: “and now, I am the loveliest” from Ras. Mashramani and response by Maggie Eighteen. Scroll to the bottom to read as a PDF.

Story: and now, I am the loveliest

A specimen, They wanted me. Epitome of a human being, They flattered me with distinction and display. A map for the universe, my little body. ‘Take me’ I might have and most likely did say. Abduction was a compliment for a lonely little stick girl like me. I don’t remember my face but most probably I was radiant with pride. I was willing, I know, and I was asking for it my whole life walking with my eyes on the ground, wanting so badly for someone to choose me special.

You cannot make me say that They hurt me. Curiosity and power are not sins. It’s not wrong to be discerning—to know what one wants and to take it. I see it like that. I see the horror on your faces and I see envy streaked all through.

Those with common fates who’ve never felt special before, they love to knock you down to where they stand, common together on common ground.

I’m flying, though. They’ve given me wings. So abandon your euphemisms. ‘What They did’ during ‘The Incident’ was love me. They scooped me up with strong arms, my angels. I bared my belly to Them and They called me perfect. I am a puzzle piece! Mission accomplished They’ve made me the missing link. I have given Them a gift. What They did was make me a vessel of salvation.

I remember my legs cocked to receive the beast. I was grateful and I was courageous and I was giving. I do not remember my face but I that my upper lip stayed stiff and I impressed Them with my bravery. One day I will paint the scene in grays and peaches, and I will be the centerpiece, and I will be plump with spawn and pride.

Upon my return I became a household name. The other girls, the pretty ones, they came back blithering and idiotic, and you doted on them and you called their cargo monsters. But my back stayed straight and I told you I was committed. I am the bearer of a new and brighter being. I’ve become a soldier of Creation. ‘What They did’ to me was show every common sack of blood that I was one exception among you—strong enough to carry the seed of the realest Gods.

As a young girl I walked with my eyes on the ground. My hair fell over my face and I was called a nobody and made to squat in a field while the girls laughed at my naked back and my pissed on shoes. You are a cruel lot, even your youngest. You are a proud species, on top of the world ruling and ruling doling naming She is the loveliest, and He is most charming, and I what was I was an insect to you and I didn’t matter.

Now I sit near bursting with a strange and novel fruit. I am creating your downfall, and they have promised me the kingdom. You should thank me. Your thumbs and your lungs may live on after They crush you and your darling daughters.

And I will be the loveliest and I will live forever and my smile will be burned into your taxonomy as you dwindle in the void

begging forgiveness.

Response: “A cosmic nod”

by M Eighteen Téllez

I met Ras very suddenly at Spiral Q Theater’s Peoplehood event at Clark Park a couple months ago. Ras was holding an Occupy Philly banner along with my friend, Colin, and I ran over to help hold it, having forgotten that the West Philly OP contingent was making a show at the event. We watched Peoplehood for a while, handing out buttons and flyers, and afterwards my friend emailed me saying, ‘you should connect with that person Ras. They write sci-fi sex positive stuff too. I told them about your work and their eyes lit up, and they’re reading at an Afro-futurist ball on Halloween!!!’ I emailed Ras after that; said, hey I like writing dystopian cyborg smut, here’s a link to my stuff. And since then we’ve maintained contact through Gmail.

I’m used to connecting to people through electronic channels, but it’s exciting that Ras lives in my physical community. I sense this powerful opportunity to collaborate, that we aren’t ready to really take full advantage of just yet. It’s very promising. Because I’ve been somewhat baffled by the lack of current queer SF writers in queer-packed Philly, or even folks that have active interest in queer/post-binary narratives as explored through speculative fiction. Our culture is screaming for it! So to know Ras is down the street resonating is like a cosmic nod to keep doing what I’m doing and later we’ll unite forces. Or some other giant fighting robots-style assemblage.

Reading “and now, I am the loveliest,” I was first reminded of that French comic Sky Doll (which I’ve only seen pictures of), and other ‘alien specimen’ futuresex kinds of stories that float around in the ether. I was also listening to Missy Elliot’s Beep Me 911, after a night spent with my closest homie collecting 1990s R&B videos (mostly directed by Hype Williams) that have these running themes of dystopian voyeuristic surveillance society and darkly opulent pleasure palace/remotely controlled sex objects (people). Reading and now, it seemed like yet another facet of this entrancing premonition of the dehumanized future.

The first time through the opening paragraph, I was intrigued by what kind of creatures They might be, and what kind of power they wield. Why do they need or desire a human specimen? The universe of this story was trying to unfold itself to me. The second time reading the opening, though, I found myself more focused on the voice of the Specimen. It was drawn in, closed off to a harsh world that would violently oppress given the chance. And it reminded me of myself at 14, a vulnerable girl looking for someone to make me special through the institution of heteronormative romance. It’s how I ended up in a six-year-long abusive relationship, you know? Hearing the Specimen echo my same young desires had me worried.

But the universe where They rule is unknown to me. The Specimen may, in fact, not be oppressed by society-wide misogyny and patriarchal institutions that endlessly seek to control female sexuality (and other deeply ingrained social injustices). The Specimen could indeed be coming up, finally. Yet the willingness for her to be the Specimen, is curious, to say the least. She has willingly sacrificed. She is enduring. The Specimen sounds like she is justifying her outwardly perceived delusional sense of grandeur in the interim before her rise to power, when she’ll show them and they’ll be sorry after. She sounds like an abused girl that has been robbed of agency. She sounds like the outcast that small society has had no problem othering. She sounds like she will be ruthless.

So what about the thumbs and lungs that will live on after her rise to prominence and the birth of this new god? I would definitely enjoy reading an expanded saga of the rise and fall of the Specimen and her spawn. It’s the stuff of which the best SF comics and well-produced anime series are made. But common folks and literary types have always had this baffling disdain for science fiction, despite the fact that it predicts the future.