TransVersions II

Cover Art for Issue #3 by Dale Sproule

Click on the small cover above to view full size colour cover. (179K jpeg)

After the thundering success of his Quintaglio novels - Robert J. Sawyer felt it was time to explore more human issues. Not only is The Terminal Experiment (Harper Prism 1995) human and soulful, it is being acclaimed as among Sawyer's very best work. In that tradition,TransVersions #3 is delighted to present "Lost in the Mail" a poignant glimpse at human nature - a story about choices - and about going for the brass ring.

In Mici Gold's profile, "Not Just a Dinosaur Guy", you get to meet the man behind the curtain,discovering along the way that "Lost in the Mail" is more than a little autobiographical.

Heather Spears provides a haunting prose portrait of "The Woman Who Drew Dead Babies".

One of the newer writers is Canadian Bob Boyzcuk. Bob's "Home" is an eerie exploration of suppressed madness. Charles McEvoy provides a diverting musical interlude. Annick Perrot- Bishop a moment of silence like none you've ever experienced before. Adam Corbin Fusco's story "Fevre" is a stylish, dreamlike exploration of loss. Loring Emery's "Mal de Ojo" is guaranteed to make you flinch.

Nancy Bennett's rich poetry has appeared in every issue of the magazine. Other repeat contributors include Regina artist Cathy Buburuz; and Catherine Mintz - whose spooky story "The Woman Who Knew Better" isn't quite as compressed as the haiku which have graced our pages in other issues.

The two end pieces in the issue couldn't be more different from one another. The closing story "The Pleistoscene Bebop Shift" by recent Clarion grad Joe Murphy is somehow silly, bouncy, dark and edgy at the same time. The opening story "Divorcing Heavenlea" by Mary Kay Lane is a mainstream story that thinks like sf...a touching story about alienation.

Other contents include stories by Steven Crane Davidson, Uncle River and Kurt Newton...poems by Irishman Niall McGrath, John Grey, Ed Baranosky, Steve Rasnic Tem, and a breathtaking little poem "Skylab 1973-79" by Carolyn Clink.

Illos by Heather Spears, Kenneth McCool, Alan Casey, the amazing GAK... plus a colour cover by DLSproule that has been called everything from "beautiful" to "disturbing" to "kick-ass".

Table of Contents

Excerpts from Issue#3:

TransVersions

Excerpt from "Lost in the Mail" by Robert J. Sawyer:

"So, every now and then there's a kind of cosmic hiccup. The universes get so out of joint that they just keep moving farther apart. Can't have that. It weakens the fabric of existence, so they tell me. We've got to get things back on course."

"What are you talking about?"

"You ever hear of Ronald Reagan?"

"No. Wait -- you mean the actor? Guy who did a bunch of pictures with a chimp?"

"That's him. There was a hiccup almost forty years ago. He got it into his head to be a politician, don't you know. I won't even tell you how high up he made it in the American government - - you'd never believe me.

TransVersions

Excerpt from "Fevre" by Adam Corbin Fusco

New Year's Eve, Neman notices the orange glow of his wrist therm reading 99.9. The light has diffused in the empty plastic jugs he holds that long ago contained Cloverland milk. He turns for a last look into the bedroom. All that is visible is the wood-slat blinds aiming strips of streetglow onto a bed out of view, where Arroyo is. A tear makes a dust-track down his cheek. He would have saved it if he could; all the water chits are gone.

Beetle steps of moth-eaten paper walls. Neman walks through a once marbleized foyer into the sooted night where woodsmoke is and the humidity of lost moisture. He feels furtive and guilty; he is going out to steal.

Ghost shapes of hangers-on. Neman passes people on the street, shuffling his feet, wary of getting too close. If he could read their wrist therms ahead of time he'd know. A man in rotted jeans and flannel passes him, brushing. Neman catches the first whiff of umber, of mildewed mushroom, of burning fetal pigs, sees the cobalt glow tracing snakes along the man's skin. Neman stops, transfixed; he has never been this close before. Others on the street move out of the way.

Candle flame, the man's hair stands on end. The heat is fanned convectionally by the cold of the street, rising in sparks. The skin is a gas-jet glow, quite beautiful; Neman can see the man's face through it, an expression of ecstasy, the open mouth fending off flame with CO2, but then the fire, hungrily, sensed fresh meat, dives into the maw, the sound of moth wings singeing. Parchment paper skin is dotted by black ink flame, then cracking, out of oil, peeling back, red turning crisp, until it flakes off falling. The sound is a roar since there are no more lungs; it is the heady wisp of bone turned iron.