TransVersions II

Cover Art for Issue #5 by Jeff Kuipers

Click on the small cover above to view full size colour cover. (352K jpeg)

Issue #5
Table of Contents

Some interior illustrations by GAK.

Excerpts from Issue#5:

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Excerpt from "David Pangborn Takes a Walk" by Jeff VanderMeer:

David Pangborn had been walking for a long time, much longer than he should have, but his calculations, though he did not want to think about it too much. Not yet, anyway.

The sky resembled a blue balloon stretched to a grainy off-white and the sidewalk wound out before him in open-ended invitation. Cars roared by on the four-lane boulevard and left the tang of asphalt and carbon monoxide on his tongue. He savoured the taste, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth to moisten his gums.

It seemed a lovely day for a walk: summer, with sprinklers and flop-happy dogs, ice cream vendors and grandmothers on patios with swings. The laughter of children sounded pleasantly melodic yet tedious in its innocence. Children everywhere.

A lump formed in his throat, but David Pangborn greeted them with a smile, the all- encompassing width of which threatened to devour everything yet consume nothing. He imagined that his girl friend, who lived in a city twenty miles away, might be on lunch break too. He had thought about calling her. He had thought about calling a great many people. But what was the point?

Lunch break would soon be over. Just a walk to get away from the blue hell of computer screens and air monitors pulsing in his eyes. He had been walking for a very long time. Much longer than. . .

Pangborn cleared the rise of a hill and, through the sweat which bled into his eyes, made out a large, stocky man in a loincloth who blocked the sidewalk fifty feet ahead. Pangborn's glasses had been smashed at some point and he was partially blinded from lack of them--he could not remember, precisely, how the glasses had broken, although he recalled the bright red face of his supervisor, the rise and fall of many fists.

As Pangborn approached the man, several details became clear: he had an enormous waistline, hailed from Japan, and the loin cloth daintily draped across his privates could more properly be described as a white canvas sail. Surely this man was an apparition! Surely this was the start of it.

The man jumped into the air, cut the sky with his hands. These jumps were graceful and fast, nimble even for a ballet dancer, but performed by a mournful toad of a man with no neck, and limbs which formed part of his torso. Indeed, an aura of sadness surrounded the man. He seemed ethereal in his very overabundance.

Slowly, however, the disparate elements connected in Pangborn's mind and a single giggle escaped his lips.

"Ahhh..." A sumo wrestler catching butterflies with chopsticks. Absurdly self-evident.

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Excerpt from "Day's Hunt" by Derryl Murphy:

Davies watched the Admiral's lips move as he talked to Jimbo, the chief harpoonist, but he could hear nothing over the noisy cries of the gulls. Jimbo, a good head taller than the Admiral, leaned over and spoke directly into the old man's ear in response, compensating for a partial deafness that was the result of the Tip Wars twenty years earlier.

Martins sauntered up to where Davies was standing. This was only his second trip out, a young guy with all his teeth still and no tumors, and for some unfathomable reason he had taken to Davies. "Think we'll find any today?" They'd had no luck on Martins' first trip and had settled with scavenging from a small _Ford_ that they had dredged up from below the surface.

Davies shrugged. "Don't know. They don't always come this close to the foam. But still..." He spread his arms wide.

Martins grunted in assent, then stiffened as the Admiral shouted "Ho!"

They turned to see where he was looking, staring hard in that direction. At first they saw nothing. But then, a spout. And then another! Two made for a very lucky sign, and they were only a few minutes away.

The Admiral came charging down to the deck, Jimbo close at his heels. His face was flushed with excitement, even under the heavy layer of screen. The others ran up and the nine of them gathered round while the Admiral laid out the plan of action.

"Jimbo. You and Archambault and Blackie head to just north of where we saw the spouts." He paused to spit up some bloody phlegm on his sleeve, stared at it for a second, and then wiped it on his pants leg, grinning wildly as he did so. Heinz danced and cooed nervously before settling back down. "The rest of you lads, split into your two teams and circle around. Drop no more than three charges each to force them up and back towards Jimbo. By _Saran_, we'll have them for sure!"

There was a chorus of "Aye, sirs" and then the men jumped to action. Davies and Kelly and Domingo lowered their dory overboard, then jumped into it and started circling to the west.

The other two rowed while Davies stood and watched for signs. The dory rode relatively smoothly, pitches so small that Davies barely had to flex his knees. He kept one foot on the cleat, leaning forward and sometimes resting a hand on the bow.

The little scavenged motor at the stern whined softly, keeping the dory just a hair's-breadth above the actual surface, by what magic of technology Davies and his mates did not understand. But, more likely centuries later and unlike so many other found items it still worked, and made it easier for them all to do their jobs.

"See anything?" asked Domingo, straining at the oars.

Davies shook his head. "Just the other boats." It was impossible to see beneath the surface, so he watched the horizon for signs of breaching.

And then, there it was! A big one, maybe a tonne or more, jumping out of a large swell almost due south of them. It flew into the air with an awesome, deep-throated groan, jaws wide open and forearms flailing, and managed to catch five unsuspecting gulls; one for each three-fingered hand and three for its mouth. Then it crashed back down and quickly burrowed under the swell.

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Excerpt from "Hidebound" by Gemma Files:

Ever since I was a child, I've had a running debate with my mother over whether or not there's something "wrong" with my bladder capacity--a nagging fear reinforced by a nightmarish visit to my grandmother that ended with her counting every time I went to the bathroom during the night, giving us a full report in the morning, and telling me (very seriously, in her Scots/Canadian burr): "You really shude think aboot consoolting a doctor, Lee. It's jist nut nermal."

But I'm a big girl now, supposedly. So after I'd held it for about three hours, I decided I'd rather take my chances with one of portasans than risk getting fitted with a colostomy bag.

Inside this unlit, upright plastic coffin with a septic tank, however, I found not only no toilet paper, but an overwhelming stink to boot--a nose- and-mouthful of warm European cheese, the kind so bad you can barely stand to taste it, let alone smell it. Not to mention I was desperate, but couldn't let go--which actually had less to do with the situation as I've painted it above than an overpowering feeling of being watched.

You know how it is sometimes, when you're caught unaware--that impassable glitch between reflex and realization? You're seconds from sleep, dreaming a busy daytime street, until you feel yourself step in the gutter and jerk awake again, bruising your foot on the bedboard. The plate's left your hand, and you know you'll never catch it. But you can't stop yourself from jumping, even as it slowly arcs down to break apart on the floor.

A flash of movement, right at the edge of my vision. Next thing I knew, I was up--standing so quickly that the whole portasan gave one big jerk--and out. I strode behind the nearest truck and squatted, scanning the bushes; there was nothing to wipe myself with but leaves, naturally, which seemed more than a little sixth-grade, so I pulled the tail of my shirt free, planning to use it and tuck it back in before I could think about what I'd just done. And I sat there on my heels, listening to my heart hammer in the hollow of my throat--my breath ragged, like I'd run a mile through some seashell.

My throat was sore. My lungs felt full of blood-warm mucus. But all I could think of was the figure I thought I'd seen loping past in the crack of dark between door and jamb, its face the barest Pierrot mask: Two smudged eyes in a white oval, with an uneven red thumbprint for a mouth.