Edited by Sheree Renée Thomas
258 pages
Published 2024
Read from August 27 to August 28
Rating: 3.5 out of 5
I don’t want this to be the end of F&SF.
It might not be. There’s a chance that the publisher will sort out its internal difficulties and get back on some semblance of a regular schedule. I certainly hope so. Under the editorial auspices of Sheree Renée Thomas, the quality of the magazine’s offerings has been astonishing, the best it’s ever been. Plus, several authors have shared news of contracts signed and edits approved, so there’s still a pulse in the organization, somewhere. My personal hypothesis has been that F&SF is husbanding its resources to release another issue this fall, coinciding with the magazine’s 75th anniversary.
But it’s practically September now. This is still the only issue F&SF has produced in what should have been a celebration year. To my knowledge, this issue never made it to newsstands; I had to shell out $30 to get a print copy from an online reseller.
And I can’t shake the impression that the publisher stooped to using an AI-regurgitated cover. One of Jupiter’s rings simply appears in space, mid-picture, unconnected to anything else, and arcing the wrong way. The cover also has that over-processed sheen that makes AI barf (I refuse to call it art) so off-putting.
So. Things aren’t looking great for F&SF right now.
I haven’t even begun reading this issue, and I’m already tearing up over it. But hey — technically this is still the current issue, so I guess my streak of reading current issues (beginning with March / April 2023) remains unbroken!
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“what kills the stars” by Alex Bisker. Right out of the gate, this story is a stunner. It’s a deft, powerful tearjerker, expertly mingling the personal with the cosmic, heartbreak with the end of everything. “Confident in the abundance of time” is a phrase that will linger in my head for a long while, a perfect cradle for that tremulous joy we feel before the bottom falls out.
“The Ndayaan Sea” by Moustapha Mbacké Diop. Rich, vivid folkloric fantasy, filled with vaster magic and stranger scenes than any sword & sorcery epic. Excellent.
“The Icy Wasteland at Her Feet” by Deborah L. Davitt. In planning for, and sketching in the details of, my own longer-form stories, I’ve been thinking a lot about both the isolation of space ventures and the unreliability of human technology (particularly technology requiring exacting specs but produced with an emphasis on speed and cost-cutting). This tale of the last survivor of a human expedition to Enceladus makes the most of both themes. A solid story of all too human limitations in a hostile environment.
“Guilt Can Wilt the Sweetest Flower” by Veronica G. Henry. This piece feels like a stylistic and topical throwback to the urban fantasy boom of the 1980s. A traumatized Vietnam vet turned library custodian helps a bag-lady who is more than she seems. I rolled my eyes at the villainous librarian character who scoffs at the veteran’s service and fantasizes about throwing him out in the street once he’s no longer needed. I'd buy that from a nurse, sure, but a librarian? Weird strawman. This was not my kind of thing.
Next, a poem: “Sea and Sky” by Megan Branning. I enjoyed it.
“Mackson’s Mardi Gras Moon Race” by David DeGraff. Another throwback, this time a delightfully uncomplicated moon race tale straight out of the 1970s, with our blue-collar hero hoping his experience with driving untracked routes parlays into an edge against the fully sponsored drivers and the scions of lunar elites. Not a deep story, but entertaining.
“The Wizzzer” by Scott Nicolay. This feels like a 2020s-does-1980s-does-1950s suburban horror piece, layers of nostalgia about someone else’s nostalgia. It isn't bad (at least not by the standards of stories about creepy murderous kids), but it's insubstantial. Its greatest asset is its narrative voice.
“Burned Like Coal” by T. R. Napper. I felt indifferent about this near-future tale of would-be ecoterrorists. Didn't hate it, didn't love it. It was fine.
“The Diamond Factory” by Phoebe Barton. Adamantia Dawn returns to the habitat high in Saturn's atmosphere, years after her escape from its authoritarian horrors, as a final inspector, ready to sign off on the habitat’s decommission and destruction. Unexpectedly, something of the Shining City's vile past remains. This is a brief but effective mood piece. Quite good.
“The Body-Part Woman” by Bonnie Elizabeth. Creative concept for a story: our narrator loans out body parts she has collected to those who might need a hand, an arm, a heart, a stomach. It’s a bravura allegory for the unpaid and unacknowledged labors expected of women in our society, and the violence that is rendered in return. A haunting, uneasy read. Excellent.
“How to Care for Your Domestic God” by Clara Madrigano. The only novelette in an issue of poems and short stories, this piece earns its largesse of space. Madrigano commands your attention from the first line, spinning out an utterly absorbing tale of ancestry, community, domesticity, and the meaning of home. Absolutely riveting slow-burn domestic horror, an instant classic.
A poem: “A Selection of Book Curses” by Megan Branning. Does what it says in the title. I enjoyed it.
“Big Trouble in Sector C” by Robert Friedman & Barry N. Malzberg. A throwback to 1990s cyberpunk here, in which part of Murphy’s consciousness gets uploaded into cyberspace to track down rogue malware while dressed like a noir detective. Shallow stuff, but mildly entertaining.
“All Our Better Angels” by Jack Neel Waddell. Fairly average “time traveler loops back on her own life at various times” tale. Spoilers: It’s basically the same plot as Robert Heinlein’s “‘—All You Zombies—’” (read and reviewed here), but with less self-sex and more cloning, thus somewhat less interesting to me. It’s a fine enough story if you resist comparisons.
“Puzzle Pieces” by Jennifer R. Povey. In a dystopian future of reproductive licenses and widespread eugenics, an autistic child is born to a corporate magnate, who chooses to have her “mitigated.” A poignant middle finger to Autism Speaks and other contemporary eugenicists.
“Zariel: Parable of a Gifted Black Child” by Denzel Xavier Scott. Gorgeously written, weary with worldly wisdom, scintillating with pain and power. Harrowing, yet exalting.
“The Wounded King” by J. A. Prentice. It's hard to follow a story like "Zariel," but this is quite good on its own terms. It's a solid, crisply-written reinterpretation of Arthuriana, an effective allegory for a blood-sucking patriarchy that believes it has all the answers.
“The Interspatial Accessibility Compact’s Guidelines for Cross-Cultural Engagement” by Dane Kuttler. This feels like someone took all those viral Tumblr posts about humans being the wacky, self-destructive, pack-bond-with-anything, Florida Man species of the Federation, and decided to build a setting around them. Which isn't a bad thing, at least not here. Enjoyable.
A poem by Richard Leis, “Cities Through Telescopes,” is solid enough, mingling grief and astronomy.
A piece I’ve been looking forward to for a long time: Avra Margariti’s poem “Vanishing Act.” It is, as expected, captivating, intoxicating, absolutely brilliant.
“Do Not Hasten to Bid Me Adieu” by Will McMahon. I was already enjoying this story's immersive 1930s setting when it took a swerve I never would have guessed, and became absolutely delightful. A quiet, unexpected masterpiece.
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That’s it for this issue! Not my favorite issue of the Thomas era — yet, like every other Thomas-helmed issue I’ve read, it’s vastly better and more interesting than any issue put out by a prior editor. (C. C. Finlay’s issues have come close, but don’t congrue with my own tastes quite the way that Thomas’ efforts do.) It has its share of all-time great stories, as well.
Let’s hope this isn’t it for F&SF.
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