Dark Matter Presents: Monstrous Futures
Alex Woodroe, ed.
Paperback / Ebook
ISBN: 9781958598078
Dark Matter Ink, April 18, 2023, 357 pgs

Editor and publisher Rob Carroll published issue 001 of print and digital speculative fiction magazine Dark Matter at the beginning of 2021. In 2022 he got into the book publishing game. He’s going strong into 2023 with titles like Ai Jiang’s Linghun and R.L. Meza’s Love Will Devour Us. I missed horror anthology Dark Matter Presents: Human Monsters, edited by Sadie Hartmann and Ashley Saywers, published in October 2022. Glancing at that book’s table of contents, and having read Monstrous Futures, I just might need to go back and give it a read. In case it’s not clear: editor Alex Woodroe has done marvelous work with Monstrous Futures, to the point where we need to see more projects by her, and we need to take Dark Matter Ink quite seriously as a purveyor of quality fiction. I’ll talk about a handful of pieces and leave the rest for you to discover.

If you understand codeswitching on a personal level, then you will quickly understand how awesome M.H. Ayinde’s “Fully Comprehensive Code Switch” really is, even from the very beginning. Every line glows with nuance and quiet fury. Within a few pages, Ayinde brings this fury more clearly to the fore, not just for readers who might not be getting it, but also as an accumulation of the main character’s frustration up to that point: “How about taking a stab at my first name?” This simple line and its meaning—that she is forced to use her middle name because the people around her don’t even bother trying to pronounce her first name—epitomizes the problem, the source of her anger, and the reason for the story’s novum: a device that “helps” people to blend in. You know, helps certain people. Blend in with certain social circles.

Think about it. Even in the science fiction idea there’s an embedded message, a critique of culture. Instead of creating a device to assist with mutual understanding, some folks have created a device to help marginalized people blend in with the dominant (read: white, heterosexual, and so on) society. Worse, this idea reflects attitudes in the US and similar cultures, and potentially, the direction we’re going in terms of laws and movements: not so much work going on to foster mutual understanding, to embrace multiculturality in meaningful ways.

“Louise” is at a party where everyone is dressed in finery. The device doesn’t just tell her what to say, it manages her body language, even chides her for wanting to eat—explaining to her the way eating will be interpreted in this setting, by this group of people. It steers her away from anything which looks like “being herself” and infuses her behavior, even her laughter, with elements that are “comfortable” and “familiar” to the white folks holding the event.

This isn’t just a fiction. Many people change the way they speak, the way they stand, and even the way they act, to make other people “feel comfortable.” This is just how our culture works. Codeswitching, the story reminds us, isn’t just about navigating socially, it’s about consequences. The fact that if some folks (not-white, and by extension, trans, gay, etc., including women moving in mostly male circles) come as they are they won’t be liked, won’t have opportunities, not because there is anything wrong with them, but because the dominant folks refuse to understand them on their own terms. If they don’t make these adjustments, then (white) people in charge, with the power to hire as well as reward in other systems, are more likely to hire prospectives who they feel “comfortable” around, who they can “relate to.”

In the story, Ayinde adds to this particular pressure the complications of generational and family views. The parents who grew up poor and had to scrape and sweat for everything, who just want their kids to have it better than they had, and who see material comfort and success as good reasons to suck it up and do what you need to do socially. What is considered “important,” what is “tolerable,” and what is “intolerable” changes with privilege.

If you understand codeswitching, then you understand the horror at play in this piece on a deep level. Codeswitching in real life is controversial, and we who do it are often hyperaware of it, and of the risk and discomfort of being in situations where we feel like it’s something we may need to do. We make decisions about codeswitching, form habits. But in the story, the device is controlling her, training her, forcing her to be the person other people want her to be. And of course, Ayinde takes the horror to the next level, as “Louise” begins to have moments where she enjoys the influence of the switch.

There is a stroke of brilliance at the end, specifically in Ayinde’s science fiction horror approach to the topic of codeswitching. I won’t spoil it by laying it out, but frankly, if you don’t see the brilliance on the page, you might be one of the people standing in the room, demanding that people change who they are so that you can feel more comfortable.

“The Body Remembers” by P.A. Cornell gives us solid military fiction. This one utilizes the classic science fiction modes of “science gone wrong” and “scientists who are willing to sacrifice people to do their thing.” While it’s playing with classic themes, the piece feels updated, and definitely basks in horror. There’s a touch of subtext about the way people fall for schemes which take advantage of them, as well as what kinds of people tend to get targeted, and the ways those running the schemes keep you trapped. The schemers here being part of the larger military/government structure. There are also notes about the way some folks who have a type of control or power over you just aren’t that concerned with what you think or how you feel—the story pulls together an intersection between asshole doctors and asshole scientists. The novum, “the treatment,” in a sense, is familiar territory; but the way it’s applied to the story makes it new, especially in its various implications and dark possibilities. Altogether, a well-structured, well-told piece with a distinctive vibe.

“About A Broken Machine” by Catherine Kuo initially draws you in with good prose, including a few standout moments/lines. The Uncanny Valley is center stage, as Masashi takes his sister’s used, hand-me-down robot maid to his small, disheveled apartment. Excellent dialogue and characterization drive the read. Household robots are not necessarily a new topic. Kuo also employs the classic horror tactic of subtle warnings, such as the sister describing odd, unexplained behavior and essentially saying, “I’m sure it’s fine, though.” The reader, of course, knows that perhaps taking home a hand-me-down robot is a bad idea. Yet Kuo also makes the idea and situation feel new via details, specifics, circumstances. The story quickly becomes engrossing—Kuo is deft at adding flares of the unexpected, things which also provide wonderful tension. You will quickly realize that while some of the broader strokes are familiar, you definitely haven’t seen this story before. The narrative finally takes the reader into seriously gripping territory, and when the end comes around, you will be left with your pulse elevated, while still thinking through the potential subtext of the piece.

Simo Srinivas starts “Kavo, Beta (Eat, Child)” with a great opening line, which leads to great wordplay, setting the stage for a strange and interesting story. It gets even better for astute readers as Srinivas drives the narrative with subtle wit and social observations. And then Srinivas takes it to yet another level, pulling in a really cool novum, which also ties in wonderfully to the set-up, and which promises a fascinating read.

The writing is clever and layered, but Srinivas also gives us a character we are interested in, someone we want to get to know, and more specifically, someone whose journey, under these circumstances, we are eager to see. Srinivas also uses shock and surprise in delightful ways, enhancing narrative through startling moments that tie into the deeper themes of the piece.

Just when you think, okay, this story is good, something happens. Srinivas gives you fantastic dialogue and interactions, perfectly capturing a moment which is both relatable and slightly bold, making him a seriously gifted writer, in my opinion. From there, each individual moment is perfectly crafted, mesmerizing almost, and Srinivas uses touchstones to pull you back into the larger story arc, sharply controlling the narrative and the reader’s place in it.

This is a horror story, but it explores a number of things on its way to its darkest depths. It’s thoughtful and wonderful and terrible—in the ways you want horror to be terrible—all at once.

“You Don’t Have To Watch This Part” by Rodrigo Culagovski starts with a cool premise, an effective twist on a familiar concept. The storytelling is smooth, and the use of perspective and idea allows the author to explore a range of human situations. This is, again, horror, so the situations have the commonality of darkness and pain.

In the middle the narrative shifts a bit, marrying supernatural to science fiction, which also turns out to be a really cool application of the concept. There is a tone shift here, switching to an exploration or perhaps an explanation of “how it works.” The writing is good, and this is a science fiction anthology, so I think a lot of readers will enjoy the details of this section, even though it reads, for me, as perhaps less connected to the emotional throughline. Regardless, the ending is very strong, and the story’s themes sing through with lovely power.

Kanishk Tantia’s “I Promise I’ll Visit, Ma” features another brilliant opening line hinting at an interesting premise. Then Tantia uses the senses to draw the reader into the story, along with strong imagery, painting a scene of a dying mother. We’ve seen stories of people in a room with their dying parent, but Tantia makes sure you know you haven’t seen this one.

Tantia intersects grief with capitalist modalities, and in particular, the predatory nature of systems built on greed. Tantia’s striking skill is displayed in developing intriguing theories in a narrative which still feels personal and meaningful. Dehumanization is center stage here, and in the way that great science fiction does, Tantia uses story to ask us to consider what consumerism and technology might mean to us as humans; what we become to the companies that thrive from our bodies, our work; and, more subtly, the ways that we are motivated to keep the system running. He also asks, importantly, who are the people that get used, in what ways, and who benefits most. Finally, the story turns out to be an excellent exploration of human connection, one which might leave you a bit shaken after you’ve absorbed its closing lines.

This is a great book, highly recommended for horror readers who like meaning and depth and innovation. I’ve discussed a sampling of pieces, but the book offers twenty-nine original stories, including authors whose work you should be checking out, like Aigner Loren Wilson, Avra Margariti, Christi Nogle, J.A.W. McCarthy, and many others. If Woodroe puts out another anthology, I will be very eager to see it.