February is the month of Zeno’s Paradox. In much of the Northern Hemisphere, winter is stretching itself out for another cold, gray month ; in the Southern, summer has started to fold itself up and put itself away. We’re already halfway through, but the two weeks that remain feel like they’ve always been there, and always will be, slicing themselves smaller and smaller so that there’s always a little while longer until March. If grief was a month, it would be February: the grief of a pandemic that’s never quite over, a parent’s illness, a death without reconciliation, a story that no one else was ready to hear.
We make oases where we can, and here is one we’ve carved out here in the middle of the shortest and most endless month. We have fourteen new stories for you. A market where nightmares are bought and sold and traded, and a museum to preserve all that those in power would like to see destroyed. An intelligent school building and a retired military vehicle that prove to be more than what they were programmed to be. A troll who comes to embrace her grief, and a painter who learns to let his go. A thousand story scenarios to be trapped in with your unrequited love, and a single alternate version of yourself who made the decision you didn’t. The last Historian who is unwilling to give up on what can still be preserved, and a guide to surrendering what is beyond your keeping. What’s left behind when a person loses the augmented senses that made them who they were, and what lies ahead when we let our fragile world roll away down a careless path. A year in which even stars must turn by human demands, and last but not least, a truly fun-damental party-cle.
Stay as long as you need to; we’ll be here when you need a place to pause.
Language
English
Pages
153
Format
Kindle Edition
Release
February 01, 2023
Translunar Travelers Lounge: Issue Eight: February 2023
February is the month of Zeno’s Paradox. In much of the Northern Hemisphere, winter is stretching itself out for another cold, gray month ; in the Southern, summer has started to fold itself up and put itself away. We’re already halfway through, but the two weeks that remain feel like they’ve always been there, and always will be, slicing themselves smaller and smaller so that there’s always a little while longer until March. If grief was a month, it would be February: the grief of a pandemic that’s never quite over, a parent’s illness, a death without reconciliation, a story that no one else was ready to hear.
We make oases where we can, and here is one we’ve carved out here in the middle of the shortest and most endless month. We have fourteen new stories for you. A market where nightmares are bought and sold and traded, and a museum to preserve all that those in power would like to see destroyed. An intelligent school building and a retired military vehicle that prove to be more than what they were programmed to be. A troll who comes to embrace her grief, and a painter who learns to let his go. A thousand story scenarios to be trapped in with your unrequited love, and a single alternate version of yourself who made the decision you didn’t. The last Historian who is unwilling to give up on what can still be preserved, and a guide to surrendering what is beyond your keeping. What’s left behind when a person loses the augmented senses that made them who they were, and what lies ahead when we let our fragile world roll away down a careless path. A year in which even stars must turn by human demands, and last but not least, a truly fun-damental party-cle.
Stay as long as you need to; we’ll be here when you need a place to pause.