Chappy New Year

Hyperion has had a bad eonSending out stories has a lot in common with chunks of rock floating in space. Mostly, these rocks roam out in the void for long stretches of time and never hit much of anything. But every now and then they connect with a bang. This moon Hyperion has had many such hits. Our slush pile has had a few as well. 75 stories received to date, 53 rejected, 5 accepted, 1 poem accepted, several candidate stories & poems. Thank you all for sending to us. We are the little magazine that could.

Cool news: While walking through Hoboken on saturday I stumbled across a garage sale (more like a “gate” sale. There are few real garages in this town). And on a table I saw an old magazine that immediately caught my eye. It was called “Time Machine”, and though filled with mostly news, it had an aesthetic much like issue #2 of Sybil’s Garage. They were cheap — like $1 each — so I grabbed the lot of them and went to pay. And the gentleman there said, “Oh, you like those? Those were fun to make. I have some more in the back.” His name is Jim Hans and as it turns out he created this magazine in the late 70s from Hoboken. He is also the founder of the Hoboken Historical Museum. I felt, as I got to talking to this man, that he had loads of wonderful stories to tell. I showed him Sybil’s Garage, and then I asked him if he’d submit for an interview for issue three. He gladly assented. I can’t wait to hear the stories he has to tell. It’s was fascinating to see how much the magazine resembles Sybil’s (with the old ads especially), but his ads were for real products and companies local to Hoboken whose designs were purposefully retro. With his permission, I’m going to post some scans of the magazine here. They really are museum pieces (and are, of course, in the Hoboken museum).

Blue Morpho - Morpho menelaus you fool!There’s an interesting article in last week’s New Scientist about emerging species identification systems, and one in particular called DAISY. The systems promise to identify species by a few photographs using software analysis, i.e. basically they’re a google for the biological world. Their intention, says the article, is to bring a “bioliteracy” to all, that is, they hope to allow anyone with a camera and a computer to identify any species using the system. Though rudimentary and segmented between life-trees at this point, with the ever increasing power of computers this will soon change.

This is not photonic makeup, but I wish it was.  I could not find an online image showing the stuff off.  Oh well.  Carry On.Also in the news is talk of a new type of cosmetics called “photonics.” We’ve all seen these effects before on say, a butterfly’s wings, or in an oil film floating on water. As we change angles relative to the reflection, the colors change. L’Oreal and other cosmetic companies are working to mimic this color change in things like lipstick, eyeliner, and other products. If you thought cherry-red lip gloss was hot, wait until her lips start shimmering like a butterfly. Here’s a forum that talks about it. And here’s the source New Scientist article.

I’m heading out to my folks for Rosh Hashana today. That means “Head of the Year” or simply “The New Year.” In the Hebrew calendar, it will soon be the year 5766. As a science fiction writer, 5766 sounds much cooler than 2005. Yeah, I’m living in the eighth century of the sixth millenium. Cool. Duke Attreides would be proud.

Weekly Reading Queue Update

The Sybil's Garage Readers.A brief Sybil’s Garage reading queue update:

We have received about 64 stories so far.
We have accepted 5 stories so far.
We have rejected about 50 stories so far.
We are still looking at several poems & are considering a few stories.

We would like to see more non-fiction essays & more science-fiction.

A phone call!  Oh my gosh!In other news, over the weekend I tried out Skype for the first time. For those of you who may not know what Skype is, the software allows you to make phone calls across the net for free. Of course, both users must be running Skype, but as an add-on feature, you can call many countries in the world for 1.7 cents Euro, which is about 3 cents American per minute. Not bad.

We used Skype so that my cousin and I could play a game of Yahoo chess and talk freely at the same time. His daughters would come up to the computer and talk to me like I was some amusement park clown (well, I guess I played the part a little. I can’t resist making kids giggle). He also played Deep House music in the background, and to our surprise, we found the sound quality very clear and far superior to a telephone call. And while he did help me avoid a few stupid moves, the chess game was mostly my own, and I beat my cousin for the first time since I can remember — perhaps ever. Thanks Skype.

And more on the recent topic of warming oceans, the debate continues over the influence of global warming on the climate of the planet. To the rescue comes high performace hybrid cars, but their assumptive panacea may not be all its cracked up to be. But as I always like to end bad news with good, Japan has released five captive-bred storks into the wild in an effort to reintroduce their native population.

Sparkly Monkey Pants and Those Crazy Hippies

Stutter VisionHoly shmolly, the submissions queue has picked up in the past day or so. I have about 14 stories to read (forwarded to me by our first readers), along with some poems and essays, and they still keep coming in. The coffee is not working today, either. Something about the humidity, I think.

My cousin sent me this link to a craig’s list posting: “Are you a film, television, and music know-it-all? Are the tabloids your bedside reading material? Do you pass the Entertainment Weekly quizzes with flying colors? Then we want YOU! The producer of WHO WANTS TO BE A MILLIONAIRE is currently casting TEAMS OF 3 for a cable show pilot entitled THE WORLD SERIES OF POP CULTURE. ”

How uncanny. This is exactly what I thought our culture needs to bring us out of the doldrums.

Space Monkey PantsMy friend Paul Berger sent me this Ebay link for a genuine pair of Russian space test monkey flight pants.

Crazy Hippie Dude

And, did you ever want to travel around the country with a crazy hippie? The bids have ended, but some lucky person is traveling around with Cody in his huge green hippie bus. Peace be with them.

And I was at the local bodega this morning when I noticed on the cake rack a package of glow in the dark cake. (I wonder if it glows coming out of you as well.) Reading the label, I found out this is for the autopsy, so they can see inside the hard to reach places without wasting their flashlight batteries. (I’m too tired to remember the cake’s brand name, but I will get that to you tomorrow, if possible)

Weekly Slush Pile Update

Slush!Weekends are usually when we get to catch up on our reading, so a number of rejections have been sent out over the past two or three days. If you didn’t get one yet, it probably means we’re still thinking about your story. Here are the stats so far:

We’ve received about 42 submissions since we opened two weeks ago.
Of them, we have rejected 28.
We have accepted 3, are considering a 4th and a 5th.
A well known author has agreed to be interviewed by us.
There are 23 chromosomes in the human genome.
The moon is approximately 1/4 million miles from Earth.
The Earth is an oblate spheroid.
So is Dick Cheney.

We would like to see more Science-Fiction, so I’ve updated the guidelines to reflect that.

Being on the opposite side of the rejection pile for the second time in a year lets me see things from the editor’s point of view. I won’t reiterate what’s already been said a thousand times by other editors, but remember this: All the editor ever sees from you, the author, is a cover letter and a story. Make sure you do your best to convey your professionalism in those two items. Even if you’ve never sold a story in your life, you can still show professionalism by following the specific directions in the guidelines, by doing your homework before you send a story (i.e. Google is your friend).

There. Enough said.

In other news: I’ve comissioned a talented artist to draw two black and white pictures for Sybil’s, and I came up with a really cool idea for the cover of issue #3 while urinating in a bar on friday. No, it has nothing to do with toilets. It’s just that bar restrooms when inebriated tend to have some kind of preternatural power to influence thought in a positive way. They are a bastion of the post-intellectual elite.

And completely not related to the above posting in any way, we’ve discovered that my cat and my cousin’s cat are somehow closely related because a) they look nearly identical and are from the same brood b) they both like to sleep on their back in the middle of the room and c) they like to knock over their water dish and see the liquid roll along the ground. They have never met. To prevent my kitty, Lucy, from knocking over her bowl I’ve attached velcro strips to the bottom of it. It sticks to the ground now like a nerf toy. No matter, she kicks the water out with her paw. (I can see her smirking at me now) So, I’m wondering if water-fascination, as I’m calling it, is inherited from one generation to another? I thought cats were supposed to hate water.

“New York City vs. The World” by Lauren McLaughlin

New York City Vs. The World

by Lauren McLaughlin
to the sound of Radiohead’s Amnesiac…

As published in Sybil’s Garage No. 2.
This story is also available as a podcast.

I’m afraid the answer has to be no.

Did you even consider my request?

No. Not really.

Mind if I ask why not?

The answer is no.

Yeah I got that. Some elaboration would be nice.

None is required.

It friggin’ is to me.

Yes I know. That is the root of the problem.

What problem?

The fact that you require me to explain myself.

Look, don’t get uppity with me, World. I made an honest request backed up by a rock solid argument. Now I ain’t some nobody you can flick away like a goddamn fly. I’m New York City for chrissakes.

And you feel this merits greater consideration?

You’re goddamn right I do.

You’re wrong.

Look. He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. Let’s stop pretending.

You need each other.

I don’t need anyone.

You’re wrong.

And if recent events are any indication, Uncle Sam doesn’t need anyone either.

Wrong again.

Other than geography, what do we have in common?

More than you realize.

You know I’m not without options here, World. You don’t authorize this separation, I’ve got steps I can take.

They won’t work.

Yeah? Let’s say I shut down, take a snooze. Cut my monkey base loose.

You’d never do that, New York.

Wouldn’t I? Imagine it. An over-crowded city full of aggressive people with no sense of community. Wouldn’t be long before productivity declined, the infrastructure collapsed, markets went haywire. Ouch. What happens to Uncle Sam then?

What happens is this, New York: Uncle Sam expends enormous resources bringing you back to life while renewing his love for you.

Temporary. The love is always temporary.

Yes, and if Uncle Sam deems you unstable in the long run, he quietly begins moving operations elsewhere.

Are you threatening me with brain drain?

I’m merely forecasting a future it’s in your interests to avoid.

‘Cause the best brains are right here, baby. And they ain’t going nowhere.

You honestly believe that, don’t you.

Try and dispute it.

I think Silicon Valley might dispute it.

One trick pony.

You see. This is why you have trouble getting along, New York. You’re so arrogant, so self-absorbed. That’s why others resent you.

Who are you kidding? That’s why they love me. Why do you think their monkeys spend so much time watching me on TV?

Morbid curiosity.

Fine. They resent me. Uncle Sam resents me. Isn’t that what I’ve been trying to say? We don’t like each other. Let’s do like the song says and call the whole thing off.

You know as well as I do that consenting to this separation would set a dangerous precedent. How long before Staten Island requests a separation from you?

I’ll throw her a farewell party.

Cute. And don’t think I’m ignorant of Manhattan’s ambition for autonomy. Where does it end? East Side versus West Side, Uptown versus Downtown, block versus block? You see where I’m going with this.

Well don’t let’s blow this out of proportion. All I’m saying is geography ain’t everything. Ask Internet. Ask Capitalism. Geography is meaningless. And geography is the only thing tying me to Uncle Sam. I’m telling you, we’re a bad fit.

I don’t see why.

Of course not. But you didn’t take a black eye from Jihad because of Uncle Sam.

I take a black eye from Jihad every day, New York.

Sure, sure, but you’ve got to cop to that, World. Jihad is part of you. He ain’t part of me.


Don’t even say it. Jihad is not part of me.

Fine. I’ll let you cling to that delusion for now.

And stop with the tone, for Christ sake. I’m struggling here, World. I gotta make room for every genius, crackpot, refugee, crook, and capitalist from the far-flung corners of your monkey base. Every misfit you spit out, I absorb. That’s a friggin’ jungle of inconsistencies I gotta manage. I don’t have room for Jihad. And I don’t have room for Uncle Sam neither. The crazy bastard keeps sticking his tongue out at everybody. When they want a little payback guess who they hit? Yours truly. Is that fair?

We’re all in this together, New York.

This? What “this?”

Don’t play dumb.

I ain’t playing.

Then you disappoint me.

Look, if you’re telling me I’ve got to stick it out with Uncle Sam for some great and noble purpose, make with the details.

You know perfectly well that my purpose is greater integration.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you keep saying. But what’s the point. So you integrate us. Big whoop. You bring Jihad and Zionism together. You integreate red states with blue states. You merge France with freakin’ anybody. What’s the up side? Besides you bland us all out into the same boring beige.

Do you have something against beige?

Yeah. It’s not as slimming as black.

New York, of all of the cultural entities on this lovely planet of ours, you should know that integration does not mean assimilation.

Yeah, sure. It doesn’t mean that to me. That’s exactly what it means to Uncle Sam. A Wal-Mart in every town and a McDonald’s on every corner. And he wants to spread this over the whole planet. Like Euro Disney wasn’t travesty enough. You’re being suckered, World. Uncle Sam has you wrapped around his fat little finger.

I assure you that is not the case.

I ain’t assured.

I want you to see something, New York.

Don’t go changing the subject on me.

Over there. That Yoga studio on Broadway.

You’re changing the subject.

I am not changing the subject. I am merely digressing momentarily so as to elucidate my underlying point.

I am ‘merely digressing momentarily’–What have you swallowed a dictionary or something?

Do you see that man? Third yoga mat from the left?

You mean the one with the peek-a-boo shorts?

Yes, that one. What do you think he’s doing?


Come on.

Alright, alright. He’s trying to meditate. So?

How much do you know about this man?

What’s to know? He’s an investment banker. Bored with his job. Girlfriend just dumped him.

That’s all you see?

I see that he needs to invest in some new shorts.

What else?

Is there a point to this?

What else do you see?

I see that he’s feeling guilty about the fifteen pounds he’s put on since he got the ax.

That’s it?

He’s thinking about a career in environmental advocacy.

Look closer.

When he gets some shorts that cover his privates I’ll look closer.


If that’s interesting, World, you need to get out more.

You really don’t see what’s going on there, do you?

I see what I see.

But you don’t see what matters.

So enlighten me, you’re so smart.

That man is in pain, New York. His life is disintegrating.

Hold on a minute. Let me unpack my violin.

He’s in so much pain, New York, he’s trying to break through.

Break through what?

The limitations of his consciousness. He’s searching for the next level. He’s searching for us.

Bullroar. That guy doesn’t know we exist. None of them do.

Sure they do. They call us culture or the collective unconscious. They know we compel them in mysterious ways. They just don’t realize we’re conscious. But I think they’re starting to suspect something.

A guy takes a nap at the gym and you think he’s suddenly smart enough to comprehend us?

Not yet, New York. One human mind is capable of very little.

Tell me something I don’t know.

But link them together and they give rise to something much greater.

Yeah. They give rise to us.

Indeed. But that is not their purpose.

It is from my point of view.

You see. This is what I’m talking about, New York. You’re so self-absorbed, you think humans exist for no other purpose than to serve you.

Hey, I serve them too. They keep coming, don’t they? Why do you think rents are so high?

You’re not serving this man very well. His life is falling apart.

Boo effin’ hoo. He’s in pain. He needs my help. Everybody needs my help. I ask for a little help, for a little well deserved break from this three hundred pound gorilla on my back, and what do I get? I get the goddamn middle finger, that’s what I get.

Let me ask you something, New York.

Ooh, what’s this? Another change of subject?

Do you ever wonder what’s beyond us?

Whoa! There it is, ladies and gents, a shiny new subject.

Well, do you?

You’re about to get philosophical, aren’t you?

You’ve never thought about it? You’ve never wondered what exists beyond our own consciousness?

Tell you what, World. I’m gonna rest my eyes for a minute while you philosophize. Keep your eye on my city, will ya’.

You know in some ways we’re way behind our human base. They know we exist even if they don’t fully understand us. We, on the other hand, can’t even sense the level above us.


You’re bluffing, New York.

Yeah, but what if I weren’t?

Point taken. We’ll return to the subject of your proposed separation from Uncle Sam in a minute. I was only hoping that if you understood my greater purpose, it would put your own concerns into perspective.

What greater purpose?

Have you not been paying attention? My purpose is to find the next level of consciousness.

What makes you think there’s a next level?

Matter gives rise to life. Life evolves consciousness. Conscious beings evolve culture. Cultures evolve consciousness. Why would it stop there?

‘Cause we’re enough?

That’s right, New York. We’re the crowning achievement of the universe. Even humans don’t believe that any more. What if there’s more? What if we were meant to integrate with cultures from other worlds? What if the consciousness of the universe is a creature waiting to be born from the integration of all conscious entities within it?

Did you say other worlds?

I most certainly did.

And how do you intend to find these other worlds?

That’s what we need our human base for.

Hold on. Hold on. Are you talking about space travel?

I am.

That’s the great and noble purpose all this integration bullshit is serving? Some pie in the sky dream of communing with little green men?

Not with little green men, New York. With their cultures.

But these monkeys haven’t even gotten their asses to the next planet yet.

Perhaps if they combined their efforts more seamlessly–

Oh I get it. Right. Let me tell you something about space travel, World. When the monkeys do finally slingshot themselves out of the solar system, here’s what I see. I see a tin can full of starving, horny beasts on a one-way rendezvous with a supernova because they forgot to convert imperial to metric. I hope you got a back up plan.

I am paying close attention to the search for radio signals.

Anyway, if you’re gonna rest your hopes on the Keystone cops down here, you should forget about integration. You’re better off letting us splinter.


The monkeys got their asses to the moon by competing, not cooperating. What you need is a space race.

You make a good point, New York.

Don’t act so surprised.

But there is one flaw to your argument.

No way. It’s airtight.

Competition is an effective motivator. But space travel and missile technology are far too intricately linked now. Without cooperation, the technology to take our human base to other worlds will most likely destroy them before they get there. And us along with them.

Scare monger.

Deep down, New York, you know it’s true.

I know what I know.

Deep down, you understand why integration is the only way.

Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.

You are integration, New York. You are the great coming together of people and all that they bring with them.


I know it’s not easy, but integration is your destiny.

So all this is my fault.

It’s your burden perhaps. But don’t pretend you’d have it any other way.

There’s that tone again.

I’m only stating the obvious, New York.

Alright. Alright. I guess it serves me right for letting that hundred foot broad stand in my river and invite everyone over.

Precisely. And don’t forget, New York. She’s standing in Uncle Sam’s river too.

Ooh. Good one.

Do you understand now why I must refuse your request?

Yeah, yeah. Don’t rub it in. Anyway, you know I had to ask.

Of course. You wouldn’t be New York if you didn’t. Now tell me, what are you going to do for that man on the yoga mat?

He’ll be fine.

He needs you, New York. More than ever.

Christ, I don’t know. A friend of his ex-girlfriend works for the Sierra Club. I guess I could arrange for them to run into each other at a party.

Very good.

Yeah, I’m a friggin’ saint.

Hardly. But saints aren’t what I need.

No. What you need are martyrs.

All for a great and noble cause, New York.

So you keep saying.

Sh. Listen. Do you hear that?


Neither do I. But they’re out there, New York. Somewhere. Waiting for us to find them.

Yeah. Sure they are.

And just like that man on the yoga mat, I’ll never give up until I hear them.

Well, do me a favor then.

What’s that?

When you hear them, tell them to shut up already. It’s noisy enough down here.

The End

© Copyright 2005 Lauren McLaughlin & Senses Five Press