Hello, Starshine. The Earth says hello, and welcome to the Lightspeed Magazine Story Podcast. I'm your host. Janina Edwards. In this episode, you'll be listening to Instructions for Good Boys on the Interplanetary Expedition by Rachel K. Jones and the Lexicon of Lethe by Sun Moo Jong. Today's narrator is Stefan Radnicki. First up is our short shot, Good Boys on the Interplanetary Expedition, coming up right after this message.
Can you change your personality? How does peer pressure work? Should you ever really trust your gut? These are just a few of the topics we've recently tackled on my podcast, Something You Should Know. It's a podcast where leading experts give you valuable intel that you can use in your life today. I'm the host, Mike Carruthers, and with over 1,000 episodes and over 4,000 mostly 5-star reviews,
I invite you to check out Something You Should Know, wherever you listen. The Warning Woods has haunting horror stories that are sure to linger with you long after listening. I'm Miles Tridel. writer, and narrator of The Warning Woods. Each week, I write an original scary story and share it with you. If you're into scary stories, you need to check out The Warning Woods.
Listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just search for The Warning Woods and click play at your own risk. Welcome back. And now. Good Boys on the Interplanetary Expedition Instructions for Good Boys on the Interplanetary Expedition by Rachel K. Jones 1. Eat your rations. Sputnik knows the humans haven't forgotten him because kibble still clatters into Sputnik's bowl at 6 a.m. sharp. They've been gone long enough.
for all the vegetables in hydroponics to shrivel up, limp and dead. Sputnik eats his kibble and licks up the crumbs because he is a good boy, and good boys eat their rations. Even when the kibble goes soft and develops a white coat of mold and begins to stink so bad that he has to struggle to choke it down and fight to keep it from coming back up. Spotnick doesn't mind, though. He is a good boy.
They'll be back for him any day now. 2. Clean the Bunks At noon, Sputnik chases the ship's eleven cleaning-bots around the crew's quarters as they dust the desks, vacuum the floor, and sanitize the steel walls. While the bots tug off sheets worn thin as ghosts, Spotnick bounds up onto Captain's bed and thumps his tail against the dead plant in Jamie's room. Spotnick skids to a stop at Ensign Morris' door. Good boys mustn't shed their fur in Morris' room. Morris is allergic to Spotnick.
When Morris gets home, his room will be dander-free, just the way he likes it, and he'll say, good boy, Sputnik, and scratch him between the ears, even though Ensign Morris isn't a dog person. and rarely pets spotnik there used to be twelve gleaming bots but once spotnik wasn't a good boy and chewed the arms off of a sweeper
and now it lies limp and dead in the engine room. Spotnick had been bored and lonely that day, and it seemed like fun at the time, but he felt bad afterward. Maybe the cleaning bots tattled, Maybe that's why the humans aren't back yet. 3. Maintain hygiene Good boys always go on the poop pad. Good boys never eat their poop before the nozzle sucks it up for recycling. Spotnick is a good boy, mostly. 4. Listen for instructions.
the day the crew left to explore the planet captain scratched spotnik between the ears and threw his squeaky duck toy all the way across the airlock so it thumped into the ready room by the time spotnik fetched it The airlock had closed tight. Closed him off from his humans. Later, when the humans had been gone just long enough for Sputnik to chew the squeaker out of his duck,
Captain's voice began to boom out from the bridge comm. Her message repeats over and over like when she's trying to teach Spotnick a new trick, except she sounds very serious. Spotnick has been listening to Captain's message for a long time, head tilted, but he still doesn't understand what she wants from him. But Spotnick doesn't mind, because as the weeks slip by,
Her voice almost feels like company. 5. Chase away intruders. Each afternoon, Sputnik plants his paws on the window overlooking the planet. Spotnick knows about planets, they're places you can see but not visit, like Ensign Morris' room, and barks steadily for two hours. Spotnick can sound very scary if he wants to.
He once startled Navigator Patel so badly she dropped her dinner all over the floor. And then Sputnik got to eat real human food. He knows the barking must be working because nobody's broken into the ship. since his humans left. But that doesn't stop Sputnik from hoping. Intruders would be humans too, of a sort. 6. Keep the Faith
Sputnik believes one thing unshakably. Your humans will always come back if you guard your ship well. They always come back for good, boys. If you eat your rancid kibble without complaint. if you go on the poop pad, if you leave the cleaning-bots unmangled, decipher the captain's words, bark yourself hoarse at the big window, and stay out of Ensign Morris's room.
The humans will come back and scratch your ears and rub your belly and give you treats and human food and curl up with you when you sleep and you'll all be family again. Spodnik sleeps on captain's bed when the ship's lights enter their dimming cycle. His chin is going gray, and his hips ache with the weight of balls not chased. He presses his nose deep into the pillow.
Every time the cleaning bots wash it, Captain's scent fades a little more. Spotnick closes his roomy eyes. They'll be back for him soon. Spotnick knows it. If... He is a good boy. That was Good Boys on the Interplanetary Expedition, written by Rachel K. Jones, narrated by Stefan Rudnicki. Rachel K. Jones grew up in various cities across Europe and North America.
and mostly forgot, six languages, and acquired several degrees in the arts and sciences. Now she writes speculative fiction in Portland, Oregon. Rachel is a Yuji Award winner. and a finalist for the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, Bram Stoker, and World Fantasy Award. Her fiction has appeared in dozens of venues worldwide, including Lightspeed, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons,
and Amazon Prime's hit series, Secret Level. Follow her on Blue Sky at rachelkjones.bsky.social or find her at rachelkjones.com Next, we have The Lexicon of Lethe by Sunmojiong. Coming up in just a moment. Ready to launch your business? Get started with the commerce platform made for entrepreneurs. Shopify is specially designed to help you start, run and grow your business with easy, customizable themes that let you build your brand. Marketing tools that get your products out there.
integrated shipping solutions that actually save you time from startups to scale ups online in person and on the go shopify is made for entrepreneurs like you sign up for your one dollar a month trial at shopify.com slash setup Now, please enjoy The Lexicon of Lethe. The Lexicon of Lethe by Sun Wu Jung We called it the monster because we could.
though none of us found the label to be particularly satisfying. After a certain point, Yerim started calling it the Logos Pilgrim, which was understandable, seeing as how she was the most mystically inclined among us. as well as the most compassionate towards things we didn't understand. And there were many things we didn't understand. For one, where did it come from? And why was it here?
though as the dime-store psychic warned us near the end of our chase even if it had told us we probably wouldn't have been equipped with the right kind of antennae to understand perhaps there was a word for such creatures we will never know here's what we did know it stole words god knows why if we'd reasoned with it in time maybe we'd be in a place to articulate things better
As it happened, however, it wasn't until many holes later that we managed to come face to face with it. The monster, I mean. We discovered the first holes about four months ago. in Farid and Yerim's restaurant, a French-Korean fusion establishment named IMO Volant. IMO stands for cool Korean ants, by the way, not angsty music for white millennials.
Though this often gets lost in translation. At the time, the restaurant wasn't doing so hot. Fareed thought it was because he messed up the venue. Real estate market being what it is, the only place they managed to afford. was a half-underground shoebox of a place, two floors below a pawn shop, in a semi-forgotten corner called the Mira Alley. This Yerim decorated and painted most tastefully in brass ornaments.
azure damasks and gilded curlicues. The net effect was that the place looked like a sort of Alhambra for mice. Yerim thought it was only a matter of time until the restaurant took off. After all, every patron who chanced upon it was completely won over. As for why those customers didn't seem to return, it was a real mystery, she confided. I had my own hypothesis about that, actually.
though I didn't share it with her. I thought they vanished precisely because their dining experience was so transformative. Upon exiting the restaurant, they entered a different dimension, never to return.
a shame really and seems to say something about the world you can't give people ultimate happiness as for why i miguel their best friend their resident poet and their most fidel customer managed to stick around, suffice to say that I had something in the restaurant that left me yearning, even after their exquisite mugwort souffle.
I remember that afternoon at the restaurant being charged, even before we discovered what the monster had left and taken. When I walked in around 4 p.m., i noticed that yerim's eyes were rimmed red and farid's glazed i gave away some condiments to miss lapoor yerim confessed with a watery smile
knowing that I'd suss out what they'd been up to sooner or later. Ah, I raised my eyebrow. One of our running jokes, and a frequent source of Farid's frustration, was that Yerim had a fluid understanding of possessions. always giving away her best stuff to an endless slew of colorful characters in her orbit condiments yerim vraiment you know it means so much more than that horrid shot back it's our
You're... He trailed off into a croak. You're what? I asked. But neither of them replied, retreating instead to a state of mutual contemplation. Eventually, Farid exhaled. Yerim, ah, what do I mean to you? Yerim seemed taken aback. Mapus, you know I... She turned to me with her palms open, appealing for intervention.
As I stood there gaping, what Yerim liked to call Eeyore dimples, scored Farid's jaw. Merd, Yerim! Why aren't my words getting across these days, he blurted. Then, watching Yerim falter,
stepped forward in silent supplication, a look of instant regret in his eyes. For the first time that evening, I began to worry their squabble wouldn't end in the usual way. With Farid's head against Yerim's shoulder, and me guzzling up their left-over desserts as i pawed through the silence looking for something to diffuse the tension my ears attuned to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner
A thrift store find that Yerim had transformed into a whimsical decor. It's four o'clock, I chimed in, meaning time for the last minute table prep. They seemed relieved at the diversion.
and sprang instantly to different corners cheeks flushed yerim weaved her way around the four dining tables fussing with the boutonniere sized flowers in little vases farid shuffled the menus in the reception area i in turn curled up in my usual corner and to stop myself from peeking worried glances at them clicked my pen thrice initiating my ritual for a poem I'd just begun scribbling in the first words when Farid let out a yelp. I ran over and locked my gaze into Farid's trembling finger.
it was pointing at the bottom of their typewritten menu sheets it read as follows dessert du jour wild eugh confiture and eugh As I was trying to comprehend the implications of the uncanny lacunas, Yerim, already beginning to thaw, for she was by nature a warm person, joined us from the back.
and poked her chin in between our shoulders what's up she inquired then catching a glimpse let out a gasp silence fell on us like powdered sugar until farid broke it with a trembling voice do you do you all see exactly what i see he eyed each of us in turn haggard looking yarim and i exchanged glances we both knew that one of farid's abiding anxieties
was that his experiences would not be believed by the people he loved. Instead of an answer, Yerim walked over to the cupboard. She seemed to come alive at the prospect of a new mystery. the memory of the fight receding against the tide of the task at hand. She took out her mint-green typewriter and lugged it back towards us. Don't worry, love. We've still got time before opening.
I can retype them in a jiffy. But what is it? And who did it? Farid quivered. We'll worry about that, too, after dinner time. With that, Yerim gave Farid a peck on his cheek. her way of letting him know everything was okay for the time being, and poised her fingers above the keys. Her cowlick fuzzed up every which way from beads of perspiration on her forehead. Let's see.
What was supposed to go in here again? She pointed at the first blackout. I pulled her sleeve back, afraid her finger might get sucked in. Fareed scratched his head. Well, obviously, it's that thing. He looked at me helplessly. Yeah, that, you know, the tangy, semi-globular thing. I nodded. Yeah, exactly. That fruit, the thing that... I'm so close, but I'm also blanking out. Yerim scratched her head with a pencil. Ah, that's odd.
I can't seem to remember what it's called either. Well, what about here? Yadim pointed at the second blackout. Well, that thing that... Realization crept in on us. we all looked at each other mouths synchronized to three gaping o's dinner that night went by in a flurry
Paride thought it was absurd to serve something we no longer knew the name of, so they had to whip up another dessert at the last minute. Tarte au citron with red bean compote. As he was thawing the puff pastry shells, i heard him mutter as though letting in a pause in his incantation would be all it took for some unknown force to snatch the word away from the tip of his tongue
At 9 p.m., when the last of the desultory diners exited, I flipped the sign to closed and joined my two friends. I found them plopped down on the cramped kitchen floor, one against the cabinet. the other against the fridge, fork in her fist. Yedim was poking at a tray of unserved buttery things filled with tangy, semi-globular things. Miguel, our favorite patron.
You're still here. Have a slice. We still don't know what they're called, though. Do you? She called out breathlessly. At this, the three of us burst out laughing, somewhat deranged from the frantic dinner preps and the dizzying black holes. I crouched between them and accepted the fork that Farid whipped out from his apron. We devoured the entire thing among us as though in a trance. After licking through the last crumbs, we lay down on the kitchen floor.
the tops of our heads touching each other like a cloverleaf, our torsos scrunched up like accordions. A long stretch of digestive silence ensued until I felt called to deliver them the result of my reconnaissance.
these words as far as i can tell they seem to have evaporated from our collective lexicon not just for the three of us but for everyone else too also farid asked well over dinner i did a quick search based on a picture i took of the thing and wherever the words are supposed to be the internet is either throwing out glitches or the words have been substituted with lame paraphrases that don't quite do the job. Farid whistled, too tired to emote. Like tangy, semi-globular thingamabob? Yerim asked.
Eyes half-closed. Yeah, something like that. Praise the Lord we still have globular. I couldn't tell if she was jesting or not. Part of her charm was that everything she said sounded deeply sincere. How about other languages? Have you tried Google Russia? She continued dreamily. I've tried Spanish and Korean. Same thing, I think. For their analog words.
though I'm not sure if the translations are always one-to-one. When we manage to get up, let's try Russian. Farid, you know Russian, right? Farid grunted. I have a feeling they might be better at holding on to things, Yerim said. At this I felt a turn of their heads. Though my eyes were closed, I could sense Farid reaching out and holding Yerim's hand.
It was on a New Year's Eve that I met Farid and Yerim for the first time. I'd been their sole customer that night, and an insufferable one at that, alone and newly dumped. i'd blazed through their four-course holiday special within minutes definitely not what their sublime duck confit and kimchi escargot deserved by the time dessert arrived
I was cry-writing a breakup poem on a paper napkin, wiping my eyes with it from time to time. Only I couldn't seem to finish it. Too greased by wine, I kept slipping off from my seat. It was probably around then that I found the two of them sitting across from me, Yerim's elbow on top of Farid's shoulder, their eyes peering into mine. Something about the way they sat next to each other moved me so much.
that I reached out and grabbed their hands and put them on top of each other as though I were some kind of an officiant. You guys, promise me you'll stay this way, I slurred. Prove to the world that love is real. Everything after that is a blur. But I do remember Yerim's disarming laughter and the ridge of Farid's nose turning pink. most of all i remember them letting my hand stay limp on top of theirs as i drooled myself to sleep on the table they'd sort of taken me in since then
feeding me leftovers and testing new menus on me. Yerim is endlessly amused that I managed to worm my way into not just her life but also Farid's, a self-proclaimed misanthrope. Fareed just calls me a manekineko. In return, I hand them my napkin poems with dainty dips of my forearm, cat statue style. Recalling the warmth of their hands, I swept my arms up like a snow angel. The furrows between the floor tiles caught my elbow as my fingers grazed the sides of their arms. Contentment.
I spelled inwardly. I let my thoughts spread like butter until they snagged on a granule. What was the condiment that Yerim had given away? I flicked the question away. Condiments, black holes. What did they matter? At the end of the day, they were Yerim and Farid. Maybe tonight wasn't so different after all, I thought. I was wrong, of course. In the following days, more black holes appeared in Imo Volant, on a flyer, in Yerim's copy of Rilke, inside a recipe book, etc.
After a while, we began to get a feel of their operation. The blackouts and the glitches, when detected, would fade within minutes. They were either substituted with cruder roundabout phrases, or simply left empty, the remaining words in the texts inching closer to hide the gap. Within a few days, we would become so accustomed to the paraphrases or the absences that we would forget
that the words used to exist in the first place. If Arid hadn't kept on obsessively documenting every single incident, we might even have forgotten their losses altogether. which is what the rest of the world seemed to be doing, by the way. Though we tuned into the news every night, wondering if someone else had finally noticed these gaps, the world just seemed to churn on.
As holes racked up, Farid's anxiety crescendoed. He began checking compulsively for holes in his bills, bank books, and diaries. He locked them up in a drawer, keys jangling.
though he knew that that's not how things worked words could still leak out of anywhere as long as they were taken from somewhere for reasons i couldn't fathom yet him seemed less worried though she tried her best to hide it whenever farid scribbled furiously into his journal trying to capture the essence of a stolen mot juste with other clunky words she would finger the locks of his curls
and whisper murmurs of consolation as for me it's hard to say how i felt farid thought i'd be inconsolable on account of me being a poet to a certain extent this was true Each new loss set off a dull ache, an inchoate feeling of grief, but it also triggered a strange release, an unwinding of something deep within. i let the feeling simmer to assuage farid the three of us started poking around mira ali like an uninvited pest patrol
We weaved about the blocks during the off hours, trying to catch whoever or whatever it was that was working its way through our lexicon. We made the rounds. asking people if they had discovered any holes or were experiencing any lapses. At first, not many people bit. In fact, many had absolutely no idea what we were going on about.
Until a few days later, Sean from the pizzeria called us. Psst, I think a thief has been stealing them woods. It's sifting through my trash bin as I speak. We ran over to his place. with a silver letter-opener it's not only symbolic but also deadly he said with great solemnity me with an oed and a larousse for good measure
I don't quite remember the rationale behind this anymore, and Yerim with a Dalgona ladle caramelized beyond the point of reparation. It might just have sweet tooth, she suggested hopefully. when we arrived sean pointed in the direction of his back door we crept out to find a strip of garbage filled back alley at the far end of it against the wall abutting the steel trash can
loomed a gargantuan shadow in profile, at least three times as big as us. We held our breath. The shadow appeared to have round ears and a pointy snout. It also seemed to have multiple wispy tails, or tentacles, Yerim later suggested, forking out from its bum. But squint as we might, we couldn't identify the flesh behind the shadow.
or in front of it if we were being technical. The shadow was hunched over something and emitted a sort of gluk-gluk sound, like liquid pouring out from a jug with a narrow neck. Stop! Farid shouted, but the sound continued. I think Yerim and I had been whispering something to each other, probably about how to coax it out, when Farid looked at us with an inscrutable expression. He blinked, gulped.
then lunged forward, raising his letter opener like a dagger. No, Yerim hissed, and held him at bay as she threw her ladle towards it. The ladle hit the trash bin with a bang. and the shadows scampered up the wall without revealing its host. Within seconds, no trace of it remained. When we walked over, a folded newspaper fluttered next to the fallen lid.
On its first page were two unfathomable black holes that looked like a puncture mark left by a cosmic vampire. A frosty silence hung between us on our way back. At least Miguel didn't throw away his dictionaries. If he had, we'd be completely speechless by now, Yadim joked, trying to lighten the mood. But Farid's steps remained heavy.
i returned to the restaurant later that night to pick up my books and found farid alone in semi-darkness crouched in front of the grandfather clock he was hiding a wad of envelopes inside it behind the indifferent swings of its pendulum. They looked like unsent letters addressed to Yerim. A new safe, he remarked as he walked past me without meeting my gaze. He collapsed.
Onto a seat by the window, the coil of light that spelled Imo Volant suffused his profile with a neon glow. He looked sad and beautiful. I can't seem to hate you. he muttered, looking down. Have you been trying to? I settled across from him and feigned playfulness by batting my lashes. My friend, once you were like our language. You told me we were love. I saw that Yerim believed it, and it made me so happy. And now? Now you're a person. I see it. And sometimes, just sometimes.
I'm a little bit afraid that Yerim sees it too. I thought I was a cat statue. Fareed managed a hollow laugh. And now this monster, I'd do anything to protect Yerim. To protect our story, our history, he sighed, his eyes gleaming like peeled grapes. Notre histoire, I suggested. He nodded. We'll catch it next time, I said with a catch. Then, dipping back into jester mode, I clicked my pen, grabbed a napkin, and wrote the word fuck in the most loopy, flowery cursive I could manage.
garnishing them with ornate arabesques hey might as well express ourselves with urgency right go out with a bang i said farid gave it a peek and snorted Then he whipped out his fountain pen, flipped the menu sheet, and worked out the most beautiful Arabic calligraphy I've ever seen. Do I want to ask? I asked.
Something you wouldn't want to say to your mother, he said. We looked solemnly at each other, then cracked up. Soon our laughter reverberated through the restaurant, making the neon sign splutter. Then, with delirious urgency, we gasped at the same time. We have to protect these words. We can't lose them. More laughter. When it subsided, Fareed inched closer.
Miguel, mon ami, can I ask you something? Ask away, mi amigo, I said, heart beating faster. Earlier today, do you think Gerim was trying to protect me from the monster? or protect the monster from me. About a week into all of this, we began to be uncertain about exactly what we'd lost. One rainy evening, yarim walked into the restaurant with an armful of soggy baguettes she sniffed the air keeping the door ajar with one foot she looked at me and farid in alternation this feeling
What's it called? she asked. What feeling? Farid replied, eyes still fixed on the stack of bills that he was going through. It's kind of like nostalgia or homesickness, but not quite. It's something that comes to you when it rains. You know, Farid, like the time we drank that slurpee together with the lid open near La Défense and it began to rain and everything got diluted. Farid finally looked up.
and noticed the baguettes. Oh no, Yerim! Are we out of umbrellas again? The baguettes are ruined. Don't worry, Mapus. I can revive them in the oven. Or you could just have held on to our last umbrellas instead of handing them away like they didn't matter. Yarim opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it. I thumped the table with my dictionary.
which, despite its heft, I suspected was getting subtly thinner by each passing day. Come on, guys. We've all been on edge for the past couple of days. Let's work this out together. Yerim, tell us more. Well, it's gone now, but it feels a bit like there's a pretzel-shaped knot at the bottom of the heart, Yerim said, gazing longingly at Farid, willing him to nod in recognition.
But it remained stony. Maybe the monster stole the word. Maybe you would know what to say if we'd caught it that night, he said, eyes downcast, voice flat. Yarim's pupils swirled. Maybe, maybe not. You still understood what I meant, Farid, back when we were in Paris.
I found an excuse to drop by the restaurant that night after closing hour, for the breeze within was stirring again, buoying my heart. Though the dining area was shrouded in darkness, a thick aroma beckoned me towards the kitchen inside i found yedim alone pouring over the fryer looking more ethereal than ever amidst the savory mist miguel
She opened her batter-streaked arms to hug me. It looked like she'd been frying pretty much anything she could lay her hands on. Mochis, plums, assorted mushrooms, some kind of a green tangle, and coffee beans. Propped up on a napkin-padded tray, glazed with translucent batter, they glistened like newborn things. What's all this? I asked. New menu testing, she said.
After a moment of hesitation, she added, Takes me back to that rainy day in La Défense. She dropped another batter-dipped mushroom into the roiling oil. As it bobbed about inside a halo of bubbles, I heard it too, a steady stretch of pattering rain. We basked in wordless company amidst this conjured rain, until Yerim... fished out the mushroom twigim with her chopsticks, cooled it with her staccato breaths, and plopped it into my mouth. I teared up. It's so good, she smiled. I know, right?
Her smile faltered as she snuck a peek at another plate of Twiggan's set aside in the corner, exhaling their last breaths. Fareed's plate, I realized. you don't seem that fazed by the monster i remarked thinking of farid's desolation she seemed to give this some serious thought miguel you're a poet she said eventually am i an affectionate pinch of my arm. Do you sometimes feel that some things are too big for words? All the time, I replied, a fizz of laughter. As our eyes met,
I thought I caught a glimpse of someone who was happy because they were incomprehensibly, inarticulably sad. This someone stood firm amidst the rubbles of the past.
and accepted the recent incidents as one of those numinous phenomena that's meant to run its course their acceptance was not a form of resignation but rather a strange form of defiance touched by these thoughts i brushed my fingers against hers then before i could hold her hand i reached them out further to pick up a fried mochi instead underneath i found what looked like a small pellet i picked it up and examined it it looked like some kind of a seed but had an odd otherworldly gleam
like the crystallized soul of a songbird what's this i asked holding it up a look of pain flashed past in yerim's eyes it's me and farid Acknowledging my raised eyebrow, she added with a soft laugh, It's a mustard seed. Take it. It works surprisingly well in chai. In the following days, The monster accelerated its binge. It made its rounds through the restaurant's bodegas and bookstores, leaving a trail of irrevocable erasures in its wake. Menus, milk cartons.
collected poems of Christina Rossetti. The gaps appeared randomly, without apparent rhyme or reason. People began to notice them, primed by Farid's warnings. At least a handful of inhabitants in Mira Alley did. Which is why, two weeks in, Fareed organized a meeting in Joe's Tavern to bring everyone together. Someone's gotta do something. At this rate, no one's going to remember how to say anything that matters, he said, as he gulped down his ale. Where's Yerim? I asked. Surprised,
that Fareed ended up being the community outreach person in the equation. Don't know, probably out feeding the neighborhood cats. And anyway, we both know her heart's not in the chase.
she's too in denial to admit the monster's not benign he said trying to sound casual but failing the meeting was slow to take off the residents trickling in like linked sausages each new arrival initiating yet another round of small talk much to farid's chagrin by ten p m however the subject of the monster had gained steam and everyone was talking over each other
Why don't we just go to the city officials, file a complaint, Ms. Lepore, the bookshop owner, suggested. Who's going to believe us? Mr. Beliaev, the baker, responded. I mean, what proof do we have? All the holes disappear without a trace, and when we try to take pictures, nothing shows up. Yeah, I myself am beginning to doubt if any of it ever happened, Big Joe, the bar owner, said.
Maybe that thing I loved the most was always just called pale ale and not some beautiful other name that seems to be escaping my tongue. Well then, Ms. Lepore suggested again, why don't we coin... new words as soon as we notice that a word has been stolen. That way we could at least hang on to the concepts before they slip through our fingers. Mr. Bay, the barber, interjected, We've tried that.
Me, Sean, and Fareed over here tried to come up with new sounds to match the meanings we were trying to hold on to. It's no good. Any new words we come up with, they sound like nails on a chalkboard. They just aren't right. You know what I mean? Yeah, Sean added. I even had diarrhea that day I tried to use them words. It's like trying to sew a wrong shadow onto a person. Sean shook his head, then added.
We should just shoot it. I can't go around with menus that say meat disc pizza when I know in my heart there's a better way to call those things, only it's been stolen from me. What if it has its reasons? Can't we fire a tranquilizing gun instead, just in case, Ms. Lepore suggested. And what are its reasons? That's what I'm most tripped up about. I mean, why steal words? What's it trying to do with them?
mrs katz jr interjected at this juncture madame moira the psychic from the dime store who had remained silent but who as it turned out had also been collecting cherry pits in her palm banged the table with her fist. The pits scattered onto the table. Shh, Madame Moira has something to say, someone whispered. Madame Moira intoned, her filmy eyes fixed on the dartboard across the room.
Fools ask questions they won't understand the answers to. Travelers ask instead, what does it mean for me? Madame Moira must have been endowed with some kind of a... Pied Piper-like prowess, for soon after she gave her non-prognosis and gathered her purse, the rest of the residents also rose up in half-squats, murmuring goodbyes to each other. Where are you all going?
We still haven't come up with a plan of action, Farid cried, banging his tankard. Let's noodle on this a bit, eh? Sean cooed, clapping Farid's shoulder. Been meaning to say it's really nice knowing you like this, Fareed. Usually it's the Arim that's out and about, eh? Hope she's well, he added. As Fareed flushed in silence, Ms. Katz Sr.
Hijacked the conversation with Sean. She's a keeper, isn't she? Funny girl, though. Gave me a single grain of mustard seed when I had gout. Told me to put it in a soup. I keep mine tucked under my pillow, Ms. Lepore added shyly, joining the growing throng. She told me it'll help with my nightmares. I thought she was joking, but I've been sleeping like a baby ever since.
You all have one too, Mr. Beliaev remarked. I keep mine in the shirt pocket. Helps me keep my heart rate down whenever the memory of 2002 pops up. What happened in 2002? Miss Katz Jr. whispered. His kitchen blew up, Madame Moira bellowed. See, funny, Miss Katz Sr. remarked, to which Miss Lepore responded. yes but in a powerful way i was beginning to feel a bit put out from all this effusion of goodwill probably because my seed now resting snugly inside the cap of my pen
suddenly felt negligible. Then I noticed that Farid had disappeared. I didn't chase after Farid that night, but the next day I dropped by the restaurant again. Neither Fareed nor Yerim was inside. What was more, one of the four dining tables was gone, the empty area gaping like a missing tooth. I opened their back door.
which led out onto the dank alley where we'd first caught sight of the monster from Sean's. The trash bags had been cleared to one corner, and the missing dining table had been placed there, complete with a set of cutleries and a brass candelabra i found farid and yarim standing next to this makeshift table for one he was yelling at her gesticulating as i approached them
I caught the final snippet of his rant. Sometimes, Yerima, I think you would be just as happy as you are now if I were to disappear. With this, he turned in my direction and whipped past me. banging the back door behind him what's wrong i asked yerim though she said nothing i thought i understood i followed after farid
I found Farid in his usual hideout on the rooftop of Mr. Beliaev's bakery next door. Yarim sometimes liked to eat his cheesecake that tasted like a pure block of lard to re-initiate her palate. Fareed only liked its powdery scent, which became most prominent when standing under the water tank. It being the winter, the sun was already setting, and the sky was awash in tides of apricot and lavender.
I approached Farid, and side by side we looked down our sooty alleyway, the inky puddles reflecting the sky. I gave him time, until the cold winter silence... pried out the words from him. She was setting up the table for the monster. She knew I was still obsessing over it, so she wanted to feed it a good meal to reason with it for my sake.
I mean, what was she thinking? That the monster would suddenly reappear, gobble up whatever she served, and say thank you, cher madame? After everything that she's been through, after everything that we've been through, She's still like this. Still so optimistic, naive, I suggested, then regretted my poor choice of words. The monster must have been busy lately, I thought. Then I began to wonder.
What exactly had they been through? What have any of us for that matter been through? And would any of these experiences still have their sway on us? if we no longer knew how to talk about them. Fareed, what did Yarim give away? The day we found the first holes, I asked, remembering the night when it all started. Fareed looked down the alleyway, pensive.
Then he whispered, per essential ingredient. On their first date back in France, they'd played what Farid called the essential ingredients game. In this game, They were supposed to tell each other everything about themselves that they thought had made them who they are. Settling in his kitchen, Yerim told him about the time she accidentally sat on a live crab in a beach and killed it.
She'd found it holding a shard of sea-worn glass in one of its pincers, ready for a fight. Its soft underbelly had been squashed flat. The incident had made her spurn her former favorite dish. marinated crabs. She also told him that her father had left when she was young, that some stranger had slit her mother's throat in a dark alleyway.
that her mother had bled out and died in the backyard of a church. She told him that she'd resolved to put a cap on how many times she'd tell this story. Three times, she decided. Just three times in my life. I only have one more left, since this is my second time, she told Farid as she smiled. She had been slicing beets on a cutting board as she said this.
The tips of her fingers tinged red. Why? Farid had asked. Why not talk about it? I don't know. I guess I'm afraid that putting it in words will pin it down. Freeze it in one way. So I just keep all of it marinating in flesh, visions, and aches, maybe. Setting the table, Fareed told her about the time he saw a shooting star one summer night in Tangier. He ran over to where it had landed and found a dog trailing wisps of smoke. The dog had looked just like the Russian space dog Laika.
Without fail, this Laika would pick out his blob from outside the duvet he shared with his four brothers and lick his toes and poked out at the edge. Farid also told her, That he'd been molested by his uncle as a child. That nobody in his family believed him. That, after years, when he finally mustered up the courage to visit his dying uncle and ask for an apology, the uncle had said,
My son, as Allah is my witness, I would apologize in a heartbeat if any of those terrible things you told me had actually happened. The uncle had dementia, or so the nurse said. After this, Farid had shown Yerim his diaries, stacks of them he'd been keeping since he was twelve years old. Yerim had thumbed through his slanted handwritings as though absorbing them.
her finger pads now tinged black from the charcoal some of this story i heard from farid that day others i pieced together from our late night talks in the past But no matter how much I thought I knew about their histories back then at the rooftop, I had no idea how it had actually felt for them to live through those times. That knowledge wouldn't come...
until about an hour later. I get it. I remember murmuring. Though looking back, I realize I really hadn't. You mean your innermost stories, right? But Farid, they're intangible things. How can Yerim give them away? I asked. Farid fumbled in his pocket, as though searching for the right words.
A few months after they arrived in the U.S. and signed the lease for the restaurant, they'd been feeling sorry about themselves, at least Farid had, on behalf of both of them. Contracts for renovations fell through. Electricity wasn't working, and their bank accounts were empty. They'd been scammed a few times by then, too. Fareed realized the world was at it again, taking things from them.
It was a familiar feeling for him. He just couldn't believe it had chased him all the way from Morocco, then all the way from France. One night, Fareed was rifling through stacks of his diaries. trying to piece together his destiny from the patchwork of his past. I was afraid that I'd been cursed, that I'd bring Yerim, the person I loved most in the world, down with me, he said.
Then Irim sat down next to me. She told me, and I remember her exact words, Farid, I've been thinking about what we think we're made of. I was thinking... Maybe at the end of the day mine just comes down to this. Fareed opened his fist and revealed a tiny silk pouch. From within he extracted a mustard seed. and placed it on his palm. That's when she'd given me this. To think that I was so special. You saw what happened in the bar, right?
I was already mad when I found out she'd given it to Ms. Lapour. Turns out she's been handing these out to everyone. Even Mr. Beliaev has it. I mean, what does she even mean by this? Isn't it supposed to be her soul?" Farid sighed, shaking his head. I hate that she loves everyone, he added, then winced, perhaps taken aback at how his feelings had been spelled out.
I know you do, I said. Down on the ground, as though to prove his point, a black alley cat, whom Mirim called Ditto and had been pampering with fine cuisine, slinked past Madame Moira's dime store. the restaurant's failing i'm not sure how much longer we can hold on barry let out a sigh i exhaled white breath to soak in this somber truth i'm afraid i'll lose her miguel
This restaurant, our restaurant, maybe it's the only thing that makes me special. Marie's face crumpled, then became undone. You need to talk to her. But I never have the right words these days. Maybe I never did. Try again. Maybe do it her way. Through flesh and visions. He smiled at this. A brittle smile. so different from Yerim's, yet so similar. Hell, we may never understand her, but maybe that's okay. With this I stood up and held out my hand. He accepted it.
and we wound our way back to the restaurant as Smog filmed the icy night sky. We found the dining room empty, and the lights turned off. We began to worry that Yerim had up and left, but then I found a paper sign that had fallen to the floor. Closed today for a special event. We taped it onto the front door and headed towards the back.
When Fareed opened the back door with a cautious crack, we witnessed something that made our throats catch. A giant shadow was thrown against the brick wall, illuminated by a circle of yellow light. The shadow appeared to be pouring over something on the dining table, which was lit by two white candlesticks. Enquayab, Farid whispered, his arms becoming slack as I pinched him.
She really made it happen. The lighting in the back alley seemed to defy the laws of physics. Parts of it were too bright to have been illuminated by just two candles. and parts of it were too dark for it to be worldly. You're back, Yerim boomed out from behind us. We jumped. Jesus, where were you, Yerim? I asked. The kitchen, of course.
I closed the door in case of the smell. I traced the smell back to an earthenware pot she was holding. It looked like piping hot stew. Farid came to his senses and paced around her in full circle. Are you okay, Yerim? Did it attack you? No, Mapus. It's harmless. Just not very comprehensible. As Farid continued to examine her from all angles.
He noticed folded letters sticking out from her apron pocket. Yarin blushed. I found your letters in the clock, she said. Oh, thought you didn't trust letters, Farid said, shuffling his feet. I never said that, and anyhow, these are poetry, Yerim said with a half-smile, and added, I best serve this. The soup is losing its bubbles as we speak.
She widened the crack of the back door with her foot and was about to get out when Farid grabbed her arm. For a few seconds, they just looked at each other as the square of faint light framed their faces. Then Farid kissed her cowlick, dashed to the counter to grab something, and came back to deposit something into her hands. Here, he said. What is it? Curiosity getting the better of me.
I tiptoed in between the two, a grain of peppercorn shown in Yerim's palm. It's, um, it's my essential ingredient, Farid said, oozing sheepishness. Yerim's eyes beamed like two crescents. Do you still have mine? He nodded and handed over the mustard seed. Yerim put the pot on the counter, and they whispered to each other. After a mutual nod, She brushed the two seeds off her hand and into the soup. Guys, what? I don't follow, I protested. Well, follow me, if you two aren't a bunch of wusses.
Yerim said as she hoisted up the pot and exited through the door. We followed her like two schoolchildren. My heart thumped faster as we inched towards the table.
For a long time I couldn't discern its body, but as my eyes attuned to shifting expectations, I finally saw what had been there all along. Hunched on the stack of books Yerim had prepared, stood something that looked a lot like a field mouse, barely bigger than my palm, except it had shimmering eyes and ribbons of tails spooled around its feet.
How can the shadow be so big? I whispered to Farid. Maybe the shadow's the actual thing, and the mouse-looking thing is its appendage, Farid whispered back, which didn't help at all. Don't be rude. Yerim poked us with her elbows, then stepped further forward to set the piping hot soup on the table. Voila! Bon appétit à Logos Pilgrim. Yerim bowed.
as we stood a few feet behind her. It's called Dwenjangjige. I hope you can let us keep this word. It's a bit basic, but still, I'd like to be able to say it. The lights against the wall wavered. as well as the shadow within, its eyes filled with ineffable pathos, locked gaze with ours. Look, look, it buzzed and twitched its nostrils.
We were so mesmerized by its gaze that we didn't notice threads of its tails unwinding and reaching at us from behind. When they crept down to our chests, hanging like loose neckties, The pads on their tips must have done something to our hearts. I felt a jolt and became awash in a sea of indescribable emotions. I lived through Farid's and Yerim's histories without any barriers or containers. I felt her ache as she caressed his cheeks with her red and black fingertips. I felt his surrender.
as he knelt down and kissed her knees. I felt her crumbling heart as she watched him recede into stacks of bills and diaries. I felt his panic as she once again opened her arms, raw. without protection towards the world. I felt la défense, tangier, soul, and finally, immovolant that night on New Year's Eve. When I finally collected my senses and began to wonder if they'd felt my history just the way I'd felt theirs, the tales receded as stealthily as they'd come. And Yarin managed to whisper,
Let's head back. We walked back and waited breathlessly inside. About an hour later, we opened the door to find the backyard empty. The soup was cold, still almost full. but it had taken on an odd greenish sheen. It's been two months since the monster touched us. We haven't seen it since. nor did we ever encounter any eye-watering black holes again. Fareed, our resident historian, estimates that at least 1,004 words have been taken by the Logos Pilgrim.
He agrees that it has left us for good, and thinks that its mission here, whatever it was, has been completed. To this day, I still recall our experience of perfect communion. with a frisson. But we never really talk about how we felt that night and how it's changed us. Instead, we find ourselves skirting around our feelings
by dishing out our own pet theories about the monster. Fareed thinks that it's an extraterrestrial that's been visiting our world since the beginning of our time. He thinks that it came here to punish us. that whenever we try to do too much with words, it comes here to do the purge so that what cannot be said can be passed over in silence instead.
I keep telling him that that's not what Wittgenstein meant, but he won't listen. Yerim thinks that it's an interdimensional being who is much wiser than us. She thinks that it stole words from us. in order to write a love poem seeing as how they don't have words or language the tentacles remember she says without diving deeper why would it need a love poem
If it can both express itself perfectly and be understood perfectly, I asked her once. Because sometimes distortions are beautiful, and something magical happens somewhere. In between, she said. If it really wanted to write a love poem, wouldn't it have stolen the word love? Fareed asked her one other time. Maybe there's a word much vaster and deeper than love.
she told us. Maybe we just don't remember that we've lost it. Imagine, maybe one day someone lucky will recover all the words that we've forgotten rattling in the pilgrim's bag. the lexicon of Lethe. They'll discover it, and they'll be able to write the most beautiful poetry in the world. Naturally, the two were super interested in what their favorite poet had to say.
I told them that both their theories sounded absolutely bonkers, but that I don't have anything better to offer. Secretly, though, I actually think the Pilgrim was manifested by one of us. Which one, I'm not so sure. Whether it was manifested from our fears or our desires, I'm even less sure about. But there you have it, my two cents.
As for the restaurant, it's doing better now. Still a bit touch and go. But last I heard, they pulled themselves out of debt and now have enough moolah to rent the space upstairs. I'm glad that their customers no longer get lost in other dimensions. Nowadays, I don't see Farid and Yerim as often as I used to in those days. I figured it's better this way.
at least until I sort out my own sticky feelings. For what I've come to realize during the reign of the Logos Pilgrim, as I wallowed in my own nonverbal morass, is that... I might be feeling some type of feeling towards Irim and towards Farid too. Maybe it's another one of those feelings we would have known how to express had it not been for the pilgrim. But whatever it is, I'm honestly relieved that we don't have a word for it.
That was The Lexicon of Lethe by Sunwoo Jong, narrated by Stefan Rudnicki. Sunwoo Jong is a Korean writer living in New York City and Seoul in alternation. She is an academic linguist by day and an author by night. A Clarion alum and a Kundiman fellow, Sunwoo is currently working on a collection of linked short stories and a novel. Her work has appeared in SplitLip,
Uncanny Magazine, and elsewhere, and has been included in the Wigleaf Top 50 long list. You can find her at Translunary Tree. Stefan Rodnicki is a Grammy-winning audiobook producer. and an award-winning narrator who has won 17 audio awards, as well as more than 35 earphones awards, and been named one of audiophile's golden voices. Stefan has been producing Lightspeed Magazine podcasts since 2010.
eventually adding Nightmare and Fantasy Magazine, and sharing the Hugo Awards for Best Semi-Prozine in 2014 and 2015. You are now entering Springfield. Where's the body? Off the side of the ditch down there. You know, surrounded by all this crime scene tape. Hello? Am I dead? My name is John.
I'm the new forensic pathologist. I can see you, and that's how we'll figure out how you were murdered. He took this away from all of us! 31-year-old female, pronounced dead on the scene approximately 3 a.m. after a 911 call. File number... 3367. Male impaled on a construction site. I'm dead, John. This is about the last amount of fun I'll have. Case number 1017. A wife blended her husband in a wet vac. Case 2457. Not dead. I can't be dead. It's okay.
It's just you and me now. Who are you talking to? Oh, no one. Let's keep this between us, huh? Listen to How I Died, a full cast, police, and medical procedural with over 40 episodes available now on all podcast apps. This is Rob Benedict. And I am Richard Spate. We were both on a little show you might know called Supernatural.
It had a pretty good run, 15 seasons, 327 episodes. And though we have seen, of course, every episode many times, we figured, hey, now that we're wrapped, let's watch it all again. And we can't do that alone. so we're inviting the cast and crew that made the show along for the ride.
We've got writers, producers, composers, directors, and we'll of course have some actors on as well, including some certain guys that played some certain pretty iconic brothers. It was kind of a little bit of a left field. choice in the best way possible. The note from Kripke was, he's great, we love him, but we're looking for like a really intelligent Duchovny type.
With 15 seasons to explore, it's going to be the road trip of several lifetimes. So please join us and subscribe to Supernatural then and now. Everything feels too loud to me these days. Everything feels like too much, and I find myself in a body that is both the one I have always lived in and one I no longer recognize. I am filled with worry, doubt, but not fear, because I know what's out there now.
There are shadows around me, around us all, that are darker than I ever thought possible. There are monsters just outside your door. The undead walk among us. They need help. And I am one of those who is tasked with helping them. Not because of any particular calling or destiny. It is my day job. Well, night job now. My boss brought me into the other side of our world, one I never thought could ever be real. Because I died.
and she brought me back from the darkness into a whole world of night. From the creators of Parkdale Haunt comes Woodbine, a podcast about monsters, mysteries, and new beginnings. Season one is out now, distributed by Realm. Lightspeed Magazine is edited by John Joseph Adams and published by Adamant Press. The podcast is produced by Stefan Rudnicki and Alison Belbus at Skyboat Media.
and the stories and podcast are copyright 2025. Post-production was by Alex Barton at Phase Shift, and our music was composed and performed by Jack Kincaid. Thanks for listening, Starshine. This is your host, Janina Edwards. May your best days surpass words and expand worlds.