In 1975, the Romanian writer Gheorghe Săsărman published Cuadratura cercului (“Squaring the Circle”), a kind of travelogue through non-existent cities which by their strange natures impose striking physical or psychic impacts on their inhabitants; the implied social criticism was sufficient to see the collection heavily censored on release. In 2022, Sci Phi Journal began publishing new translations of the missing entries. In 2026, they published another, Homogenia - oh, and their co-editor received the European SF Translation award at EuroCon! Coincidence? Maybe just well-earned.
Translated by Monica Cure, Homogenia describes a city “made up of absolutely identical neighborhoods” where “along identical streets were strung identical houses, in whose identical rooms lived identical people.” Maybe urban planning hasn’t realised this wholly self-contained vision yet, but suburbias everywhere certainly take a local stab at it. Săsărman’s text isn’t a story as such, but it is instantly and oppressively evocative in a way that dark speculative fiction should strive for. Cast an eye over the other examples on show in Sci Phi Journal and you’ll find this is no one-off.
My second recommendation comes with a warning attached: the pun that the editors of Phano include in their introduction to T. R. Tuttle’s sweet, atypical buddy-story is (and recognise that this is coming from a master of the form) Very Very Bad. And yes, I do mean to say that I’m also responsible for very very bad puns, so imagine a wink and a smile and a nod of respectful acknowledgement there too.
Goo Duty introduces us to a post-first encounter (but instantly everyday-seeming) world, in which ordinary citizens take turns to introducing their structurally inhuman alien neighbours to their new home and help them decide what to do with their lives. It’s the first time escorting solo for our narrator, who is mounted and ridden by their day’s gooey companion rather like it’s a sentient backpack as they go for a stroll in the woods outside town. The undoubted weirdness of the experience is compounded by the narrator’s insecurities; how can you help someone else find their calling in life when you consider yourself to be boring and directionless?
Inspiration, however, can be found in unexpected places, and no matter how different we might seem at first, people are often quite similar under the ski— I mean, under the surface.
Finally, it’s unnecessary, unrequested divulgence time: your editor has never dreamed of losing his teeth, that so supposedly universal hint at festering anxiety. No, instead, he has one where a tooth painlessly splinters into countless pointy shards, shifting in their gum socket like a cluster of cocktail sticks at every compulsive touch of the tongue. Not often! But more than once. Four times a year, right around magazine deadline day, funnily enough…
Anyway, despite clearly not having any suppressed emotional issues at all, you can probably see why EC Hallewell’s Every Anxious Person Dreams of Teeth might catch my attention. And I happen to think that it’s just great: the dental horrors kick in right there in sentence one and quickly escalate to levels of fairly spectacular absurdity - if the narrator had only thought to keep them all under their pillow they’d be able to retire at thirty.
But that’s okay, because here Trollbreath Magazine delivers the kind of tale where overcoming (or at least confronting) one’s inner fears is well rewarded. Just like a long-dreaded, much-delayed trip to the dentist, this one ultimately left me with a smile on my face.
