Vengeance
Is Not a Sin

Vengeance
Is Not a Sin

Vengeance
Is Not a Sin

Vengeance
Is Not a Sin

Grounded SF from
The Netherlands
and Flanders
no. 1

Grounded SF from
The Netherlands
and Flanders
no. 1

AUTHOR

Joost Vandecasteele

PITCH

Nearing forty and mother of a demanding child, Esther has a secret: when she is confronted with male aggression, a supernatural power takes over her body. She finds some release in hiring herself out to other women as a goddess of vengeance—provided she can get a babysitter, that is.

Grounded SF

Translated by: Sarah Welling

An hour. That’s how long she has before the babysitter expects her back. Just enough time for some chaos and violence, Esther thinks. It’s going to be tight anyway, because it’s more than one man this time. For a split second, she considers postponing—only that would mean she’d gotten a babysitter for nothing again.

An hour. That’s how long she has before the babysitter expects her back. Just enough time for some chaos and violence, Esther thinks. It’s going to be tight anyway, because it’s more than one man this time. For a split second, she considers postponing—only that would mean she’d gotten a babysitter for nothing again.

An hour. That’s how long she has before the babysitter expects her back. Just enough time for some chaos and violence, Esther thinks. It’s going to be tight anyway, because it’s more than one man this time. For a split second, she considers postponing—only that would mean she’d gotten a babysitter for nothing again.

An hour. That’s how long she has before the babysitter expects her back. Just enough time for some chaos and violence, Esther thinks. It’s going to be tight anyway, because it’s more than one man this time. For a split second, she considers postponing—only that would mean she’d gotten a babysitter for nothing again.

An hour. That’s how long she has before the babysitter expects her back. Just enough time for some chaos and violence, Esther thinks. It’s going to be tight anyway, because it’s more than one man this time. For a split second, she considers postponing—only that would mean she’d gotten a babysitter for nothing again.

Three weeks ago, she had to call off a job at the last minute. The teenager she’d hired was already standing on her doorstep, so she’d been forced to go watch some corny movie in a packed movie theater. The woman sitting in front of her kept getting her phone out every two minutes, like she was communicating the plot to a friend message by message. So when Esther got home, not only were her ears ringing from the film’s bombastic explosions, but her eyes were smarting from the repeated flashes caused by this highly inefficient form of piracy.

Esther does not go home, because a promise is a promise and the fee’s been paid.

Valuable minutes are lost in finding a place to park, not helped by the fact that the car in front is also trying to find that one elusive spot. Now she hears honking behind her and sees a driver mouthing an angry tirade in her rearview mirror. She doesn’t need lip-reading skills to understand that most of the spit-filled rant is aimed at her, like she’s secretly steering the guilty party in front of her by remote control. She pictures bits of his anger trailing from his mouth like cigarette smoke and entering through gaps in her car, to land on her bare forearms. It makes her skin crawl, but more is required to get her into the right mood.

The car in front gives up and parks in front of a gateway, following the time-hallowed rule stating that “thou hast the God-given right to park illegally after you’ve gone around three times.” After starting on her fifth round, Esther finally gets lucky when someone drives off just in front of her. More honking behind her while she parks; normally it would make her slow down even more, but now the deadline forces her to hurry and give in to the other’s impatience. She puts all the papers in her handbag and opens the glove compartment. A back seat strewn with toys and a few comics with chocolate thumb marks can’t be guaranteed to keep you safe from burglars in this neighborhood. Her immaculate station wagon might as well be parked under a huge arrow with the message “Hey! Try this one!”

Esther gets out, pulls her cap down as low as possible, and checks the address on the piece of paper again. She uses a fingernail to scratch off the dried blood; the last number seems closest to a six. The lack of legibility also has something to do with the way the young man was trembling while he wrote down the details. And his misplaced loyalty to his friends is the main reason she has so little time left for the final phase of this evening. Out of the group of students she was after, he was the only one still living at home. As a woman nearing forty, Esther didn’t think it was a good idea to ring the doorbell and ask his mother if she could go to his room. So the only option was to wait a whole hour before the man finally left his parental home and got on his bike. She cut him off on a deserted country road. Fortunately, their confrontation escalated quickly—no better excuse for an altercation than road rage—and she managed to overpower him easily. Only on the verge of passing out did he give in, scrawling down the details she was after.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay. The only house that offers any kind of clue is numbered 102, so she has no choice but to just start counting.  

She ends up at a small row house. A sticker above the doorbell features the Virgin Mary holding a pint and the words NO GOD BESIDES THIS ONE—enough for Esther to conclude she’s got the right place. She rams her shoulder against the door, which creaks but doesn’t budge. A stab of pain shoots through her body. Nobody on the street stops her or says anything when she takes a short run-up and rams the door again. This time it gives way and swings open. The sound resonates throughout the house like a sharp rap on a drum. Instantly, a small wiry guy emerges from the bathroom at the end of the narrow hallway. Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and holding a pair of jeans, his body is covered with so many moles it looks like a witch stood over his crib when he was a baby and sneezed black snot all over him.

Three weeks ago, she had to call off a job at the last minute. The teenager she’d hired was already standing on her doorstep, so she’d been forced to go watch some corny movie in a packed movie theater. The woman sitting in front of her kept getting her phone out every two minutes, like she was communicating the plot to a friend message by message. So when Esther got home, not only were her ears ringing from the film’s bombastic explosions, but her eyes were smarting from the repeated flashes caused by this highly inefficient form of piracy.

Esther does not go home, because a promise is a promise and the fee’s been paid.

Valuable minutes are lost in finding a place to park, not helped by the fact that the car in front is also trying to find that one elusive spot. Now she hears honking behind her and sees a driver mouthing an angry tirade in her rearview mirror. She doesn’t need lip-reading skills to understand that most of the spit-filled rant is aimed at her, like she’s secretly steering the guilty party in front of her by remote control. She pictures bits of his anger trailing from his mouth like cigarette smoke and entering through gaps in her car, to land on her bare forearms. It makes her skin crawl, but more is required to get her into the right mood.

The car in front gives up and parks in front of a gateway, following the time-hallowed rule stating that “thou hast the God-given right to park illegally after you’ve gone around three times.” After starting on her fifth round, Esther finally gets lucky when someone drives off just in front of her. More honking behind her while she parks; normally it would make her slow down even more, but now the deadline forces her to hurry and give in to the other’s impatience. She puts all the papers in her handbag and opens the glove compartment. A back seat strewn with toys and a few comics with chocolate thumb marks can’t be guaranteed to keep you safe from burglars in this neighborhood. Her immaculate station wagon might as well be parked under a huge arrow with the message “Hey! Try this one!”

Esther gets out, pulls her cap down as low as possible, and checks the address on the piece of paper again. She uses a fingernail to scratch off the dried blood; the last number seems closest to a six. The lack of legibility also has something to do with the way the young man was trembling while he wrote down the details. And his misplaced loyalty to his friends is the main reason she has so little time left for the final phase of this evening. Out of the group of students she was after, he was the only one still living at home. As a woman nearing forty, Esther didn’t think it was a good idea to ring the doorbell and ask his mother if she could go to his room. So the only option was to wait a whole hour before the man finally left his parental home and got on his bike. She cut him off on a deserted country road. Fortunately, their confrontation escalated quickly—no better excuse for an altercation than road rage—and she managed to overpower him easily. Only on the verge of passing out did he give in, scrawling down the details she was after.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay. The only house that offers any kind of clue is numbered 102, so she has no choice but to just start counting.  

She ends up at a small row house. A sticker above the doorbell features the Virgin Mary holding a pint and the words NO GOD BESIDES THIS ONE—enough for Esther to conclude she’s got the right place. She rams her shoulder against the door, which creaks but doesn’t budge. A stab of pain shoots through her body. Nobody on the street stops her or says anything when she takes a short run-up and rams the door again. This time it gives way and swings open. The sound resonates throughout the house like a sharp rap on a drum. Instantly, a small wiry guy emerges from the bathroom at the end of the narrow hallway. Wearing nothing but boxer shorts and holding a pair of jeans, his body is covered with so many moles it looks like a witch stood over his crib when he was a baby and sneezed black snot all over him.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay.

There’s no doubt about the name of the street, and she’s finally deciphered the number as 146. But it seems the people living around here don’t go in for house numbers, like they took a joint decision to pester the mail carrier and keep him from delivering all those certified letters and notices to pay.

“Is this number 146?” Esther asks to make sure.

By way of an answer, the half-naked man charges at her, swinging the jeans like a limp club. The belt hits Esther right in the face, flinging her back against the wall. A second swipe in the same place tears open her cheek and she screams. The man starts back and seems to hesitate a second, like it’s all a terrible misunderstanding instead of a deliberate break-in. But the screaming doesn’t signal impending defeat; it’s a battle cry accompanying Esther’s transformation. His aggression feeds her strength, which he experiences when her fist slams into his side so hard it breaks his ribs and takes his breath away. No time to recover, as the second blow finds his stomach. He doubles up and crumples to the ground. His body reduced to harmless flesh, his most precious possession cradled by his limbs. But Esther has specific instructions to go for that very spot. She dismantles his defense; the man whines for her to spare him.  With one kick Esther crushes his balls.

Forty-five minutes left, tops, and at least two more men to go. Esther rushes up to the next floor. Apart from the sobbing of the man downstairs, the house is silent. But all the doors on the second floor remain closed. Esther allows herself a ten-second breather, her ears focused on the tiniest of sounds. Then the buzzing of her phone breaks through her concentration. It could be the babysitter. That thought is enough to dim the power summoned up in her until little more is left than a nervous churning in her stomach. Taking the phone out of her pocket, she reads Simon will be working late again tonight.

Like so often lately.

Before she can answer, a door to her left cracks open, leaving a chink just wide enough to show half a face. Esther runs towards it but feels her power hasn’t reached the right level yet.

She rams the door open, throwing a thickset young man to the floor. He holds his hands up, shielding his face. His fear weakens her and her power fades. She must try and make him angry so her own rage can blossom again into the special force that takes over her body. She taps her foot against the palms of his hand, hoping for a physical response, but all this produces is apologies.

“Sorry, I’m really sorry, I’ll never do it again,” the man sobs.

“No, don’t say sorry, you need to call me something nasty. Whore, or dirty bitch, or slut, or… be creative, I don’t care, just choose something! You know this kind of language better than I do.”

“What?”

What is not a term of abuse. You need to insult me.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says. His voice is growing weaker, and he looks like a hedgehog rolled up in fear.

“You don’t need to shout, you can whisper it if you like. Or hit me, that’s fine too.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie, you know what you did . . .  you and your buddies.”

“No, really, I don’t know anything. I’m innocent.”

“Don’t get shifty on me, it’s very unattractive. Just come out and admit it: you raped a woman.”

“It wasn’t a rape, I swear. It was . . . she was drunk, we were drunk, things just got out of hand. She wanted it, she was . . . she’s lying, I’m not like that.”

“Like what? What aren’t you like?”

“It was her own fault.”

“Is it also her fault that you filmed everything and are now trying to blackmail her? Fucking idiots. Or is that a lie too?” Esther shouts.

“No, that wasn’t me . . . I mean, I joined in but the blackmail thing wasn’t my idea, I was against it.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Mine, you dirty bitch,” says a voice behind her.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps. His jaws clamp shut like a bear trap, the jagged stumps boring into her flesh. Esther can’t shake him off. Every attempt to free herself only results in more pain.

“Is this number 146?” Esther asks to make sure.

By way of an answer, the half-naked man charges at her, swinging the jeans like a limp club. The belt hits Esther right in the face, flinging her back against the wall. A second swipe in the same place tears open her cheek and she screams. The man starts back and seems to hesitate a second, like it’s all a terrible misunderstanding instead of a deliberate break-in. But the screaming doesn’t signal impending defeat; it’s a battle cry accompanying Esther’s transformation. His aggression feeds her strength, which he experiences when her fist slams into his side so hard it breaks his ribs and takes his breath away. No time to recover, as the second blow finds his stomach. He doubles up and crumples to the ground. His body reduced to harmless flesh, his most precious possession cradled by his limbs. But Esther has specific instructions to go for that very spot. She dismantles his defense; the man whines for her to spare him.  With one kick Esther crushes his balls.

Forty-five minutes left, tops, and at least two more men to go. Esther rushes up to the next floor. Apart from the sobbing of the man downstairs, the house is silent. But all the doors on the second floor remain closed. Esther allows herself a ten-second breather, her ears focused on the tiniest of sounds. Then the buzzing of her phone breaks through her concentration. It could be the babysitter. That thought is enough to dim the power summoned up in her until little more is left than a nervous churning in her stomach. Taking the phone out of her pocket, she reads Simon will be working late again tonight.

Like so often lately.

Before she can answer, a door to her left cracks open, leaving a chink just wide enough to show half a face. Esther runs towards it but feels her power hasn’t reached the right level yet.

She rams the door open, throwing a thickset young man to the floor. He holds his hands up, shielding his face. His fear weakens her and her power fades. She must try and make him angry so her own rage can blossom again into the special force that takes over her body. She taps her foot against the palms of his hand, hoping for a physical response, but all this produces is apologies.

“Sorry, I’m really sorry, I’ll never do it again,” the man sobs.

“No, don’t say sorry, you need to call me something nasty. Whore, or dirty bitch, or slut, or… be creative, I don’t care, just choose something! You know this kind of language better than I do.”

“What?”

What is not a term of abuse. You need to insult me.”

“But I don’t want to,” he says. His voice is growing weaker, and he looks like a hedgehog rolled up in fear.

“You don’t need to shout, you can whisper it if you like. Or hit me, that’s fine too.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie, you know what you did . . . you and your buddies.”

“No, really, I don’t know anything. I’m innocent.”

“Don’t get shifty on me, it’s very unattractive. Just come out and admit it: you raped a woman.”

“It wasn’t a rape, I swear. It was . . . she was drunk, we were drunk, things just got out of hand. She wanted it, she was . . . she’s lying, I’m not like that.”

“Like what? What aren’t you like?”

“It was her own fault.”

“Is it also her fault that you filmed everything and are now trying to blackmail her? Fucking idiots. Or is that a lie too?” Esther shouts.

“No, that wasn’t me . . . I mean, I joined in but the blackmail thing wasn’t my idea, I was against it.”

“Whose idea was it?”

“Mine, you dirty bitch,” says a voice behind her.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps. His jaws clamp shut like a bear trap, the jagged stumps boring into her flesh. Esther can’t shake him off. Every attempt to free herself only results in more pain.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps.

Before Esther can turn around, the third man hits her on the back of the head. The pain jolts through her body, reigniting the power inside her. A crushing blow with her right elbow reduces his teeth to sharp little stumps.

Now that she’s in this awkward position, the fat guy is no longer scared to attack. Standing up, he starts hitting her with his fists as hard as he can. Esther uses her left hand to pull on her right-hand wrist, trying to dislodge it from the other guy’s mouth, but his grip is so firm her head keeps bumping into his, making him bite down even deeper. The fat one has now started boxing her breasts. What would Freud make of that, she thinks.

Still trying to free herself from the clamped jaws, Esther rams her foot against his knee, which makes a ninety-degree turn. After barely a minute on his feet, the heavy guy falls back down onto the floor. He grabs her ankle and pulls her in his direction. Like standing in a strong current, she’s dragged along before falling backwards to the floor, along with the man who still has half her arm in his mouth. His head hits the wooden floor with loud smack, and he stops moving. But his teeth stay as firmly lodged as ever.

Lying on top of the unconscious man, she aims a volley of kicks at his friend, like a sprinter jogging in place. The man tries to protect his face with his hands, but these are also pulverized by her feet. Like an insect startled by the light, he crawls away into a corner. Now Esther’s fingers are finally able to find a way in between her elbow and the clenched jaw of the man on the floor. She tears open the corners of his mouth, further than is necessary to free herself. There’s no reaction, so no point in questioning him any further.

Standing up, she notices her power is dwindling again. The aggression in the room has disappeared; the man sobbing in the corner is the only one left. With her very last reserves of strength, Esther picks him up and throws him down next to his pal.

“Where’s the video?”

“On his phone.” The man points to the door across the hallway.

“Call him. I want to hear it ring.”

For an instant it looks like he’s going to protest, but when Esther clenches her fist, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.

The breathy sound of a hip-hop tune comes from the other room.

“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Esther says, and walks in the direction of the sound. She finds the phone under a pile of unwashed clothes and puts it in her pocket.

“And now for the most important question, so think carefully. ‘Cause if you give me the wrong answer I will come back and things will get even worse. Understood?”

The young man nods.

“Very good. Did you make any copies of the video?”

The man shakes his head.

“Sure?”

Another shake.

“What do you mean, no? You’re not sure?”

“No, I meant I’m sure we didn’t make a copy,” he says. He’s panting with fear.

Esther checks the time on her own phone. She’s cutting it fine but she can’t leave yet. She squats down next to the man and stares at his swollen face. Trembling, he avoids her gaze. Still she waits for him to speak.

“I’m sorry. I’m not like that. Not anymore.”

Esther’s face is blank.

“Don’t you believe me?”

She sighs. “It’s better to clean your wounds first, before putting ice on them. Otherwise they’ll get infected. But here’s what we’re going to do first. You’re going to call the police. You’re going to tell them your name, your address, and what you did. The victim will be going to the police tomorrow to report you, with screenshots as evidence, enough to get you prosecuted. But first she wanted to know for sure that you would pay. As for what happened here, tell them what you like. You can even tell the truth – no one will believe you anyway. So I’d stick to a break-in. I won’t leave until you finish your call. Then and only then will I believe you – maybe.”

Nodding furiously at her, the man dials the number immediately.

Usually Esther waits for the sounds of sirens before she leaves, but not this time. Leaving the three men behind in handcuffs, she sprints back to her car, rubbing the blood off her cheeks as she goes. The GPS tells her the drive home will take at least twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, the babysitter’s dad will be standing on her doorstep.

Now that she’s in this awkward position, the fat guy is no longer scared to attack. Standing up, he starts hitting her with his fists as hard as he can. Esther uses her left hand to pull on her right-hand wrist, trying to dislodge it from the other guy’s mouth, but his grip is so firm her head keeps bumping into his, making him bite down even deeper. The fat one has now started boxing her breasts. What would Freud make of that, she thinks.

Still trying to free herself from the clamped jaws, Esther rams her foot against his knee, which makes a ninety-degree turn. After barely a minute on his feet, the heavy guy falls back down onto the floor. He grabs her ankle and pulls her in his direction. Like standing in a strong current, she’s dragged along before falling backwards to the floor, along with the man who still has half her arm in his mouth. His head hits the wooden floor with loud smack, and he stops moving. But his teeth stay as firmly lodged as ever.

Lying on top of the unconscious man, she aims a volley of kicks at his friend, like a sprinter jogging in place. The man tries to protect his face with his hands, but these are also pulverized by her feet. Like an insect startled by the light, he crawls away into a corner. Now Esther’s fingers are finally able to find a way in between her elbow and the clenched jaw of the man on the floor. She tears open the corners of his mouth, further than is necessary to free herself. There’s no reaction, so no point in questioning him any further.

Standing up, she notices her power is dwindling again. The aggression in the room has disappeared; the man sobbing in the corner is the only one left. With her very last reserves of strength, Esther picks him up and throws him down next to his pal.

“Where’s the video?”

“On his phone.” The man points to the door across the hallway.

“Call him. I want to hear it ring.”

For an instant it looks like he’s going to protest, but when Esther clenches her fist, he grabs his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.

The breathy sound of a hip-hop tune comes from the other room.

“Thank you. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Esther says, and walks in the direction of the sound. She finds the phone under a pile of unwashed clothes and puts it in her pocket.

“And now for the most important question, so think carefully. ‘Cause if you give me the wrong answer I will come back and things will get even worse. Understood?”

The young man nods.

“Very good. Did you make any copies of the video?”

The man shakes his head.

“Sure?”

Another shake.

“What do you mean, no? You’re not sure?”

“No, I meant I’m sure we didn’t make a copy,” he says. He’s panting with fear.

Esther checks the time on her own phone. She’s cutting it fine but she can’t leave yet. She squats down next to the man and stares at his swollen face. Trembling, he avoids her gaze. Still she waits for him to speak.

“I’m sorry. I’m not like that. Not anymore.”

Esther’s face is blank.

“Don’t you believe me?”

She sighs. “It’s better to clean your wounds first, before putting ice on them. Otherwise they’ll get infected. But here’s what we’re going to do first. You’re going to call the police. You’re going to tell them your name, your address, and what you did. The victim will be going to the police tomorrow to report you, with screenshots as evidence, enough to get you prosecuted. But first she wanted to know for sure that you would pay. As for what happened here, tell them what you like. You can even tell the truth – no one will believe you anyway. So I’d stick to a break-in. I won’t leave until you finish your call. Then and only then will I believe you – maybe.”

Nodding furiously at her, the man dials the number immediately.

Usually Esther waits for the sounds of sirens before she leaves, but not this time. Leaving the three men behind in handcuffs, she sprints back to her car, rubbing the blood off her cheeks as she goes. The GPS tells her the drive home will take at least twenty minutes. In twenty minutes, the babysitter’s dad will be standing on her doorstep.

Joost-Vandecasteele

JOOST VANDECASTEELE

Joost Vandecasteele (1979) is one of the most influential writers of his generation. For his debut collection, Hoe de wereld perfect funtioneert zonder mij, he was awarded the Flemish First Novel Award. His novels Opnieuw en opnieuw en opnieuw and Massa were nominated for the BNG Literature Prize, and his latest novel, Jungle, received the SABAM Award 2017. That same year, he published Bella, a graphic novel. Vandecasteele is a well-known stand-up comedian; in the fall of 2016, his comedy series Generation B premiered on national television. “Vengeance Is Not a Sin” is an excerpt from the novel Vandecasteele is currently working on, Nog (Still), to be published in the summer of 2018.

Photo: Geertje de Waegeneer


Published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers
© Lebowski Publishers  |  Amsterdam

For international rights please contact:
Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher, Jill Gillett or Sylvie Rabineau

This literary magazine for Grounded SF
from The Netherlands and Flanders is
published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers.
© Lebowski Publishers  |  Amsterdam

For international rights please contact:
Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher , Jill Gillet or Sylvie Rabineau

This literary magazine for Grounded SF from The Netherlands and Flanders is published twice a year by Lebowski Publishers.


For international rights please contact: Oscar van GelderenTracy Fisher, Jill Gillet or Sylvie Rabineau

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele, Gina Hay, Joost Devriesere

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart, Paul Evans

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens, Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens,
Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

© 2018 Hanna Bervoets, Willem Bosch, Rob van Essen, Jerry Goossens,Erik Nieuwenhuis, PJ Pancras, Joost Vandecasteele

© TRANSLATIONS Antoinette Fawcett, Kristen Gehrman, Thijs van Nimwegen, Jonathan Reeder, Sarah Welling, Joni Zwart

EDITORS Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging



DESIGN
 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson, 
Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman
uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, 
Jasper Henderson,
Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design

EDITORS 
Oscar van Gelderen, Jasper Henderson, Maaike Pleging

DESIGN 
Bart Heideman  |  uncanny.design