Late last week, quite out of the blue, I received a mysterious brown parcel in the mail. I did not recognize the return address, nor was I expecting a package of any kind. The box was unusual only in its nondescriptness. Intrigued and slightly apprehensive, I brought it into my house (this was the first mistake) and opened it up (this was the second, and crucial).
The package contained one (1) contributor’s copy of Polluto issue 8 (“In Space, No-One Can Hear You Dream”). No explanation. A serendipitous accident, I thought at first, until, flipping through the book, I came upon a name that made me feel temporarily as though my spirit had migrated through the pores of my skin and was wheeling in invisible tempests around my vacant but still-animated body.
The name was my own.
The title of the story is “Outer Space! ~A Memoir~”. I can assure you, it is no memoir. It appears to be a work of pulp science fiction, but for three exceptional details:
1) It is clearly unfinished, yet has been published without any note or explanation from the publisher.
2) It describes, in familiar detail, a time and place with which I am absolutely unacquainted.
3) Most strange of all, I cannot recall ever having written it.
I cannot imagine what a development such as this might signify. I don’t think I can afford to imagine it. Is it possible I wrote it, and subsequently lost all knowledge of having done so? Did somebody else write it in imitation of me? To what purpose?
I’ve attached a few photographs of the mysterious book. You may find them of interest.
I will peruse the text for further evidence. Perhaps an investigation into the less immediately perplexing content might elucidate this mystery. If not, it will likely make for some entertaining reading, and a fine book review. In the meantime, you can check it out for yourself. You may find something amiss, something I miss. Something vital to the future of the cosmos, perhaps. Something
The Year Is Yesterday 