Stories as Therapy: How Narratives Heal

Humans are hardwired for storytelling. Across our civilisations we have used narratives, as simple as cave paintings or as complex as multi-generational oral histories, to share knowledge, to imagine, and to thrive. The stories we cherish transform us. They point to our joys, our grief, our solidarity and our loneliness alike, guiding us through the chaos of being human. And as it turns out, there’s a science to stories.

From ancient myths to modern novels, the most enduring narratives follow core patterns that map to our inner lives, affecting the chemicals released in our brains and enhancing our capacity for problem-solving and empathy. We bond through stories, and we solve problems through the creative play that storytelling offers. In short: storytelling heals.

The Science of Storytelling

In the early 20th century, psychologist Carl Jung popularised the concept of the collective unconscious, a sort of inherited psychological landscape populated by mythic archetypes and shared by humanity’s unconscious mind. These archetypes shape us at a primal level and influence our self-development throughout life. That’s kind of a lot, so I’m just gonna call his theory ‘galaxy brain’.

Galaxy brain is impossible to prove on account of our not being able to witness the interior of every living person’s mind (thank the gods). But we don’t need to prove it to get behind the idea of a common mythic language. Jung’s symbols–the hero, the villain, the trickster, and the sage–conjure storylike images and associations in us that feel as fundamental as life itself. Examining the social and even biological aspects of this phenomenon are just as promising as trying to prove galaxy brain, and in fact, recent scientific breakthroughs have pointed toward just that

Scientists have confirmed that stories shape us at a neurological level. Brain imaging reveals that reading or hearing about an experience activates the same regions in our brains as experiencing it. Not only that, but when we are told stories, our levels of cortisol, oxytocin, and dopamine–neurotransmitters involved with memory, focus, and social bonding–measurably rise. These discoveries hint at storytelling’s power in facilitating empathy and imaginative problem solving. It makes sense then that our proclivity for telling tales has persisted when it’s linked to our essential human qualities. Stories quite literally open our minds and our worlds, and we share in their collective symbology, just like Jung posited. Maybe the real galaxy brain is the friends we made along the way. (Yeah okay, I’ll see myself out.)

Mythology to Modernity

We now know that ancient myths endure through the ages because they represent patterns of human experience. Persephone’s cyclical descent into the underworld gives shape to the rhythms of depression and renewal, while Icarus’s flight to the sun warns us of the dangers of unchecked pride. Writer Joseph Campbell’s seminal work—The Hero with a Thousand Faces—takes Jung’s mythic journey and grounds it in narrative convention for modern application by writers the world over.

The Hero’s Journey, or monomyth, follows a central character’s call to adventure through trials and an eventual, wiser return. Stories that follow this template hit because they serve as representations of our personal journeys. They resonate with us as we cross thresholds, face moments of uncomfortable self-reckoning, and claim boons as we transform our life experiences into hard-won wisdom. By combining the science of psychoanalysis with the art of storytelling, Campbell’s monomyth reveals how the most impactful stories provide a narrative container for our emotional healing.

Books aren’t the only place the storytelling power of the monomyth lurks, either. Traditional fortune-telling systems rely on the same premise, turning whimsy into therapeutic insight (or both! Both is good.) Author Liz Greene’s Mythic Tarot ties each card in the tarot deck to the Grecian classic myths, highlighting each myth’s depiction of psychological growth. The Fool’s leap becomes Dionysus, representing optimism and impulsivity, while Tower’s rubble symbolizes Poseidon’s wrath and the necessary collapse of outgrown defenses. Our Literary Tarot puts an even broader spin on this by pairing each card with stories from classic literature across the globe, in collaboration with modern authors. These symbolic systems take the building blocks of the monomyth and place them in our individual hands, encouraging us to make the Hero’s Journey our own. And hey–they’re fun!

Reclaiming the Narrative

When we grab our Hero’s Journey by the horns, we open to a world of imagination and introspection. Therapeutic writing—reflective journaling, letter drafts, poetry—lets us externalize pain and reclaim agency. When we recognize ourselves in fiction, we’re participating in collective healing, turning tales into both personal and cultural growth. At Brink, F(r)iction’s parent nonprofit, we harness this power to dismantle barriers and uplift justice-impacted people with our FRAMES Comic Program, where incarcerated writers craft stories around their personal experiences. Empowering one another to reflect, imagine, and express our core truths rewires perspectives and opens new pathways in minds and lives alike.

As we tell and re-tell our stories, we build on our collective understanding, not just of symbolic archetypes but of each other. Plugging our own experiences into the monomyth gives us agency. Reimagining old tropes from new perspectives contributes to our shared knowledge. And listening when someone tells you their story builds a bridge between you that might change both of your lives for the better, transforming inner burdens into real moments of human connection. This is where the healing potential of stories shines brightest: in the space between speaker and listener, belonging begins.

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. Next up we’ll explore how stories shape identity, community, and culture.

Stories as Food: How Narratives Nourish Us

“You are what you eat,” but what about what you read, watch, or scroll through? Stories are sustenance. They entertain us, feed our curiosity, and challenge our assumptions, shaping the way we see the world. Some cater to our tastes while others expand them, and many do both… when we take our time to savor the flavor. In a cultural moment of constant content, where storytelling’s traditional gatekeepers are increasingly influenced by algorithms and paid promotion, now is the perfect time to get curious about fueling ourselves in a way that’s energizing and livening.

A Modern Feast

It’s the 21st Century. We have access to more stories than ever. Representation and publishing are reaching for new and broader horizons—and rightfully so, we think—that’s what F(r)iction is all about. But endless access begs new questions for modern readers. Is it okay to love The Lord of the Rings while critiquing its outdated tropes? Can we enjoy Alien’s gruesome thrills while dissecting its capitalist subtext? Are you a fanfiction-turned-erotic-fantasy convert, and have you ever been ashamed of it? (Psst–you shouldn’t be!) With our devices’ instant offering of stories both new and familiar, exploring our media palates enables us to discover the flavors in every piece.

Fantasy Flavor

Like many a word nerd, I’ve a lifelong love of fantasy. It is uplifting and transporting, taking us on sweeping adventures through vividly-imagined worlds. It’s also notorious for distilling moral complexity into binary extremes: noble kings versus monstrous baddies, pure heroes against irredeemable villains. This is the genre’s meat and PO-TA-TOES—simple and gratifying. But the real world is juicier, and the best fantasies know when to bake in that extra juice.

Tolkien’s moral contrasts in The Lord of the Rings are unmistakable, but its fans will tell you they’re not the whole meal. The epic’s power emerges in the fragile bonds between unlikely allies—alliances between elves and dwarves, the loyalty of Sam to Frodo, Middle Earth’s shared fight for a world worth saving. The legendary battles and enchanting magic of Tolkien’s world are revelatory, but its relationships—complex, messy, and deeply human—are the sustenance that keeps us coming back for seconds (and thirds, and fourths… I see you!).

Horror’s Aftertaste

Horror is another genre ripe for the picking. These stories go all in to grip us with primal thrills—the shock of violence, filth, and the visceral dread of the monstrous Other. But there’s more meat to be had for the hungry. Horror holds up a mirror to mankind’s shadowy impulses and taboo topics, inviting us to reflect on what really frightens us: the monster, the conditions that created it, or ourselves? (Hint: yes.)

My favourite example is the films Alien and Aliens. They’re a masterclass in terror—xenomorphs bursting from chests, the iconic Ellen Ripley’s desperate flight through the Nostromo’s corridors. But the xenomorphs are weaponized by the Weyland-Yutani corporation, a human creation, to further their medical and military advancements. That origin story’s not all that, well… alien. Ripley and the xenomorph queen are eerily mirrored by their need to adapt to and survive the invasion of the same colonizing force. The facehuggers get your attention, but that message sticks to your ribs.

‘Mindful’ Self-Indulgence

Sometimes a story’s purpose is to thrill and delight, and at first glance, it kinda seems like that’s it. Is it, though? Sarah J. Maas’ A Court of Thorns and Roses series combines swoon-worthy tension with glittering worlds, for instance, offering the best of fantasy’s enchantment and romance’s emotional payoff. Oft criticized as indulgent, Maas’ emphasis on female desire and agency has galvanized a generation of readers while sparking censorship debates for her erotic content. Fan or no, it’s hard not to see the spice there.

Similar can be said for the staple horror franchise Friday the 13th. Some of us crave a good ol’ fashioned slasher, and Jason has faithfully delivered since 1980. The mask is emblematic, the kills are creative, and the most pressing question on our mind is who makes it out alive (if anyone). But Friday the 13th did something unprecedented for the genre–it distilled slasher horror to a single fundamental: no victim backstory, only killer mythos. This reduction, condemned as gratuitous, weaponizes the audience’s indifference, mirroring Jason’s psyche and providing viewers a brand-new experience in confronting fear. Jason is proof that even stories stuffed with tried-and-true stereotypes can yield surprising substance when we really sit down to eat.

At F(r)iction, we believe stories should nourish as deeply as they entertain. That’s why we publish stories with substance: the kind that tantalize your tastes while sustaining empathy, challenging assumptions, and leaving readers fortified for the world beyond the page.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, and next in the series delves into a F(r)iction favourite, the therapeutic power of stories.

Stories as Escapes

There’s a certain magic in opening a book, pushing play, or plunging into an immersive video game and feeling the world around you fade away. For a moment, the weight of your to-do list, the hum of your worries, and the noise of the everyday dissolve. You’re no longer just you—you’re a hobbit setting off on an unexpected journey; a space explorer probing uncharted galaxies, or a detective unraveling a mystery that keeps you guessing until the very last page. This is the power of escapism, and it’s far more than just a way to pass the time. It’s a lifeline, a sanctuary, and sometimes, a source of hope.

J.R.R. Tolkien, the mastermind behind The Lord of the Rings, once defended escapism as something more profound than mere avoidance. He argued that escaping into stories isn’t about running away from reality—it’s about finding the strength to face it. In his essay On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien wrote, “Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if, when he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?” Stories, in this sense, are a form of liberation. They remind us that there’s more to life than the walls we sometimes find ourselves trapped within. They offer us a glimpse into our essential humanity—where courage triumphs, where love endures, and where even the smallest person can change the course of the future.

A mirror to the real world

But escapism isn’t just about connecting with our inner worlds. Sometimes, the most powerful escapes are the ones that reflect the external world back to us. Take, for example, the growing representation of minority perspectives in media. Stories like Heartstopper, which explores queer joy and self-discovery, or The Hate U Give, which tackles systemic injustice with unflinching honesty, provide more than just an escape—they offer a roadmap. They show us that even in the midst of struggle, there’s room for growth, connection, and resilience. These stories don’t just help us escape; they help us return to our own lives with a renewed sense of purpose and possibility.

And then there’s the solace of shared experiences. Have you ever read a line in a book or watched a scene in a movie that felt like it was written just for you? Stories offer us the realization that we’re not alone in our thoughts, our fears, and our dreams. As actor and author Alan Bennett, best known for exploring the isolation of the mind in his play The Madness of King George III, once wrote, “The best moments in reading are when you come across something—a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things—which you had thought special and particular to you. Now here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out and taken yours.” That’s the magic of storytelling: it bridges the gaps between us, connecting us across time, space, and experience. It reminds us that our struggles, our joys, and our hopes are part of the larger human tapestry.

More than just distraction

Escapism, at its core, is more than just distraction. It’s about finding the courage to imagine a better world—and, in doing so, finding the strength to create it. Whether it’s through the pages of a book, the glow of a screen, or the shared experience of a story told aloud, escapism offers us a chance to recharge, reflect, and reconnect. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest of times, there’s light to be found—and sometimes, that light comes from the most unexpected places.

So, the next time you lose a day binge watching your faves, don’t feel too guilty. You’re not just escaping; you’re healing. You’re exploring. You’re finding the tools you need to keep going. And who knows? The story you escape into today might just be the one that helps you change your world tomorrow.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, and next up we’re digging into storytelling as food; from what fuels us creatively to the importance of curating one’s own ‘media diet.’

Finding Ourselves in Fiction: How Stories Inspire and Heal

Ever glanced at your quirky in-laws and thought, “You belong in a novel”? You’re not alone. Stories have a unique way of stirring emotions, just like the people in our lives. Whether it’s an exploration of grief, like John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars, or the sci-fi franchise we know and love as Star Trek, fiction provokes our reflection and connects us to our shared humanity. And it goes both ways: reflecting on our lives to inspire our fiction likewise enriches our stories, and deepens our capacity for empathy for each other and the world we live in.

We’ve all heard “write what you know,” but what does that mean, really? It means the people in your life matter, and you matter. When you think of those you know well—whether they make your day or drive you up the wall—there’s an emotional charge. That charge is the storyteller’s goldmine. Let those thoughts and feelings loose in your writing, and you’ll have a wealth of authentic material to draw from for your fiction. While your characters are fictional, your relationships are real, so a mindful touch is ideal. You might find it healing to work out any angst you have with those people through the lens of your characters. Perhaps through writing, you’ll glean some insight into why you feel the way you do, and why they are the way they are. Besides being a pro tip for writing nuanced characters, writing what you know provides an extraordinary opportunity for insight and empathy.

I’ll tell you a story about a story…

When I was just seven, I wrote a short fiction piece on what I thought was the pinnacle of my own creative genius: a potato, but PURPLE. You can imagine how humbled I was to discover the red-skinned sweet potato in our local supermarket the following week. Turns out it was brought to Aotearoa New Zealand by my Polynesian ancestors in the 13^th century. Whoops. This innocent faux pas taught me an early lesson about the richness of drawing from real life: even the most mundane details of our world can inspire creativity and connect us to our roots–like a potato. Examining that story now, I can see my heritage in it, grounding my fiction with real-world authenticity while sharing the history of the Pacific peoples—an underrepresented group I was only nebulously aware I belonged to when I wrote it. My story became an exercise in self-discovery and interconnectedness, where I was able to find deeper meaning in both my writing, myself, and the world around me. Magic.

Consider how you engage with the stories of your own life. Do you find echoes of yourself in the epic tales of heroism or in quiet moments of introspection? Do the natural phenomena of the world stir a new appreciation for nature in you? By understanding these connections, we can glean new and deeper insights, and sometimes, that can be just as powerful as the latest advances in psychology or the innovations that fight climate change. Sure, you might just be telling stories, but don’t you feel you’ve learned a whole lot? Enclosure: enriched. Neurons: activated.

We all have a story!

Stories remind us that everyone has a voice worth hearing, a story worth telling, and the power to rewrite the narratives that define their lives—and, in turn, the world. It’s this belief that fuels our work at F(r)iction and its nonprofit parent Brink, where we strive through our education programming to create spaces for new and underrepresented voices to be discovered, shared, and celebrated. Whether it’s a purple potato or a mission to boldly go where no man has gone before, we believe stories have the power to inspire and heal. If that sounds like your jam too, you can explore how we make it happen on the Brink website.

I’m reminded of the famous quote by Jean-Paul Sartre. He says: “A man is always a teller of tales, he sees everything that happens to him through them; and he tries to live his own life as if he were telling a story. But you have to choose: live or tell.”

To that I say, it’s both. It’s always been both.

The Power of Stories is a limited blog series that dives into the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling, so stay tuned—next up, we’re diving into the enchanting world of escapism. See you there!

A Review of In The Shadow of the Fall by Tobi Ogundiran

*SPOILER ALERT* This review contains plot details of In the Shadow of the Fall.

It will be published on July 23, 2024 by Tordotcom.

Tobi Ogundiran’s In the Shadow of the Fall delivers a compact yet powerful exploration of self-discovery in a magical, African-inspired world. Despite its brevity as a novella, Ogundiran’s debut excels with vivid character development and absorbing worldbuilding, offering readers a fresh twist on genre expectations of Eurocentric fantasy. The story traverses culture and identity through the eyes of Ashâke, an upstart, failed acolyte who brashly attempts to summon the orisha, gods of the West-African Yoruba religion, for her own purposes. This sets off a chain of events that plunges her into a sprawling journey to uncover the truth about the world and her place within it. Comparable to N. K. Jemisin, Ogundiran’s voice is gritty, but the narrative retains a gripping mystique. It strikes an intriguing balance between the contemporary surge in low-fantasy titles and classic tales of epic gods and mythologies, making for a fresh change of pace.

The standout gem of In the Shadow of the Fall is its African worldbuilding, which serves as the vibrant tapestry against which Ashâke’s personal narrative unfolds. Ogundiran weaves elements of folklore, mythology, and African culture to create a setting that feels authentic and enchanting. The textual communication of oral tradition in the story is an admirable feat as Ashâke learns of her heritage through song. This a transformative, spiritual experience that readers are easily able to pick up as they read along. “Jaha stepped into the circle, spread his ample arms wide, and bellowed to the heavens…The world fell away. The griots, the trees, the fire…then the world burst to colour before [Ashâke].” We are buoyed by Ogundiran’s expertise as he plunges us into a new world of vital and tantalizing images.

In the Shadow of the Fall’s magic-brimming world is paired with impactful prose, highlighted particularly during action scenes. Whether it’s a pulse-pounding chase through the forest or a retelling of a creation myth, Ogundiran renders plot beats with cinematic flair. “Several bolts of lightning fractured the heavens, terribly in their beauty…A bolt forked through the Tower. The top half shifted, teetered on its edge, then with a great groan, shattered.” His writing is bold and evocative, painting striking images that linger in the mind. In these moments, Ogundiran’s talent as a storyteller is on full display, immersing readers’ senses and leaving them hungry for more.

Through the eyes of young Ashâke, readers are introduced to a diverse cast of personalities: the eccentric Ba Fatai, the high priestess Iyalawo, and chief Mama Agba, who guide Ashâke on her journey of self-discovery. These characters are vivid and visual, springing to life in just a few sentences. Due to the succinctness a novella’s word count demands, they can at times feel tropey, although, perhaps only because Western literature has already made caricatures of these types of characters. Ogundiran’s work arguably humanizes these tropes by contextualizing them within their own culture and giving them their own motives. We know Ba Fatai and Mama Agba are meet-the-mentor and fairy-godmother-type characters. Leaning into these assumptions while giving the characters a striking visual identity orients us quickly and seeds our expectations for the role they will play. Ogundiran then promptly spring boards us into more nuanced, informed character expression—a territory into which I was more than happy to be flung. My only gripe is that I desperately wanted to know more about these characters.

There are moments where In the Shadow of the Fall’s feels constrained by the same economy of language that sets it apart. Take the description of the griot encampment Ashâke encounters after escaping the temple for example: “Eight huge boats idled in the river. Each vessel was onion-shaped, their hulls covered with brightly painted whorl patterns…It looked like a floating city.” I read this and want to know, has Ashâke heard of griots before? What kinds of whorls are painted, and what might they represent? Who fashions the griots, and from which resources? It’s important to consider that I don’t see these answers because I am unfamiliar with African history. I read the word “whorl,” and think it’s describing a shape: a swirl. It may be a culturally significant symbol, like my own koru—an indigenous swirling pattern used in New Zealand Māori art—and I am only scratching the surface of its meaning. With a higher word count to play with, Ogundiran may have built on these frameworks and further showcased his potential for introducing an underrepresented culture to a broad audience.

The novella could also have benefitted from more socio-political intrigue. The psyops of belief is pivotal to the story’s gods, the orisha, and to Ashâke’s self-discovery. Who holds the power to control information for the masses is an important question that was not wholeheartedly answered by the book’s end. While Ashâke is sheltered and primarily concerned with her identity, this naivete could have been used as a blank slate from which to launch her—and the readers—into the subversive realm of the book’s politics and religion, giving us a broader view of the forces at play when magic meets man’s lust for power.

Qualms aside, In the Shadow of the Fall is a refreshing debut, and a testament to Tobi Ogundiran’s talent as an emerging writer. He blends intricate worldbuilding with compelling, character-driven storytelling to create a debut that is pithy, culturally crucial, and filled with mystical allure. While the novella may leave readers yearning for a deeper exploration of its world, its strengths lie in the same place—a richly imagined setting, nuanced characters, and vibrant prose. Fans of fantasy and adventure will find much to love in this captivating tale of old gods, found family, and identity.

Beyond the Veil

As F(r)iction invites you explore the invisible realms of our latest release, The Unseen Issue, we’ve compiled five best-selling novels to whet your appetite for the unknown. These stories, told by hidden narrators, challenge traditional storytelling conventions to shed new light on visibility, identity, and reality. Slap these on your reading list for 2024 with F(r)iction: Unseen as your companion—packed full of emerging talent and diverse voices—and strap in for a deep dive into the dark.

This Is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone

In this genre-bending epistolary novella, Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone weave a patchwork narrative that unfolds through a series of hidden letters exchanged between two rival agents—Red and Blue—across divergent timelines in a galactic war. The narrators, never explicitly revealed, are the voices of these agents as they lace a complex tapestry of love, espionage, and temporal manipulation in their letters to one another across time. As readers navigate the cross-dimensional landscape of the novella, the boundaries between protagonist and storyteller blur, submerging readers in a dual experience of action and retrospection.

The shapeshifting ability of the narrators allows El-Mohtar and Gladstone to build a referential work, with many of the covert identities Red and Blue assume resembling existing historical figures on Earth, or renowned icons of sci-fi literature. Here, science fiction hums as a living undercurrent, freeing the authors to zoom in on the rivals-to-lovers epic between Red and Blue in its star-crossed glory. This genre tension is perfectly captured by the quote, “I would rather break the world than lose you.”

Circe by Madeline Miller

Madeline Miller breathes life into the mythological figure of Circe, enchantress of Aeaea, in this first-person narrative rippling with power and vulnerability. While the narrator is ostensibly Circe herself, her omniscience and agency are realized through Miller’s clever utilization of point of view: Circe is unarguably the reliable narrator of her own experience. Miller gives an authentic voice to one of many hitherto silent female figures in Greek myth, sweeping readers into a transformative inner-journey across the vast mythology so many of us know and love in the classics. As Circe recounts her journey from divine exile to powerful sorceress, Miller imbues the narrative with her rich knowledge in Greco-Roman literature, filling in the gaps where spotlight characters like Odysseus and Heracles historically took front and center. Circe is a deeply informed work, reimagining the classics with masterful finesse. Miller leaves us with the feeling that Circe’s story was always there. She wrote until she set it free.

Harrow the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir

Tamsyn Muir crafts a labyrinthine tale of necromantic intrigue with the second installment in The Locked Tomb series, AKA: lesbian necromancers in space. A stark detour from its prequel, Harrow the Ninth flirts with reality and illusion as the protagonist, Harrowhark Nonagesimus, struggles to piece her identity back together following the dizzying events in Gideon the Ninth. As Harrowhark navigates her new role as Lyctor to God of the Nine Houses (a role she cannot remember being assigned), the story’s narrator remains bafflingly elusive. Muir leaves us to oscillate between Harrow’s internal monologue, her fractured—and blatantly incorrect—memories of the events in Gideon, and what appears to be her experience of hallucinatory psychosis. We cannot be sure, nor are we supposed to be. This complex narration adds an unsettling obfuscation to the story, challenging us to discern truth in a universe where death holds no dominion and Harrow herself must grapple with the unreliable narrator of her own mind.

The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue by V.E. Schwab

V.E. Schwab tells a haunting tale of immortality and longing in her 2020 fantasy release. The titular character, Adeline, grapples with the consequences of a Faustian bargain she made to escape an unwanted marriage in the 17th century, traversing the centuries as a deathless wanderer, until the year 2014 where she meets a man who carries a similar curse. Addie’s narrative unfolds like a confession revealing the loneliness of her immortal existence and the cold solace she comes to find in her only friend, the very demon with whom she forged a pact. While Addie stumbles through time, her future self is subtly present to guide the reader across the trajectory of her journey, allowing for flashes of insight that Addie herself doesn’t yet have. Schwab’s refined storytelling gives us a profound insight into identity and mortality, as Addie embarks on her eternal quest for connection.

Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro

Ishiguro explores the intersection of artificial intelligence and human fallibility in his dystopian sci-fi, hitting closer to home every year since its release in 2021. Through the eyes of Klara, an AI companion designed to bring solace to the lonely child Josie, Ishiguro challenges us to consider whether empathy is learned or innate, engineered or universal. Ishiguro imbues Klara with a sense of childlike wonder and existential curiosity. Yet her endearingly short-sighted conclusions about the world—such as her mistaking the sun for a god as a solar-powered android—point to a deeper exploration of sentience. Klara does not understand where the sun sets, or what it means to go to sleep or die, but somehow, she understands more profoundly than the human characters in the story, the struggle to save a loved one from suffering. Klara vandalizes public property as a plea to the sun to free Josie of an incurable sickness. This heart-wrenching story confronts us with what it means to be conscious, and what shape kindness takes in an age of technological advancement.

Hidden narrators beckon us into a liminal space where voice and identity can shift, and new perspectives can be gleaned. These five novels sit on the bleeding edge of genre innovation, calling on us to broaden our horizons and push our awareness. F(r)iction calls on you to delve deeper with our Unseen Issue. From spectral illusions to elusive truths, Unseen is packed with genre-staples as well as newer, weirder, and wilder tales. Grab a copy from our store today or subscribe to our tri-annual publication for your very own dose of the unknown.

The Next End

The world ended five times. There was The Flood, but few remember Theia’s moon-bearing collision with the Earth. That was rough. Fewer still recall Meekal rending the sky with righteous rage, or whatever you lot called it in Gilgamesh. First time any of us angels bothered to say no.

We’ve been saying it ever since. Since his OG defiance—some nonissue to do with life’s will to power—my brother has shrieked across time while we’ve torn through the galaxy to haul his ass home. Creation wormed out of our flyway, but we didn’t notice until hindsight, which was quite recently. Sorry.

I’m at the sixth extinction, pouring Nu-Shroom coffee for an idiot in a Givenchy suit, trying to convince him not to blow up the sun. We’ve been stuck in avatars since the precession. I’m used to being a woman, though not so much having a human sense of smell. I gag as dank, pretending-to-be-roasted-beans steam flirts with the back of my tongue.

“There are things we can do,” I clip in my avatar’s crisp RP. She’s a good girl, grass-fed. We’re both uncomfortable in a silk blouse.

“Who?” the idiot barks, eyes shining like black-gold, crude oil money signs.

“Everyone.”

Meekal’s entrepreneur extraordinaire spreads his stocky arms, nub fingers splayed. He looks like a bald eagle, featherless—an amalgam of impotence—which is how I know it’s him. He ignores me and the implication he’s not the center of the universe with biblical gravitas.

“A controlled explosion will redirect the sun’s rays to Mars for recolonization,” he says. “A fresh start.”

Though indoors, he punctuates this statement by donning a pair of Ray-Ban Metas. I want to say wow, but when he taps the hinge near his temple, I realize he isn’t speaking to me. His recording goes live, instantly viral with his monopoly on the algorithm.

“It’s all me, baby,” he drawls in unbelievable earnest. Meekal swoops the drink from my hands and slurps. Then, he heads for the jet.

Fuck.

That night, the world watches Meekal’s sun-exploding missile take to the sky. From my apartment, starfall pitter-patters until the sky crawls with light. Crowds thrum with unease. As the first bright fragment falls, a sonic boom peels the night open. Meekal’s man-mug appears on my phone screen, beaming wider than the event horizon he spewed himself out of.

“A lightshow for the new world,” he coos, awed by his own undoing.

The fall quickens, one starlit shriek after another. Crack, Crack, Crack. At our sixth cosmic cockup, I snap.

“Is your head really too far up your own ass to realize the fucking sky is falling?” I holler.

He doesn’t know it’s me. Never does.

“No,” he says, like he knows what’s up. Like I’m the idiot.

I let rip, but too late. The footfalls of panicked crowds eclipse my voice and Meekal mistakes the sound for applause. He swells like a dying giant and bows for the world’s next end.