Teased from the fibers of parallel worlds and alternate histories yet to happen, Bette A.’s Slow Stories are imbued with a humanity all too familiar.
In villages and small cities, mysterious phenomena occur. A box appears at the edge of town and silently demands to be filled with meaning. A skinny little man trudges in from the desert refusing to put down the massive rock he carries on his back. And when a girl is born inside a poor one-bedroom house, a new door appears, leading to a new room, leading to another–while from the outside, the additions to the house are impossible to enter and made of an unbreakable mirrored glass, reflecting the growing rage and confusion of the villagers. Naturally, people must respond.
In other locales, a memorial is raised for twenty-four fallen soldiers, but the story is distracted by one man, who refused to arm himself and fight; and inside a community of disembodied voices, we listen as the creatures try to solve an existential riddle. Meanwhile, there are fantastic discoveries that young people keep secret until they are no longer young, enthralling monsters made of smoke and desire, and a short biography for the last inventor, who, “like the first inventor,” was a woman.
Slow Stories conjure a tension that demands quiet attention, while the narrator’s voice insists that we take our time, and contemplate our own place in the universe. Reminiscent of Calvino’s fabular world building, though tinged perhaps more radically with concerns over safety and sharing, sovereignty and community, Bette’s A.’s voice transports us to other worlds while resonating powerfully inside our own.
