Slipstream: When The Writing Gets Weird
I'm calling myself a slipstream writer these days. But what does that mean? What is this genre? Would I even know it if it jumped up and threw buttered popcorn in my face?
Let’s start with a definition of slipstream.
‘Who’s definition?’ you ask.
To which I say, ‘Oh, we’ve got a smart ass in the theatre! Usher! Usher!’
I butter the popcorn. I clean the butter machine. The bag runs out, and so I stick my head into its metal belly to screw in a new one. It’s a wet mess of plastic tubes and blood vessels inside there. The stench of congealing dairy blooms as I clasp and unclasp the nozzles. Before I’m done, an old man throws his credit card at my back, angry that I am not at concessions. He tells me that the last time he was here the popcorn only cost four dollars. He tells me that now it is four ninety-nine. His wife calls me foul names under her breath as he continues, and she defecates a thin string of slime onto the carpeted floor through her dress. After I serve them both and steam the carpet, the man waddles to the water fountain and spits rivers down it, clogging the drain. I grab a wire brush and get to work.
This is the beginning of Maxine Sophia Wolff’s genius slipstream story This Movie Theater Sits on a Leyline, published by Seize the Press. The tale of your average hard working movie theatre employee who happens to work in the most surreal cinema in the mulitverse. But, whatever, it’s still just a shitty job that somebody has to do.
Outside, Naomi has left the popcorn popping untended. Fountains of yellow spew from its metal mouth, rising up the floor like a tide. I try to wade through it, kernels sneaking down into my shoes, battling my toes for shelter. But the popcorn rises from my ankles to my waist, and then up my chest. So I take a deep breath and dive in. Butter soaks my hair and prunes my fingers, but I pull myself along the bottom until my hands find the floor grate. With a heave, I pry it open, and the ocean of corn funnels away. I shake the butter from my hair. I turn off the popcorn machine. I butter the popcorn. I clean the butter machine.
Oh, yes. I said there would be a definition: 'Slipstream' is a speculative fiction sub-genre that blends elements of literary fiction, science fiction, fantasy, and sometimes surrealism or magical realism. It often defies traditional genre boundaries by incorporating fantastical elements into narratives that are otherwise grounded in reality. Slipstream stories may feature bizarre or inexplicable events, unconventional structures, and an emphasis on language and style that challenge readers' expectations. The term ‘slipstream’ itself suggests a narrative that flows between genres or slips through the cracks of traditional categorization, offering readers a unique and often thought-provoking reading experience.
I’m told that one of my writing heroes, Bruce Sterling, originally coined the term. The idea was that slipstream writing somehow ran just below, or maybe behind, or outside of, the mainstream. But that it still flowed in a similar way.
So, while slipstream stories often get really weird, they also still have something everyday normal about them.
Outside, Naomi has finished building a dollhouse out of the bones of the customer and some Buncha Crunch. She plays with little wax figurines inside the hollowed out carcass. A thousand years pass within the world she creates. I stumble, reeling a little, the stench of vomit still in my throat. Down the way, Michael comes back in from his smoke break, the door behind him disappearing as it closes. I try to tell him about the vomit in theater five, but he swipes me away.
“I thought I told you to go in box. Zane has been in there all day.”
“Right. Of course. Sorry.”
Zane grins at me with five teeth as I relieve him, all ten of his fingers laughing too. There is a line out the door. All their eyes stay fixed on me, like a single organism split.
I love Wolff’s story, for it is full of Eldritch-level horror, and strangeness. But at the same time, the poor, overworked staff deal with it all as just another day for another dollar.
And that’s what gives it so much power. As we read through the rising conflict that includes incurring the wrath a some god-level extraterrestrial, we can also read it all as hyperbole. That all the mind-bending, reality-distorting weirdness is just a metaphor for the mundane, but not less exhausting, weirdness that anyone who has ever worked in the service industry has seen again, and again.
Blood and butter and bits of bone and Buncha Crunch flood the place. The vomit becomes the floor and the walls and my hands too. My throat closes, choking, and the husband slips me a twenty. Outside, the planet god turns Naomi into a wax doll. It builds her a toy box. And it all starts again.
I push past what remains of her. I ignore the giant tongue. A customer, taking my lead, spits phlegm in the water fountain as I unclog it with a wire brush.
I butter the popcorn. I clean the butter machine. The woman on the screen was right. I am happy here. I am so happy.
And she nails us with irony at the end.
This is the world we live in: it’s driven mad by social media, actions of officials seldom makes sense, the climate is on fire, or maybe it’s flooding, but certainly it’s falling to pieces, and on top of it all, society is constantly being attacked by new monsters of the week. Yet, here we are, going about our days, just trying to be happy. So happy.
This is what slipstream shows best. It uses the weirdest of lenses to help us see through the strangest of times.
‘But who’s definition is that? Who says that her story was even slipstream? What are your credentials?’ you ask.
To which I say, ‘How did you get back in here?’ 🙭
Maxine Sophia Wolff is a transgender writer from Virginia. Her work has appeared in various semi-pro magazines. She also works as a writer in the video game industry.
Seize The Press Magazine is an anticapitalist genre mag publishing dark speculative fiction. Bleak sci-fi, dark fantasy, horror, and all kinds of weird, messy, genre-defying stories that defy labels. We’re looking for stories that aren’t didactic or moralistic, that aren’t wrapped up neatly at the end, and that represent a diverse range of voices from all walks of life.