Teleplasm

(2025) Audrey Szasz

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176 pages. Perfect bound

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I DON’T BELIEVE IN ANYTHING, REALLY.

I FEEL LIKE THEY OUGHT TO BURN DOWN THE WORLD.

JUST LET IT BURN DOWN BABY.

Overseas customers: this book is also published in the UK via Cargo Records, where depending on your location, shipping options may be cheaper

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This is not love. This is just something I do to kill time. I don’t believe in fame. I don’t believe in popularity. I don’t believe in diaries. I don’t believe in memoirs. I don’t believe in calendars. I don’t believe in dates. I don’t believe in culture. I don’t believe in self-improvement. I don’t believe in redemption. I don’t believe in belonging. I don’t believe in acceptance. I don’t believe that I can attentively listen, or that I can even articulately speak. I just seemingly open my mouth and eyes. Blink, drool, pout, look pretty, whatever. The wardens love it, but they would though, wouldn’t they?

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The following morning, Dr Novák hires a black Lexus LBX. It has an elegant, restrained dashboard, caramel-coloured synthetic leather upholstery, rear privacy glass, and a wireless smartphone charger. It averages a decent fifty-five miles per gallon over approximately one hundred miles. We drive north, amid vineyards, the road leading towards a deep gorge, or canyon, or whatever. There’s a cave there, scrawled with Neolithic rock art. For the benefit of nobody in particular, I pretend that I can sense the ancient presence of prehistoric spirits and solemnly declare that we are treading upon hallowed ground. It’s a pity we don’t have any of our equipment because this would be a good place to film in. Dr Novák gropes me repeatedly when he thinks nobody is watching. My snatch is drenched…. We finally reach a town that boasts an historic spa complex, which feeds off mineral springs with sulphurous waters erupting from comically ornate fountains. We ascend to a rooftop restaurant for a spot of lunch. I admire the view over cascading whitewashed houses and we sample a local wine which gives me a headache. My middle-aged boyfriend orders stuffed squid and insists I try it, much to my disgust. I eat batter-fried lemon leaves dusted with cinnamon. Dr Novák drinks some kind of espresso thing which contains vanilla liqueur, brandy, and condensed milk. Then he eats a flaky meat pie filled with spicy minced beef and pork mixed with boiled eggs, particles of which momentarily become stuck in his beard, which has grown to a respectable length over the last week or so. I try some goat’s cheese which has apparently been matured in red wine, giving it a distinctive purple rind. Later, I almost step in a dish of rancid milk on a narrow cobbled street as the sun mercilessly beats down on my unprotected head. I need a sombrero or a parasol. I want to keel over and puke up onto my own shadow, vomit pooling beneath me and tangling my long black hair.…