The Most Famous SciFi Writer Unknown Till Now!

[ NOTE: This serious SciFi Story is for persons 18+. It contains no vulgar language nor details that would violate Vocal Media's standards/restrictiond/rules, etc.]

My name was Samuel A. Mikolovic. At least that is what the government said. The church records said it. The tax office said it.The military recruitment office said it, before determining that I was exempt due to my disability.The villagers of Gornji Tavankut certainly said it. Only I knew that all of them were wrong. I had known it for as long as I could remember.

The mistake happened when I was born at midnight on the 23rd of July 1902 in Mélykút, a small Hungarian town near the Serbian border where my parents happened to be living temporarily, named for its very deep and water-rich well discovered first by thirsty Uygurs observing a large herd of deer drinking from a pit in the ground. Anyway, the circumstances of my stormy dark mid-Summer-night's birth were told me by my mother each birthday's evening at dinner-time. A hurried elderly doctor, very poor lighting, and an underweight baby who objected to being grabbed, spanked and inspected by screaming at the top of her lungs combined to create a bureaucratic error that would outlive empires. By the time anyone close to me realized the mistake, correcting it had become practically impossible. So Samuel the boy I remained. A short-haired, soft-butch woman moving through the world disguised by paperwork and a World full of prejudiced people.

The villagers thought I was a disabled man. The villagers thought many things. Most of them were wrong.

My disability's initial cause, unfortunately, was quite real, and very painfully so. Mr. Nasty Don Polio visited me in early childhood and, like an inconsiderate dangerously insane relative, refused to leave. One leg became twisted and weak. Other complications followed, but my parents refused all the 'wonderful' advice many of the villagers offered; all of it unsolicited, including the not too uncommon request for relocation to an Imperial state-run institution where nightmares become reality and one never wakes up to a dream. My beloved parents never saw me as a curse, only as a gift from the Heavens above. While the healthy children ran through fields and climbed trees, I spent years indoors with blankets, medicines, and books. At the time I considered this no just unfair, but a cruel hopelessness-filled fate.

Much later I realized my very type of disability had saved me. A running child might have become an overworked landlord's farmer, suddenly dead from extreme exhaustion's heart failure. A climbing child might have become an adventurous merchant, only to be kidnapped and devoured by starving rabid dog-bitten pirates frothing at their mouths! A fit-for-service male ... well ... you get the picture... I will spare my readers mental anguish and additional cause for depression...

A child trapped beside a small bedroom window, with a view to a field full of red Poppies to the left and water-colored lite-purple Lavender, became a reader of books translated into Serbian gifted to me by my Uncle Ivan from Kyiv who on his way to us would spend two nights and two days in Belgrade, who then, having purchased a few gifts for us, visited us each year for his Summer holiday which always began on the 14th of July and ended the day after the 23rd of July.

I devoured everything...my eyes needing frequent moments of rest notwithstanding, and my brain overheating as my curiosity was never satiated and would only grow like a fungus whose essential benefit would protect me from early death by involuntary boredom.

Jules Verne. H. G. Wells. Franz Kafka. Dozens of years old newspapers I found one afternoon while looking for a jar of pickles in our large pantry, all stuffed in a suitcase accidentally left by another relative who failed to succeed as a Historian seeking to write the next updated History of The World in Two Huge Volumes; oh the poor fool ... my Grand-Uncle ... he was instead arrested for a single interview's single first daring question of a Russian Imperial official in Odessa: "Does The Tsar understand how ruthless The Black One-Hundreds are to us Jews?" They sent him off to 'work heroically' to build the railway tracks of the Tsar's Trans-Siberian Railway! One single post-card received! A colourful Iconic picture of The Emperor and on the back a brief few sentences explaining to my mother what had happened, with the final sentence: "Honoured to be able to serve His Imperial Highness, Tsar Nicholas of The Great Russian Empire!" Of course; it was not written in earnest. And I read the latest Scientific journals that the Postman delivered; subscriptions all paid for by Uncle Ivan of Kyiv.

My parents also gifted me small books of World Travel Adventure stories. Anything translated into Serbian found its way into my hands eventually.

While other children learned where dirty, potholed countryside roads went, I learned where ideas could take me everywhere real or imagined, Worldwide and Beyond Infinity! Ideas travel much, much farther, and sometimes very bad ones much faster.

By the age of fifteen I had become convinced that reality as described by most realtors and starving journalists suffered from a severe lack of imagination. The following year, as I achieved surviving my sixteenth orbit around Our Sun, I had started trying to fix this deficit of imagination and having received the most priceless set of two gifts from visiting beloved Uncle Ivan; a Serbian typewriter in Cyrillic and a French typewriter...as I had managed to reach an Advanced Proficiency in non-verbal French after chosing French over Austrian-German...which was indeed a requirement by Imperial decree, even for disabled able-minded 'males'.

And so, that was how I became a serious science-fiction writer.A completely unpublished science-fiction writer, admittedly, but a writer nonetheless.

The distinction seemed unimportant at the time. At least my Uncle Ivan enjoyed hearing me read to him a few select pages each mid-Summertime visit.

My other greatest happiness arrived in the form of a fellow woman named Erzsébet Melczer.

She had dark brown eyes, practical long-fingered but soft hands, and brunette hair almost as short as mine, but which she insisted on being French Bob cut styled...something popular at the time. Mind You; I had befriended a World War One Italian veteran who had married the nearby widow of the very Serbian-Hungarian man who died right next to him in the trenches, leaving behind a photograph of his widow with precise name and address! He agreed to escort me on short travels, all-expenses paid by yet another series of gifts from beloved Uncle Ivan.

It was on a trip to Subotica when we, Erszsi and I first met. I was immediately struck by two observations.

First, she was the most beautiful person I ever seen in person, causing a flood of pleasurable emotions, feelings and intense arousal. None of the village girls, women had ever caused me to feel such things. Yes...there was this one male-bodied person who somehow had the inner personhood of a fellow soft-butch lesbian, and there was that on single late afternoon intimacy...but he/she was sent away by his family to avoid being enlisted. That was still not what I desired and would fantasize about in my wildest, erotic imaginations. Second observation; she could repair a broken clock or any other mechanical device faster than I could write the basic outline, synopsis, of any story idea imagined. These qualities made for more than a strong impression; they motivated me to ask my Uncle for a loan big enough to allow me to afford at least one whole year living in a recently build small brick house nearby.

Within months we were inseparable and were living together.

The villagers never understood the nature of our relationship. To them she was merely the kind woman caring for the crippled eccentric writer. The truth was considerably less pseudo-innocent as far as their stupid prejudices would have severely harmed us.

Erzsi was my soulmate. My intellectual and corporal erotic companion. My beloved Love for Life! She was the sole person who understood me even when I failed to fully understand myself.

The villagers would have found this so scandalous, they would have chased us away with pitch-forks, torches and threats of flogging and worse! Fortunately for the two of us, they were too busy misunderstanding other things about us.

For example, they believed I was a man unable to 'get it up' walking with a limp. This misconception proved surprisingly useful.

I wrote SciFi novels. Some which I initially would give a terrible title.

Nevertheless, wonderful novels which Erzsi read and rarely found need to raise suggestion or objection. Erzsi was generally busy repairing all manner of things mechanical, and inventing amazing things too!

My first full manuscript was titled: "Крај свих ратова галаксије Андрогена ..."= "The End of All Wars of Androgena Galaxy." My second one was: "Рат седам хиљада леворуких кретена који траже посао на Марсу." = "The War of The Seven Thousand Left-Handed Morons Looking for Employment on Mars." My third was: "Ванземаљска упутства за др Фалка са планете XXX."= "Alien Instructions for Dr. Falco from Planet XXX."

When I submitted these first three works to known legitimate publishers in Belgrade, the responses varied only in creativity.

Some rejected me politely, saying I might get a publisher in Bohemia interested.

Some rejected me rudely, such as the one who wrote back: "....and it is abnormal people like you who cause earthquakes, plagues and other catastrophes! " Of course, I never wrote back to any of them any response; for fear that Erszi and I would be fully harmed...

All these so-called legitimate publishers knew was that I was a man...a male with some very 'sordid' fantasies ...

One rejected me with such enthusiasm that I briefly considered framing the letter and hanging it on the wall above my desk.

"Dear Sir, We have not the slightest doubt your novel-length fictional story has a real profitable market in the future...centuries from now! In all probability the way the World is turning upside-down and inside-out faster and faster; there will come a time when, after too many World Wars have destroyed all vestiges of civilisation and all that will remain for the totally traumatized generations will be orgies full of escape-seeking people wanting to be hyper-stimulated and pleasured till Kingdom Come!"

There was even one publisher that somehow managed to send me a rejection of any a manuscript before I had even mailed any!!!

Now that achievement impressed me so much that Erzsi agreed with me: they've started to contact even their worst competitors!

All in an effort to impede real progress! No wonder worse and worse wars happen.

Then, in 1928, a miracle arrived. Or what I wanted to think was a miracle.

A letter appeared bearing a magnificent silver seal showing a rocket surrounded by stars. The sender identified itself as:

The Imperial Society for Scientific Romance, Erotic Freedom and Interplanetary Literature.

I should have immediately become suspicious. Had I kept my enthusiasm curbed in check I would've come to the logical observation:

No legitimate institution possesses a name that long.

Instead I became excited. The letter praised my daring Avant-Garde genius, my unique originality, my boundless imagination.

And most importantly, it praised my titles as being so deliberately outstanding in their absurdity as to catch anyone's and everyone's Nine-Lives-Level of Curiosity. Up till then, nobody had ever praised my Dadaistic titles.

I therefore decided to risk trusting them.

When I showed the letter to Erzsébet, she examined it carefully.

"Something feels wrong.", she said whiffing the envelope with her strong olfactory sense.

"Why?" I asked without need to fear Erzsi would begin to doubt me.

"Well...first of all the seal ... the seal looks crooked. Fake!"

"Genius often comes across as seemingly crooked." I pointed out.

"The address appears to belong to a bakery." she said, having smelled the envelope outside and in.

"Perhaps they publish books and pastries in the same building, same ground-floor." I said, allergic to narrow-minded assumptions.

She looked at me for a few moments ... the way she did when I once agreed to let her invite an old-time friend to spend a couple of nights without at least first truly confirming the fantasy.

I looked at her just as long. We both knew I was being ridiculous.

Unfortunately, being hyper-curious to test the lithmus...to perform a double-blind Lithmus Test, I signed the contract anyway.

For a whole year I lived inside the happiest writer's delusion of my life.

Letters re-mailed by the publisher arrived constantly. My books were selling like pancakes to hungry pan-cake lovers!

My books were being discussed. My books were being translated. Professors in the Sciences admired me.

Even some of the most famous Scientists debated my ideas. Many famous Literary Critics praised me.

Readers loved me so much that some were asking me to marry them or at least send my under-germents to them! Yuck!.

At least that was what the letters and the Publisher said.

I had no reason to doubt anything. After all, I rarely traveled as my health condition prevented much movement and Erzsi was so happy to avoid people at large; immersed in her mechanics, her astonishing little inventions!

The world reached me through paper, in envelopes with stamps, which I soaked and removed for a growing stamp collection.

What a terrible thing it would be if someone in the future would stupidly invent self-adhesive stamps made of plastic!

Anyway paper letters can lie very convincingly. Soon came actual awards! Glorious, Prestigious, Important awards!

Alas, they eventually would be revealed as completely imaginary awards.

One telegram informed me that I had received the Golden Nebula of Pan-European Scientific Erotic Fiction.

I celebrated by baking a Hazelnut-Chocolate-Coffee Cake...a favourite we both loved.

Erzsébet read the telegram twice:

"Who awards this Golden Nebula and ... is it made of actual Gold??"

"I don't know." I replied.

"Have you ever heard of it before now?" she asked with that sweet voice she used when she felt the need to defend me from the evil brutes and unscrupulous opportunists of this World.

"No, I have never even read anything anywhere about it."

"Has anyone?" she then bear-hugged-me and kissed me so deeply, I felt like her Lingua longa... calida, humida et lasciva! was going to go deep down all the way to my .... ! After what seemed like six minutes she affectionately let me go, her tongue tucked back into its regular place and pet my hair.

I really thought deeply about her wise words.

"Perhaps it is so prestigious that ordinary people aren't allowed to know about it."

Erzsébet laughed so hard she slumped to the floor and rolled as if tickled incessantly.

In hindsight I should have listened to her more often the way I then began to.

The truly tragic thing is that the novels contained ideas I genuinely believed might improve humanity.

In "Крај свих ратова галаксије Андрогена ..."= "The End of All Wars of Androgena Galaxy." I described a device called the Consensus Engine. It connected people not through externally transmitted messages but through min-waves achieving true unbiased objective understanding! An intelligent but simplicity-addicted farmer could experience the life of a highly educated physician or philosopher of the Infinite! A politician could feel, experience emotionally the real actual rational fears of a miner or a minor for that matter.Entire populations could exchange perspectives without further doubts and disrespect! Ignorance would shrink to oblivion! Compassion would expand and prevent sudden irrational acts of unjustifiable violence!!

I still think it is a better invention, conceptually-speaking, than most other things humanity has actually invented and built.

My second novel described the Virtual Experiences Possibility Experiential Hangar.

A complex systemic invention that cultivated an array of potential future outcomes: good, bad, ugly, relatively benign. Not predictions, but actual most-probable plausible possibilities. A civilization could explore consequences before making decisions.

The machine rewarded human flourishing rather than wealth or power.

The few people I had come to be friendly with, with Erzsi being the sole exception, told me the idea was impossible. Perhaps, but many useful things began as being judged by most as impossible to make happen in reality.

The entire elaborate deception finally collapsed because of a journalist. Siome 'journalists' can be the most dangerous people.

They ask questions, and sometimes with malicious intent. I'd rather not call those bad ones 'journalists' ...

One arrived from Novi Sad hoping to interview the famous man...the 'male'

The internationally celebrated science-fiction visionary, the winner of numerous awards, the literary sensation.

The man named Samuel A. Mikolovic.

Instead he found me. A disabled woman forced to pretend to be a disabled man because paperwork had decided so decades earlier.

A prolific reader-writer living in a small village. A writer whose only audience consisted of chickens, neighbors, and one extraordinarily patient lover. The journalist looked around my house. He examined my certificates. He examined me.

Then he asked:

"Which country awarded the Golden Nebula?"

I answered honestly.

"I have absolutely no idea."

And from that moment everything unraveled.

The publisher did not exist! The awards did not exist!! The critics did not exist!!!

Most of my fame did not exist. The publishing office was a bakery. The literary headquarters was essentially an intellectual property thief brokering my ideas without my connsent and without real benefit to me!!!...And that evil man's brutish face looked like a loaf of bread .

I would still find this somewhat embarrassing; were it not for readers like YOU.

As infuriated as I was, the funniest part, however, was not being deceived so heavily for so long. The funniest part was continuing to avoid being discovered by the villagers.

One summer afternoon Erzsébet and I were swimming alone in a secluded pond when three villagers appeared unexpectedly.

I nearly drowned trying to hide my nakedness. Thinking quickly, Erzsébet announced:

"Samuel is conducting scientific research." The villagers, two teenage guys and the teenage girl they probably were seeking to

selfishly harm peered suspiciously at the water's surface as bubbles popped.

"What kind of research?" asked the taller guy.

"Submerged research." replied Erzsi.

To our amazement, they accepted this explanation. I had remained submerged underwater until my lungs nearly drowned.

For years afterward people asked me whether the experiment had succeeded.

I always answered yes.

My greatest escape happened during a harvest festival after several villagers consumed enough plum brandy to become philosophers.

One drunken farmer stood up in the old schoolhouse theatre and announced:

"I have known Samuel twenty years and never once seen him without a shirt."

Silence fell.

I felt my heart stop.

The farmer continued.

"Why is that?" he grumpily said, rolling his limp tongue in his mouth, causing a very unpleasant sound.

Every eye turned toward me.

My mind went blank.

Then inspiration struck.

"Because," I declared, "my chest is covered with secret maps of places yet to come."

They stared.

"Maps?" they exclaimed.

"Maps of future countries."

There was a long pause.

Then someone whispered:

"Future countries..."

Within minutes the entire tavern was discussing the geopolitical geography of the twenty-first century.

I escaped catastrophe through speculative cartography.

To this day I consider it one of my finest literary achievements.

The villagers never discovered the truth. At least not officially. Many villages possess an interesting relationship with knowledge. Everyone knows everything. No one admits it.

And so life continued... until WW2 broke out in 1939! That was when Erzsi and I managed to emigrate to Casablanca, Morrocco! Where we finally found ourselves equally enamoured of this rare male-bodied non-binary erotic sapio- soft-butch lesbian-minded person we spent the rest of our lives being affectionately and occasionally ... intimate with.

After liberation; 'She'/'They'/'Them' & Us all moved to a small village in the South of France, near the border with Spain, inhabited by retired SciFi writers, Poets, Philosophers of La Joie de Vivre! Life's too short for fussin' n' fightin' and for Insane Megalomaniacs brainwashing people to become slaves, servants and soldiers of hate!

Yes! Defend Secular Democracy as best YOU can... Otherwise all may end in a most nasty frightening way!

The Real Golden Rule...i.e. The Silver-Lining Rule:

Do unto others as they truly really want, or leave them be as they are, and if any seek to seriously harm YOU/ Your Loved Ones then avoid them if YOU and defeat them ethically if they refuse TO LET YOU BE FREE!