יואב אבני

Yoav Avni is an Israeli author & translator (born in 1969).

His work includes novels and short stories. His novels were published in two of the biggest Israeli publishing houses: "Kinneret-Zmora-Bitan" and "Ketter". One was an Israeli Best seller ("Three things for a desert Island") and two won the Israeli "Geffen" award for the best speculative novel (the Israeli "Hugo" award).

Some of his short stories were published in Jewish/American online magazines as "Words without borders", "JewishFiction.net", and "Jewcy").

His writing can be described as "Magic realism" / Science fiction and influenced by writers as Tom Robbins, Kurt Vonnegut, Douglas Admas and others.

Website: https://yoavavni.com
Email: yoav.avni@gmail.com

Self portrait / Yoav Avni
Translated by: Yoav Avni

"Mom! Mom! Look outside!! It's a pigeon, right?"

"Oh Yes, it looks like it."

"Do you think it's real?"

"I don't know. It might be a commercial for something, so don't get too close to the window."

"Can you document it with us?"

"I don't have time. I'll see your upload later."

"Please, mom?"

"Sorry kids, I must finish with grandpa's boxes. It's the last one."

After she scanned the rare digital copies of the books he wrote, and put in a separate folder those without a dedication, she found some more stuff: a biometric passport loaded with fingerprints marks, a retina key for his abandoned working room, a brand new brain-pacer, still in its original package – he refused to use it even near the end because he claimed that the machine makes his metaphors rust. And his old phone, at the bottom of the crate.

She didn't believe she will see it again. Her father kept it even when the first mind interfaced models appeared.

She gazed, but nothing happened. It took her some time to remember she needs to touch the phone in order to switch it on, and instant tears appeared in her eyes (her children didn't notice. It was a real pigeon and they were glued to the window).

Her fingers left dusty fingerprints on the old screen, and for a moment she was six years old again. How simple it all was back then: he drove the car himself – everybody used to do it – she sat in the back, and right after she put on her safety belt, she used to ask to play that ridiculous game she loved so much, with those grumpy birds.

She remembered his warm hearted smile when he handed her his phone, and they traveled with open windows, they drove whenever they wanted to, and nothing got in their way.

Sikazi /Yoav Avni
Translated by: Yoav Avni

A sense of satisfaction filled Sikazi's asymmetrical body as he was pulled out. Something was thrown towards him and he bound one of his motion tentacles and brought up slowly.

The method was horribly primitive, but Sikazi, who had been forced to abandon his spaceship several time-units earlier, wanted to get out. His spacesuit melted due to exposure to hydrogen and in fact, he was as naked as the day he hatched. He was cold. His crusty skin rejected the surrounding liquid in disgust.

nitrogen! A was relieved when he was taken out of the water. Nitrogen and oxygen! He gathered his tentacles and was soon breathing again.

Two quite identical life forms greeted him with excited shouts. They were happy for him. He must have been recognized. He bowed shortly but was not answered.

Savages, he thought. If he managed to save from the wreckage of his sunken spaceship an ALL-CROSS and direct it above their silly heads they would bow to his tentacles. Even better, if a ZAGONER-STRIP was stretched in front of them, they would deliver the star to him in twenty units of time.

Sikazi scanned his surroundings. Water Channel. Green liquidity surface. Primitive spaceships moving on a gray surface at zero altitude. Artificial lights.

"Super-Market" he deciphered with the help of the CHAR-FOUNDER implanted in his brain.

Sikazi was respectfully separated from the transparent wire they used to pull him, his tentacles were wiped properly and he was placed on some kind of a soft, green bed. That's better.

One of the life forms rubed his limbs with fragrant liquid which he extracted from a spiky golden ball.

The second kindled a fire - at last - and warmed his work. Sikazi vibrates with pleasure. It was way hotter back home. His sensory area sent calming signals and his breathing slowed. Sikazi fell asleep.

When he woke up, the life forms were still there.

A tremendous pain pierced him. He knew that his tentacles were separated from his body. He screamed and writhed. As a last resort he secreted monosodium glutamate from his veins, but the savages only responded with shouts of joy. They sprinkled salt on his wounds. They stabbed him with jagged sticks. Sikazi lost the ability to move. The surface under him was boiling.

"How small," said Annop in Thai.

"BASSA." Damrong said. He came here a month early than his friend and already new some curse words in Hebrew.

"I'm cutting another pineapple." Annop said.

Through the ALL-CROSS, Sikazi knew that the two were far from home, almost as far as he was.

Annop asked: "Is he still alive?"

"Sort of." Damrong answered. "Is there any more water?"

"There, in a bottle."

Another tentacle was cut from it. The fate of this star was decided at once. Just before his head was chopped off, Sikazi managed to broadcast the pangalactic recruitment alarm slogan.

Turmanks /Yoav Avni
Translated by: Yoav Avni

The TURMANKS live their art. They roll in herds on the shores of the central sea and with the help of the substances secreted from their multi color glands, they color the absorbent white sand in countless shades. The glands are located very close to their hearts, which are relatively large for their bodies, and the Turmanks use them to create intricate patterns that reflect their melancholic temperament - halos and layers that only a living brush can reveal. The art of the Turmanks affect many: the male PASSAGORES dig in the spectacular sand during the courtship period, toothed stilts AKRODES change their body color during spawning, and the descendants of the salt WARZMES know that if they accidentally reach the warm colors, they will be easy prey for the flying XSANALABOXES.

The sun sets late in the world of the Turmanks, in the falling darkness they sleep and with the sunrises they wake up and return to roll and create. The bright gray Turmanks feed on the sea. The minerals in it are enough for them. Rarely, the chew and digest a little white sand.

The waves of the Central Sea wash the beach as long as the sun shines. In every contact between the sea and the sand paintings of the Turmanks, the sea wins. The models melt, the shades blend and the sand returns to white until the next roll.

The Turmanks are not angry with the sea and do not worship it. They live their art. The sea erases, and they roll and paint. This is the way of the world.

Sometimes a damaged Tormank hatches - its pigment glands are blocked, clogged, shriveled or secretes a substance that the white sand repels. Such a Tormank will roll for twenty-four days - sometimes everything works out by itself. But if he fails to paint during this period, an ancient mechanism will awaken in the young Tormank, the same as the one that motivates an adult one, who feels that his life is about to end.

Then, the Turmank leaves the colony without bidding farewell from the others, and swims to the depths of the sea for three days. There, it becomes part of a massive dam that is being built in the Central Sea. The dam will one day prevent the waves from washing away the sand and erasing the paintings. It consists of dead or dying Turmanks or living, but damaged and functional to death ones.