Dear Stupid Penpal

by Rascal Hartley

Genres: Space Exploration; Horror

Synopsis

Atticus “Finch” Davani does not want to be an astronaut. He hates space, he hates the ship, and he strongly dislikes his fellow crew members. He makes that painfully clear in his letters to Aku, his corporate-assigned penpal back on Earth.

Soon, Aku becomes much more than a penpal. But when the crew engage hyperdrive, Aku's punctual letters start coming at random intervals, and Finch and his shipmates realize that time, for them, is moving all wrong.

As everyone else's penpals rapidly die of old age, Finch turns, heartbroken, to Aku; who, more than a century later, is still there.

DEAR STUPID PENPAL is an entirely epistolary exploration of cosmic dread, the passing of time, and the lifelines we cling to against the vast endlessness of space.

"A joyously weird tale of unexpected genre mashups, overwhelming odds, quotable lines, and queer romance that even the most jaded cynic can't help but get swept up in."

• Íde Hennessey, "Sequoia Point", Split Scream: Off the Map

“Veers from funny to dread-inducing and back again...sits alongside This Is How You Lose the Time War as a blueprint for compelling, propulsive, epistolary [fiction].”

• Emma Cole, Love Never Dies, editor at Harlequin Books

Read more

Release date: November 11, 2025

Publisher: Tenebrous Press

Print pages: 176

Sample

May we always see the same stars.

Dear stupid penpal:

Sorry. I don’t think you’re stupid, but I’m not in the habit of backspacing and I don’t intend to start now. This whole thing is stupid, though. Space was cool for all of one day before it became a pain in my ass. And we haven’t even hit hyperspeed yet.

Tolstoy says the penpal thing is important—something about “maintaining our earthen roots” or some shit. I don’t know. I don’t care. Honestly, I hope you’re not a scientist, because I’ve had all the science talk I can take.

Meredith goes on and on about like . . . chemical compounds in food and how they might react to deep space. Swear to God, she could make a McDouble sound bad. And Todd is so fucking—He like, carries a caliper around with him. Constantly. Just measuring things. Did you know my hand is 1.5 inches thick? You wanna guess how I know that?

Mateo is awful, Ashraf is awful, Chloe is awful . . . just assume they’re all awful. I’m awful, too, of course. Just a spaceship full of awful people going to do technical work an entire galaxy away. Yay us. I hope they read this. I hope they mutiny me before we make it to the outer arms. Not that I’m captain, but . . . you get the idea.

HA! Tolstoy was reading this! I just got a message from CC telling me to introduce myself and talk about my hobbies. Hi, Tolstoy. Fuck off.

I’m an astronaut, I’m 28, I like languages. That’s why I’m on this godforsaken mission. They needed a linguist, in case we wind up stumbling across ET or the Predator, so they offered me the job. And I, being somewhat young, extremely dumb, and

horrifically broke, had basically no choice but to agree. But I’m gonna complain the entire time, I assure you.

Bleh. Tolstoy is saying I need to comm in to talk about my “emotional aggression” so I guess I’m gonna hit send before he can stop me, byeeeeee.

***

Dear Unnamed Patron,

Hello! It is nice to hear from you. I’m glad you are doing—if not well—at least okay. It sounds like you’re having a rough time.

I know you said you are beginning to loathe space, and I find that unfortunate. I would adore being in space, I think, but it‘s not meant to be. When it stops irking you so, I might insist you describe it to me.

You said you like languages? Fascinating! I, too, am a purveyor of sorts. Mostly old, ancient languages, and a sprinkling of colloquialisms. They change so rapidly, languages. Even now, people are using words I don’t know, or else no longer know in this new context. I think that’s why I like the old ones; no one is using Latin to make new words for phalluses.

I shall also take Tolstoy’s advice. I’m assuming he will be reading mine, as well, so hello, Tolstoy. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.

My name is Aku, I am 29 years old, and I think my favorite hobbies are stargazing and flying. I live alone, mostly. My friends are all off living their own lives, but they stop by

Oh, I like to travel, as well. I’ve been almost everywhere you can think of. Ask me anything. I could tell you of ancient Rome. Or modern Rome, but that’s not as cool.

Yours,

Aku

***

Aku:

Up until that last bit I legit thought I was talking to someone’s grandpa. Lighten up your words some, bud. Type how you talk.

Describe space?? Geez, it’s dark and there are stars and it’s cold and there is not a single Taco Bell.

Do you speak many other languages? Which are your favorites? What did you grow up speaking? What made you interested in languages? Literally no one else here cares about them. I’m dying of linguistic thirst.

Re: Flying? Like in an airplane?

Re: Stargazing: I’m waving, can you see me? (That’s a joke; only the Webb could see us now)

Re: Travel: the way you phrased that makes it sound like you were in ancient Rome. How were the gladiator fights, my guy? (Guy?)

Alexandria must be nice, to stick by you so long. Tell her I said hi, and have fun spending time with her.

(How was that, Tolstoy? Nice enough this time?)

—Finch

***

Dear Finch,

Finch. What a fascinating name! Like the bird, I presume. Also: yes, guy. I should ask if you are a “guy” as well, I suppose. It doesn’t really matter to me, but Alexandria is insisting. She says hello back.

Excellent description of space. I am rebutting with my own description of the gladiator fights: geez, they were bloody and cramped and sweltering, and there was not a single Taco Bell.

I do speak many languages, yes. A rather ridiculous amount, I’m told. I grew up speaking Akkadian, but I rarely have opportunity to use that anymore. I’m sure most of it has fled my brain by now. I do not have a favorite language. They are all beautiful in their own way.

Flying: Sure. Like in an airplane.

Stargazing: I see many twinkling lights, and I assume one of them must be you. Hello, up there. I hope things are going better. I’ll be staring your way all night, hoping for a glimpse. 

llo, Tolstoy. Goodbye, Tolstoy.

Yours,

Aku

***

Aku,

Yeah, it does feel disjointed. Let me see if I can work this all into something resembling a single message and not ten in a trench coat:

Okay, so, my name isn’t really Finch. It’s Atticus, but everyone insists on calling me Finch. Always have. So, call me Finch. I’m a guy, too. I wonder if that was just luck of the draw, or if it was intentional, to pair us up like this. I’ve talked to my crewmates a bit more now, and they’re not quite as awful as I initially thought. I could probably ask them about their penpals, too. In fact, I will. Hold on.

Okay, it was just luck of the draw. Lucky us, two linguists locked in literary letters. :)

We all have our own penpals, and everyone seems to be liking the program so far. It’s good for us to talk about things that aren’t space-related. Aku, I am so tired of space already. It’s beautiful. It’s endless. If I use the telescope mounted on our ship, I can see the bright colors of distant galaxies. I can still see Earth, too, if I point it that way. It sort of tends to stay pointed that way. I think everyone might be a little afraid of the arrival of the day where we can no longer see home.

We have to get far enough away from Earth to engage hyperdrive, so that’s what we’re all waiting around for. We’re not in deep space yet, but based on the decreasing size of Earth, we will be soon. Sometimes I turn the telescope in the direction we’re going, and all I see are star clusters light years away. You asked for a description of space, so here it is: lonely. Space is undeniably lonely. The stars don’t twinkle because there is no atmosphere to make them do so; they just stare right back at you and beckon you closer, and no matter how close you get, they’re still just as far away. If I look too long, I feel terror in my heart. That is space. Was that good enough to get a better description of Rome?

I wanted to go to Rome. I wanted to go a lot of places. We’ll eventually return home, you know, but what if something catastrophic happens? What if we drift into space forever and I die out here? Do I decompose once the airlocks fail? I’d ask Meredith, but honestly, I’m afraid of the answer. Tell me about Rome? Please?

Geez, sorry. I’d backspace all that, but I don’t do that, so . . . enjoy the mini existential crisis, bud.

Um . . . so, Akkadian, that’s funny! Akkadian was on my list of dead languages to do a deeper dive into. I’ve gotta convince Tolstoy to steal some materials from restricted libraries for me. Pretty please, Tolstoy? Look how nice I’m being! This niceness could be all yours for the low low price of petty theft!

Or, you know, if you could teach me some Akkadian (if you really do know some), I’d love you forever or whatever. I’ll take the Sharpie 

I definitely didn’t smuggle onboard and write your name on the walls of this ship. Wait, Tolstoy can’t reach me now. I totally smuggled a Sharpie onboard.

Heh, he sent me a message telling me to put it in a hazardous waste bag and let it exit the ship. No way, José, this baby is alllll miiiiiine.

Speaking of loving you forever or whatever, my guy, you can’t just say shit like “I’ll be staring your way all night, hoping for a glimpse.” That’s some Brontë shit right there. Oh, do you write anything? What’s your favorite book? I feel like I’d love to read something by you. Sorry for when I said you write like a grandpa, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Sort of a classics way. You know what I mean.

Anyway, how was your time with Alexandria? What did you guys do? Also: if you’re insinuating you have a pilot’s license, I’m going to need you to promise to fly me somewhere cool when I get done with this mission. Maybe Rome.

—Finch

***

Dear Finch,

I’ll keep the Brontë-isms to a minimum. For now. I can spare a few Akkadian words though: kakkabu, meaning stars. Shamash, the sun. Sin, the moon. Most of those are the names of old gods, but they’ll work fine. Let’s test them out:

I look up to the kakkabu tonight, hoping to see your spaceship, yet knowing I won’t. You are far past Sin, and heading, I’m assuming, in a direction opposite Shamash. Tell Ishtar (Venus) I said hello. It has been long since I’ve

 met with her. (Yes, I know she is opposite you, but you are both in space, and I am not.) Do you know Akkadian mythology? I’ll tell you: the sun is the child of the moon. I once thought it should be reversed, but looking up at the moon tonight, it feels correct.

I told Alexandria, when we sat together, reading your letter, that you were up there, in the cosmos. She still finds it hard to believe we’ve advanced enough to send people there. She bought a telescope and we sat for hours, debating where you might be, if our telescope was giant and not some rickety thing on three legs. Where are you? Where should I look to pretend to see you?

Space is dark. I noticed that as we gazed through the lens. We at least had the noises and lights of the city surrounding us; I cannot imagine being fully encompassed. It sounds like when I once sailed through endless ocean, the way it looked at night, like you would never get home, because the dark was vast and infinite. I’m sorry. Know that I am scanning every inch of sky, so, statistically, I am looking at you, somewhere.

To give you something new to imagine: Rome.

Rome was always warm, a pleasant sort of feeling. Like the world was always caring for you, specifically, making sure you did not encounter terrible things. Which, of course, was ironic, for how terrible it truly was. For the time, it was splendid, but looking back gives you all sorts of new insights. ...