We call it the “Little Hungarian Absurd.” It is a specific regional flavor of existence where grand, transatlantic ambitions collide with the reality of a basement startup, usually resulting in a situation that is tragic for the participants but hilarious for the observers.

Recently, I had a front-row seat to a masterclass in this genre.

The protagonist is a newly formed publishing entity. Let’s call them “The Transatlantic Bridge.” Their pitch was seductive, almost philanthropic: they wanted to publish short stories rejected by Hungarian editors. No genre limits. No entry fees. A shining path from the grim Hungarian literary swamp to the glittering US market. They promised stories that were “shocking,” “dynamic,” and “too bold” for others to print.

I’m an “old swamp sailor.” I know the drill. I have a dozen professional publications and a national manuscript award under my belt, but I also have stories that are too weird, too dark, or too… something for the conservative domestic market. So, I sent in two high-concept sci-fi stories.

Phase 1: The Emoji Diplomacy

The first red flag was the receipt confirmation. I didn’t get a standard auto-reply. I didn’t get a professional “Thank you.” I got a “Like” reaction on my email. Yes. In Outlook.

It was the digital equivalent of a high-five from a bank teller. Later, I received a personal email from the Founder herself. It was sweet. It was encouraging. “I enjoyed both stories,” she wrote. Sweet talk. I should have known better. Hope is the most dangerous narcotic in this industry.

Phase 2: The Panic Pivot

Then, the “Little Hungarian Absurd” kicked in. One day before the deadline, the Publisher had a public meltdown on social media. They suddenly realized that when you ask for “rejected manuscripts” without filters, you get… genres. Sci-fi. Horror. The stuff “high literature” turns its nose up at.

Panic ensued. “We don’t want sci-fi! It’s not our profile!” they cried, despite never having stated a profile before.

They wanted to cosplay a prestigious literary press—let’s say, the Hungarian equivalent of The New Yorker or Gallimard—but without the budget, the history, or the editorial clarity. They wanted the prestige of Art, but they accidentally invited the Storytellers.

Phase 3: The Critique (Or: How to Kill Brain Cells)

But the real punchline was the “professional evaluation” I received after the inevitable rejection. It wasn’t just a “no.” It was a piece of unintentional performance art.

My first story, a grotesque dystopia, was reviewed by two invisible judges who apparently live in alternate dimensions.

• Judge A: “Dynamics: 5/5, Excellent, captivating.”
• Judge B: “Dynamics: 2/5, Weak, boring at times.”Thank you. This schizophrenia suggests that the jury meeting was less of a professional discussion and more of a coin toss in a dark room.

But the critique for my second story, a philosophical, non-violent, high-concept sci-fi about memory and failure, is one for the history books.

Under the section Copyediting/Content Issues, it was flagged for: “Problematic content.“

Where? In the paragraph discussing existential dread? Did the font size offend public morals? Or was the grammar too subversive?

And then, the sentence I will frame and hang on my wall. The ultimate feedback for a sci-fi story:

“It could be quite good sci-fi… but [the genre] ruins its timelessness.”

Let that sink in. Sci-fi ruins timelessness.

Someone tell Orwell. Tell Bradbury. Tell Le Guin that they wasted their time, because setting a story in the future apparently puts an expiration date on its literary value. According to this “professional” opinion, 1984 stopped being relevant around 1985.

Phase 4: The Reveal (Welcome to the Dollhouse)

And then, the grand finale. At 3:45 AM this morning—because nothing says “world-class professional operation” like sending official press releases in the middle of the night—they revealed the Table of Contents.

Remember the pitch? “Shocking.” “Rejected works.” “New voices.” My ass.

The reality? The anthology is titled “On the Border of Hearts.” The selected stories have titles like “Faithful Lilacs” , “Baby Powder” , and my personal favorite: “Aren’t You Ashamed, Uncle Géza?“. It’s not an anthology of the rejected avant-garde. It’s a collection of sentimental country anecdotes that you’d find in a parish newsletter. And the “new voices”? Out of the roughly 18 slots, 4 authors wrote nearly half the book (8 stories). So much for discovering a wide range of talent. It’s not a competition; it’s a dinner party.

The Xenomorph in the Dollhouse

Suddenly, I felt a wave of relief. My rejected story was a dark, bureaucratic dystopia where a poet beats himself to death in a facility called “The Happy Ending.” Imagine placing that story between “Faithful Lilacs” and “Baby Powder.” It wouldn’t have been a publication. It would have been a crime scene. It would have been like releasing a Xenomorph into a Barbie Dollhouse.

Sure, it’s memorable, but the screaming tends to ruin the tea party.

The Lesson

This is the essence of the “Little Hungarian Absurd.” The desire to be elite and “literary” without doing the actual work. The belief that an incoherent Excel sheet counts as professional feedback, and that Uncle Géza constitutes a literary revolution.

I have unfollowed “The Transatlantic Bridge.” I’m going back to international waters. It’s cold there, and the competition is brutal, but at least when Clarkesworld or Interzone rejects me, they know that science fiction isn’t a bug—it’s a feature.

As for this publisher? Well, they named themselves after a mighty, historic European river. A bold choice. But they forgot one thing about big rivers: just because something flows and has a name, it doesn’t mean it has depth. Sometimes, it’s just a shallow stream carrying yesterday’s debris, drifting aimlessly towards the sea.

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