Lisa 2, v1.0

by Nicholas Rombes

An idyllic family summer in bucolic northern Michigan takes a turn when a playwright (Lisa) discovers a dusty Apple Lisa 2 computer in the closet of her aunt's cottage. Seduced by the retro '80s kitsch of this early Mac prototype, Lisa boots it up it to infuse new blood into her otherwise stagnating writing. But as the resulting scripts genre-switch to horror, is this Lisa's exploratory stab at a new direction, or is she under the shape-shifting spell of this Lisa 2? Which Lisa scripts the play that portends an inauspicious destiny?

Enter David, by day the operator of a shady business that re-enacts traumatic episodes to psychologically give new outcomes in his client's minds. A toxic paranoia sets in as David suspects his wife is becoming infected by this diabolical Lisa 2 contraption. Caught in the middle is David and Lisa's young daughter, acutely tuned to the lurking crisis unfolding in the cottage. David attempts a “re-iteration” to cleanse his home of this technological terror, though self-scripting these re-iterations ventures into new territory with unknown consequences. What lengths is Lisa willing to go to protect her babies, both of the flesh and on paper?

150 pages, Paperback

First published December 1, 2024

About the author

Nicholas Rombes works in Detroit. His novels include The Absolution of Roberto Acestes Laing (Two Dollar Radio), The Rachel Condition (CLASH Books), and Lisa 2, v 1.0 (Calamari Archives). He's written for The Believer, The Oxford American, n+1 online, & Filmmaker Magazine and is author of Ramones, from Bloomsbury's 33 1/3 series and 10/40/70 from Zer0 Books.

Reviews

[W.T.H. · Rating 5 out of 5]

I started reading this on Sunday and was
quickly consumed, bit by bit. Everything from
the form, the style, the inclusion of black and
white movie stills to accentuate and enhance
the writing, I absolutely loved. It's an
uncanny, weird analog horror story with
multiple viewpoints and a family that starts
at three and quickly begins to dwindle,
depending on whom you believe, over the
course of an annual family vacation. There's
unease, there's tension, there's the typical
family dynamics and all woven together in
such an interesting, diabolical way. Of
course, when you're dealing with an
unreliable narrator, or narrators, what do you
choose to believe? A wild mix, thematically
of movies like Invasion of the Body
Snatchers, Interstellar, and Adaptation that
will have you flipping pages to read and
reread passages while at the end you try to
figure out just how in the hell Rombes pulled
this off. I absolutely loved it, Highly
recommended.

[Bill Hsu · Rating 4 out of 5]

I'm surprised this and Rombes' earlier novel The Rachel Condition have not received more love. Lisa is a fascinating novel, with the initial pleasant domestic surfaces fraying as small disturbing details become visible. The voices of the two unreliable narrators are skillfully executed (as usual for Rombes). I was kept guessing about who or how much I could take for granted; the Mead-Fancher machine? (I see this, hmmm.) And the "Chopping Mall" movie actually exists, as well as the better known movies, of course. Rombes' understated prose is a pleasure, and the final reveal and quiet slide into horror (like Lisa's plays, perhaps?) is coldly effective. Easily one of my favorites of 2024.

[Andrew Schultheis · Rating 4 out of 5]

4.5
Inventive and mysterious. Smart and creepy. Really liked this one.
Loved the reference to Kiyoshi Kurosawa, huge fan!

[Ben Isely · Rating 5 out of 5]

charming and suitably weird in an uncanny way

[David Kuhnlein · Rating 5 out of 5]

Nick kindly asked me to blurb this book. This is what I wrote:

With the paranoia of Philip K. Dick and the artistry of Cassavettes, Lisa 2, v1.0 burrows into you 3D-pipes-screensaver style. Diabolically split into two vantage points, each narrative reads as if it’s not only a palimpsest of the other, a translucent möbius strip, but infected even further by the evil computer in the closet. A brilliant and horrifying techno-drama about the often glitchy line between identity and the things we live among.