by submission | Apr 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Aubrey Williams
Every Tuesday and Thursday I have business in the Kirk Tower, and take the lift to the 21st floor. I’ve done this for the past three months, and every time I take it, regardless of which floor I start from, there’s always the same man in there. He’s clean-cut, a bit like Clint Eastwood, dark sunglasses, grey flannel suit, and an attaché case. He always asks me “which floor?”, and I’ve started responding “the usual”. He sometimes tells me to “knock ‘em dead!” or “don’t slip on the floor, they just waxed it”.
Now, I’m not someone who’s completely obsessive, but this started to bug me. One Wednesday, I decided to go into the Kirk Tower, but on my way a tour bus splashed me badly, and I had to retreat. The following Friday, I walked up to the doors, but there was a power outage and the building was closed. I decided to let it drop for a while, though the following Tuesday I saw the lift rider smirk at me, knowingly.
Today was a little different, though. It was a quiet Thursday, and we were the only ones in the lift.
“Going up to old 21 again, buddy?” he asked.
I was about to nod, but I changed my mind.
“Actually, I’ll try 22.”
“Any reason? I don’t think the company switched floors.”
“I fancy a change.”
“Well ok, then,” he said with a smile, “I’m a big fan of changes.”
We went on our way up, but at floor 18 a former colleague of mine got on, greeting me, and asked if I was also going up to 21. He was smiling, telling me about the new coffee machine the boss had installed, and wanted to know if I fancied a new project. I almost forgot about the lift rider, but I saw him watching me, and fought against temptation. I explained another client wanted to talk, and that was that. He got off at 21, and it felt like a very long time before the doors closed, the lift rider staring ahead throughout. The lift shuddered ever-so-slightly past 21, but got to 22. The doors groaned, but they eventually gave way after the lift rider tapped them with his free hand a few times, and revealed to me a slightly nicer office complex than the one I was used to.
He smiled as I turned to him.
“Well, be seeing you, 21. Guess I might need to start calling you 22 now.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I smiled and left.
That day was the best day of my life for six years. It turned out they were looking for a consultancy firm like mine to work on something. The people were great, and we went out for burgers afterwards. The secretary gave me her number, and someone mentioned their weekly tabletop session had room for one more.
The next Tuesday I got into the lift, crammed in like a sardine, heading to the 22nd floor. He was difficult to see, but the lift rider was there, though his suit was black and double-breasted. When everyone else had emptied out, I asked him:
“Who are you? What happens if I go to the top floor? Is that where you go?”
He chuckled, and adjusted his sunglasses. His eyes were swirling galaxies.
“I wouldn’t disrupt things too much, Mr. 22. A little change at the right time is good. Too much, and you end up down in the basement.”
He grimaced.
“You don’t want that.”
Next quarter, I plan on trying the 23rd floor.
by submission | Apr 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Shannon O’Connor
We all thought it was funny that Aunty Dotty got excited for events that nobody else cared about, like the 250th anniversary of the Boston Marathon.
She had been in hibernation for years, nobody knew exactly how long. She would go to events, because she hadn’t seen a lot of the world, since she had been asleep.
People had the opportunity to go into hibernation to save resources. Their families would receive money, and they would go into a chamber for fifty or one hundred years. The argument was that people who were asleep did not need food, and other essential items.
Aunty Dotty went into hibernation because she wanted to help people. She thought if more people went through this process, the world would be a better place.
When she woke up, we all had a party for her, though she didn’t know us.
“Welcome back, Dotty!” my parents and cousins and I screamed.
She blinked her eyes.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“We’re your family,” we said.
“What do you have to eat?” she asked.
She looked around.
“Everything is so bright,” she said. “Did the world survive?”
“Yes,” it survived,” I said. “We’re still here, and we want to celebrate you!”
She had a difficult time adjusting at first. She didn’t understand the self-driving cars, or the fact that we have no money.
“Do you mean people don’t work?” she asked.
“Only executives work,” I told her over grilled tofu and asparagus one day. “The rest of us do what we want.”
“When I was young, everyone worked. It was part of life.”
“But how did you have time for fun things?” I asked.
“Fun? We had little time for such nonsense, child.”
She was almost two hundred years older than me.
“Is the Marathon still on the same day?” she asked. “The third Monday in April?”
“Yes, some people are still stupid enough to run twenty-six point two miles to prove that they can. Fewer and fewer people run anymore, because it’s pointless, but there are those who want to show they’re better than others. Not me. I don’t care about impressing people.”
“We should go to watch!”
I shrugged.
“And do they still have the fireworks on the Fourth of July?”
“They do, but most people don’t care because fireworks are loud and remind them of bombs. It’s disrespectful of those who’ve survived the wars to blow up fireworks.”
“There have always been wars! Why is everyone so weak now?”
“We’re not weak, we respect other’s suffering.”
“You people know nothing of it. I’m going to the Marathon next week. Are you coming?”
“I’ll go to make sure you’re okay.”
At the Marathon, we stood at the finish line, and watched the runners fall to the ground when they crossed.
“Isn’t this great?” Dotty said. “They’re humans at the peak of fitness!”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said, quietly rolling my eyes.
“It’s amazing that the world still goes on,” she said later over oat milk smoothies. “And it’s still beautiful.”
“The world is messed up,” I said. “But most of us don’t pay attention.”
“It was worth going into hibernation,” she said. “I have hope for the future.”
“I’m glad you do,” I said. “Most of us don’t.”
“I feel sorry for you,” she said. “I think everything is wonderful.”
“Not everything is wonderful,” I said. “It’s the same as always: some things are great, and some are terrible. That’s simply the way it is.”
by submission | Apr 4, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rosie Oliver
Grey-ghosted darkness. Not even a piece of dulled memory in the expansive nothingness ahead. Damn! Time is now against her completing her sculpture. She had been so sure the right shape could be found along her latest trajectory. Floating, she twists round to face the massive structure that extends in every direction as far as she can see.
Its building blocks are light grey part-built cobwebs with disced centres. Their radial threads interlink by touching, entwining or crashing together in a mess. Each web is different; flat, curved, tangly, nearly squelched into a solid shape. There is no pattern at all as to which shape is placed next to another, just pure randomness. Despite all the change and variety, the mega-web has the aura of lifeless desolation.
Her sculpture is the key to changing that. If only she can find the right piece in time. She rushes through a gap into the labyrinthine mesh, searching for it. What about that crooked bit there? Too thick. This bent bit here? Too curved. Time presses.
She rushes along a lacy conduit. There, the right shape. She grabs it. Too spongy, decayed beyond usefulness. She carries on.
Another piece the right shape. A gentle squeeze. It springs back with firmness. She snaps it off and flees back to her sculpture, webs blurring into surfaces beside her. No time to lose. Speeding up is all she concentrates on.
She erupts into a void-space and brakes hard to stop crashing into simply long networked sculpture. One end is already into the mega-web. She zooms to the other end. She feels tired, confused, insubstantial. No she can’t be out of time, not this close to completion.
She melds one spike of her piece tip of her sculpture. It takes effort, far more than usual. She reaches to join the other spike. Too slow. Must work quicker.
She can’t, but continues at max effort. Her view blurs. Out of time. She struggles to link it. The blur worsens. She strains to complete and hit the network into life. Blue spark. Darkness.
Cyan flash.
Blankness.
She gingerly removes her virtual hood. Eyes ache. Hands hurt from controlling her joystick. Her body stiff from lying eight hours on the couch.
The medtech watching the sedated man on the couch next to hers turns round. His face is sombre, full of regret. “You’d reached your time limit with the neural sculptor… sorry.”
“His brain was a damned mess, but I completed the bridge. Just. The rest’s up to him, but he’ll make it given time. He’ll recover.”
by submission | Apr 3, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
As I burst the blister on Martha’s back, the gelatinous pus within made its escape. Thanking the Void Gods for the medpack’s surgical gloves, I wiped her down, then set to work with the tweezers; if I couldn’t get the eggs out, it was all for nothing.
This is the side of bringing gas back from Saturn that nobody talks about, but I’ve been on the run for years – I got my captain’s commission a half decade ago.
After its discovery, Enceladus’ apex predator, the tiny parasitic iceworm, quickly made the leap from munching on other extremophiles to attacking humans; our blood is a wonderful treat, apparently. They inject a toxin into the bloodstream like Terran jewel wasps; it makes their hosts pliant, but ultimately leads the infected to become irrational and violent. Real Zombieland vibes.
We’d filled our tanks at Saturn Station and were heading home before trouble hit. Danny had been quiet and moody for a couple of days, but that happens in space, and I’d paid no attention. My mistake. Martha had made coffee for everyone, and forgotten to add sugar, and he just flipped; as she turned away he launched himself at her. It was a miracle nobody else in the mess had been scratched pinning him down.
The only things that kill iceworms are starvation, or chilling them to near absolute zero. A warm body is basically an endless food supply, so my options for keeping my people safe were reduced to a single unpalatable one.
I took Jarvis with me to the brig; he’s solid, and strong in the head as well as the muscles. Danny knew what was going to happen when he saw us coming. I ignored his screams, and then his begging, and tased him hard. We dragged his inert form to the airlock, and sealed him in.
I had no idea where he’d picked up the bugs; probably thanks to careless scientists on the Station, but the evil things have a long life cycle, and it could have happened years ago. It hurts more when you can’t prove anything or blame someone. Now we’d be watching each other constantly for symptoms; the uncertainty would break the crew, and I’d have to go back to the employment pool for more kids when we returned.
But that was a problem for another day. I took a deep breath, and ran the opening sequence. Nobody else would be living with this particular shadow on their conscience; not on my watch. As he tumbled away from the ship, I watched his last 15 seconds, knowing the air in his lungs was expanding and ripping through the surrounding tissue even as he froze solid. Being spaced isn’t a pretty way to die.
I’d tell the family there’d been an accident on board so they could claim his insurance; it was the least I could do. Less paperwork, too.
Then I went to find a bottle; being the responsible adult sucks.
by submission | Apr 2, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
So not painterly. Not even close. Too pixelated. Too blurred at the edges of reality.
Not a good start in your first soloverse.
Always so much to learn. Tamp down the expectations, go back and study the masters. Phidias. Caravaggio. Kurosawa. Leibovitz. Marquez. Einstein. Know their mediums. Stone. Canvas. Film. Page. Chalkboard. Seek inspiration and refine technique.
Follow their light.
That is the answer. Also the folly. We are all light. There is nothing else. There could be nothing else.
Yet, here you are, trying to splice a new existence from the infinite. As if originality is a thing. As if each dawn is a new day, and not the tired old iteration of a code written in photons eons ago. Still, the hunger lingers. To see anew. To be anew. To dazzle.
Back to square one. Back to the source.
Eyes closed, mind open, heart hushed. Find the stillness in the rush of motion: local, celestial, quantum. Let the light play, the texture surface, the soul carve. A committed cut. Another. And every other.
Dice each decision point to a nib that can pen a fresh idea, exact a moment of clarity. Then you are ready to fail. And that readiness is all. To go solo, to greet each universe on its terms and so imagine your own.
Derive your formula, carry the equation closely, and experiment. Gaze, gape, gawk. Then squint, peep and peek. What does the moment bring, what does the light reveal, what is really before you?
You must not miss it. The radiance of experience fashioned solely for you.
by Julian Miles | Apr 1, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
That shadow is cast by scenery. The one next to it likewise. The third I’m not sure about, and the fourth will become scenery if the body isn’t found. Sniping lasers give nothing away when killing, although the wounds are distinctive. By the time they’re identifying that, I’ll be off killing beings on another planet.
Mother used to tell me an old tale about the two wolves within me. Urged me to feed one and let the other starve. Uncle Enapay suggested I feed them both, listen to both, then decide wisely. Didn’t tell me where I could get wisdom from, though.
A fifth shadow? Not a target. Looks like an early scavenger visiting the cause of shadow number four. Come on, number three. Either reveal yourself to be the local equivalent of a bear, or as my other target, but please move soon. It’s cold out here, and I have a long flight to the spaceport on a skiff so old the heater barely works.
Grandmother nodded politely when mother spoke of the two wolves, but shook her head when mother said they were what guided us still. I never understood why, until one day grandmother told me about the dream the last chief of our nation had, about the two guns. Unlike the wolves, they’re not inside. They’re awful tools, brought by invaders and taken up before their menace was realised.
A sixth shadow slides from behind the fourth and moves away, trying to be stealthy. No heat signature, and the movement profile of small fauna. It’s very well done. However, I’m up high enough to see the one thing they forgot: their shadow on a white snowfield. I let whoever it is get a good way off, then kill them.
The two guns are what my people sometimes called ‘soul tools’. To go back to my mother’s tale, they are things that – while outside of us – can taint the wolves within.
Both guns are shiny and fascinating, and both do only one thing well: kill. They give you strength when you slay, but the only the bright one gives you greater strength when you put it away without killing. The dark one feels cold when you put it away like that.
Speaking of tools, that’s a drone rising from behind the third shadow. A rescue beacon. If it reaches a hundred metres up it’ll emit a signal powerful enough to be picked up at the far spaceport, let alone the near one.
Guessing the lead required, I manage to wing it with the first shot, then skip a second as the drone spins down to crash a short way from where it took off.
Whichever gun you use the most decides where your desires lie. Some folk switch guns after a while, some stay with the one they first used. Nobody switches back and forth, even if what they do with their chosen gun doesn’t match the lives they lead. I often wonder if those folk are ever truly happy.
Scenery doesn’t send drones. I put a beam through the third shadow. It slides sideways, then settles.
The thing is, everybody chooses a gun. Many never draw it. Even so, their actions and inactions will be influenced by it.
I’ve drawn mine often, and I’m probably doing good by killing bad beings.
But I know my gun is dark.
What about yours?
