by submission | Sep 6, 2017 | Story |
Author : Henry Gribbin
I am a searcher. In the past I have searched for god, little green men and the spirits of my ancestors. I have come up short all three times. However, I always felt that there was something out there, something different from what I have experienced in my life, and if I kept looking I would find it. Truth be told it found me.
I am a self proclaimed gentleman farmer. I grow corn on twelve acres of ground in central Pennsylvania. If I wanted to plow my land under and make a baseball field I could afford to do so. My neighbors (one is a dairy farmer and the other is a goat rancher) and I have been having some issues lately. It concerns drinking water, or the lack of it. You see, there are mountains to the east of us. Recently, an energy company bought the rights to the coal underneath said mountain. To get to that coal they basically cut the top of the mountain off and pushed the debris down it’s side. Also, a gas company bought property in our area and erected drills. Now we have fire in the sky at night. My neighbors and I believe that these actions polluted our ground water. There is a meeting scheduled for this evening to discuss these problems with agents from both companies at our local grange hall. Many other farmers were going to show up. It promises to be a testy affair.
It was dusk and I was getting ready to leave for the meeting. As a recently acquired habit I took a walk around my house and barn. Since our dear energy companies made their appearance, bears, mountain lions and other wild creatures have made their appearance known in our neck of the woods. I always go armed now which was lucky for me because I saw something which sent shivers up my spine. Along the outer perimeter of the corn field I saw a large red eye looking at me. I started to move back to the house, and the thing followed me. It looked to be on four legs, but I couldn’t get a good look at it. All I could see was the red eye. I unholstered my sidearm and kept moving. Then it sprang. I shot and whatever it was plopped to the ground. I slowly walked over to whatever it was. It was one hell of a shot. I got it right under its jaw, and the bullet went through its heart. Its hide was the fairest shade of grey I had ever seen. It appeared to be a mountain lion, but I have never seen a one-eyed cat like that. I went to the house and came back with some tarp. I covered the cat and put it in the back of my truck and went to the meeting.
The meeting itself was under way when I got there. The company reps were denying any knowledge of contaminated water, livestock being mutilated and any other thing they could think of to deny. I walked to their table and dropped my bundle. There was an uproar. I explained what had just happened a short time earlier. Other neighbors said they thought they had seen something like the thing lying on the table but were afraid to speak out because people would think they were making it up. The company reps made a hasty retreat, and the rest of us came up with a plan to combat our one-eyed friends.
Sometimes things should be left alone. Mountains are one such thing. They were formed eons ago by natural forces. But sometimes they were formed to bury things which were not meant to see the light of day again. One-eyed cats are a good example.
by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 5, 2017 | Story |
Author : Steve Smith, Staff Writer
When I came to your world, when I stumbled into your city on the edge of the desert, you paid me no mind.
Your guards bullied me like any other vagabond in the streets, laughing as they tripped me, pounded their chests in fits of bravado.
Your peasants took pity on me, a weary traveler, fed me, gave me water. They knew what it was like to have nothing, and they happily shared what little they had.
When I showed them how to pull water from the ground, when I showed the artisans how to make steel that would never dull, how to fashion glass from the sand, you took notice.
When I talked to them about equality, and rights, and justice, they took turns hiding me while your soldiers searched their homes. They took the beatings without giving up my name, without giving up my whereabouts.
Without giving up.
When I turned the coal from their kilns and forges into the rarest of diamonds, they fell to their knees and prayed to me.
When I refused to do the same for you, you broke my bones, lashed me to a horse and sent us off into the blowing sand in search of the horizon, and certain death.
That would have been the end of any mortal man.
But only a fool would have mistaken me for a mortal man.
I don’t know how long the beast dragged my unconscious body into the desert before it collapsed. I don’t know how much longer before I awoke.
But I do know that I found your puny little planet in an endless void, do you not think I will find you again in this tiny patch of sand?
Do you believe that one who can summon water from the earth itself, and squeeze dust into diamonds, would struggle with mending this broken suit of flesh and bone?
You will know me when I come for you, astride the noble beast you sacrificed so cruelly. We’ll rise, out of the very sand you thought would protect you from me, to ride through to the heart of your city. You’ll feel the fury rise from the fire I’ve lit in the hearts and minds of your people with my ideas, flames that you’ve been fanning with your abuses and self indulgent lust for power. That inferno will consume you in the ivory towers in which you cower.
I’m going to raze your palaces to the ground and let your peasants pick your carcass clean.
I’ve met you on every world, and in every city, and I’ve never once let you remain.
What makes you think you’re any different?
by Julian Miles | Sep 4, 2017 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The dim glow of combat lighting is broken by a single white spotlight, which goes out as our new officer scrambles through the side hatch, barely slowing from a flat sprint. I don’t blame him. There’s several varieties of lethal flying about outside.
“Good morning. I will be your tank today. As we are now ready to depart, please ensure all genitals and other munitions are stowed safely.”
The officer rolls over and – her! – eyes are a breathtaking shade of sky blue.
“Good morning, tank. My chesticles are secure, thank you for the reminder. Do I just call you ‘tank’ or do you have a callsign you use when a superior officer is bollocking you?”
There’s a strained silence, broken by the ‘thud’ of the side hatch closing.
“Callsign ‘Gentry’, ma’am.”
She smiles and, just like that, I’m in love.
“Thank you for not mentioning anything involving upright positions, Gentry.”
The piercing eyes look about: “Sound off!”
The crew don’t miss a beat.
“Private Blachent. Loader, ma’am. Callsign ‘Greaser’.”
“Gunnery Sergeant Jones, ma’am. Callsign ‘Jupiter’.”
“Communications Officer Williams, ma’am. Callsign ‘Cleric’.”
“Private Raddle. Driver, ma’am. Callsign ‘Whiz’.”
“Corporal Neun. Driver, ma’am. Callsign ‘Dodge’.”
My turn: “Lieutenant Hallam, ma’am. Callsign ‘Comet’.
The new ruler of our chariot – and love of my life – keeps talking as she swings herself under, round, and up into the command saddle, without a trace of effort showing in her voice: “Captain Lallie Bann. Callsign ‘Spooky’.”
She wiggles herself comfortable: “You call me Spooky at all times, except in the presence of brass. Now, everything says you’re a top tank. So, if you would be kind enough to tell me the truth about Captain O’Donnell, we can get back to being a neighbourhood threat.”
I look about. Everyone’s looking at me. So, I gaze into those awesome eyes and lay it on like a smooth bastard.
“Mitch O’Donnell chose his own callsign. ‘Captain Kong’ is what we had to call him. Failure to do so was punished with a day spent scouring Gentry’s drainage channels. During combat, the Captain was usually involved in something important elsewhere – not that the roster showed that. When he did ride with us, we became a ‘hyena’: picking off damaged units from the outskirts of the engagement.
The last time he rode with us, a drone mine took out one of Gentry’s drives. With the front withdrawing, we were left on hostile ground to fix a massive piece of tank which would then need all of us to hold while Gentry realigned it. We were vigorously discussing Captain O’Donnell’s reluctance to get his kit dirty during realignment when some opposition wandered by and started using us for target practice. To our surprise, Captain O’Donnell volunteered to hold them off while we jury-rigged the alignment. Unfortunately, he sustained fatal wounds during the brave intervention that saved us all.”
She looks at me, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth: “I see. So, the accounts of a beleaguered crew fighting both enemy patrols and their own hysterical captain, repelling the former and subduing the latter, all whilst performing an ingenious ad-hoc fix to their tank, are erroneous?”
“Totally, ma’am.” Her eyes narrow. “Totally, Spooky. If we’d subdued him, he wouldn’t have ended up under our wheels, now would he?”
She smiles: “I’d bet that sharply creased uniform gave Gentry the extra traction it needed.”
Gentry interjects: “Captain Kong would have been honoured to know his remains served a purpose.”
Spooky bursts out laughing: “I doubt it, but, it’s more than he deserved. Enough. Move out!”
by submission | Sep 3, 2017 | Story |
Author : Janet Shell Anderson
I’m just a kid on my own. The question I have is, should I try to save the man who killed my Dad?
It’s just after dawn; the river’s still, silver, silken, the banks, shadowy. A heron yaps. I’m sitting across from the Three Sisters rocks. Ivan claimed three nuns died out there a long time ago. Now Ivan’s gone, probably buried in the walls near Meridian Park, with the other Disappeared, where 16th Street drops down to the Potomac.
I haven’t seen my brothers, David and Jonathan, in weeks. It’s midsummer, hot; the river smells like mud and fish. I‘m hungry. I stole some jerky, but I’ve eaten it all. My Dad worked down at 1600 Pennsylvania. I stay strictly out of there. My father should have too. He was killed. He knew too much.
People disappear in Rockville, Gaithersburg, Damascus, into camps. Half the city’s empty; there’s no traffic. Sometimes I hear artillery across the river.
A few days ago I was in upper Rock Creek, hunting, working my way into a dense thicket of small spruce, holly, mountain laurel, sweetbriar, when I smelled cigarette smoke and heard voices. I hunched down. Near the creek, two men appeared, hard looking, in camo, bio-armored, weaponed up, scary. Though I could see them, I made sure they could not see me.
“We’re taking out the Old Man,” one said.
“What the hell?” He was young, dark, looked startled, tossed a cigarette into the dirt road.
“Thursday at three hundred hours,” the first continued, a man with flat eyes, expressionless. “You’re in the detail. Word is, he’s gone too far. Meet at the Three Sisters on the river at two hundred hours. You know the drill. We’ll be at 1600 in fifteen minutes. On the roof. Then in the Residence.”
“They say the Old Man never sleeps.”
“What difference does that make?” I saw his eyes narrow, heard a drone overhead.
“Right.”
“Max doesn’t trust you, said you’d go down there to the Secret Service and warn them.”
“Who gave the order?” the younger man asked.
I knew the way you do somehow he shouldn’t have asked that. The first man turned casually, weapon in his hand, it hissed in the way they do, fired. The young one fell; the older spoke into his wristband as the drone approached. “You were right,” he said. “Couldn’t trust him.”
Afterwards, the woods were silent for a long time, even the grasshoppers in the meadow near the creek went still. Finally, I came out of the brush, and in the massive summer heat, the thick, humid air, bent over the dead man, looked. His eyes were open. He was young. A red and black ant climbed over his ear.
The forest behind me was a green silence.
Now it’s dawn. I stare at the small granite rocks in the river, The Three Sisters. I’ve heard it’s deep there, eighty feet. People drown.
My grandfather used to go see a poet housed in the insane asylum, Saint Elizabeth’s, not far from here. The poet wasn’t insane. He was a traitor. My Dad met him too, quoted some of his work.
“An ant’s a centaur in his dragon world. Pull down thy vanity, I say. Pull down thy vanity.” I’m not sure if that’s right, but that’s what I remember.
I watch the silver water slide past the rocks, the Three Sisters, see the white glitter of the rising sun, the line of it all the way to Virginia.
What should I do?
by submission | Sep 2, 2017 | Story |
Author : David K Scholes
Canberra, Australia
2095
“It’s limited to a few long term users – one hour access every month to the future view function of face book,” I was face book chatting to a group of holograms.
“You get to view your friends’ 3D face book posts up to 2 days in the future.”
How do we know they actually are future posts?” Chantelle’s hologram piped up.
“Friends posts checked a few days later are pretty much spot on. Apart from the c-factor,” I added.
“The c-factor?” queried Jane. She was the only one present in the flesh. Other than me.
“The extent to which history gets changed because people get glimpses of the near future and act on that,” I replied.
“It appears to be very low, but it’s increasing,” I added with a salutary warning.
“They should shut the whole future view function down,” exclaimed a gatecrasher hologram. “It’s too dangerous for even one person to get flashes of the near future. However that’s done. It’s interfering with human history.”
“Who was responsible for adding this future view function anyway,” asked Jen.
“The face book admin are saying nothing but it came about shortly after the Trell visit,” I replied.
“Aliens, aliens might have had something to do with face book changes?” Max, or rather his hologram, was indignant.
“Well they did have input to a lot of things,” I replied. “It’s not like we had a lot of choice. We had to agree to a lot of things just to get them to go.”
The Trell had been subtle but any mechanism that offered flashes of the future to an elite few had the potential to alter human history significantly. Especially if the knowledge of the elite few became the knowledge of the many. Had this been their intention?
* * *
I left it until every one had left the face book chat except Jane and Max before telling them I had future view access on face book.
“Let’s take a look at it now,” I said. “Whose future posts should I view? How about yours Jane?” I said it with a slight air of mischief.
“Creepy!” exclaimed Jane but she didn’t say no. I think she was just as interested just as curious as Max and me. Maybe more so.
So all three of us hunkered down in my large face book room and tuned in to a 3D audio-visual indeed full sensory post by Jane one day into the future.
I don’t know what we had been expecting but certainly not what Jane had to say in her post.
“Just commenting on the face book administration’s decision to close down in the next hour it’s near future view function. I think they are right to do this. These flashes of the future glimpsed by an elite few are extremely dangerous. Set up I believe by the visiting Trell they cannot be good for humanity.”
We tried to view some hours ahead of this post on Jane’s face book page and got nothing.
The next day we heard the announcement live from the face book administration. Confirming the accuracy of Jane’s post.
For that hour before it was closed down there was hyper activity on the face book near future view function. Those with access going in with intensity and spreading the word as broadly as possible. The c factor – the extent to which aspects of human history were changed shot up to significance but then thankfully died down a time after the function was withdrawn.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
by submission | Sep 1, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Renney
The homeless are prevalent in the City. We pass them on the streets every day, stepping around them on the pavements.
But the Men were different; they simply stood, like sentinels, on the corners or in the middle of a busy thoroughfare, almost anywhere in fact. They didn’t move or at least hardly at all. They certainly didn’t move for us. They didn’t step aside and give us the road.
At first, we didn’t mention the Men. And even as more and more of them began to appear in the City, the place where we come to work, still we pretended they weren’t there.
It seemed impossible to me that the Men could stand like they did and for so long and I attempted to steer clear of them and keep my distance but this wasn’t easy. The Men tended to take up position at the most crowded of places. They blocked our way, causing us to slow down and holding us up. It was fleeting, I suppose, but it was an inconvenience nonetheless. And on the busy streets we were jostled and pushed up against them and forced to stand alongside them.
I was unnerved by the Men and this was only compounded by the fact that we didn’t talk about them. All of our questions and the speculation had been stifled and the silence had become an entity in and of itself. Not only in the City but also in our homes, with family and friends quickly turning into something sharp and pointed, something dark and foreboding.
The Men, with their arrogance and indifference, were an imposing and intimidating presence. It wasn’t unusual for the homeless to come into the mid-levels; easier pickings here, I suppose, for the beggars and hawkers. But the Men didn’t ask for money and they weren’t trying to sell anything. They hardly seemed to notice us at all. It was as if we weren’t there. And when they talked it was only to each other and those moments of camaraderie were few. It was unusual in fact to see more than two or three of the Men standing together, although I often spotted one alone talking to himself, mumbling incoherently, as if locked in some inner conflict.
The Men were always dressed alike. This again wasn’t unusual. The Salvation Army provides clothes for the homeless but the Men appeared different, they had achieved a uniformity. I suppose it was because we were looking properly at these clothes for the first time, taking in these garments, the heavy overcoats and woollen hats, the crudely cut jeans and working man’s boots.
The Men stood out. They were clearly defined both when it was busy and when it wasn’t. I still tried to avoid them, but not to ignore them as this, of course, would have been impossible. But I was determined to maintain that distance, to keep them away.
I was almost entirely pre-occupied with the Men. Even in my fourth floor office I couldn’t settle, couldn’t concentrate. I would stand at the window gazing down until I found the Men, located them. I needed to know where they were and if and when one of them moved along I needed to know when another appeared.
Perhaps if my office had been up above, somewhere in the higher levels and I hadn’t been able to see what was happening down there, my work wouldn’t have suffered.
Eventually, however, the Men began to leave. Gradually there were less and less of them. And so the Men became much, much more difficult to pinpoint.
