by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 25, 2023 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Rachel scrolled through what passed for news on her phone, coffee slowly cooling on the kitchen table. Malcolm would already be at work, leaving her in peace for this precious little time before she herself had to get dressed and head to the office.
She looked up as the kitchen light flickered and went out, and when she looked back Malcolm was seated across from her at the table. She jumped at his unexpected appearance.
“What the…,” she started, then froze.
She could clearly see the flowery wallpaper of the far kitchen wall through Malcom’s shirt, a shirt she didn’t recognize, and he’d somehow managed to grow the better part of a beard since he’d kissed her in bed that morning.
“Hey sweetheart,” he said, his voice tinny, flat, “sorry if I startled you.”
She looked around the kitchen for the telltale sign of a projector, assuming that this was some kind of practical joke.
“Rachel,” he waited until he had her attention again, “this isn’t a trick. We’ll talk about this after when I get home, and I won’t know what you’re talking about. I built this machine in your future, I wanted to see if I could come back to this moment and talk to you. I wasn’t sure if this would work, but I hoped it would.”
She studied his face and searched for something in his expression that might give away the joke, but she knew him well enough to realize he was serious.
“How far in the future?”
“It doesn’t matter, just the future.”
“I don’t understand,” she started turning her coffee cup as she spoke, thoughts racing through her head, “What’s it like there, or then I suppose.” She laughed, and he smiled, face full of emotion.
“It’s much the same, you know, nothing much I can say without risking changing things, you know how the paradox rules go.”
She nodded. “So what can you tell me? You look good, though I’m not sure about the beard, I can’t imagine me letting you get away with growing that damn thing, but clearly, I’ve softened. Any stock tips? Do the Leafs ever win the cup?” She laughed again, that dig never getting old with her.
“I’m not sure I should have done this,” he ignored her questions, “I wasn’t sure I could, locking onto a time, and a point in space that’s so far away from where I am right now, I didn’t dare to hope, but…”
He paused, studying every line, every curve, every freckle on her face, committing it once again to memory.
“But I missed you.”
And with that, Rachel found herself alone in her kitchen once more.
by Stephen R. Smith | Apr 19, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
“Traffic’s wild tonight,” the driver offered, making brief eye contact in the rearview mirror.
She gave him a thin smile but didn’t respond. She caught her reflection in the Plexi partition and wondered if he noticed her eyes. Wondered if this disguise would survive the evening.
She reapplied lipstick and steadied her nerve. She could hold it together a little while longer.
On arrival, the driver was paid without a word, a cash transaction and an unremarkable tip. She wondered if he’d even remember her in the sea of faces and fares on just another California evening.
The security seemed laid back and lax, but there were familiar bulges under loose-fitting jackets that spoke of imminent violence should the need arise.
The gentleman receiver scanned her invitation and checked against the guest list.
“Weather’s mild tonight,” he spoke without looking up, “you’re all set. Welcome, I hope you have a pleasant evening.”
She smiled a practiced cocktail smile and drifted past him without a word.
Did he suspect? Surely not, or he would have stopped her there at the gate, where she could have been dealt with out of view of the other guests.
She breathed the salt from the breeze off the ocean, composed herself, and walked the ground-lit pathway towards the polite cacophony emanating from the expansive grounds where the party was in full swing.
A waiter appeared with a tray of drinks, and she helped herself, sipping the cold martini while in flight, sucking the fat olive from the skewer, feeling the flesh tear between her teeth. She’d never cease to enjoy that sensation.
She drained the glass and exchanged it for a fresh one before slipping into the sea of suits and low-cut cocktail dresses, her senses aroused, she was hunting now.
For hours she drifted from pocket to pocket of vapid socialites, nodding and smiling at the talk of fashion, of celebrity, the latest jaunt to the South of France, or Monaco. She observed the object of her interest make his way among the crowd as well, shaking hands and kissing cheeks. She orbited the space opposite him, catching his occasional glance, but never allowing him to close the distance between him.
When everyone was starting to sway a little, when the voices got a bit loud, the laughter overly pronounced, she slipped away and into the house. She made her way toward the bedrooms, avoiding confrontation with anyone, but staying in plain sight of the cameras.
He’d be on notice and would follow. The low cut of her dress and his masculine drive to seek out in earnest that which had eluded him all evening guaranteed it.
She waited in his bedroom, sat in the highback armchair under the window, and clocked the passing time.
He wasted none of it.
“You’re not supposed to be here, you know that, don’t you?” The question in a mock-serious tone.
She crossed the room to meet him, held out both arms, wrists up, submissive.
“Are you going to arrest me?” Her tone was coy, inviting.
He put his hands atop hers, slid them towards her, and wrapped his fingers around her wrists, so delicate that his fingers touched easily.
She did the same, her fingers closed around his wrists, and then continued wrapping, snakelike, coiling around and around his arms.
She locked her eyes with his, and he found he couldn’t move.
She entered him, then, through the flesh of his wrists, puncturing the bone to the very marrow, feeling the flesh part for her as she exited her spent shell for this new one.
She’d never cease to enjoy this sensation.
They broke eye contact from this new point of view, the flesh of their previous host sublimating before them, the dress settling to the floor atop a pair of heels and a clutch that would be easily disposed of in the morning.
He adjusted his cuffs as he rejoined the perimeter of the party and motioned to security.
“Get them all the fuck out of my house.”
Climbing the social ladder was exhausting, and he very much needed to sleep.
by Stephen R. Smith | Jan 17, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
It’s cold here. Inhospitable. We’ve been stranded for an age, near starving, not even enough energy to move from this place, much less try to find our way home.
From time to time, some small animal, a rabbit, or a field mouse will venture too far from safety, and a fox, or in rare cases a hawk will hunt, and in those moments fear and panic ripple in waves across the barren ground. We’re not proud, we take what we can get, we’re survivors after all.
The sun is down, busy blistering the other side of this rock while we wait out the night in absolute darkness. In the great distance above us, pinpricks of light blink in and out, mocking.
There’s a sudden roar of approaching motors, and bright fingers of light split the night, bobbing and weaving together to form an opalescent lattice above the winding road on the hillside across the field.
This is a treat.
There’s the slightest hint of exhilaration, of excitement perceptible even at this distance.
The throaty rumble doubles and doubles again as more and more vehicles crest the hill and plummet down the narrow road into the valley, jockeying for position.
We can almost taste their adrenaline on the cold night air.
The screaming of rubber straining against asphalt in an instant becomes that of metal biting into metal as one of the vehicles loses control, colliding with a guardrail, its twin shafts of light reaching suddenly skyward before spiraling several times, then blinking out completely.
We receive a sharp spike of fear, one quick burst, then it’s gone.
What follows immediately is a cacophony of steel on steel, shattering glass, the protest of tires pushed beyond limits, vehicles collapsing into one another or leaving the roadway completely, lights flashing in all directions.
In a few more moments, it’s over. Pandemonium is gradually replaced by near silence again. Motors chatter and stall, those wheels slowly spinning in the air eventually become still.
Through it all, we drink in an exquisite cocktail of fear, and pain. Of panic, and resignation.
We’re drawn to it now, invigorated by more sustenance than we’ve felt in far too long.
Our strength returns.
Where has this been? Why have we not been privy to this source of nutrition before?
There are new sounds on the wind as we feed, and blue and red lights strobe the landscape around us, bringing with them new feelings, these a balanced cocktail of anxious hope.
This pleases us.
Perhaps this place isn’t so inhospitable after all.
When these fonts of emotion move on, we’ll move with them, our newfound traveling feast.
by Stephen R. Smith | Oct 14, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
He woke from a deep sleep, the room still dark.
Had there been a noise? It was quiet now.
He reached in the darkness and lifted his phone, the display coming to life just as the alarm sounded, the unexpected noise startling him fully awake. He thumbed the display blindly to silence the alarm.
Six am.
He hated waking right before the alarm like this, it wasn’t natural. His body clock had never been so attuned, definitely not to a minute prior to his alarm.
He sat up, found his glasses, and shuffled to the bathroom before heading down to the kitchen to make coffee.
With the coffee ground, the machine filled, he started the brew and…
Something wasn’t right. He had a cartridge coffee maker, not this…
He woke, sat bolt upright in bed, sweat beading on his brow. He looked down toward the nightstand at his phone as the alarm sounded, startling him. He reached for it, desperate to silence the racket but only managed to knock it off onto the floor.
Swearing, he turned on the light and fished in the corner to find and silence the phone.
Through bleary eyes, he could make out the time. Seven am.
Sighing, he shuffled off to the bathroom, put his contacts in, and headed down to the kitchen to make coffee.
He loaded a cartridge into the machine, placed a mug underneath the dispenser, and started the brew.
He stared at his phone for some time, before opening the alarm app and resetting the wakeup to six thirty-seven.
He held the phone in his hand, the gurgling and wheezing of the coffee machine slowly overtaking his…
The alarm sounded.
He sat on the edge of the bed in the darkness, the phone in his hand, the digits crystal clear.
Six thirty-seven.
He silenced the phone, placing it gently back on the nightstand, a tear slowly sliding down his cheek.
by Stephen R. Smith | Sep 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
He’d spent forty years running rescue and salvage operations in deep space, had hundreds of engagements, many responding to distress beacons, but he had never experienced anything like this.
His entire ship resonated at some experiential but otherwise unmeasurable frequency. His instrumentation registered nothing, it wasn’t designed to analyze whatever this was.
Rapierre himself felt more than heard the signal, and as he navigated the ship, zig-zagging in the direction where it became stronger, he found there was a sweet spot where, if he pointed the nose of the craft directly into it, the sensation became something more, a kind of beautiful, barely perceptible subliminal song, pulling at the edges of his consciousness.
There was nothing to lock his navigation system onto, only the sensation in his mind, so he flew manually for days, maybe weeks, time gradually losing meaning. He slept at intervals strapped into the pilot’s seat, trusting the ship’s collision avoidance systems, and that he’d wake up if the feeling changed in any way.
It was the proximity alarms that jolted him awake, and he strained through the forward observation to make out what had set them off.
The space ahead of the ship was shrouded in a particulate fog, and dimly visible in its midst, slowly rotating, hung a massive celestial remnant, edges lost in the cloud, its surface a vast rugged plain.
He synchronized their rotations in order that he might land.
As he approached, the features of the landscape below clarified, and he realized that the surface wasn’t space rock or condensed stardust at all, but hundreds, perhaps thousands of craft condensed into a single block of pancaked and intermingled wreckage.
He pulled back hard on the control stick and pushed the throttle to the pins to climb away, but his efforts had no effect. The ship shuddered against whatever force pulled it forward, the space frame vibrating in pained harmony with the siren’s song.
The collision with the surface was violent, the ship plowing through the debris field like a hot knife until its shielding failed, and then further still, the sounds of terrestrial wreckage tearing through the fuselage and venting atmosphere overwhelmed only by a myriad of warning klaxons. The cockpit safety doors slammed into place, sealing him off from the vacuum of space as everything ground to a halt.
He sat in sudden silence, the shock of the crash slowly giving way to the reality of the situation he was now in.
He would die here.
Nobody was coming to rescue him, and if they did, if they picked up any beacon he might send, or the signal that brought him here, they’d suffer the same fate.
“Why have you come?”
He flinched, looking around to find the source of the words that had formed in his head.
“Why have you come?”
The question again.
“You called me here,” he spoke the words aloud to the empty cockpit, “your beacon, I followed your beacon.”
There was a long pause before new words formed.
“We called, but not for you.”
There was another long pause.
“Who are you, so arrogant that you would assume our call was meant for you to answer? You are not welcome.”
Rapierre had no reply, for the first, and what would be the last time in his life, he was at a loss for words.
