by submission | Oct 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Careful with lighting, Captain. Don’t kill them.” Jerry Carter readjusted reflectors a few inches from a grouping of small barrel cacti in the spaceship’s arboretum.
“Why keep these damnable things? Don’t get enough of them taking over Earth?” Captain Tersal shook his head.
“Reminds me of my ancestors slicing them for emergency water in Arizona centuries before desertification overwhelmed North America.” Carter adjusted his purple envoy outfit tight to his neck, letting his red beard drape.
“Wouldn’t catch me with the Ryluu. Here are the three beans. I can’t believe Earth One let you take these. You know how rare…” Carter waved off Tersal’s diatribe; after all, he was Martian with little sense of Earth’s history.
“Just get me to their greeting hall. I’m meeting their king, Krezal. I hope our exploration party had solid intelligence. I’ve seen LiDAR analysis of their jungles. This could be it.”
Carter’s journey to the planet’s humid surface was uneventful before he exited a small shuttle near the dark, threatening towers of the Ryluu palace. He winced from the cloying jungle air after opening the hatch. He was joined by towering guard escorts. Carter struggled to keep his image of authority while struggling to breathe under the giant planet’s gravity.
It was surprising to find Krezal alone at a small, round table surrounded by elegantly formed stone stools. Krezal had no reason to fear a mere human, some four feet shorter and fragile compared to the bristling muscles and scaly skin of the king.
“High is our knowing of your greatness, Gezal of the Ryluu.” Carter spoke quietly, looking down at the moist, stone floors. He carried a round satchel carefully at his side, setting it below the hard seat Krezal pointed to as his place during the negotiations.
“Welcome, man of Earth,” bellowed the giant. “You know some of our customs. We have visited several times with your representatives. Let me share yanakut with you.”
Krezal motioned for his servant to bring a large, shiny platter. A pile of red berries on the dish glowed in the amber light of the great hall. Krezal removed a large knife from his waistband, carefully crushing the fruit, and then deftly lifting their juices with his knife blade so drippings filled a small rounded metal cup. Sizzling rose as the fluid’s acid started dissolving the cup’s lining. Carter was briefed about yanakut, and the death of an Earth crewman who drank it.
“Great and mighty Krezal, please forgive my weakness. We are not a powerful race, like yours. Our tastes are weak. We would make a less potent but beloved drink from these.” With that, Carter carefully placed three large coffee beans on the table. Krezal leaned his head forward as he placed his huge fingers onto the samples, crushing them, and then raising their dust to his lips.
“You take of these weeds?”
“Yes, mighty one. Would you consider trade with our people? We understand your world has many such…weeds.”
“Ha! Glad to be rid of them; they’re impossible to control. Trade? What could you possibly offer in exchange?”
Carter reached from his bag, presenting a barrel cactus. Krezal reached for it before Carter could give a warning. Krezal was suddenly lost in ecstasy as the needles and juice penetrated him.
“It pleases?” Carter asked.
“Oh, yes. And you have many?” Krezal replied.
A pact was made for the Coffee-Cactus Trade Route. Earthlings recovered the joys of coffee, nearly extinct on Earth, and searched for on other worlds for centuries, while the Ryluu elite lavished in their new cacti aphrodisiac.
by submission | Oct 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
They call me a saint at the long term care facility. I go and sit exclusively with patients who are in irreversible comas. Sometimes I hold their hands. Sometimes I sit, as if in prayer with my forehead lightly touching their arm. Once I proved to the staff and families, I wasn’t some kind of freak or pervert, I was welcomed and loved by both. I suppose I am a freak, but not in the pop culture sense. I guess the best definition of what I am is parasite.
Any successful parasite lives in mutually beneficial symbiosis with its host. I am no different. When I sit with the “poor unfortunates” touch and “pray” over them what happens is I am transported into their realm. I get to be with them and the fantastic worlds their brains have constructed. If the wide world knew the actual truth of what life was like for a certain segment of comatose patients, well, let’s just say most rational folk would line up to be put in a coma.
Oh, the places I’ve been!
On Tuesdays I sit with nine-year-old Dillon who inhabits a world of talking animals to include dinosaurs. All the creatures there eat only one thing: apples. Apples that become exactly what you desire to eat. When I visit with him, he makes me appear as a friendly werewolf named Rolf. I sold my first book series, based on what I experienced there- it’s now considered a children’s fantasy classic on par with C.S. Lewis’ Narnia series.
On Wednesdays I sit with Carl, who was watching Lord of the Rings when he had a brain aneurism burst. He chose to stay in middle earth. There’s a lot of fighting, drinking, and whoring when I stay with him. My book series from that took me over the 20-million-dollar profit mark.
Then there’s Charlotte. She’s a grandma and her comatose world revolves around charity work with orphaned children. With Charlotte, I am Rev. James, the kindly but clueless Episcopal priest who solves murders with her. That became a five-season fan fave on A&E. Critics called me a genius for my ability to write outside my genre.
Recently, I began sitting with 20 year old Amanda. Her parents described her as a mousey, shy, and a brilliant young woman who loved horses and collected American Girl Dolls. Her parents feel guilty as they were constantly pressuring her to act more her age, get out and interact with her peers, maybe find a boyfriend or girlfriend and take some risks in her life. One of her beloved horses threw her. In Amanda’s world…well I can’t talk about it without blushing. She’s a six foot, five inch tall Amazonian Queen and I am her faithful male companion. I’ll just leave it at that. Don’t know what I am going to do with this one.
Friday through Sunday I write and rest. On Monday I go to the chapel at the care center and just sit and meditate. I clear my mind and at the edge of my awareness I hear it. The consistent, telltale sound of a respirator. Occasionally I hear an alarm. Once in a while, a trauma team of one kind or another rushes past. Funny thing, these are not sounds natural to the care center. Eventually, I come out of my meditations and visit with patient’s relatives and staff. I have led this life for quite sometime. Only lately I have started to wonder- could it be I am always here, and this is my ideal world?
by submission | Oct 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
I set my guitar down in it’s stand, I went to take a piss, the Zuntory whiskey was running right through me. D’rard had warned me not to drink too much, but he was fucking my ex-wife so fuck him and the high horse he rode in on. I walked back out from the bathroom and flopped down on the couch and went to take a drink from the condensating tumbler when out of the corner of my eye I noticed my guitar was, impossibly, left handed.
I’ve been right handed my whole life, all my guitars; right handed.
“What in the ever-loving fuck?”, I wondered aloud. I approached the guitar like it was a feral cryptid, a dangerous phenomena. My palms sweaty as I reached for it cautiously. I picked it up and pulled a pick from my pocket and to my alarm, played it as though I’d been playing left handed my whole life. Perhaps even better. My roommate’s voice alarmed me, I’d been so perturbed by this odd emergence, so engrossed, that I didn’t notice him walk into the room,
“You ok, S’thail?” I stuttered
“I… uh, my guitar, it’s… left handed.”
“What’re you talking about? You’ve always played left handed!”, said Lahnold
“No- the fuck- I haven’t.”
I noticed that Lahnold wasn’t facing me, and when I went to look him in the eye his body would reposition so as not to face me, not that he was stepping away but that it was an existential condition. No matter how I tried to see his face, I’d only see the back of his head, his ponytail and big, hunched shoulders.
Thoroughly perturbed by this, I went out. Everyone I passed by as I walked for drinks were facing away from me, as I walked past, they’d turn 180° with their back to me. Even the damned bartender, when she went to pour drinks, would do it with her back turned and she placed my gin and tonic, back turned, in front of her, it shouldn’t have been in front of me, it’s as though she reached through an interdimensional portal and placed it in front me, but no such magic or fuzzy science happened.
“Is something wrong?”, she asked. Something was definitely wrong. I stumbled back and the barstool clattered to the ground, as I fled from the bar, I could hear the bartender calling after me,
“Hey! You gonna pay for that?!” I ignored her and called my therapist as I walked through the light snow and screen chatted with him, the back of his head was all that was apparent,
“S’thail, I’m worried, what you’re describing sounds like a break from reality.”
“Yeah, no shit!”, I said, I pleaded with him,
“Shian, just… humor me. Consider I’m totally sane and self aware, if there were to be a circumstance where everything suddenly became backwards, like, physically, emotionally, mentally- what could possibly describe this… totally fucked situation?”
“Well, if you’re giving me poetic license I’d say that you’re experiencing… an extroversion of cognitive dissonance. That everything that feels backwards has manifested in your life as a reality- but S’thail, that’s impossible, you get that, yeah?”
“Yeah, doc, I get that…”, he sighed, at least he sounded like he did.
“I’m glad, now listen closely- flesruoy llik.”
“What?” It sounded… backwards.
“I said, take care of yourself.”
I went home, I went to sleep and I dreamt of a bright, colorful world that was forever behind me and persisted forward into a backwards world, with backwards people and backwards feelings, not sure if I’d ever wake up.
by submission | Oct 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The mason aligned the large sandstone block and lowered it onto the mortar he’d just ladled with water against the growing heat of late morning. The heavy block nestled into the mortar resting on the soft metal plugs that would keep the stone level with its neighbors while it set.
This was a particularly troublesome corner of the tower, and the mason knew he would have to humor this stone. He would have to nudge and finesse this limestone block to keep the graceful tower wall he was completing straight and true. For this was the final tower of the mighty wall stretching along the entire border. The wall that was to be an impregnable buttress against all evils trying to enter this promised land. And an eternal symbol of security and sovereignty and lasting national solidarity.
That’s why this particular tower was being built by hand, by him and other stonemasons trained in the time-tested methods of great palaces and churches. For this final tower of the border wall was to be a cathedral of sorts, meant for great dignitaries and emissaries to stand upon and praise what uncompromising rightness could accomplish.
High on the tower, the mason was working, expertly humoring the pivotal stone into perfect position, when he heard laughter echoing up from below. He held his worn-edged trowel before him and looked out over the rampart where a group of extrans, extra-nationals, had gathered near the scrub brush that marked the no man’s land adjacent to the mighty wall.
Their laughter was gentle and confident. From his perch eighty feet above them, he wondered if they had come to mock him. To scorn his work. This tower. He did not care. He was a craftsman, a master builder. The work of his hands would outlast all of them. These stones would stand for centuries, a bulwark against invasion. His stones would have the last laugh.
This thought made the mason smile, and he waved his trowel in their direction. The extrans waved back. They continued to chatter and unload some large backpacks. The mason watched as they deftly assembled something. During his many months working on this final tower he’d seem many attempts by extrans to cross the border illegally, to defeat the mighty wall.
Their attempts had been a joke. The mason didn’t even bother to check with security to see if they were monitoring this latest attempt. It would fail. He tapped his trowel on the limestone block he had humored into place. It was setting nicely. He was about to start lining up the next level of blocks when the extrans below him began a loud, rhythmic cadence.
One of the extrans was decked with a strange harness sporting a number of tubular appendages and apertures. The mason couldn’t make out what they were, but he could see that the extran was wearing a heavy duty crash helmet.
The cadence grew louder, and though the mason didn’t understand the language well, he recognized it for what it was: a countdown.
An electric crackling filled the air, then a furious luminescence erupted from the strange harness, and with a roar the extran arced into the sky, far above the tower, high over the mason’s head.
The primitive boost suit carried the extran half a mile beyond the mighty wall. The mason dropped his trowel and slumped against his proud handiwork, watching as a mylarium parasail deployed and the floating extran caught a thermal, riding a warm rising air current deep into this more promising land.
From above and below the stolid stones surrounding him, all the mason heard was the liberating sound of laughter.
by submission | Oct 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mikki Aronoff
Our vinyl patches proclaim our purpose.
ANIMAL, VEGETABLE, MINERAL
WE WATCH THEM ALL
DECIDE WHO PASSES
We are birthed to serve, groomed to wait and watch, to scrutinize and assess. We follow guidelines. Detractors regard us as arbitrary, but if we were not here to filter, what would this world be?
We send Passersby who fail our test on to The Supreme Cullers in the steel room next door, metal being easy to clean. To know how they build on our work would diminish what we do. We trust the process. Judging Passersby is our reward.
Yesterday, a Passerby clearly struggled. We are not without compassion. We almost let it pass to The Green Place. But there are rules. The Apprentice Watcher could barely hold back the heaving of his chest as the Passerby slowly rocked its way towards The Culling Room, tilting and listing, its ticking diminished, then silenced. The Apprentice dropped to the ground.
We feel different when a Watcher falls away, especially a new one. Watching together forms a Weaving. Uniformed in Nomex as we are, it is assumed we don’t need to worry about unraveling, but we do. This they left in our hearts.
