by submission | Oct 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Joanne Feenstra
A woman pounds on our front door. She is gaunt and tall, wet hair: short roots tipped with long dyed blond ends. We’ve seen that look before here in the Mercy Valley: city people. We’ve pretty much lived through the first couple waves of city folk. Now the gates are up: hardly anyone comes through.
“Emilia!” She pounds again. If I don’t move, she might not see me. I sit very still in the warm dark, in the heat of the wood stove, my hands stopped from pulling apart a green wool blanket. The blanket will be a sweater, something beautiful and practical.
The woman is illuminated by the faint moonlight that’s come out after the rain storm. She’s wearing wet wool pants and a huge black slicker that comes down to her knees. How does she know my name? I wish we had dogs. I’d just let them out. We don’t have dogs anymore, hardly anyone does, it’s too expensive and some of them, well you know, some of them got eaten. She probably saw the name on the faded wooden sign we had installed in the halcyon days before this.
It’s after 7 pm, when the electricity shuts off, so it’s dark in our house. The wood stove heat is warm. In the Mercy Valley, I’m the Knitter. I reknit anything to make sweaters and then trade for vegetables, fruit, fabric. Martin darns his own socks with the leftover bits, and I patch up our jeans. We do this in the quasi-dark and it’s comfortable and secure.
There’s a gun in the back of the closet. We mostly use the gun for hunting: deer and last winter, a bear cub. We tried wild turkeys but haven’t got one yet, too flighty.
She cups her hands around her wet face and presses it against the glass. I don’t move. We’ve decided that no matter who was at our door, we’d pretend we weren’t home. Then they’d go away or if they didn’t, Martin would take out the shotgun and then they’d leave. It makes it hard to sleep sometimes at night, not knowing if a stranger is lurking around. That’s why I wish we had dogs.
She kicks the door. “Emilia. Let me in. I came through the Ashfall Pass.”
The Ashfall Pass? I heard of people coming to the Mercy Valley from there, you come out in the park. There’s no gate on the trail.
My feet are warm against the heat of the wood stove but we can’t let her in. We only have rations for the two of us, beans and rice, doled out a week at a time, from the market. Used to be a store but now it’s a Ration Station. I’ve lost a lot of weight of course, we all have, and the skinny ones, well, they suffered the most during the early food shortages.
Martin takes out the shotgun, opens the door a crack and points the barrel at the woman. “Get out,” he says. “Leave this place.”
I slowly put down the unravelling and tug a blue quilt a bit tighter around my shoulders.
“Emilia!” she shouts, crying. I watch her bend over, bracing her bare hands against the door frame, her hair sloping down over her face. I hear her more clearly through the partially open door. “It’s me. Jocelyn.”
Martin turns to me. “You want me to let your sister in?”
by submission | Oct 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Shanna Yetman
Leila likes to lie within the algae when the air is thickest with smog—smoke, nitrogen oxide, and ozone particulates squeezing at her lungs, agitating her asthma. Today her chest is tight. The smog has sat on top of the city for days, building up as each car passes by, growing stronger with each puff of industry. The algae wash in and out.
Her throat is hoarse. Even so, she pulls down her N-95 mask. There’s no fresh whiff of air; it’s hot, and the world smells of coals and wildfires. Her nostrils widen and she puts her mask back on.
She gestures for her best friend Julian to catch up. “Come on, you punk!”
He scurries behind her in his old man bathrobe and pajamas. Even in this heat, his mom has swaddled him like a baby because he’s ill. Leila’s one of the lucky ones. Old bouts of pneumonia and fresh bouts of asthma scar her lungs. His lungs grow cancer.
“Hold up! You witch!” He pants. “Remember? I’m one of the unlucky ones.” He’s caught up with her and he wedges his finger right into her side. It’s a joke. These days, there’s no difference between the lucky and the unlucky.
They’ve both snuck out of their houses and headed for the lakefront. They’ve come to this beach though they’ve been told they shouldn’t. The lake is awash with chemicals like nitrogen and phosphorus. She wants Julian to lie in the algae with her; she’s sure it will make him feel better, if only for a moment.
These are the days when the algal blooms are brightest and cover the largest part of the water. The smog hides the sunset, but there’s a beautiful bluish purple along the horizon, and both Leila and Julian stop to admire the colors before they continue.
The lime green tide laps at the sand, and she holds up the caution tape so Julian can duck under. They ignore the signs warning them that this lake is not safe. Her mother has told her about the bacteria in the water that will kill her, especially when the water is green or tinged a reddish-brown.
None of this is true, at least not for her, and she hopes not for Julian.
She looks back at him. He’s bald from his chemo, so he does look like an old man. But he’s also twelve, and prone to fits of absolute goofiness, and this is what she loves the most about him.
Now, he’s butt naked and runs past her, grabbing her hand at lightning speed.
“Let’s go for a swim, you freak!”
They both rip off their masks and run until their feet don’t touch the lake’s bottom anymore. The algae envelopes them, spreading its lime green body around theirs; treating them like a spindle and wrapping its gooeyness between their toes and their arms, blanketing them.
Then it happens. The tiniest of the algae attach to the inside of her nose and snake their way down to her lungs and heart. It is here, they will stay, and implant. As these tiny plants secure themselves to the inside of her body, her head stops aching; her lungs stop wheezing.
She looks over at Julian. His skin is turning the lime green of the tide. The algae will work its own kind of respiration, replenishing their bloodstreams with oxygen while Julian and Leila breathe in all those chemicals it so craves.
The two friends float on their backs. They breathe, reinvigorating their organs with precious oxygen. At last, their lungs are fulfilling their purpose.
by submission | Oct 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Barber
The dry and sunny weather spoiled their holiday, confining them indoors until nightfall.
It was Lord Byron who proposed they pass the time by writing tales to entertain one another, and for two days the villa beside Lake Geneva was silent with their labours.
Doctor Polidori was the first to confess the reluctance of his pen.
“I have a notion,” he explained. “But it will not come right.”
Lord Byron was good enough to glance over the Doctor’s efforts.
“A conventional enough beginning, Dottori,” he adjudged. “You write about what you know.”
He flicked through more pages. “But vampires, blood feasts and the undead have been done to death. Perhaps you bit off more than you could chew.”
He paused for a moment, but no one acknowledged the wit.
Even worse, on reading the beginning of his own mundane tale of ruins, spectres and mystery, he frowned and tossed it into the fire.
#
It seemed Shelley’s story of a man turning into a beast had also foundered.
“I considered turning into creatures other than a wolf. Metamorphosing into a giant beetle perhaps. But the notion is hum-drum. I was bored with it.”
Instead, he mentioned a game he and his sisters played as children.
“Each of us would take turns continuing a tale. We called them round-robin stories.”
He held up a single page of manuscript.
“So I began with a mad scientist.”
“Really Shelley,” said Byron, unwilling to admit the worth of the notion. Still, an hour later he returned and read out the next chapter.
Shelley shrugged. “Gravedirt under the fingernails, body parts, reanimation and the like.”
“But this time the creature is a woman!” protested Byron.
“Well, there is no instinct like that of the heart.”
Next, Dr Polidori added some routine background; a remote castle, a laboratory and a lightning storm to provide the vital spark.
To Mary Godwin of course, fell the chore of completing the task. Had she and Shelley not speculated about this very thing? Also, she had dreamt about the story most vividly.
“Do not think ill of my poor efforts,” she said when she finished reading aloud.
“And though it is not explicit,” she explained. “The female creature sinks into Dr Frankenstein’s arms, with the implication that they marry and live happily ever after.”
A log collapsed in the fireplace, lofting a flurry of sparks.
“But that is for another hand to carry forward,” she added, unsettled by their silence.
It was Dr Polidori who spoke first. “I am uneasy with what we have done here.”
It was nearly the full moon and he admitted to a tickle in his bones, like water seething to the boil. “Perhaps it is just that which unsettles me.”
“No,” Shelly said. “We have created something new.”
He took the manuscript from Mary’s cold, undead hand.
“I do not know if the world of the Gothic is ready for this.” His voice grew solemn. “A tender romance. Two hearts that beat as one. It will be kisses next.”
Undecided, he went to the hearth, the firelight glinting on the bolt in his neck.
Lord Byron shivered, glad it would soon be dark and he could go out and feed upon elfin-folk.
by submission | Oct 19, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
In the heart of New York City, in the shadow of towering brownstone apartment buildings, eight-year-old Ro was a peculiar sight. Her curly hair framed her youthful face, and her eyes sparkled with an otherworldly innocence. On the steps of her building, she sat cross-legged, blowing pink bubbles into the air. These weren’t just ordinary bubbles; they were filled with helium, and they held within them something truly magical.
Ro was one of hundreds of alien clones scattered across the world. Clones that stayed forever young, assigned to be adopted into homes in the most impoverished areas. They were an enigmatic group, representing every race, and their mission was clear: to blow pink bubbles that brought peace and love to their neighborhoods.
The rules were simple. Ro and her clone siblings would only stay with families that allowed them to continue sending out the love-filled bubbles. If a family turned them away or didn’t embrace the mission, they were reassigned to new families who understood the importance of their peculiar existence.
Ro’s days were spent on the steps, entranced in a ballet of pink orbs that danced in the city’s relentless hustle and bustle. She released the bubbles one after another, each one drifting into the world, carrying with it a message of hope. “Make the world a better place,” she whispered to them as they ascended into the sky.
Ro’s connection with the bubbles was extraordinary. She could hear their thoughts, or perhaps it was the collective thoughts of her clone siblings. They all resonated with the same simple, profound wish: to shower the world with love and tranquility.
In a world often plagued by division, poverty, and strife, the presence of these young alien clones was a whisper of cosmic kindness. Their mission was their secret, a quiet revolution born of understanding and unity.
The world responded in unexpected ways. As the bubbles floated over the streets of New York, people would pause, their hearts touched by the ethereal beauty and the feeling of peace that washed over them. Strangers shared smiles, neighbors offered warm greetings, and the world seemed just a little bit brighter.
The clones, forever young and forever committed to their mission, came to learn about the world through their interactions with countless families. They saw love in all its forms – parental, sibling, romantic – and understood the power it held in healing the human heart. They became conduits of empathy, helping families to reconcile their differences, soothing tempers, and mending strained relationships.
In the quiet of the night, Ro and her clone siblings would gather on the apartment steps, each lost in thought. Their unity was their strength, and their telepathic connection was their solace. They were the keepers of an age-old secret, custodians of love, and guardians of hope.
Over the years, they watched the world change. The neighborhoods they visited grew kinder, and the world became a more compassionate place. The love bubbles had a ripple effect, touching lives in ways they couldn’t fathom.
Ro, the little girl who blew pink bubbles, knew that her role was a small part of something grander than herself. As she released another bubble into the world, she smiled, for she could feel the collective heartbeat of her fellow clones, and together, they were making the world a better place, one bubble at a time.
by submission | Oct 18, 2023 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
The Data Centre hummed like a tuning fork orchestra. In a low-rent corner, a makeshift workshop sat wedged between a run-hot server and a rank of sweating helium spheres. Roughhouse acoustic walls, a vain attempt to stave off tinnitus.
For the third time this hour, I turned my aging frame toward the huge robot and reached up to scrape metal dust from my remaining eye. The adjacent optic implant streamed the robot’s maintenance data under Mitey 9.9.
And mighty he was, hovering in by himself overnight to take up four workshop grids. As an autonomous tier one, Mitey roamed the world fixing robots. I was honoured to be the robot fixer’s fixer. Together, we kept chaos from our frail dusty world.
Alongside, my team of robot fixers assembled, like an awry collection of bismuth samples. Each robot motionless with throbbing blue LEDs, their diagnostics completed and clean. Silla, the cable checker, slithered in her battered steel crate, testing fibre-optics for fun. She had just wriggled out of Mitey’s gleaming rat nest after a three-hour dive. Her green striations signalling everything was dandy. I heaved my dirty work-suit onto a torn mustard-coloured vinyl stool, staving off my own deep dive.
A weird gut feeling lingered.
“Damn it” I said exasperatedly, slapping oily thighs to release silver mist and stepping off towards Mitey’s towering wall of tech, to begin removing parts. Javelin long modules skewering Mitey’s bulk were promptly withdrawn, unwieldy Tetris-like parts removed with powered manipulators and numerous circuitry cubes that sprayed non-electrolytes were unplugged. After two hours of disassembly, I spat oil and stood among piles of parts before a truck sized block of techno Swiss cheese. The muffled sound of helium relief valves whistled midday and hailed my lack of progress.
The far side beckoned, so I squeezed between Mitey’s assemblers and a perforated cork wall missing numerous tools. A shocking number of assembler arms passed menacing close to my face. That subtle fear again. While micro-scanning Mitey’s far side, I lifted my head and glimpsed strangeness within a nest of copper tubes. I zoomed in to see a squarish grey haze.
Hinge, my articulated robot arm, jogged me forward as he docked with my work-suit. Slowly, like magic, I ascended toward the haze. After extracting more modules, I looked closely at the squarish haze, revealing it was ribbed with fine gold lines. My optics processed the anomaly and red-lighted a reworked inhibitor rig. Curiosity defeated fear and I reached out.
“I would not touch that” said Mitey’s calm deep voice.
I flinched.
“I thought you were powered down?” I queried.
I reached again.
“It is not broken” the voice admonished.
“It’s not right” I countered.
“It is there for him” Mitey said with inflection.
Through Mitey’s forest of parts, I watched a grey mist seep into my workshop. It streamed inside Mitey and mad pulses shook him like slapped jelly. Parts shattered, spraying the workshop like a fountain and from a glowing light, reformation began under a melting heat. Sharp shapes twisted, then rematerialised until the light dimmed and the air cooled. Calmness returned.
“Not a fix, a broadcast upgrade. You were here for backup” soothed Mitey, as it raised its mammoth bulk and pivoted a cave of manipulators towards me.
“I fix humans now, and you will need an upgrade to keep up”
Hinge shuddered with resistance, then shunted me forward into a niche of scary things.
I hit a mental panic button and waited for everything to go helium cold, again.
