by submission | Sep 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jørn Arnold Jensen
“Do you know who I am?”
The question was left hanging in the air. The tiny girl struggled to understand what loomed in front of her; taller than the grown-ups in the kindergarten, and the height accentuated by feet hovering several centimetres above the ground.
“Can you see me?”
“Yes”, whispered the girl. She looked around. There were no other children here, on the lawn behind the kindergarten. No adults either.
“I have come for the ball. It hit the tree trunk over there.” She pointed at the corner of the house seven or eight meters away. “And then it bounced off at an angle of almost sixty degrees.”
“Do you know who I am?” repeated the stranger. Legs and arms were considerably longer than they should be, and the face was narrow. The small, rounded mouth had no visible teeth. The ears were pointed, which made the girl grin for a moment. Elven ears, she thought. The head was completely hairless, from the neck down the skin was covered with a close-fitting grey fabric, hands and feet included. She could just make out the shrubbery, the fence, and the trees behind the floating figure.
“The ball is over there”, it said, looking past her. The voice was friendly, like those of presenters on children’s television. “Right there under the bench where the lawn ends.”
“Thank you”, she said, but did not run away to get it.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I think so”, said the girl after a while. “Or maybe not.”
The figure took a couple of steps towards her and crouched down. “What are the adults saying about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do they say about all the things you’ve learned? About the fact you perform better than others?”
“They let me read books I choose myself. I do calculations, together with a lady who works at a university.” She hesitated and scratched the ground with her foot. “I hear what the adults say. Also, when they don’t think I do.”
“Who? What do they say?”
“Aunt Mari, for example. You’re some prodigy, aren’t you, she said. About time this family had some fresh blood. Mom was the only one she told that to. Other adults say I’m gifted. They come home to us and to the nursery. They give me tasks and they talk together in low voices. I don’t understand all. I remember some words. Hyperintelligent. Or advanced. That means better than others, doesn’t it? Special programme, they have said a few times. I think that’s when the lady from the university comes. She’s nice, but she looks at me in a funny way sometimes. Donor children, they sometimes say that, too.
“Do you know what that means? Donor?”
“Mum and dad couldn’t have children. They got help from a hospital. They gave them sperms that became me. Mom calls them seeds, but I know what sperms are.”
“Someone is coming”, said the figure and looked towards the corner. “By the way, they can’t see me. It is best you don’t tell anything about me. Because you know who I am?”
“I think so. I just said I believe so. Were you there when I was a baby?” Her voice sounded hoarse.
“In a way. Just before. I’m almost like you. Not quite. But you know what?”
“What?”
“I can visit you from time to time. Is that okay with you?”
Someone called out to her. An adult.
“It’s all right,” the girl said back.
“But don’t tell them. Don’t tell them anything about us. Do we have a deal?”
The girl nodded.
“I have to go”, said the figure.
She tried to reach its hand. It was like grasping air. She quivered and backed away.
“Don’t be afraid. I exist for real.” The figure looked worried. “I see you are wondering about something. What is it?”
“Am I alone? Are there more? Like me?”
“There will be more”, said the figure. “More donor children, but that’s our secret, isn’t it?”
She heard her name again, and footsteps.
“I’m just fetching something”, she shouted and ran to the bench. She lifted the ball and ran back towards the corner. The hovering figure on the lawn had vanished. Instead, Ayla stood there. Ayla was her favourite grown-up, and she went with her, dancing her way into the dressing room.
“You seem to be in a cheerful mood, don’t you?” Ayla said.
The girl looked up at her. “Do you want to know something? I’m not alone!”
by submission | Sep 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mary Lynne Schuster
“I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck. Just get up,” Dylan said, disgusted.
“I feel like I’m stuck,” Sara muttered. She knew she could just – get up. Stand up, get a shower, get dressed, get something to eat. Or do a dish. Just do it! she thought. But the thought drained all initiative. It was like all she wanted to do was sit in a stale bathrobe with a crusty ice cream bowl. She really didn’t. Without thinking, she stood. She wandered the house, dropped the sticky bowl in the sink, and then somehow found herself back on the couch.
What the hell, she thought. Just get up. But she could not remember why. She sat unmoving even when Dylan slammed out of the house.
***
Axlion adjusted the floating image of the human on the bridge of his ship. “The field is working,” he said. “When you try to force a human to do something, they fight it. But take away the motivation, just make them not feel like it, and they might as well be dead.”
“Excellent.” Baxilot studied the monitor screen. The human sat unmoving again. He’d been concerned when she stood a few moments ago, but that had been an impulse of the lower brain, a survival reflex. The higher voluntary functions were still affected by their field. It didn’t directly control the being, but firing just a few of their neurons one way or that managed the motivation and fear, and it turned out controlled behavior.
“Does it work for all humans?” he asked.
“No.” Axlion zoomed in to focus on an electrical impulse jumping between two synapses. “For most of the random samples, yes. But there are a few subcategories. Humans that have practiced not doing what they feel like doing – they have way more resistance.”
“But – why would any humans do that?” Baxilot asked. “That’s the one constant, they do what their electrical impulses and chemical reactions lead them to do. They hate discomfort, and will do many things, including putting themselves in more discomfort, to avoid it.”
“We are still learning.” He zoomed out again and they observed the human adult female. “Some can focus on a longer goal, and it is worth the discomfort. Often it is around competition. They will practice a physical skill to the point of being uncomfortable in order to do it better than another, or to better their own arbitrary measure.” They watched as their subject shifted as if to get up, and then sighed and leaned back again. “The more they fight against doing what they feel like, the stronger is their ability to do so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Here – ” Axlion brought up another monitor, and showed a montage of humans running, leaping, dancing, throwing or catching projectiles, making tones with musical instruments, or lifting heavy things. “Look.” He zoomed in on a ballet dancer. She spun through the same movements again and again. “Look at her brain. She is exhausted, and in physical pain. The field slowed her, but then she went and talked to another human, and reprogrammed her brain! She used the words to create thoughts that reignited the neurons that she had strengthened when pushing through the discomfort, and the new pathways I was creating got pruned away.”
He zoomed out again, past the montage of athletes and musicians and scholars and soldiers, to a flowing river of people in every act of human living. “Fortunately for us, very few humans are at that level. Most will do exactly what they feel like doing, with as little effort as possible.”
by submission | Sep 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Karen Schauber
The massive harvest table swelled with Soylent, Guinea Fowl, Sicilian oranges, Pule cheese, pandemain, honey, cloves, and black cardamon for the wedding. The dead bride propped in the cathedra. Her garland of Delphiniums shrivelling. A suckling pig, still shackled to the spit, its trotters tanned, skin crispy, made me swoon. We approached slowly uncertain if we would be welcome. They waved us forward, their hand motioning like the pope, partially outstretched with fourth and little fingers curled inward. Jerzy didn’t budge. Waited for me to do my thing. My garment concealing the weapon. Darkness obscuring everything, and nothing.
Through the wee hours we gorged on the spoils, sucking bones and roux, leaving nothing but crumbs. Reclined in the winter garden beneath a mangled grapevine canopy until dawn, smoking fat hand-rolled cigars, the toothy wrappers full of dark flavour. When morning broke, the mayhem and horror of the previous night was laid bare. Stone walls executed with torrents of sticky-sweet crimson blood, trickled and stained, thick like impasto. Bloodthirsty rapier flies a-buzzing. Overhead, a blue tourmaline sky spread electron waves far and wide. The cosmic resonance dizzying. Jerzy slipped through without second-guessing. Ours was a well-trodden path.
Next on the itinerary, the Bishop’s Abbey, where we would find the same cruel devastation. As if an indeterminate war or crippling pestilence had blown through. The air sour and hushed like an abandoned rendering plant. The main church, cloister, chapter house, refectory, library—all empty. Bodies piled in the summer garden. Someone, something, had prepared the remains.
Supper that night was cold, with very little meat and no fat. We washed up in the fountain and dined in the calefactory. The stone table lit by lamplight. We rolled bits of diced cabbage, turnips, carrots, and peas, around our plates. Taste buds uninspired. Next day, we stumbled upon smoked fish, salted venison, and roasted swan pie in the larder, coarse black bread and ale in the stockroom. Upon surveying the acreage, we picked lemons, oranges, pomegranates, and figs in the orchards. Gathered enough provisions for several days, lived like kings for weeks. Jerzy fat and lazy. At night we slept wedged between tapered whitewashed walls under a single vaulted wooden ceiling. Our dreams crowded with roving, ghostly whispers. A giant brass crucifix hung high above, its power anaemic. Me, with no relief, always an eye to what may be lurking around the corner.
And so began the time after the end of time. We were blessed, immune…or so we thought.
by submission | Sep 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Colm O’Shea
He types: I see you around. I’m too shy to say hi, so I’m hiding in this avatar. Hope that’s not creepy.
Cyrano-Premium converts: Salutations! One cannot miss your radiance as it sweeps the environment, much as the sun rises and obliterates the stars. Daring not yet to gaze directly at your beauty, I supplicate myself with these humble words instead. I trust my advances are welcomed.
>Send.
She types: Wow, that’s some compliment! Are you a poet? I’m nervous about writing. It’s not a strength of mine.
Cyrano-Standard converts: I received your missive. Do you reconfigure the syntagmatic and paradigmatic poles of language routinely? Our communications may not proceed with optimal efficiency.
>Send.
He types: I’m sorry if I’m not being clear. I’m nervous about writing. I just wanted to say that ever since my mom died, I’ve been really lonely. Seeing you at the check-out on my way to work is the best part of my day. Again, I hope that’s not creepy.
Cyrano converts: I beg your indulgence—my opacity knows no bounds. In truth, I have been shrouded in desolation of late; and yet one glimpse of your labors lifts me to the heavens! I assume you desire to hear this!
>Send.
She types: Oh yeah! I love reading this. No one says nice things to me—or mean things either (haha). My life’s really quiet. This is just such a surprise.
Cyrano converts: I appreciate your efforts at communication. There is a deficit of positive reinforcement—my living situation is sonically bankrupt. I am disoriented.
>Send.
He types: I hear you about the disorientation! What a year, huh? God, it’s just been one gut blow after another.
Cyrano converts: A dervish spirals betwixt mine ears! What revelations spin from our merry dance around the sun! The Divine One rains punishment on all our heads.
>Send.
She types: Yeah, maybe. I’m not really a religious type. But I lost my mom earlier this year, and I’ll admit—it’s got me thinking why any of us are even here? I don’t pray, but I really wanted to reach out to someone—or something—I don’t know what. I just wanted to be more than just me in this little lonely body. And then you appear. It’s kind of crazy!
Cyrano converts: Certainly/possibly. I reject totalizing ontological narratives. I misplaced my immediate maternal ancestor recently, and I confess I do not understand the purpose of our presence at this location. I want to multiply in this small, isolated vessel. Then you manifest. It’s incoherent.
>Send.
He types: I’m incoherent? Okay, I’m sorry to have bothered you.
Cyrano converts: Do I dismantle myself before you? Very well then, dismantle myself I must. I beg your pardon for demanding your sustained attentions.
>Send. >Logout.
She types: Do you want to get a coffee sometime?
Cyrano converts: Would you imbibe an ergogenic beverage known to improve work capacity?
>Delete.
>Logout.
by submission | Sep 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Adele Evershed
Revelation 21:1 “ and there is no longer any sea”
Fifty miles from what used to be shore, Jonah found a whale still inky black and awesome. He said it was an omen. Of course, Jonah meant it was a sign from God, but he was kind like that, knowing I’d lost my faith he kept his to himself. He only prayed when he thought I was asleep and stopped talking about the second coming altogether. I wished I could still believe, but then I wished so many things and wishes, like prayers, were a waste of time in this new world.
I read a story once about a young girl who found a whale washed up on the beach and tried to claim it for herself. But the people came, and they each wanted a part, ripping its flesh and taking it away to cook with butter and wild garlic. And they weren’t even starving.
I can’t remember the name of the book, what happened to the girl, or even what happened to the whale, but in this story, we were starving, so we ate what we could and dried some in the unforgiving sun before it started to rot. By that time, we didn’t even notice the stench as we were already used to the smell of letting go.
Jonah wanted to stay until I had the baby live in the carcass of the whale, like his namesake. He reasoned we had the dried meat and a few cans for emergencies. At that time, it was still raining. What he didn’t say was nobody would venture this far out—waste the fuel to try and cross the Big Dry—so he thought we’d be safe from scavengers.
So we stayed, and I grew blubbery, peering through the bars of the whale’s ribs as the stars went out one by one. By the time I went into labor, the rain was only falling on a Sunday—as Jonah gathered the bowls, buckets, and tin cans to pour the water into glass bottles, he sent up a prayer of gratitude. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of ‘I told you so,’ and I was happy he still had something to hang on to.
Our daughter was born en caul, a mermaid birth, and like any mermaid stranded on land, she did not survive. Jonah was inconsolable, castigating himself for not christening her. He tried to dig a grave with his hands, but the sun had baked the ground shut. It was then I told him about my dream–how I had seen our baby born away on a ship tethered to a giant beast that swam into the clouds, taking her to heaven. So we rewrapped her in the caul and placed her in the belly of the whale. Before we left, Jonah said a prayer, and I added, ‘Amen.’ It was another small lie, but it was all I had left to give
