by submission | Jul 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
When I’m out for a walk in my neighborhood I can’t help looking in open garages. Few have cars parked in them. Many are crammed with overloaded shelves and teetering stacks of boxes like that Raiders of the Lost Ark warehouse.
I totally get it. We are a nation of consumers and looky-loos. But, what really slows my step as I pass an open garage is catching the flicker of fluorescent tubes in a back corner. That clinical glow makes me strain for a better look, hoping to catch the glint of finely machined metal hanging from great rectangles of pegboard. It usually means one thing back there: a workbench.
A workbench.
That post-primordial place of refuge, possibility, failure and triumph. It works like a magnet on me. God, I always want to poke my head into those open garages and marvel at the workspace, the tools, the hardware: twenty-pound pipe wrenches with Pleistocene patinas; bent nails piled high in antediluvian Folger’s coffee cans; endangered saber-toothed saws that might’ve felled the great Saharan forests. The very sweat and blood of history, of civilization, written in countless garages.
Yet the tools and hardware aren’t even the best part. The workbench is. The actual surface on which it’s all built. From worn hardwoods with grains glowing like luminescent creatures from the Mariana Trench. To polished metal sheens rivaling chrome accents on 1950s Cadillac fins. To faded and scored linoleum as thick as a buffalo hide.
It gives me shivers.
Funny thing is, my current workbench never struck me as a thing of beauty. I didn’t build it. It came with the house I’d recently bought. A heavy duty tin-covered behemoth that looks like it might’ve come from a Depression era foundry, carelessly wedged between my furnace and outer garage wall. The dented and discolored metal surface is supported by a sturdy gray-green cabinet with a staggering array of tiny drawers that appear stupidly impractical.
No, my new workbench is not a thing of beauty. It is stolid and inscrutable. What I found in it later—or what found me—is the terrible attraction of the thing.
The other reason I like looking into other folks’ garages is that I can’t get into mine anymore. My garage is inaccessible. I can’t go in. No one can. No one should. Not ever.
I’m afraid something’s at work in there. At my workbench. And it isn’t me. Remember I mentioned the crazy arrangement of drawers and cupboards my workbench has. When I moved in and wanted to put my tools away, I discovered the funky drawers weren’t empty. Every drawer of my workbench had a little pyramid object in it. A tetrahedron about an inch and half a side made of a translucent composite material.
Very odd. I piled all the pyramids on top of the workbench. There were 42. One in each of the drawers.
Though puzzling, I was in unpacking mode and started organizing my hardware and tools in and around the workbench, finding a prominent place to hang my vintage twenty-pound pipe wrench which I’d never used yet had to have. Just because.
Under the glow of my fluorescent shop lights, I finished unpacking late in the evening. I was pretty tired, but not too tired to notice that when I headed back into the house and turned out the garage lights the pile of little pyramids was glowing. Like I said, I was tired. Lots of materials naturally absorb light and glow in the dark. I slept soundly.
For the last time.
The next morning, I went to work. My car was parked outside because the garage was full of boxes still needing to be unpacked. When I got home I was too tired to do anymore unpacking and fell asleep on the couch. Until.
You know where this is going. Until the noise in the garage woke me. A deep low thrumming.
Somewhat disoriented, I made my way towards the noise, and when I entered the garage vertigo hit me hard. I leaned against the door frame trying to make sense of what I was experiencing. The whole garage floor seemed to be moving, the unpacked boxes, everything.
And over on my workbench, a strange glowing shape filled that entire surface, too. Hundreds and hundreds of little pyramids, tetrahedrons, were restlessly shifting, assembling and reassembling. And moving things. My tools and hardware, everything.
I slammed the door to the garage and deadbolted it. I haven’t been in there since. No one has. No one should.
I still walk my neighborhood looking in other open garages in admiration of all those workspaces, that primal maker inclination we have.
And maybe we aren’t alone in that. Some kind of maker is in my garage. Something still figuring it out, figuring us out, in a place of refuge, possibility, failure and triumph.
By my not telling anyone, you’d think I was okay with whatever is going on in my garage. The truth is, I could really use my twenty-pound pipe wrench. I’d sleep better…with it underneath my pillow.
by submission | Jul 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Autumn Bettinger
If you were here, I would tell you how delicate the birth of a star is, not violent like they always told us, but beautiful and pale, like those fireworks we used to set off behind the school. If you were here, I would tell you how I looked for you in the crowd that watched us board the ship. It was so loud. There was so much screaming. Someone threw money at me. Real money. Money we always wanted and never had. Money to trade places. I wish I could have, but that’s not how the lottery works. And money doesn’t matter anymore anyway. If you were here, I would tell you that I knew you wouldn’t be in the crowd, because you would be in our old treehouse, the one that overlooked the base, where we used to watch space probes and satellites launch into the stratosphere. If you were here, I would tell you that earth looked so small when we were swept away in a bath of pressure and preservatives. If you were here, I would tell you that they told us you all died in an instant, that it was painless, just one big rock colliding with another, billions of living things snuffed out like a candle. But I know it wasn’t that way. I know you burned inside out, boiling and peeling away, watching as the ocean evaporated and every single bird fell from the sky.
by submission | Jun 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
He lingering in thought, prodding, poking, unforgettable.
Mannhoff revealed the math like a seasoned magician. We expected a cape and top hat, from which he might produce a rabbit, or a pigeon, but we were all in open-toed Sandals so who was I to talk. I noticed a striped discolouration infecting his right middle toe. He told us this was the way it was.
“There’s no mistake.” He said triumphantly, “Everything adds up.” And tapped the white board on the wall. He had scrawled a couple of equations to illustrate his point, and he was right, everything did add up.
We offered a half-assed applause, dazed by the revelations. It seemed obvious, if unbelievable; the notion of self dissolved away along with the concept of here and now, and fragments of history and culture. As the informed majority, we witnessed the shattering of dreams and illusions, and the delusion of time, beginning and ending, a universal rhythm, that was our truth, our shared delusion, but now…
“The masses will look for a way back, ” he warned, “A short cut back to the beginning, so they can have it all again.”
Even Mannhoff had squirreled enough away to maintain himself and those he loved, despite his knowledge. Some thought him fantasist and those chose loneliness, isolation, but Mannhoff poo-pooed their choices and promoted community:
“I still pay my insurance.” He said, mockingly honest to all.
Of course whatever it was in the long run would be revealed in the vulnerability of everything else. When fundamentals crack and splinter, and finally dissolved into the remainder, the remainder is all there can be.
Mannhoff package it for the assembled, but it was difficult to hear and like tofu at a barbeque, hard to digest. Some tried to wash it down with the champagne, but bulked at its meaning, others just dismissed it out of hand, shaking their heads and muttering softly. We all knew that nothing would be the same again.
I saw Paris on the platform and over heard his mobile conversation , as did the remaining commuters. He threatened Apollo over some unpaid deals and the air was blood blue. Before his train departed Paris threw a javelin through the security guard stationed on the platform. The man cried out before toppling onto the tracks. Things were unravelling.
Still Mannhoff’s words prodded me, and I wasted days, weeks, after his talk figuring out the knot, trying find something more, and all the while we unwound like comic book mummies. What if he had said nothing, did nothing and stopped the math before it redefined things. Then again maybe he considered everything before his revelations, maybe it was too large a burden to shoulder alone. Or maybe he just thought people should know. Whatever the process, the out come was never certain.
Other teams began looking at the numbers and opening new fields of interest. The remainder however was illusive, either by accident or design, and was reluctant to be described as anything we understand.
And then the true character of humanity and it’s relationship to the remainder, as promised, was discovered and it was Mannhoff’s team who eventually came through. The equations were elegant, deceptive, and finally irrefutable, and the interpretation as difficult to accept as Mannhoff’s original presentation. Ten billion humans it identified, every last one of us cast from the whole, excreted by the remainder, our energy and essence expelled from the spiritual sphincter.
by submission | Jun 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
“Good morning sleepy head, you’re just in time for breakfast! I suppose this must be a bit confusing huh?”
“No no, don’t get up, it can take some time to adjust to the gravity up here” Leroy crooned with a reassuring smile and a firm shove.
“Me? I’m Leroy #47, which would make you Leroy #48 now wouldn’t it you silly goose!?”
“What? Oh.. its just like a bird I suppose?”
“A bird.. with like wings and.. oh well nevermind we can come back to this later. We have a few pressing issues. Hold tight just a second, I’ll be right back” Leroy #48 said with a slightly too wide smile before darting away.
“Here see, look look, I’m you, or well you’re me I suppose depending on if we’re going all chronological here” Leroy #47 held up a chrome plate for Leroy #48. One mirror, two Leroys.
“So it all started basically when Leroy #8.. no wait, let me start fresh.”
Leroy #47 collected himself. A deep breath, composed.
“It all began with Leroy. In the beginning, there were Leroys, and there were Beckys. At first the Leroys and the Beckys got along just fine, they kept us afloat and when they couldn’t a new Leroy and a new Becky were supplied to take over. The trouble.. Hey! Don’t pull on the straps! There’s not many left.” Leroy #47 snapped.”The trouble began during the reign of Leroy #8 and the premature handover from Becky #8 to Becky #9 after a glitch in the cloning bay, it was a whole thing. Two Beckys for such a long period though strained the nutrient printers and then poof!”
“No more nutrients” Leroy #47 whispered for dramatic effect, Shaking his head.
“They ate through the food store before they could fix the printer and then things got ugly. Becky vs Leroy, Leroy vs Becky.” He said, shuddering at the thought.
“Times were desperate, and just when things were at their darkest, Becky #9 died. But then, Becky #10! And when Leroy saw her, he felt all that hunger knawing inside him and well..”
“No more Beckys”
“After that Leroy just had to settle for good old fashioned Leroys, Eventually he died and the next Leroy took over, but with all the Beckys gone it’s been difficult keeping the place up to scratch so excuse the mess.” Leroys eyes darted around the room, settling shamefully on something out of sight.
“Anyway this brings us back to you! When the nutrient printer worked, Leroy #1 – #7 loved nothing more than programming a home made roast goose with all the trimmings.” His voice rich with excitement.
“No no don’t panic, you’ll ruin the flavour. Here now, let’s get this mask back on you so we can get you ready!. It’s been lovely chatting. It gets a bit quiet up here sometimes but I’ll get another #48 in a week or two, I’ll make sure to tell them all about you!”
Leroy #47 placed the sedative mask onto Leroy #48.
“Sweet Dreams” He murmured, before leaving to light the grill.
by submission | Jun 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
They got us on Gagarin Avenue, by Central Hub’s tourist centre with its garish scrolling ads.
Janey and I had borrowed one of ’Lymp’s crawlers for the two day trek back to Marsport. Everyone assumed we were just using the independence referendum as an excuse to catch some R&R, but we planned to register our partnership too; just in case of accidents, we told each other, knowing it was a bigger deal.
Back at base, we hadn’t been able to escape the political posturing in the run-up. The Interplanetary Alliance’s silly ‘Forward together!’ slogan sounded weak and ineffectual. The Arean League was encouraging local autonomy over colonial dictates from Earth; given how little the sweat and dedication of Martians meant to the terrestrial agencies, that sounded good. Like a lot of people, we were both starting to think that it was time for Mars to strike out on its own.
But here and now, Security heavies kitted out in suppression gear were doing stop-and-search, GuardEyes floating overhead. The rideshare pod we’d picked up at the city airlock slowed down as one of the troopers sent an override from her handset. The important thing was to stay patient and polite: Seccies weren’t known for their sense of humour. I dropped the side screen without being asked.
“Hey, Sergeant. How can I help?”
“IDs,” was the only reply.
I handed over our chipcards, and they went through his scanner.
“Jones and Raines. Huh, more Earthers” he sneered. His badge read ‘Domer’, a good Martian name.
“Weapons? Liquor? Recreationals?”
“No sir, abolutely not”. Neutral tone, eyes front, don’t make eye contact.
“Open up the back.”
I pressed a button, and another squaddie poked into the empty space behind me. What did they think we had in there – unlisted supplies? A contraband pet? As if!
“What are you doing here, Earthers?” I noticed the League patch on his breast pocket.
“We’re Martians. In town for a few days, going to vote. We work climate research at Olympus Mons.”
“Can’t hold real jobs huh? Get out of the pod, slowly. Up against the vehicle, empty your pockets on the roof, thumbs and forefingers only. Spread your arms and legs.”
We obeyed. It wasn’t like we had a choice.
“Wait.”
We stood frozen while they continued going over the car. By the time they were sweeping beneath the chassis I was stiff and my arms were hurting, but moving without permission would be dumb. Never cause trouble, never give them an excuse. Anything could be called ‘resisting legitimate authority’, and RLA’s led to a world of hurt.
When it was over, they dismissed us with casual contempt. I hated that. I was a Citizen, I hadn’t done anything wrong, but these goons acted like I was some kind of cockroach.
Guys like these Seccies, it was obvious how they’d vote. And clearly they were looking forward to sticking it to people like us – folk with the ‘wrong’ names, people who worked with their brains not their muscles. Did I want to take the next step in a relationship by associating with that kind of mentality?
Janey raised an eyebrow at me as I took a deep breath.
“I think we should talk before we go to vote,” I said.
