by submission | Feb 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Sophie Carrillo
My name is Leichenhund.
I was not born like other rat terriers. I was created by a troubled German girl named Heidi. She was a brilliant student at Leipzig University. Her old hund, Hanso, passed away under terrible circumstances. With her science degree and big brain, she snuck into the pet cemetery under the cover of night and began to dig. I am comprised of many hunds. I hear them in my head. When I opened mine eyes, when I felt mine heartbeat in my chest. It was wonderful. I had never known life. It’s beautiful. For the first few days, life was perfect. I finally had someone to take care of and someone to love me. I felt like I had zweck, purpose. Heidi made me extraordinary. I could understand spoken sentences and commands in German, English, French, and even Polish. I could read and almost write. The people of Germany were ecstatic. People recognized us everywhere Heidi and I went. Civilians wanted pictures and questions answered. Eventually, Heidi grew overwhelmed with the attention taken away from her work, so she started leaving me at home. A few hours went by like ten years. I watched every V.H.S. tape in the attic. I practiced mine watercolors. And even took a nap. Then I was digging through a bin and found a bright red box. In gold letters, it read Zauberset für Anfänger. A magic kit for beginners? I hadn’t tried that yet! Over the next week, I practiced and researched and practiced some more. I felt such a strong connection to this hobby. I then discovered its ability to entertain an audience. The next day, I went to show Heidi my discovery. Into her lab I went, only to find her on the floor, foaming at the mouth. So I left.
I was on the next flight to Las Vegas in the Americas. It was harder to get on the airplane than expected, but I managed. In Las Vegas, I went to a few agencies to begin entertaining. I found an agent! That very evening I began rehearsals. The time finally came. I was on the big stage with mine sparkly cape and magic stick. The peoples of the crowd cheered and smiled. I hadn’t felt this fulfilled since electricity first hit my chest. But something happened. My grand finale. That was when everything fell apart. Just as I was to reveal my rabbit friend, someone collapsed on the floor and shook violently. I tried to rush to them. Bright lights flashed in the distance, growing closer. Paramedics wrapped that poor human in grey sheets and took them away. I never finished my performance. People shuffled out of the building murmuring things like “Well that’s Vegas for ya.” I didn’t perform again until a week later.
It happened again. During the finale. I thought I had worked it out. A civilian’s heart stopped at my show. That was only the beginning. During every show after that, an audience member spontaneously lost their life. What is going on!? I should have never gone. I should have stayed in Germany. Then none of this would have happened. Show after show. One person perished unexpectedly. But I kept going. I was sitting in mine dressing room, staring in the mirror, when my manager came in. “Facetime”, she said, “Someone named Heidi,” I answered immediately. I was so excited. She just said these words and then hung up:
“Komm nach Hause, bevor ich anfange, etwas viel, viel Schlimmeres zu tun.…”
Come home, before I start doing something much, much worse…
by submission | Feb 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
I want the best for my wife. Of course I do. And what Doctor Singh suggested wouldn’t have been possible even a few years ago; a generation ago, it would have been utterly unthinkable. It’s expensive, but I’ve always said that I’d do anything for my darling – and curing her blindness would be a dream come true. We’ll find a way to pay the bills, however difficult that might be.
People always ask how we manage, usually meaning that they want to know how I manage, and not just financially. In truth, it’s less trying than they imagine. Lois has always been independent, and determined, two of the qualities that attracted me to her in the first place. Losing her sight as a child must have been terrible; her mother told me that it was a difficult time, but that she became both resilient and more or less reconciled to her condition. Since this opportunity came our way, though, her face has lit up every time we’ve talked about it; seeing that, I can’t let her down, whatever the cost.
Normally a pair of biorobotic eyes wouldn’t have been affordable at all for people like us; we’re not super-rich, more like on the fringes of being moderately well off. But Doctor Singh had worked with some people at Eyesomere Inc. before, and convinced them to cut us a deal – we get a much reduced price, and in return we agree to let them download recordings of whatever the new eyes see, for the next twenty years. There’s even a privacy app to switch the recording function off for 30 minutes, which can be used twice a day. It’s still invasive, but after some thought, we said yes.
Now I’m sitting in a comfortable waiting room as they perform the procedure. They claim it’s perfectly safe, almost routine, but that doesn’t make me any less nervous. There’s always that chance, no matter how small, that something will go wrong. But when Lois and I talked it over, we agreed that it’s a risk we were willing to take, so here we are.
She’s always had a habit of running her hands over my face and calling me handsome, which I am not, but it makes me smile every time. I hope that when she can see me, she will still think it’s true. She is beautiful, although I don’t think she believes me when I tell her that. Why should she, when she can’t look in a mirror? But it’s not just flattery; she could have her pick of the menfolk. Now I worry that when she realises, she’ll go looking for some better looking guy; I’m probably more scared of that than of the operation itself.
So I guess this is a wake up call for me, too – it’s time to do better, and be better, if I want her to stay with me. Wish us luck; for different reasons, we’re both going to need it.
by submission | Feb 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Director Prime, we’re so pleased you have a few moments to chat with us before the premiere of your latest production. We hear it’s a new type of performance piece.”
“All art is performative. It must be experienced.”
“So what are we to experience?”
“A cataclysmic interstellar drama in three acts.”
“Rather a standard form for Global Theater. Not exactly a signature work.”
“This drama will play out in real time. On a real world.”
“I see. That is a fresh twist. Will you walk us through the plot.”
“In Act I we zoom in on a somewhat primitive planet limping from crisis to crisis. The kind of things we often see in the galaxy’s Third Worlds: famine, war, civil strife, etc. Emissaries are dispatched to offer aid and comfort as well as entry into our Greater Solar Alliance, but as our open-minded delegates bring hope to the ever-bickering indigenous populace, we’ve inserted a radical Nativist stowaway planning to detonate a quantum planet-buster.”
“Pardon, Director Prime, but so far this sounds like very typical Global Theater fare.”
“Except it is actually going to happen. As we speak, the cast are already arriving in-system light years away without the knowledge that they are carrying a very real and determined suicide bomber with an armed planet-buster bomb. In a few moments, when the performance goes live to our Solar Alliance audience, the clock will start its cataclysmic countdown. Our audience will quickly understand what is at stake. But our cast will not. Do you see, do you feel, the brilliant enormity of it?”
“I dread it.”
“Exactly. Of the three fears–dread, terror, horror–dread is the strongest. The unrevealed, the unknown, creates in one’s mind endless and awful possibilities. Dread is gut wrenching. And it leads us to Act II where our players discover the Nativist threat and terror takes hold. Panic on the planet ensues and our players struggle to defeat the Nativist who seeks an end to galactic expansion and inter-species integration. All the while, what little time they have ticks relentlessly away. Annihilation appears inevitable, escape impossible.”
“It sounds monstrous, Director Prime. How can you countenance inflicting this kind of terror on your cast and an unsuspecting planet of fellow sentients?”
“Art. Art is the soul. The soul is art. Act III reveals that very clearly. Our players finally understand that they are not in a drama, that this is real and that their lives are in peril, that the lives of all the primitives on the planet are also in jeopardy. They face a stark choice. They must act, not as actors, but as heroes. Or they flee, abandoning the hapless planet’s populace to certain destruction. We will not know the outcome until the final seconds play out. Never before has there been a production like it.”
“But that is unconscionable. You’re saying that a few light years away this perverse performance is actually beginning? That this atrocity will play out as spectacle over the entire galaxy and there will be no way to stop it? It is monstrous. No one will accept it.”
“An unsurprisingly narrow view for a critic. You see, true ground-breaking artists are never responsible for the audience experiencing a happy ending. Especially those shit-hole Earthlings.”
by submission | Feb 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jenny Abbott
I hear there’s a new guy that calls himself “The Automatic Chicken”. Some twenty-something from Jersey, probably, with more wetware than sense and the unfortunate habit of looking for career opportunities on Craigslist. Most of the new contractors are like that anymore—too reckless or inexperienced to take the job seriously. I’d bet my next paycheck he hasn’t even been out of the suburbs for eight years. I’ve got nerve grafts twice as old as that, for crying out loud.
He’ll last about six months. Four if nobody warned him about the side effects of the anti-Parkinson’s drugs that come with the job.
It’s a shame, really, that more of the old guard is starting to talk about retirement. It’s hard to believe that two months ago, they were bragging about shrapnel wounds, and now they’re shopping around for warmer climates. Honestly, I don’t see the appeal of it. I’d rather be protecting and serving the public than sitting around in Cleveland, waiting to see what I burn through faster, my savings or my replacement cartilage.
Two more years, or a few more retirement announcements, and I’ll be the highest-ranking OD contractor on the West Coast. Budget cuts notwithstanding, though, it would be nice to have the salary to match that, given that tenure’s been hard-won. When the helmet comes off on the job, not everyone’s keen on being reminded that their team lead is female, and, at forty-six, still better hardwired than them.
But yeah, this old-timer isn’t going anywhere. By next spring, when “The Automatic Chicken” is seriously rethinking his career choices, I’ll still be in ordnance disposal and working my way closer to a Captain’s rank. I almost feel sorry for the guy. At least, somebody should fill him in better on the specific occupational hazards that come with the territory. It’s hard to get too attached to your nervous system when it’s overhauled biannually.
by submission | Feb 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Cleber Pacheco
Somewhere, in the future
It took a long time for me to find the library. It was necessary to cross the destroyed city and part of the forest. There were dangerous animals and traps. Twice I nearly died.
In fact, it was not a legend. The library exists. It is an ancient monastery occupied now by countless books. The architecture is a masterpiece, full of ingenuity and beauty. Seven giant towers guarding the greatest treasure of humanity. Seven guardians watch over each one. Guards everywhere. Inside, librarians and copyists monks.
When I arrived, I thought of becoming a guard. After all, I could survive in this chaos. I’m young, tall, strong, and always liked challenges. But the monks told me that they were in need of copyists. There were few, and some were already sick or blind. At first, I rejected the idea. Eventually, I accepted their proposal, and after twenty years of preparation, I became one of them. Made sacred vows and wore the black cloak.
Contact with the books was a slow revelation. I could never imagine something like that. Paper is considered precious here as much as the inks. The books are huge and heavy and every page is a work of art. And all considered important are carefully kept on the shelves.
It is very difficult to choose which of the works performed by the monks is the best. All are exquisite and fascinating. But one in particular has become my obsession. For being one copy only, was easier to receive approval to copy it.
Exultant, I chose to use letters in Gothic style. I made several attempts. Failed every time. It seemed impossible to repeat such mastery. Only then did I understand why no one had tried it before.
I felt myself a loser. I was hopelessly lost.
Nightmares were torturing my nights.
Fear and anguish have taken me.
I felt anger and hatred for the book. I wanted to destroy it, but love won. I opened it and was enthralled by endless hours. It had an irresistible spell.
Now they are chasing me through the forest. There is a high probability that I will be killed. Before that happens, I stop and behold the book once again.
Shakespeare was right:
“And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.”
