by submission | Sep 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jaime K Devine
How long has it been November 15th? I’ve pulled this same picture of a hamster on a running wheel off the One-A-Day Cute Animals calendar for at least a week now. I feel like I’m losing it, so I call my sister.
“Yesterday was November 15th, right?”
“No, today is November 15th.”
“Yeah, I know that today is November 15th, but yesterday was November 15th too.”
“… I think this is just post-partum brain fog.”
My toddler comes running into the room with a poopy diaper.
“I’m sorry, I gotta go.”
Every day, it’s the same. I wake up at 5:47 when my 4-month-old cries. I check the calendar. Hamster on a wheel. I text my friends, “How long has it been November 15th?”
“You’re just tired”, they tell me. I try calling my husband; he’s on a work trip in Japan. No matter when I call, he’s either in a meeting, asleep, or just ignoring me. I check the internet—- well, I try to check the internet. The baby cries; my 2-year-old tugs at my shirt; the baby poops; the toddler poops. I need to poop. The toddler insists on coming with me into the bathroom. No matter how long I am stuck in November 15th, I can’t find anyone else who remembers.
I’m trapped in November 15th alone. 5:47, wake up, settle the baby, try to get back to sleep. The toddler crawls into my bed and kicks my face. The kids are hungry. I hold the 4-month-old to my breast while I try to keep my 2-year-old from spilling cereal everywhere. They are too young to even pay attention to the tv. Too cold for the playground. The toddler won’t nap. The baby has colic.
I just need one day away. I call my sister, “Can you watch the kids?” No, she lives six hours away. I call every babysitter in town. It’s too short notice, maybe tomorrow. I try giving the kids cold medicine so that they will sleep. It makes the baby sick; I spend the rest of the day cleaning up vomit. I take the kids to the fire station. I put the carrier down and I tell my toddler to sit. I run away. The kids scream. Firefighters catch me. I spend the rest of the day with child services. Post-partum depression, they say. They set up an appointment… for next Thursday.
I tear the hamster off the calendar again and collapse to the floor. I just need one day in this endless time loop when I don’t have to wipe anyone else’s butt. When I don’t have a toothless human gnawing on my nipple. When I don’t have to build any block towers. I need just one day off. Just one.
I fill up the bathtub. I put the 4-month-old in first. I have to hold down the toddler. Just one day, I cry. The kids go silent. I go to my bedroom and sleep. I eat lunch alone at a restaurant. I get a beer. I binge watch reality tv. I cry all day.
5:46. I wake up to blood-curdling screams like I’ve never heard before. I run to the baby’s room. He’s thrashing and shrieking. He screams louder when I reach for him. He bats at me. I back away and go to check on the toddler. She’s sobbing under her covers. I pull back the blanket.
“NO!” She shouts in her limited vocabulary. “No! No bath!”
That’s when I realize that I’m not trapped alone in November 15th. My children remember. They will always remember.
by submission | Sep 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bill Cox
I’m making this recording standing on the cliffs at Troup Head on the Moray coast of Scotland. This used to be one of my favourite places. It’s famous for the seabird colonies that nest here, Gannets, Guillemots and Razorbills creating raucous seasonal cities on sheer faces of rock.
I especially liked coming here at sunset, on evenings like this, to watch a golden sun sink below the watery horizon, ornamenting the sky in ever-changing hues of oranges, reds, purples and pinks. I’m watching the sunset now, my rational mind telling me that the elements of beauty are still there – the vibrant colours, the crashing of the waves, the natural setting – but inside I feel nothing.
Of course, I’m not alone in that regard. I’ve heard plenty of other people say the same thing, read all the internet think-pieces, the blogs and scientific journals, seen the statistics for the soaring suicide rates. Like you, I know exactly when beauty was taken out of my life. Four months ago, on a Tuesday, at 1143 am.
I remember where I was at the time – who doesn’t? It’s the ultimate ‘where were you when’ moment. I was in a sandwich shop downtown, waiting in a queue, when they arrived.
The invasion of Earth lasted 15 seconds. Enough time to look puzzled and ask ‘what’s happening?’ They were everywhere at once. There was no spirited resistance, no plucky Earthmen facing down the alien menace, no nukes launched by embattled Presidents. The technological gulf was simply too large for us to do anything other than stand helplessly, mouths open slack-jawed.
The alien occupation lasted sixty minutes. Like you, I’ve only dream-like memories from that hour. I remember being aware of their presence beside me, of shapes and colours and sounds I’ve no words for. Like you, that hour ended for me with a profound sense of loss. Then they were gone, leaving only a message behind, copied onto every computer on the planet.
It took months to decode it, chunks being released to the public as our best and brightest deciphered them. At first, there was widespread jubilation. They’d left us details of cures for almost all human diseases, which promised to usher in an unprecedented era of health and longevity for all mankind.
Then the other shoe dropped. The final part of their message talked about having taken something from every human being in return. Inside each of us had been a microscopic sliver of dark matter, the substance they used to power their machines and great engines. The aliens treated us like crops of wheat and barley. They harvested us.
Biologists and physicists were puzzled. However, as reports of accelerating epidemics of depression, mental health crises, loss of faith, loss of identity, all came to light, a startling conclusion was reached.
They’d taken our souls.
I used to be an artist. I loved to draw. Now, my sense of beauty, of awe, of transcendence, it’s all gone. Mechanically, I can still put pencil to paper, but the drive, the desire, the satisfaction have all vanished. I feel hollow inside, a shell without any substance.
I stand here on these cliffs, aware that, barring misfortune, I could live a long, healthy life. It means nothing to me. All I feel is emptiness inside. So, I’m deciding whether to jump now. If I do, I’ll leave this recording here, to explain why.
It’s a long way down, but inside, I feel that I’ve already fallen so far, into a deeper despair than I could ever have imagined.
What’s a little further?
by submission | Sep 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Schmidt
Joshua burst awake, a dislocated memory of laughter and candlelight tapering into the ether. That same synthetic voice buzzed in his ear. His contact companion, installed at his ocular barrier, always had a habit of waking him abruptly.
“Rise and shine, Joshua! It’s a fantastic day.”
Joshua gritted his teeth, groggily slipping on yesterday’s shirt and shuffled out towards his larger-than-life floor display. His home responded to his movements, gradually illuminating with every step. Something on the display caught his eye. A curious pop-up right in the middle of the global news feed.
“It’s finally here. Humanity’s triumph over time itself.” The synthetic voice had an uncanny way of detecting interest.
The pop-up was all too clear. It screamed, “Aging-Defunct, the Fountain of Forever Youth!”
“Now what the hell is this?” Joshua squinted at the new arrival.
“Based on your marginally positive interaction with the newsfeed,” the voice persevered, “I have completed your online purchase for Aging-Defunct. Delivery estimated next week.”
Frustratingly, Joshua made his coffee in silence. Sipping, he reread the exuberant pop-up. Freedom from the cycle of life and death. An invention that defies human nature itself. Too cryptic to be reliable, too authoritative to dismiss.
Over the next week, Joshua’s curiosity became a slow-burning anticipation. By the time the looming package sat in his living room, he was almost eager.
“And what exactly did I just sign for?” Joshua asked suspiciously, staring at a seemingly ordinary syringe.
“It’s your Aging-Defunct,” the voice chimed cheerfully.
“What, this needle?”
“Indeed. A simple injection to hinder your internal epigenetic clocks. You’ll never age another day, guaranteed.”
Joshua eyed the syringe, thoughts spinning. The weight of immortality resting in a cheap plastic casing.
It took three days of internal debates, scouring articles, and calling family members before finally, Joshua sighed.
“Alright.” The syringe pierced his skin. He waited.
For anything. A shiver. A sudden epiphany. Anything at all.
“You may not feel it, even for weeks,” the voice soothed. “But rest assured, Joshua, your transactional history would suggest you’ve made the best investment of your life.”
And with that cheerful note, Joshua started his first day as an immortal. His first day staring at an endless future, with no defined ending in sight. Little did he know; forever might not be as rosy as it sounds. Behind those endless tomorrows, lay the true test of Humanity’s triumph: the grim reality of outlasting time.
by submission | Sep 20, 2023 | Story |
Author: Allie Nava
They say your life flashes before you as you fold into the arms of death, and perhaps that is what happened to me when I lost those eight minutes and twenty seconds.
I was a child peddling gleeful “whee’s” on a red bicycle, over a calming ocean of green hillocks. I was an adolescent pulling weeds, while inhaling rose and tangerine under a relentless yellow sun. I was a violinist sipping scalding tomato soup, alone, amidst a sea of fellow musicians taking their rehearsal breaks. That is, until someone pointed to the distant mountaintops and asked why I too was not heading in that direction.
I was an adolescent that packed my gear and walked in stride for years. I stumbled now and then, as if in a child’s jump rope game that had aimed to trip me. But I found my footing and reached the apex, even before some of the other mountaineers. I lived there many years and became productive, and a family grew before my eyes. But soon my hair turned gray and betrayed me, without remorse.
I was an adult who bid farewell and climbed down from the mountaintop and arrived to a reflecting pond at the foot of the hills. I imbibed sweet jasmine from flowering bushes. I held golden wheat berries past their harvest. I wondered what had happened to my violin and my garden and my bicycle.
I sat down and closed my eyes and drew my breath. I lost all sensation in my extremities, and I floated on the clouds, my body above the ocean. I had returned home to my intended destination, but wondered why I had walked so far away only to return to the path I knew was true.
Now it didn’t matter. My last eight minutes and twenty seconds were up, and so were everyone else’s. The whole planet had gone dark. We had lost our sun. It had taken eight minutes and twenty seconds for us to realize – the time it took for light to travel to our planet. And within a few days the temperatures were going to drop precipitously, and few humans would survive.
by submission | Sep 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jackson Lanzer
“Do you ever just want to feel sad?” A young woman said, looking into the eyes of a young man.
“Sometimes it’s all I want to feel,” he responded. “Sometimes sadness is even sweeter than the purest joy.”
The man and woman strolled up to a ticket office. Their faces were illuminated by the glowing words of a marquee: “Cinema Memory.”
“Two tickets, please.”
“Same memory as last week?” The box office attendant asked.
“Yes, sir.”
The attendant handed them their tickets.
“Screen 5. And no need for a brain scan. We’ve got the memory recorded now.”
“Do you do that for all the regulars?” The woman asked.
“Not usually. But you two watch the same memory every week. We figured it’s the least we could do.”
As the man and woman walked through the theater doors, the woman turned her head and gazed into the man’s eyes.
“Are you okay?” She said.
“I’m surviving,” he responded, his eyes bloodshot and tear-stained. “I’ve been counting down the days to feel again.”
“Me too.”
The man and woman opened the door to screen 5. Silver light illuminated the room, and they sat in the back row next to each other. Every other seat was empty.
Their final moment as a couple flickered before their eyes.
“How’d it come to this,” the young woman whispered between bites of popcorn.
“Life, I guess,” the man responded.
She reached for his hand, and they embraced each other while, on the screen, the young man screamed at the young woman.
“Remember Prague?” The woman asked, looking away from the film.
“Of course. I fell for you that day.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand.
On the screen, the woman slammed the front door and marched away from the man’s house.
The film cut to the man standing at the window, watching the woman drive away. “Time in a Bottle” played over the speakers, and tears began streaming down the face of the technicolor man.
“Our favorite song,” she said.
“Our song,” he agreed with a lone tear slipping from his eye. “I usually can’t listen to it. Too many memories.”
“That’s exactly why I listen to it. When it’s playing, I almost feel like I’m getting to be us one more time.”
The man on the screen turned from the window, grabbed a half-empty bottle of wine, and walked out of frame. The screen faded to black, and the credits began to roll.
The man and woman stood from their seats.
“It was nice seeing you.”
“You too.”
“Are we still on for the same time next week?”
“Sounds lovely.”
The man waved at the woman and began walking away. He stopped for a brief moment and looked back.
“I loved you.”
“I loved you too.”
