by submission | Apr 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: Condallas Snokoanovich
I lie awake in the darkness, staring at an exceptionally clear star-filled sky. Two moons in crescent phase are peering from the horizon like the eyes of a black cat watching from the distance.
The quietness around me would have been comforting in my past life, but now it only serves as a sad reminder that I am alone.
My mind wanders back to another evening in my recent past when I gazed upon a similar starlit night from the deck of my small yacht as it rested upon calm waters. On that night, I was viewing a sky that is now light years away. The constellations of Earth were so familiar at that time. The night skies were comforting for me as they provided a sense of direction, guidance, and orientation on my home planet. Now, I look upon a very strange landscape. I find myself observing from an unfamiliar perspective at a distant constellation that looks like the Milky Way galaxy; and, somewhere in that vast cluster of just under 4,000 solar systems lies my home.
*****
My voyage that night was meant only to serve as a temporary means of escape. My short trek was meant only as a brief diversion from an unsatisfying job and a perceived loveless personal life. The water usually had a calming effect on my otherwise troubled and chaotic existence. Unfortunately, I had no idea how my desire for temporary solitude would lead to a more permanent set of circumstances.
“Why don’t you ever talk to me?” She pleaded. “You spend more time with that damn boat than with your own family!”
“Get off my back!” I yelled. “I am so tired of your constant bitching!”
I walked out and slammed the door. Little did I realize that it would be the last time I would have words with her. Or anyone. The boat motor came to life and guided my trusty vessel toward a quiet spot. The water was like glass and, arriving at a familiar cove, I dropped anchor. Laying on the deck gazing at the stars for several minutes, my eyelids grew heavy, and my weary body went below deck to get rest.
Violent shaking of the boat and a rush of water entering the cabin interrupted my peaceful sleep. The watercraft started to rip apart before my eyes, and my hands clutched anything that could float. The night was extremely bright as I held on to the floating remnants of my vessel, and I now peered at two full moons lighting the water. I could see the outline of shoreline near as I swam alone in the dark. Was it a wormhole? A temporal disturbance? A parallel universe?
*****
Tonight, all I have is the quiet. I long for another voice. Any voice. There are days that I would give my final breath for just one more conversation with wife my family. A heated conflict with her would be a welcome occurrence, like an interlude with an old lost love. Melancholy consumes me as I find myself forgetting the common hallmarks of a civilized world. I struggle to remember my daughter’s voice, the view from our backyard, or the even the smell of exhaust in heavy traffic.
Given the placement of the stars, I view my home from a planet somewhere in Andromeda. Looking at the sky, I dream that one day I can eventually reunite with my home and family. Somewhere above me in the Milky Way galaxy lies a planet called Earth, and I hope for a miracle that someday allows me to return.
by submission | Apr 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Melissa Kobrin
Dear Kayley,
I have no idea when you’ll read this. I guess it depends on what planets your parents decide to trade with before coming back to Provident. But I need to vent to someone, and you’re the only one I can talk to about this. Just please try to be sympathetic okay? Here’s the big news: Ben broke up with me. It was so stupid. HE’S so stupid! It was during lunch today, and I had to pretend to be fine until school let out. He gave me some lame speech about how I deserved better than him, but I know it was really because I have some pimples. Which happens to LITERALLY EVERYONE. But he can’t look up whether I’ll be hot soon, and he doesn’t want to risk having an ugly girlfriend. He’s such a shallow jerk. I’m honestly glad that I’m not dating him anymore. It was creepy how much he bragged to his friends about me being ‘one of a kind’. I mean, I know I told you it was sweet, but now I know how completely egotistical he is. I can’t talk to anyone here about it, though. It’s too poor little rich girl. My parents are so awesome that the Council let them have me naturally and I should be so honored to be an Original and not a clone like everyone else. I’m so special my boyfriend just broke up with me and I’m going to die alone. Bethany was trying to cheer me up earlier, and I wanted to scream. You remember her from when we all hung out last time you were here? Her template was some pop star from Old Earth, and she’s pretty now and everyone knows she’s going to be gorgeous when she grows up. Plus she can sing. Everyone wants to go out with her. I know you think our whole system is stupid though, so I can complain to you. I just wish I could meet a cute guy who doesn’t wonder if I’ll get Alzheimer’s when we’re like eighty and he’ll have to take care of me. What’s it like out there on whole planets full of Originals? Can you bring some back for me? I hope you’re doing better than I am right now. Send me cute pictures of your cats. I need French Fry and Gizmo adorableness while I rage watch TV and eat ice cream. I miss you, try to convince your parents to come back to Provident soon!
Love you girl,
Addison
by submission | Apr 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
Tanner had always managed to navigate his way through life unnoticed. He became acutely aware of this when he first began his work as an Eraser. Ordinary looking and extremely reserved, even as a young man Tanner realised that this did not fully account for the uncanny ability he had for melting into the background, for making himself all but invisible.
There was something inside of him, an innate skill, a gift even, albeit one he hadn’t asked for and wasn’t sure that he wanted. He realised also that, given the line of work he had chosen, if he were to hone his skill and nurture this gift it could be very useful.
It seemed apt to Tanner that he, whose job was the disappearing of others, could move around unnoticed, was an invisible man as it were. But whenever Tanner glanced in a mirror nowadays he was shocked by what he saw. He was a little man, short and hunched, the pallor of his skin matching the grey clothes he always wore. His thinning hair was white and his face was deeply creased and lined. He was a ghoul, his was a face that featured in nightmares, that appeared toward the end, just before dawn.
When tracking a suspect Tanner was always diligent; recording everything, scrawling it in a little notebook, all he observed and managed to overhear, no matter how mundane or insignificant it might seem. He believed the details mattered, that they were important, a part of it.
Alone in his apartment, Tanner transcribed from his notebooks, painstakingly filling journal after journal with these details. Over the years he had come to realise that a radical’s routine wasn’t so very different from his own, yet he still persevered, determined not to miss out anything, however trivial.
He always included the date and the time. Time, he felt, was crucial. The time in between, the time spent at a place of employment for instance or visiting a friend. Or simply sitting and reading a newspaper, whether it be on a park bench or in a busy cafeteria. He even made a note of what his suspects ate and, of course, where and when.
Tanner hadn’t ever witnessed one of them stepping guiltily out into the light. Caught anyone in the act, as it were, but all had been found guilty. They had been enemies of the system but Tanner hadn’t yet destroyed their journals and the minutia listed and labelled within was all that remained.
by submission | Apr 26, 2023 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
Nystrom 6 is a heavily altered planet- by what or whom was why we were there. On its surface is a 100-meter-wide glass smooth band of an unknown substance. It circumnavigates the globe at the equator and pole to pole. We had dozens of scientific survey teams studying it…until the first accident. I was there the day it happened.
There was no warning. No rush of wind, color shift, vibration, or sound. Just Stacy, Bree, and Mack trying to sample what we were calling ‘the track’ and then they exploded. The only thing we found that didn’t look like shredded meat was Bree’s arm which landed off to one side of the track. There were not enough other remains to autopsy. The pathologist ruled summarily death by high energy blunt force trauma. All told we lost twelve survey crews before we figured out to stay off the track.
The first family that received “compensation” were the next-of-kin to the original three that were killed. Each member received from the aliens by methods unknown, bricks of superconductor material worth billions. Our government squashed news about that as long as they could. The next person who received compensation was, well, me. It was given for the trauma caused when I witnessed my co-workers reduced to sheds of flesh. I received a scroll with a diagram. By handling the scroll, basic instructions were downloaded into my brain. I gathered the materials, placed them on the scroll where indicated and watched with fascination as the elements assembled themselves into a machine. Shortly after that, all the next of kin and witnesses to track deaths received either bricks of semiconductor material or some kind of precious metal or crystal. The wealth received by the remaining next of kin actually destabilized our economy for a bit, but soon enough things got back to mostly normal. Oddly, I was the only one who was gifted with a machine.
Of course, word of the compensation eventually came to public attention, and between desperate individuals, organized crime, scam artists, the odd bribed government official, and “suicide event planners”, the planet has been finally declared off limits to all but researchers (like me.) Our military has an armada in orbit around the planet, all to stop what is being called “suicide gold diggers.” Hypocritically, the government is quietly contacting terminally ill individuals to work out a 50-50 deal. Half to their family, and half to the government. All for filthy lucre.
My compensation, my machine? I’ve kept it quiet. When picked up, it tells the story of the people who built the track. Beings so far advanced we are on the level of cats and dogs compared to them. The track is nothing more than a switching station on the most mundane transportation route they have to go from one galaxy to another. The machine also tells me our species, in due time, will evolve into higher beings ourselves. It is quite uplifting. But the real value of my compensation is it has given me a blueprint to be the first to ascend and start our species’ evolution. Part of that gift is a deep wisdom that has expanded my consciousness.
Now I am standing on the track holding the machine given to me as compensation hoping that my end will come soon. I’ve managed to contact these beings and let them know to stop all “compensations” including any to be given after my death. If I’ve learned anything from all this it’s abundantly clear, to the core of my being, we are not yet worthy.
by submission | Apr 23, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
“I hate them. I hate them so fucking much,” she said, looking through her rangefinder. She had been there on the roof of the house – or what was left of it – for most of the night. She was tired, hungry, and grubby, but this was no different than any other night. She reached into her pack, pulled out a small object wrapped in a rag, unwrapped it, and snapped off a piece from a hard, rectangular bar. She turned to the woman next to her, also crouched down on the roof, wearing the same tactical uniform as she did, and motioned for her to take it. That person paused, looked at it, and nodded negatively.
“I’m not eating that crap.”
“Why the hell not? It’s all we got and all we’re likely to get for the next two days.” She motioned for her to take it again.
“It’s like eating bark.”
“Would you rather eat bark or not eat at all?”
“Fine,” she said, taking the piece and reluctantly popping it into her mouth. Lt. Adams had always been a picky eater growing up. That was a whole different world back then, she thought, chewing on the dense, chalky ration. Back then, she turned up her nose at the slightest perceived issue with whatever meal was in front of her. It didn’t matter if it was made by her Dad (who was, admittedly, a pretty good cook) or Nana or at a restaurant. She would inspect it skeptically first, using her fork or whatever utensil was available to probe parts of it, looking for anything unfamiliar or yucky.
She remembered how Nana would always try to hide healthy things in every meal she made. She’d make lasagna that had ground-up mushrooms, carrots, onions, and other vegetables in it. She’d grind them all up real small, almost a puree, hoping Kelly and her little brother Mikey would notice or taste the difference. Kelly always could, then she’d promptly notify Mikey, pointing out the offending vegetables in various areas on his plate.
Pizza was the worst. Her dad would sometimes have huge chunks of tomatoes on it. He said they were diced but they clearly weren’t. Sometimes he would even put pineapple and ham on it. What kid would eat that? What kid would eat those burgers he would make – the ones with all the garlic and onions in them? Nana would tell them there were starving kids halfway across the world somewhere who would love to have a meal as good as this.
Each time, she would just push her plate away, fold her arms, and stare off across the room at the big clock her Dad made. Each time, she would refuse to eat meals, good meals, made by people who loved her. Now, she’d trample someone without a thought if it meant she could have another piece of Nana’s lasagna. A whole different world.
She motioned with her hand to have another piece of the ration. “Hand me the binos, too,” she said.
“Oh, so now you’re ok with eating these?”
“No. Definitely not ok with it. But…” she motioned again.
Captain Tomaz handed her another chunk of the brittle, tasteless ration, along with the binoculars. Adams had only recently joined her unit but seemed reliable enough, she thought. Most of her unit was new, formed out of remnants of other ones decimated by the initial wave. Adams, and others like her, were barely trained for this. They came from Logistics, Analytics, and the supply depots. Hell, at least two came directly from a mess hall. They came from anywhere and everywhere – particularly once the coasts fell and we were pushed with our backs up against the Rockies on one side and the Appalachians on the other. They all stood up when it looked like we were screwed, she thought. We still might be screwed. That fight in Lansing definitely did not go our way, she thought.
The last eight months had been different, she thought. We tricked those fuckers into thinking they were worse off than they really were, got into their command codes (somehow!) then started working around the edges when they got complacent. A chunk of them were dead or deactivated now, including almost all of that goddamn Nightmare Scythe airborne wing. That thing was fucking terrifying. Watching it finally drop out of the sky was nothing less than exhilarating.
Who would’ve thought the big battles – the decisive ones – would be in the Midwest? All those comics she read as a kid had aliens invading New York, zombies attacking LA, and stuff like that. Nothing ever happened here in the comics. No one ever attacked Aurora, Illinois, or Bowling Green, Ohio. Or any of the other Bowling Greens, she thought. The Midwest was one of the only places to go after they hit both coasts and wiped out our Navy. Even then, it wasn’t ever really safe. Some of the most horrible shit she’d ever seen was in Columbus, in Fort Wayne. In Hersey. That fight in Chillicothe – against that gruesome fucking Mobile Garroting Unit or whatever the hell it was – was just plain evil. It was her and two other units down there, helping get a bunch of Amish families to safety. (Or, was it Mennonite, she thought? She never could remember the difference.) They were on schedule, mostly, until what seemed like the whole world exploded. Fire and ash were everywhere. We could barely breathe or see, then they were on us. These were once manufacturing robots, like for auto parts and stuff, repurposed and rebuilt. They were retrofitted with armor, giant batteries, and solar panels harvested from the former factories they worked in. They waded through us like we weren’t even there.
Now it’s our turn, she thought, smiling slightly as she chewed her rations.
