by submission | Aug 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Sean MacKendrick
Ava touched the seam where Ethan’s robotic foot joined his shin. She stared up at her grandfather in awe. “Can you feel anything with it?”
Ethan forced a smile on his face. “Some basic sensory input. It helps me walk better when I can feel the ground.”
“You’ve had it for a long time.”
“Ever since the war. I got this upgrade after my very first tour out.”
“I bet it hurt a lot.”
“It hurt at the time.” Ethan rubbed the scar over his eyebrow, where they dampened his ability to process pain. “Not so much now.”
Ava ran her finger down the smooth carbon alloy of Ethan’s thumb. “Probably pretty scary, though.
Ethan massaged the tiny pucker on the back of his neck, where they went in to ablate his fear response. “A little.”
“They say soldiers came back changed from the war because it was so scary.”
“Who says that?”
“I don’t remember. Someone on TV.”
“Well, that someone should learn his facts.” Ethan adjusted his posture to take some of the pressure off the pneumatics supporting his lumbar vertebrae. “I’m the same man who signed up all those years ago.”
“But why did you sign up? Didn’t you know it was going to be so dangerous?”
“I knew. But I wanted to help make the world safer for people like you and your mom.”
Ava rested her chin on Ethan’s rebuilt knee. “We heard in history class about some of the war crimes they charged the leaders with, afterward. I hope they didn’t make you do bad things.”
Ethan pressed his knuckles against the furrow on his sternum, where a grieving father failed to pierce his heart. He said nothing.
“Maggie’s granddad was in the war, too. She says he can’t sleep at night sometimes, because of his memories.”
Ethan rubbed the scar behind his ear where they removed his empathy. “I sleep all right.”
by submission | Aug 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Dave Ludford
Had he been walking at a faster pace or with any real sense of purpose Ryan Jennings would have missed it completely. Scuffing the forest floor aimlessly however with first one foot then the other, his meanderings revealed something that he at first thought was some kind of weird seed or pod that had been covered by a small pile of dry autumn leaves. He stooped to pick it up: it was approximately the size of a peach stone, metallic blue-gray in color and felt cold to the touch. His curiosity was further piqued as it seemed to be breathing, pulsing as it was with a tiny amount of energy. He held it between thumb and forefinger and brought it closer to his eye, the better to examine it more closely. It began to pulse more intensely.
It was at that point he felt a sharp pain in his finger, like someone had jabbed his skin with a needle. Uttering a mild expletive he instinctively- and with more than a hint of panic- tried to shake it off but it clung resolutely to his finger. He flicked at it with the fingers of his other hand but it still wouldn’t budge. It was firmly anchored.
“I’ll be damned…first you sting me, now you won’t let go!”
The pain he’d felt soon subsided and Jennings began to feel a peace and calm he’d not felt for a long time flow slowly through his body, overcoming him and diminishing the worries and anxieties that had recently plagued him. Soft static crackled in his head like a mistuned radio and he felt instantly certain the pod was attempting to communicate with him in a language he couldn’t recognize but which, on a far deeper level, he understood perfectly. He intuitively felt the meaning rather than understanding individual words strung into a narrative. There were images, too, flickering like early silent movies; a jumble of images that at first didn’t make sense. It was as if the narrative and images were out of sync and it took several minutes for the two to become reconciled. When they did, and Jennings slowly began to understand what was being communicated to him, he felt deep, overwhelming emotion.
“Oh jeez, this is just mind-blowing,” he whispered.
The pod referred to itself as ‘refugee intelligence’ which had been distilled into small vessels, one of which Jennings had discovered and which he now held. It had been one of a dozen, containing as they did the entirely preserved language, culture, science and philosophy of an advanced race whose planet- many millions of light years from earth- had been almost entirely destroyed by a civil war of attrition that had lasted for several centuries. The pods were the only means to ensure that the intelligence would survive and could be shared with other cultures. The vessels had been launched and flung to various far corners of the universe, trusting to luck they’d find host planets that would be welcoming, would tap into and benefit from a vast, immeasurable source of knowledge.
They hadn’t. They’d been thought of as a plague or pestilence and destroyed; contact with the others had been lost completely. The one Jennings held was the last of its kind and the fate of the intelligence was literally in his hands. The choice was simple: crush it and destroy it forever, or let the pod detach itself and share its erudition.
Jennings showed no hesitation. He raised his hand and opened his palm.
by submission | Aug 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-six…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-seven…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-eight…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-nine…”
Clarisse counted. And counted.
Her mother watched from across the room. Her nine-year-old daughter was spending another entire twenty-four hour day counting, and Rochelle felt helpless. It was the end of July and usually Clarisse would be outside: in their garden, riding bikes with friends, going to the community pool. But for the seventh time this month, she was sitting in the rocker by the bay window counting.
“…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-one…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-two…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-three…”
It started on July 4. Rochelle had risen early planning to make red–white-and-blueberry pancakes for breakfast to celebrate Independence Day. Instead, she found Clarisse in the rocker by the bay window counting aloud. And when Rochelle asked what she was doing, Clarisse only held up her fingers, one at a time, to indicate the obvious: she was counting.
Nothing Rochelle had tried that day stopped Clarisse from counting. In the past, her young daughter had done some borderline obsessive-compulsive things, like not talking for almost three days, walking exclusively backwards for close to a week, stacking rocks all around their neighborhood for most of last summer.
Child’s play. Youthful creativity. That’s how Rochelle had thought of it. Clarisse trying out ideas, challenging herself, messing with routine, like all kids do. But what kind of kid woke up at midnight and counted until they reached 86,400. The number of seconds in a day.
What kind of kid did that?
Her daughter. Her only child. Her one anchor in the world after the horrifyingly ironic death of her husband five years ago. A power engineer for the electrical utility struck by lightning. A bolt so powerful he’d been incinerated. In just a second his life vanished and Rochelle’s became fatefully unclear. Only focusing on Clarisse provided clarity. She had to be there for her daughter, let her know that she could always count on her mother.
“…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-four…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-five…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-six…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-seven…”
Clarisse counted. And counted. And Rochelle suddenly felt how little her daughter could count on her. For the first time since her husband’s death, she wept. She went to her knees, shook, sobbed and let her collected grief spill.
Time stopped. Or more correctly, it fractalized, and Rochelle came to herself on the floor in her house being held by Clarisse.
“I’m here, Mom. It’s okay.”
But Rochelle could clearly see that things were not okay. Because at the same time, she was being held by Clarisse, her daughter was also in the rocking chair across the room counting, and also outside the bay window stacking rocks in the front yard. When Rochelle looked around, she saw her in the kitchen and coming down the hallway.
“What’s happening?” She asked her daughter.
“You finally made it here.”
“Here?” Rochelle asked, both fearful and fascinated.
“On the edge of time,” Clarisse softly explained, “in a temporal fractal. Time like any other dimension has infinite intricacy. Usually, we experience time as a tension between misaligned temporal contexts. Here we can explore the unobstructed timelessness that defines a moment.” Clarisse shrugged and smiled, her nine-year-old mischievous smile. “At least that’s what’s going on according to Dad.”
“Dad? Your father? What do you mean? He’s here?”
Clarisse, and the many of them along the infinite edge of time, stood and held out a hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Rochelle took her daughter’s hand. She felt dizzy. With excitement. “How can this be happening?”
“You let go of the past for just a second and found your way in, to truly be in the moment with us,” Clarisse confided. “I was really hoping you would. In fact, I was counting on it.”
by submission | Aug 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Daniel Aceituna
“This must be the place,” the police chief said, as the motorcade arrived at the address the time traveler had given them.
The traveler jumped out of the car, “Quickly, we must get into that apartment; billions of future lives hang in the balance.”
After breaking down the door, they rushed into the empty apartment and found an ironing board with an iron lying on it.
“That’s it!” The time traveler knelt and unplugged the iron.
He then stood up, pressed a button on his belt, and said, “Your descendants thank you,” as he faded away.
Moments later, they received a call from the president’s office. Another time traveler had showed up.
A half-hour later, they arrived at the same apartment.
“That’s it!” the new time traveler said. She knelt under the ironing board and plugged in the iron.
“Billions are in your debt,” She said, pressing a button on her wristband. She faded away.
“Chief, the president’s on the phone.”
“Sure. Let me guess.”
by submission | Aug 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: W.F. Peate
“No regrets using the hydrogen bomb General?” asked the reporter.
“We saved lives. Their surrender stopped further bloodshed.”
“Why didn’t you use the less destructive atomic bomb? Ninety percent fewer deaths.”
General Liana crossed her arms over the silk leashes of her medals. “The Americans needed two atomic bombs to convince the Japanese to surrender in 1945. We were one and done with hydrogen. “
“Gave the Americans a taste of their own medicine,” said the reporter with a snort. He pressed Send. “All our people and two billion in the occupied territories are hearing your words now.”
“Long live the Supreme Leader,” they said in unison.
A slice of light brighter than a thousand suns baked the building. The stink of burning insulation made the reporter cough so hard he brought up a piece of lung.
“Elevators are out,” said Captain Gran, her intelligence officer. “Massive solar flare. Strongest on record. AI says our planet is requesting the Sun destroy us because we’re destroying Earth with nuclear weapons.”
The general lifted an eyebrow. “Heavenly bodies talk?”
“In 2017 the Cassini spacecraft recorded an exchange between Saturn and its moon Enceladus. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory converted the energy into something we could hear. Just like an antenna converts radio waves into a Sting song.”
Liana touched the yarn bracelet her three year old daughter Eden made in daycare one floor below. Her heart sank when she recalled Sting’s lyrics from the song Russians:
“How can I save my little boy/From Oppenheimer’s deadly toy?”
Gran read Liana’s worried look. “Eden is safe. I called daycare.”
He read the translated transcript:
Earth: “Mother Sun, lice are burning my crust with fusion fire
Mother Sun: How many nuclear explosions?”
Earth: “2,045.”
Mother Sun: Comet trash. Let me burn off your lice.”
Mercury: “Remember the last time Mother burned one of us. Asteroida’s bones float between Mars and Jupiter.”
Mother Sun: “I’ve learned since then. I got Uranus and Neptune back in orbit.”
Uranus and Neptune: “Thank you Mother Sun. Blessed be Thee.”
Earth: “Mother get rid of my lice.”
Liena sagged into the chair next to Gran. He put his hand in hers. “Little Eden will die if we don’t do something.”
“Send Mother Sun a message that we won’t ever use nuclear bombs again.”
The reporter grumbled, “Maybe we don’t deserve to survive as a species. Mother Sun may have a screw loose. She destroyed one of her own children.”
“She fixed two planets’ orbits,” said Liana with a firm voice.
“Where will you say you got permission to do this?” asked the reporter.
“Uranus.”
Gran laughed as he typed and sent: “Mother Sun, we won’t ever use nuclear bombs again.”
Mother Sun: “Who are you?”
“The lice,” said Gran.
Mother Sun: “How can I trust you not to ever use my fire?”
“I am a mother with a child,” said Liana.
Flares in the sky enflamed then went dark.
“Elevators are on again.”
Eden sat on Gran’s knee. “Mommy where have you and Popsicle been? Can you make me French toast? Mommy what’s wrong?“
Liana stared out the window. “What have I done? I let children die. We can’t get them back. How horrible a thought. We have to save other children.”
Gran’s forehead furrowed, “Are you okay?”
“No. They’re gone. Millions of them. The other children out there. The other children. I have to help . . .”
The evening sun settled deep in the purple-orange horizon. Liana in her head heard Mother Sun say, “Together we’ll keep the others in safe orbit.”
