by submission | Feb 22, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Doesn’t matter who I am. I am not the land.
I walk it. Day in day out. One footing at a time.
A footing is not a standard unit. It is determined by growth, the flora and fauna, in a defined area when it is clear nature has begun to rebalance there.
My job is to make sure that rebalancing is not disturbed. The land must mend, but I am not a healer. I’m a killer. A defender against my own kind.
We are out of balance, scales tipped far beyond the pale, and so we pay in pound upon pound of flesh. It is indeed dire, brutish, unfair. But that is where we are, and I must keep my footing, clearing it of poachers, pragmatists and, most of all, parents.
Breeding is a crime. Our time is long past. Instinctive urges and actions still gnaw at our hardened Resolve, but there are enough who know how little we matter. Which matters the most. So, we walk the land, footing to footing, armed, ready to kill any who break our Resolve.
Upon a day risen borderless grey, my path crossed the infant’s. A mewling babe tucked in a reed-woven basket set upon the worn path. This was not unheard of, but I had not crossed such a thing before. I crouched next to the creature, rustling, suckling air, still pink, still warm, wrapped against the thick dew.
Its eyes sought mine. Mine did not answer. The Resolve was clear. The child should be left to the land. The land was made for this. I was not.
I walked on, too slowly it seemed. A force stronger than the Resolve, my resolve, tugging at my heels. A heaviness outweighing every step. To turn was to tumble. Spill headlong into futurelessness. No more pictures in my head.
Except the child.
I walked it back. The footing unsure, without comment, still and grey. The land does not judge. Only my kind.
An empty basket, beating hearts, a measure of all lost. And everything to be gained.
Doesn’t matter who I am. I am not the land.
But with child, I am more than Man.
by submission | Feb 21, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mikki Aronoff
We sit immobilized, re-reading the same fortunes wriggling out from our smashed cookies: “This is the last thing you will ever need to read.” Slips of paper like unearthed, restless nematodes unsettle our party of poets and teachers, one of whom retired that day. The waiter sweeps around us, bent, upends chairs onto tabletops. We conjecture: Jokes? Unhappy workers at the print shop? Surely not one of…us? The artist among us cracks a smile; as words are no longer necessary, perhaps now she could live off her paintings? We laugh, nervous, stumble to the street. Neon lights flicker on and off. We dig into pockets, purses, alcohol-wipe our hands, plaster masks across our faces, walk home. Later, texts fly like infinity signs among us — we’ve all received the same singular communique stuck in our doorways, tucked under windshield wipers. But the contents were empty as our streets, as the morning papers. They had tried to wean us. First, that fading print. Then just headings and pictures and captions, next only front page headlines, then
by submission | Feb 19, 2023 | Story |
Author: Russell Bert Waters
Grandma isn’t well. Might be a stroke. Incoherent mumbles. Faraway look in her eyes.
What to do? What to do?
All the EVs in the Orange Sector are shut down today by remote signal. It isn’t our week to have the allotted four hours of driving time.
“Grandma?”
I speak her name softly. She pops into alertness briefly and then glazes over again.
Not sure if it’s a stroke, but something isn’t right. I need to get her to help.
I call the dispatcher to request an override.
“Central Control, what is your emergency?”
“My Grandma isn’t well, she may be having a stroke, I need to drive her to the hospital.”
“Age?”
“Eighty-nine…she just turned eighty-nine last we-”
The dispatcher cuts me off.
“I’m sorry, we only allow emergency transport allowances for subjects under 70 years of age. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Please, I need to help my Grandma.”
The line goes dead.
When it all began they would only cut off vehicle usage during storms, and other emergencies. Then the emergencies became more frequent. Then the emergencies became constant. And now, regardless of circumstance, every vehicle usage is rationed. Everyone only gets four hours of driving time every two weeks, broken down by Sectors. You aren’t allowed to hoard your time either, it is a “use it or lose it” proposition.
Before my Father was taken away for thinking the wrong thougts, he had mentioned a friend he knew who collected internal combustion vehicles. He embraced The Old Way, the Selfish Way. He embraced the old-fashioned notions that the individual somehow mattered. Those were dangerous times, when people believed that way. Now we all pull together. Now…we all struggle together.
I know if I take my Grandma to the hospital they likely won’t treat her. She has “aged out” of viability. But she has done so much for me, I can’t just give up on her. I’m not supposed to even refer to her as my “Grandma” as that’s “gendered language” and it is one of the reasons my Dad was taken away; the usage of wrong language, wrong thoughts.
If anyone gives up on my Grandma it won’t be me. If the hospital doesn’t treat her, so be it. I will have done for her what she would have done for me.
I make a phone call.
The phone is answered by a gruff voice “what can I do you for?”
I explain my situation. He is all too happy to help, but he cautions me that there’s a penalty when they discover me with an old vehicle. Possibly even time in a camp. And I didn’t get the car from him, but he wishes me the best of luck. He says to give him ten minutes and he’ll bring the vehicle to me.
A short while later I hear the purr of an engine, and then I hear the engine cut off in front of the house.
I take my Grandma’s arm and gently lead her to the door.
“Come on Grandma” I whisper.
“Let’s get you some help. And maybe afterwards, I’ll get to see my Dad again.”
by submission | Feb 18, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The transporter operator tapped his fingers on the console nodding his head in time to some inner rhythm. “Sure, it’s you. Done this thousands of times. No one’s complained.”
“Would they know to complain?”
“I’m not following you?”
“If they were different after being transported.”
“You mean like their arm was coming out their ass?”
“Has that happened?”
“Not to me?”
“No. I mean ‘different’ as in personality. As if something is off.”
“Like I said. No complaints so far.”
“It just seems like sending my constituent atoms across spacetime and rebuilding an identical me could be fraught with errors.”
The transporter operator stopped tapping his fingers. “That’s not how this works. We aren’t sending your atoms anywhere. We’re mapping them and reassembling them with atoms from wherever you’re going.”
“What happens to my atoms?”
“They’re used to reassemble someone transporting here.”
“Wait. That doesn’t seem right.”
“It’s all there in the release form you signed. The fungibility clause.”
“Fungibility?”
“It’s like back in the day when people used physical currency for money. Back then paper currency was considered fungible. If you borrowed money, you didn’t have to return the specific banknotes you borrowed, just bills of identical value. Same concept, just applied to your atomic makeup. Your transported self will be rebuilt by atoms of identical number and type. Even though your atoms have been swapped out, you’ll be the same.”
“Still seems like a flimsy proposition.”
“Maybe to you, but it works. Done it dozens of times myself.” He tapped his console. “Never noticed any differences.”
“Would you, though? Would you notice anything different?”
“Unlikely. To me, it’s no different than waking up every morning. Some days I feel more like myself than others. On a regular basis some of our cells go kaput, others regenerate or are replaced. We’re nothing but bio machines constantly repairing and rebuilding ourselves.”
“Sounds a bit soulless.”
The operator shrugged. “Look, I’m about to send your sentient self halfway across the solar system in a matter of microseconds. If that doesn’t blow your mind and shake your soul, then I’m not sure what makes you tick anyway—regardless of which specific atoms you started with.” He motioned to the transporter chamber. “Ready?”
“No. But I’ve got to get there. I’ve got an identical twin brother who needs one of my kidneys.”
“My point exactly.” The operator made some adjustments on his console. “We’re never the same hour-to-hour. We change, willingly or unwillingly. Good luck to you and your brother.”
Stepping into the chamber the reluctant quantum traveler turned around, crouched low and stuck his right arm between his legs. Waving goodbye to the transporter operator with what looked like his arm coming out his ass, the once identical twin wondered, as his features disassembled atom by atom, if a laugh was fungible.
by submission | Feb 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mahaila Smith
“What is this stuff,” Bunny asked the spiky lipped girl offering her the small bag.
“AdBlok,” she said, putting some powder in her mouth. Bunny tipped some powder into her mouth. Her face weighed into her head and her vision blurred, turned purple. A circle loaded in the bottom corner. Half the people were gone.
“Where did they go?”
“They were just code, don’t worry.”
“Ok,” Bunny said, her head spinning a bit, “I need some water.”
She stumbled across the bar towards the washroom. Some people who might have been waiting in line yelled at her. She wove through people wide eyed whispering and put her face under the tap. She felt cold around her sinuses but not wet.
“I have to find Nina,” she realized, “I should go home.” She was feeling sick. She had come with Nina, but had not seen her since the lilac haze had descended on everything.
“Nina! Nina!” Bunny yelled. A security guard was looking at her and talking into his phone. Purple faded back to the club. A woman was yelling and Bunny realized she was sitting on a stranger’s lap. She moved away to a booth, looking for Nina. She put her head down on the table and passed out.
She woke up to the security guard shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes. Her vision was slightly pixelated.
“Hello Miss? Can you stand?” She looked at the floor. The white tiles floated up, disappeared.
“Yes,” she took herself home and went to bed. The next day she met Nina for brunch at Plastic Fork, their usual joint. They had orange juice and waffles. She kept her eyes down and did not talk. She tried to play it off as hangover related.
“You’re being really quiet, are you okay?” Nina asked.
“I’m good,” Bunny said.
She stopped going to work. For a week she did not answer her phone. She spent days on her laptop researching internet forums on Adblok, ads. Adblock addicts anonymous, for sale, how dangerous? the government doesn’t want you to know these 10 things about Adblok. She watched videos of talk shows, trying to pick out who was coded to sell her things. Was her friend, was she? She tried to think back on conversations, how many centred on her objects. Her eyes were bloodshot, and the white lights on the screen burned them. She needed to get some more. She spent nights hanging outside the club, waiting to see the pierced lipped girl again. When she did, Bunny could see she was holding something in her fist. She ran out of the ally and tackled the girl, pried open her fist, grabbed the pouch and ran.
