by submission | Oct 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ann Tandy
The house was old, but not particularly interesting–it was the previous century’s version of a model house, with the same layout as its neighbors, the same banisters and door trim. But it was theirs, and they settled into a comfortable if chaotic life. They joked about how cleaning meant “moving piles from one place to another,” but both were actually pretty good about remembering where things were in the organized mess–oh, right, that take-out menu for the new place down the street is in this pile on the buffet, about half-way down, underneath the letter about the city coming to trim trees. Got it.
But every once in a while she’d find something peculiar. The first was a strip of old photo-booth pictures of him as a teen, mugging for the camera. On the back of the photos was written “Times Square 1987.” She didn’t remember him ever mentioning that trip, but then again, they hadn’t met until their late twenties. She sifted further through the pile, found the bank statement she was looking for, and didn’t think any more of it. When she next looked through the pile for something else, the photo strip wasn’t there.
A few days later, rifling through some medical paperwork, she found a postcard from Majorca. It was addressed to both of them, from a name she could barely read. She set this one on top of the pile to show him, but when she went back for it, it was gone, and she could no longer remember the name of the sender.
A month after that, looking for a receipt for a skirt she wanted to return, she found an envelope marked, in her handwriting, “wedding flowers.” Inside it were three pressed flowers from her wedding bouquet. But she hadn’t saved any–she was sure. Yet the handwriting was absolutely hers. The receipt was underneath it; she moved the envelope to the kitchen table and left for the store. When she got back, it was gone.
Sometimes several things would appear in one week. A progress report for a school her daughter didn’t attend, a stained recipe card in her grandmother’s handwriting for a dish she’d never made, a card thanking her for flowers she never sent to a grief-stricken person she didn’t know. Then months would go by without anything. It only ever happened when she was alone, when he was at work and the kids were at playdates or school, and no matter how carefully she placed the items somewhere safe to find later, they always disappeared.
One night, she was startled awake by her husband talking in his sleep. He mumbled something that might have been “Majorca,” rolled away, and settled into a rhythm of soft snoring. In the morning he had no idea what he’d dreamt.
Then a few years passed without anything appearing. Their lives went on fairly routinely. She left teaching and started doing garden design. He got promoted and started traveling more. He was arriving back from Taiwan the day it happened. She called to the kids, come on, we need to go pick up your dad.
They didn’t answer. They weren’t in the house. They weren’t in the yard, they weren’t at the park down the block.
In a panic, she called her husband at the airport.
I can’t find them. The kids. They are gone. They are just…nowhere. I don’t know what to do. The kids are gone.
Standing in the dining room, surrounded by piles of papers, pictures, menus, unopened mail, she waited for his response. She could sense his confusion growing.
What kids
by submission | Oct 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: David Penn
From a human perspective, the dominant inhabitants of Isvara 9 are some of the most physically repulsive creatures known. With their metallic carapaces, they resemble enormous blue bottle flies, though instead of the compound optical organs of Earth insects they possess large, remarkably human-looking eyes, positioned either side of a whip-like prehensile nose. Also, oddly enough, as with most humans, their heads are capped by hair which, again like us, they take great pride in, adapting into various shapes pleasing to their tastes.
Though not technologically advanced overall by galactic mean standards, Isvarians have a sophisticated philosophical and religious culture, informed by their highly developed astronomy. The majority believe, for instance, that everything in the universe, in fact the universe as a whole, is alive and conscious.
The Isvarian concept of “alive” seems to correspond to what in Earth or Earth-colonial languages would be called “changing”, “developing” or “unfolding”. Since they observe that all things are in process, or are processes, for them the term “alive” also applies universally. Consciousness for them is a matter of complexity: the more processes taking part in the compound of processes that is a “thing”, the more conscious it is bound to be. Thus even in a grain of sand it cannot be said that there is absolutely no consciousness. In a mountain, especially seen over time, there is more. In a microbe, a little more and in the Isvaran equivalent of higher animals, more still.
It therefore makes perfect sense for them to believe, as they do, that a planet is itself alive, with a consciousness related to its complexity. Therefore, a world flourishing with geological activity, weather patterns and biological organisms such as theirs takes part in consciousness to a greater degree than a barren moon. Star-systems potentially possess even more awareness and galaxies and clusters of galaxies are the largest conscious bodies in the universe. It follows from this that the universe itself, taken as one entity, is the ultimate consciousness.
Their reasoning leads them to an intriguing practice. Since all things are aware and sentient to some degree, all can feel pain. They therefore say prayers and direct thoughts to all things in the universe to help allay that pain. They may meet together in groups to increase the power of such benign wishes or take time in the ordinary run of their lives to reflect with compassion. But almost all Isvarians spend a great deal of time, in one way or another, engaged in these affirmations. The long group rituals typically proceed by first wishing well to a particular sand grain or pebble, expanding their scope from that to include all sand grains, all pebbles, on through all orders of being up to animals and entities of higher consciousness. They will include their own species, though it is considered improper to single themselves out for disproportionate treatment. In the grandest rituals, they will send warm and encouraging thoughts to a particular planet, one perhaps that their astronomers have recently been studying, then to all planets, to the whole galaxy, and so on to the universe as a whole.
Despite the withdrawal of cloaked field teams from Isvara 9 some years ago, on the expiry of the permissible window, we have been able to observe these ceremonies, due to welcome reinvestment in the Telescope Fleet. Many observers have remarked that one of the most moving spectacles that they have ever witnessed is that of these superficially unappealing creatures, chanting and meditating in harmony, in rites devoted to the happiness and well-being of all things whatsoever, wherever they may be.
by submission | Oct 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
It really wasn’t his thing: pain and panic way too up-close-and-personal.
The chaotic video and jarring audio, the total mayhem of battle were so not his thing, but it was up to him to wrap this melee in a nice, neat bow. A twenty-two minute package of war that Cosca demanded should “curb-stomp the viewer to their couch.”
As he slogged back through camp to review the morning’s take in his make-shift editing cubby, Miro couldn’t step past what he’d already seen with his own eyes: a once quiet little town that was mostly rubble now, with once gentle townsfolk who were mostly mud now.
And in his cold, damp tent, on his battered laptop, he’d have to review even more visceral footage of carnage from all manner of sources: official military body cams, drones, bots, munitions, as well as unofficial cell phone, doorbell, and dashboard cams. The battle video flooded into Miro. No wonder he always felt underwater, dragged ever deeper into the murk.
And that was just footage from this one battle. All over the world, footage of fierce fighting was pouring into his producer. It was no surprise that even a two-bit scumbag producer like Cosca could turn all that raw war porn into a mainstream reality show: Back to the Mud.
The show had gained such fast success that Cosca began sending Miro out on location to the front lines. “Read Abercrombie!” he exhorted. “There’s a guy who knows how to visualize a battle. You can’t see the real action, tell the real story, from the cheap seats, Miro. You gotta get to the heart–and then rip it out while it’s still beating!
“Cuts and guts. That’s what we’re about. All the gory glory. Any tested soldier will tell you that war is mostly waiting around for shit to happen. We’re cutting that out. Getting right to the good shit. To be the ESPN of war, we gotta be where the shit is happening. So, get up close. Smell it! Taste it!”
Pure venom is what it tasted like, to Miro. But Cosca was right. You couldn’t tell the real story of war from the back row, from the comfort of peace and quiet. You had to get muddy. You had to get bloody.
The “good shit” Cosca wanted was the dread, terror, and horror of soldiers and civilians killing or being killed. If Miro’s editing shied away from the intense and brutal and veered toward the subtle or nuanced, Cosca harped on him, “Read Dickinson! Then show me agony! You can’t fake agony.”
As if any of the fighters and folks caught in the crossfire were faking it. Miro was the only one faking it. Telling himself it was a job worth doing. That maybe the visceral carnage of battle, the stark trauma of war, might turn warmongers towards compromise, mercy and peace.
But the pissing matches just got bigger and more abundant, dousing more and more poor souls in their foulness. Decades and decades ago, it was thought that the nightly news airing of horrific combat and suffering may have turned American public opinion against the war in Vietnam. Now, it seemed to Miro, the more we saw and heard, the less we felt.
The world was mired in muck. And Miro was as much a muck maker as the muckrakers of the past century. He stopped outside his tent and slowly looked back the way he’d come. Heavy footsteps through the muck, a senseless track back from the battlefield.
With all we’d learned, with all we’d built, with countless eyes to see the world in new ways, here we were. Back to war, back to sanctioned brutality. Was he already a dead man walking? Were we all?
Miro lifted his eyes to the heavens. Had to be something better than what he was mired in. The old ways our world was stuck in. A clearer way forward. In the far distance he saw indistinct shapes against the roiling clouds. Maybe a flock of birds in a timeless migration, heading to a better place. Maybe. Just maybe.
Then he heard it. The whispering whirr of attack drones.
More misery. More footage. Miro bit his lip, cursed Cosca, and ducked into his tent. There was nothing for it but back to it. Back to the mud.
by submission | Oct 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Tinamarie Cox
Rosemary sat under the harsh light of a small vanity in a Vegas chapel touching up her makeup in an attempt to disguise all the decades she’d walked the Earth. A soft knock at the door was a welcomed distraction from her reflection.
“Ted!” She stepped back and put her body behind the door. “You’re violating wedding tradition.” Her lips curled as her cheeks warmed.
“I have to tell you something.” Ted swallowed and entered the tiny room without invitation.
“Can’t it wait?” She was cool again.
“It might change your mind about today.”
Rosemary closed the door, eyes wide on her future husband. Ted rubbed the back of his neck roughly. The air in the small room became heavy, the silence pressing, holding their breath in their bodies.
“Spit it out!” Rosemary flapped her hands.
Ted jumped back, bumping against the wall as he yelped.
“You’re married,” Rosemary’s voice seethed with heat.
“Oh, no.” Ted shook his head. “There’s only you.”
“I don’t understand,” she forced the statement past the thudding lump above her larynx.
“There’s something about me.” He wrang his hands together. “You might not like it.”
“Please,” Rosemary’s voice waned, “Tell me.” She saw Ted’s hands trembling and she moved forward to hold them. “I promise I’ll still love you. Is it debt? We can create a payment plan.”
Ted denied having debts. Rosemary closed her eyes briefly before asking her next question.
“Is it porn, Ted? We can find a counselor–”
“There’s only you.” Ted echoed Rosemary’s frown. “I’m an alien.”
“Well, our marriage will make you a legal immigrant then.” The lines of her face shifted with her smile. Her heart gently sank down to its rightful place.
“An extraterrestrial sort of alien. I’m not from Earth.”
Rosemary’s laugh rose from her belly and swirled around the room. Ted remained stonefaced. The room was swallowed by their silent stares once more.
Ted held out his left forearm, rolled the sleeve, and swiped his right thumb across his pale skin. Suddenly, he was entirely blue. His eyes turned orange, his ears narrowed and became antennae, and his nose shrank into a thin, harsh angle.
Rosemary’s jaw dropped to the floor.
“I’m a research scientist reporting my observations back to my homeworld,” Ted said. Rosemary stayed frozen. “Please, say something.”
“I’ll see you in an hour, Ted.” Rosemary nodded and returned to the vanity.
Words spilled from Ted’s lips like a bin of building blocks, a mess that formed no definite structure, only sounds.
Rosemary turned, leaned against the vanity, and then held up a palm.
Ted closed his mouth.
“I’m fifty-four years old, Ted. I can’t give anyone children and I can’t erase my… maturity.” She sighed. “At least you’re an honest man. After two despicable bastards, I can live with you being… different.”
“I’m very different, Rosemary.”
“That all works the same?” she circled a finger at Ted’s hips.
He nodded.
She shrugged. “Then, we’re good. I’ll meet you at the altar in an hour.” And she waved him off.
by submission | Oct 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
“Careful with lighting, Captain. Don’t kill them.” Jerry Carter readjusted reflectors a few inches from a grouping of small barrel cacti in the spaceship’s arboretum.
“Why keep these damnable things? Don’t get enough of them taking over Earth?” Captain Tersal shook his head.
“Reminds me of my ancestors slicing them for emergency water in Arizona centuries before desertification overwhelmed North America.” Carter adjusted his purple envoy outfit tight to his neck, letting his red beard drape.
“Wouldn’t catch me with the Ryluu. Here are the three beans. I can’t believe Earth One let you take these. You know how rare…” Carter waved off Tersal’s diatribe; after all, he was Martian with little sense of Earth’s history.
“Just get me to their greeting hall. I’m meeting their king, Krezal. I hope our exploration party had solid intelligence. I’ve seen LiDAR analysis of their jungles. This could be it.”
Carter’s journey to the planet’s humid surface was uneventful before he exited a small shuttle near the dark, threatening towers of the Ryluu palace. He winced from the cloying jungle air after opening the hatch. He was joined by towering guard escorts. Carter struggled to keep his image of authority while struggling to breathe under the giant planet’s gravity.
It was surprising to find Krezal alone at a small, round table surrounded by elegantly formed stone stools. Krezal had no reason to fear a mere human, some four feet shorter and fragile compared to the bristling muscles and scaly skin of the king.
“High is our knowing of your greatness, Gezal of the Ryluu.” Carter spoke quietly, looking down at the moist, stone floors. He carried a round satchel carefully at his side, setting it below the hard seat Krezal pointed to as his place during the negotiations.
“Welcome, man of Earth,” bellowed the giant. “You know some of our customs. We have visited several times with your representatives. Let me share yanakut with you.”
Krezal motioned for his servant to bring a large, shiny platter. A pile of red berries on the dish glowed in the amber light of the great hall. Krezal removed a large knife from his waistband, carefully crushing the fruit, and then deftly lifting their juices with his knife blade so drippings filled a small rounded metal cup. Sizzling rose as the fluid’s acid started dissolving the cup’s lining. Carter was briefed about yanakut, and the death of an Earth crewman who drank it.
“Great and mighty Krezal, please forgive my weakness. We are not a powerful race, like yours. Our tastes are weak. We would make a less potent but beloved drink from these.” With that, Carter carefully placed three large coffee beans on the table. Krezal leaned his head forward as he placed his huge fingers onto the samples, crushing them, and then raising their dust to his lips.
“You take of these weeds?”
“Yes, mighty one. Would you consider trade with our people? We understand your world has many such…weeds.”
“Ha! Glad to be rid of them; they’re impossible to control. Trade? What could you possibly offer in exchange?”
Carter reached from his bag, presenting a barrel cactus. Krezal reached for it before Carter could give a warning. Krezal was suddenly lost in ecstasy as the needles and juice penetrated him.
“It pleases?” Carter asked.
“Oh, yes. And you have many?” Krezal replied.
A pact was made for the Coffee-Cactus Trade Route. Earthlings recovered the joys of coffee, nearly extinct on Earth, and searched for on other worlds for centuries, while the Ryluu elite lavished in their new cacti aphrodisiac.
