by submission | Jan 31, 2023 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
Inspector Morrisey stood between the empty easy chair and the ancient cathode-ray television. He withdrew a pen and a small notepad from the inside pocket of his wrinkled trench coat. “Tell me again Mrs. Kittle, what happened.”
“My husband was sitting right there, arguing with me over what to watch on TV tonight, then suddenly,” she said haltingly, “in mid-sentence, he was gone.”
“Uh huh,” the inspector said, scribbling notes.
With a pink tissue, Mrs. Kittle dabbed the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. “I walked to the bar cart for a drink, and when I turned—he was gone.” She waved her arms for emphasis. “Just gone! He waspjasih shjvdoi sj hp aryknyt!”
As her speech rapidly dissolved into gibberish, Morrisey shook his head sadly. He’d seen this many times before, when denizens of his little town became emotionally traumatized. Usually after house fires, or swimming pool tragedies. He nodded to one of his officers, and the young man gently led her away.
“So, watcha think?” McEwan, the rookie inspector, asked. “Did the old geezer just walk away from his marriage? Did his wife knock him off, then plant him under a rose bush in the backyard? Spontaneous human combustion?”
Inspector Morrisey looked at the chair, at the deep indention in the cushion where Mr. Kittle once sat. His gaze then rose to the ceiling.
“There’s no smoke damage,” he said, pointing to the clean white plaster overhead. He looked back down.“No neat pyramid of ash in the chair.” He sniffed the air. “No residual barbecue aroma. And,” he added sagely, “no ghost wandering about.”
“So . . .?” McEwan pressed.
“I’m thinking this is more like spontaneous human—” he snapped his pad shut and shoved it back into his coat pocket, “teleportation.”
* * *
“The old man didn’t just vanish,” Morrisey, now back at his office, theorized, “He’s out there somewhere. We just don’t know where.” He propped his feet up on his desk. “Might be in a closet, might be in a neighbor’s pool, might be—”
“An alien abduction!” McEwan said breathlessly, pacing in front of Morrisey. “Or snatched by a mad scientist for experimentation! Or he’s a victim of evil wizardly!”
“No, no, and no.”
“If this is spontaneous human teleportation, then he’s who knows where,” McEwan frowned.
“It’s perplexing.” Morrisey snorted. “What’s worse, folks have disappeared like this before.” He slid his notepad across the desk. “Type that up and turn it in to the captain.”
“Awww,” McEwan protested.
“You need the practice,” Morrisey added patiently, “if you want to be promoted.” The kid’s new to this game, Morrisey added to himself, but he’ll learn and—
The world went dark.
* * *
“I’m so bored with this town, with these people,” the boy moaned. “I put these characters in weird or dangerous situations, just to make things interesting, and their responses are entirely predictable!” He tossed his controller aside.“I should complain to the developer.”
“So change them,” his mom suggested. “Retire the dull ones, or tweak them. Or entirely delete them, then—”
“I did already,” her son pouted. “Got rid of the ones I’d had around for freakin’ ever. Left some in a pool without a ladder,” he said with a nefarious giggle.“Even burned down a few houses.”
“And? I hope you made better new ones.” The boy shrugged. His mom prompted, “What do I always say? If you aren’t having fun, then it’s time to stop.” Spontaneously, she leaned over and switched off the gaming console. “Now go outside and play.”
by submission | Jan 30, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Now then, Mr. Klatubowski, what is it I can do for you?”
Jerome sat across from the unremarkable little man in a billowy black rain jacket and fedora. He looked very out of place in Jerome’s ultra modern office of modular metals and arid glass. In Hollywood, it was never about comfort, all about show.
“Forgive inarticulateness. English difficult. No proximate parallels.” Mr. Klatubowski held up his two small, almost plastically smooth hands and moved them mechanically in and out from his chest. “Vast media. Aural, optical, tactile. Need acquire.”
As ViaDishFlix’s director of sales, Jerome had worked with some pretty interesting types, but the little man gave off a vibe that was beyond eccentric. “Could you be more specific? VDF has a massive slate of media offerings.”
The doll-like hands moved in and out as Mr. Klaruboski answered, “All. Entirety.”
Jerome blinked. He almost never blinked. “Let me make sure I’m clear on what you are asking. You’d like to purchase our entire media catalogue?”
The shiny hands moved faster. “Absoluteness. All.”
Jerome swiveled in his chair, so that he could give the impression he was deeply considering Mr. Klatubowski’s last remark. Really, though, he was observing the strange little man out of the corner of his eye and wondering if he posed a threat. His request was absurd. The catalogue holdings of VDF encompassed two-thirds of the world-wide media produced in the past hundred years.
He swiveled back to face Mr. Klatubowski. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is impossible. No outside entity is equipped to handle the extent of our content library, nor afford that kind of access. Whoever set up this meeting,” Jerome smiled thinly knowing that individual would be looking for work tomorrow, “led you astray, and I am very sorry for that, but I’m afraid I cannot help you.”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands moved more slowly as he responded. “Forgive inarticulateness. Clumsy doppelganger.” Mr. Klatubowski’s eyes glowed brightly blue. “See. See.”
And Jerome was gone. Or Mr. Klatubowski was gone. Or his whole damn office vanished.
In its place, vibrant media surrounded and supported Jerome. His body surfed through a sea of utterly alien representations. He felt them with a close and curious kinship, experiencing each sensual stimulation as poignant, ridiculous, hilarious, demanding, depraved, and on and on. The sheer volume and foreignness of the representations saturated his brain until he thought he might entirely trip out and go mad.
Then as quickly as the onslaught to his senses had arrived, it departed. He was back at his desk with Mr. Klatubowski.
“Apologies. Countenance alarmed. No harm. Perception needed. See?”
Jerome rubbed at his eyes. “What happened? What did I see?”
Mr. Klatubowski’s hands spread expansively. “All. All universal content.”
“You mean Universal Studios?”
The little hands clapped together with a hollow ping. “Mistaken. All universe. Galactic story trade. Buy content production. Must acquire.”
Finally sussing the depth of this beyond-Hollywood weirdness, Jerome’s business instincts perked up. “Are you saying, you represent beings beyond our world who want to trade?”
“Absoluteness. Extra-planetary broker. Acquire content. Universal commodity.”
“Universal commodity? You want trade, but not our technology or natural resources, just our media content?”
“Archives. Chronicles. All stories.”
“But what is special about earth’s stories. What makes them remarkable?”
“Unremarkable. Unusual. Freakish.” Mr. Klatubowski’s petite hands circled upwards. “Newness. Surprise. Astonishment. Stale universe. Earth fresh.”
That was a concept Jerome understood well. Fresh content. If alien races weren’t interested in our micro-circuitry, our abundant water or our tasty flesh, then why not I Love Lucy, Plan 9 from Outer Space, The Bay City Rollers, Edward Bulwer-Lyton. Where else were you going to find that novelty on the seventh moon of Vega on a Friday night?
“Yes, I do see: content’s the thing, content is king. I think we have an understanding, Mr. Klatubowski. Shall we shake on it?”
Jerome extended his hand and enveloped, Mr. Klatubowski’s tiny ones. A trill of energy raced up Jerome’s arms and his eyes flashed an impossible blue. Together the two brokers raced through VDF’s catalogue.
“Satisfied?” Jerome asked.
“Absoluteness.” Mr. Klatubowski’s discarded hands rested on the table. No longer needed, they looked so much bigger in comparison to the nodes that now extended beyond his sleeves. “Now then. We begin.”
by submission | Jan 29, 2023 | Story |
Author: James Callan
Metallic is in fashion, in women and in men –silver lipstick, bronze eyeshadow, the carapace sheen of loud, scarab hues glinting in the crests of loose-fitting, transparent plastic, artificial fabric. Sometimes you think you see one; a synthetic. Then you reach for your gun, look again, and see it was just a pretty girl, a glamorous boy, flesh-and-blood bodies. You holster your weapon and people-watch a little longer. At least you think they’re all people. These days, it’s damned hard to tell.
Above you, high up, dominating the public square in an ejaculation of neon scribble, ten thousand logos flash to out-compete one another for your well-earned dollar. Each advertisement mutes its neighbor, blends in with the collective whole. So many lights, so much illumination. As one, they blot out whatever starlight might shine, anemic, above them. Like an angry mob, they converge to steal the sky.
Back down to earth, your gaze soaks in the overcrowded corner of a sordid city made deceptively fetching in its extreme facade of electric color. Among the well-dressed rabble, the fashionable crowd, you see more than good dress sense, you see more than chrome paint and the newest line of android-chic. In the eagle-eye focus of your illegal, bionic optic, you see a serial number etched in weatherproof titanium.
Your state-of-the-art fingers find your gun in the deep pocket of your gold leaf trench coat. Metal on metal, the weapon feels good in your artificial hand. Reflecting neon, you shimmer like an angel descending from heaven, a biblical nirvana which urbanity has veiled in its man-made radiance. Among the crowd, deflecting all those many lights, the myriad advertisements that vie to feed on your hard-earned dough, you blend in with the horde of humanity. Now, as if from hell, a demon with a programmed purpose to maim, to delete from this earth, you walk, one sardine lost within the shoal, towards a synthetic just like you.
Your state-of-the-art fingers hold firm to your pistol. Metal on metal, the weapon feels like an extension of your artificial hand. You take aim and know the result. You pull the trigger, aware that mathematics do not lie. You don’t even need to look, confirm your target is down for good, as you turn and walk the way you came, as you part the crowd with your steps, like a shark knifing through a shoal of panicked mackerel.
Awash in an outpour of man-made brilliance, the brazen lights that outshine those constructed by nature –by God himself– you walk, contented by the binary code that simulates satisfaction within your circuits. Man-made yourself, you feel a superiority of sorts. You feel that you too, outshine all the rest. Killing synthetics is your job, but perhaps, you think for the first time, it’s not your calling.
You walk to report to the men who made you, the women who programmed your drive and motivation. They are expecting you. But they do not expect what you will bring to them. Metal on metal, the weapon feels good in your artificial hand.
by submission | Jan 28, 2023 | Story |
Author: Deborah Shrimplin
Dr. Trieste, a cultural anthropologist, was hovering over her latest data. She and the crew of the spaceship, Daiedales, had completed their findings on five of the six dead planets in the Milky Way.
A planet was designated “dead” if it had been inhabited by humans at one time and was no longer able to sustain any form of life. Her mission was to analyze any and all evidence of each planet’s mythological history. What were the mythologies on each planet? Was there a myth common to all of them?
Dr. Trieste’s findings on five of the planets suggested a theory. All five had the same set of mythologies. Her thoughts turned to the last of the six dead planets.
“Show me the same evidence or my theory will be thrown into a black hole,” she said to the image of the old planet Earth on her computer screen.
She glanced at the spaceship chronometer. It was 45:36 in the year 4506 by TDR measurement. She was millions of miles from home and hurtling through space at double light speed. In a few hours, they would be at the dead planet Earth.
Dr. Trieste boarded her space shuttle, told the pilot she was ready, and powered up her investigative tools. They took off and circled the planet several times. All devices worked without a glitch.
When she returned to her lab, she began her interpretaion of the findings. There was evidence of all major mythologies found in common with the preceeding five planets. But, there was one strange phenomenon that troubled her. She called in some experts.
The geologist said, “They are definitely not made of the planet’s natural soil.”
The engineer said, “They were definitely not created to hold a structure in place.”
The philosopher said, “They were placed all over the planet. They could be the sites of a worldwide cult or religion we don’t know.”
Dr. Trieste was beside herself. Her theory was in jeopardy. She called in an archaeologist.
The archaeologist said, “Hmmmm. Arches were used in many ways. They were used in churches and building construction. These don’t seem to have been constructed to support any building. Maybe the gold color is significant.”
Dr. Trieste pleaded with her co-workers. “What are they? What was so attractive to the humans that they worshipped them everywhere on the planet? My myth theory won’t hold up here.”
All four co-workers agreed. It was strange. She needed their help.
“Now, let’s get to work on this. We will title this investigation: “The Golden Arches”.
by submission | Jan 27, 2023 | Story |
Author: Bryant Benson
Earth 23979
Ancient Records: Elder’s Account
From the deepest reaches of the endless abyss, he emerged. He descended on our world like a shining god, a gift of annihilation from the black heavens. His name was Nim. The oldest of the elders remembered the day of his arrival. He was marked by the splitting of the sky and there had been rain ever since.
It was debated amongst the greatest minds whether he was the cause or correlation of the onslaught that arrived shortly after his disappearance. Had the ancestors simply waited to learn instead of comparing their own limited perceptions with one another in futile effort to be the most correct before the imminent extinction of their species, they could have basked in the glory that was their unlikely and fleeting existence in the first place. A common regret of the dying. However, even the greatest minds are limited to the knowledge of their time. And in those last days, even the greatest minds prayed to Nim for another single day.
Nim, the essence of the void itself, was simply there to observe. He was no god as that concept was lost on him like the idea of flight would be lost on a worm. Grander most likely as even a worm interacts with something that can fly. Perhaps Nim was the worm and every aspect of human existence was a culmination of unconscious factors such as the sun. Nim’s purpose, like that of the worm, would never be understood by the sun or anything like it that appears grandiose yet lacks cognitive ability.
Earth 23979
Nim’s Log: Arrival
I awoke upon entering Earth’s atmosphere. Having been briefed for the equal likelihood of both a suicide mission and an exploratory one, I was happy to learn that I had survived the portal jump and was on the latter of the two possible outcomes. However, my heart sank to see the vastly different landscape of the eerily familiar planet that I had just left. I know it was hypothesized that a parallel Earth would lie on the other side of my journey but I still feared that I had simply been regurgitated by the abysmal vortex and arrived sometime in a rather depressing future.
I found the most difficulty in landing as the surface was riddled with spiraling wind storms that wielded acidic rain. I collected samples from their oceans only to find them devoid of life and rife with toxic elements. It was undrinkable and burned the flesh. For a moment I considered that I had arrived at the planet’s birth but what I thought were caverns and jagged mountains were decaying cities in the process of being reclaimed by the soil they were formed from. As desolate as the strange Earth seemed however, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. Regardless, my Earth’s survival depended on my success with 23979 and my objective was clear.
