by submission | Apr 15, 2022 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I have to keep this brief. I don’t know how much time I have and if they find me… well, let’s just say they won’t be delivering glad tidings of comfort and joy.
I never thought a government conspiracy would get me killed. Certainly not this one. If it had to be one, my guess would have been more conventional… aliens at area 51… the illuminati… com trails… but this? Never.
I first noticed it as an anomaly in the radar data. The cute NASA ruse that little my niece fell for each Christmas Eve. You know, tracking his sleigh across the world. Usually, they broadcast the same animation. This year there was a glitch.
For about 4 seconds, the picture was real time, live telemetry from NORAD. How do I know? Did I mention before I was fired I was an air traffic controller? I know what real data looks like. I saw the file signature on the screen and all the juicy bits one usually sees on real radar. Before I realized it, it was back to the cute radar used for the kiddie show. But I had recorded it all.
I downloaded the file to a flash drive. Watched it on my laptop to make sure I got all of it, then wiped out every trace of it on my niece’s computer. I did leave the kiddie show version on and looped it so we could watch it together. We watched that until her bedtime.
Christmas day was a blast! My brother-in-law and sister got my niece her first “big girl” bike. I got way too many presents from my sister and brother-in-law, and I bought all of them a new flatscreen TV and an air fryer. Then came the knock on the door. I was in the bathroom. As soon as I heard the officer identify himself, I exited via the window. My truck was parked across the street in front of the neighbor’s house. I already had my winter “roadside emergency bag” so I quietly drove away.
72 hours later I am a long way from Denver- in Miami and at a public library. The news has me listed as wanted for questioning in regard to a string of rape/murders in Atlanta (where I have never, ever, been.)
From my spot in the stacks I saw the SWAT team arrive and could see the snipers take up positions. I have sent out the original file to every organization I can think of along with my bio and irrefutable proof I was elsewhere when the Atlanta crimes were committed.
I don’t know why this has to be a secret. It’s been going on since the 2nd or 3rd century. It’s in all the books, across all cultures. The fact that he is real, time-and-space-and-3D real, should be something to celebrate… give us all hope beyond Christmas. Why does keeping the big guy a secret have to be a worldwide conspiracy? Anyway, I have a way out of the building and Miami and a way North. I hooked up with a group that has more data on this than I could ever imagine. They’re mounting an expedition, and I’ve been invited. They’ve told me they have sources that know he’s not part of the conspiracy. When we get to where the big guy is, I’ll ask him about all the secrecy stuff that the world governments are co-operating on. Wonder what he’ll say? What list will the conspirators be on once he knows about all this?
All I can say is “better watch out.”
by submission | Apr 14, 2022 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
Before we were forgotten, we were myths. People read of us, and learned about us in school. The day we set sail on a column of fire was still a holiday – one celebrated with sales and bar crawls by all but the truest adherents. The true believers still shot miniature rockets skyward by day, and looked for us among the stars through telescopes at night.
Before we were myths, we were flesh and blood legends. Top actors portrayed us in dozens of movies people downloaded. Our memorabilia was sold everywhere, down to stylized body suits that copied the silver-blue coveralls we wore into space. People still remembered that once we cleared Earth’s gravity, we’d undress and climb naked into our pods so that cryogenic sleep could regale us with centuries of dreams. The idea of two people naked and alone, hurtling through space, stirred some to wonder whether we’d found intimacy one last time before we were sealed in our pods.
Before we were legends, we were curiosities. The world saw us as two exquisite specimens when we were unveiled. Our initial interviews were awkward at fist, until public relations dressed us in contemporary fashions. Coaches were brought in to help us speak with the modern cadence and slang of a dozen languages, which we used on television shows earning ourselves millions of fans. On some shows we were challenged to solve equations that normally took genius minds months – we solved them in minutes.
Before we were curiosities, we were one man and one woman, selected young for our bodies and minds. Even as children our training was rigorous. We had to be able to survive our voyage. Once we reached our destination, we had to be able to start our lives again fresh from our pods in even the most challenging of worlds.
Before we were selected, we were a theoretical project to send human beings toward a peculiar radio signal emanating from beyond our solar system. It was a monumental endeavor, one scientists hoped would lead to technological advancements that would someday make interstellar travel faster, and eventually, as common as short hops to the moon or Martian colonies.
Before our spacecraft entered orbit around the blue-violet sphere well-within the Goldilocks Zone, systems woke us from 372 years of sleep. We were weak at first, but barely aged. Our coveralls had deteriorated slightly, but were wearable. We made rounds to see how our craft had weathered the years, then floated through a narrow tunnel into the ship’s bridge. Sensors there were rampant with data about the planet growing larger through thick rectangular windows.
There were satellites in orbit. Sporadic radio transmissions in unusual dialects of languages we understood crackled through speakers. Sensors said there was a handful – a dozen or so – populated towns on the planet’s surface. Flying machines were moving slowly among the towns.
Before we were discovered, we were the forgotten mythical figures from four centuries past, drifting into the planet’s orbit.
Our ship began a sequence of pre-programmed radio messages that had once been cutting-edge technology. Periods of silence between broadcasts gave us time to listen for a response and wonder if it would come.
Before, we had been spent our youth strengthening bodies and minds to survive even toxic extraterrestrial environments. Now, we were leaning into an embrace, and wondering if we were ready to meet what humans had become lifetimes after we left Earth.
by submission | Apr 13, 2022 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Now it’s up to me, ooh, what will be
-Hall & Oates
Jakob’s favorite record was damaged. Every time Daryl Hall would sing about “one less toothbrush hanging in the stand,” the lyric repeated on an endless loop. This was terribly disappointing since Jakob’s life had been shaped by that record. He met his ex-wife at a concert where Daryl Hall stood on stage singing that song mere feet from the two of them. Jakob was on the way to the hospital for the delivery of his first child listening to the single playing on the weekly Top 40. When he left the courthouse after losing custody of that child, Jakob listened to the song on his long drive home. In fact, every time Jakob bought a toothbrush, “She’s Gone” danced across his mind.
And now that record, his personal soundtrack, was stuck on repeat. It was a bad omen.
One Saturday afternoon, lulled by nicotine and Stroh’s beer, Jakob had a daydream where people carried tiny record players in their pockets. They walked, strolled, jogged to the sound of their favourite songs. Everyone had a tiny phonograph in their pocket, a turntable connected by string to a pair of cans attached to their ears. Jakob knew that it would be infinitely better to hear your favourite song rather than trying to recall it. Memory was no one’s friend.
For example, on a national gameshow and with a chance to win big money, Jakob, a contestant, had insisted that Daryl Hall’s given name was John, while John Oates’ was Daryl. This had cost him a small fortune. It was terribly disappointing to forget the name of his favourite singer, the front man of his favourite band. His ex-wife had chided him about this for months, her bitterness accelerating the dissolution of their union.
A robin crashing into his apartment window roused Jakob from his reverie. He quickly grabbed a pencil and paper and set to sketching his pocket phonograph. It was such a simple concept, why hadn’t someone thought of this before? If men in horn rimmed glasses and pocket protectors could invent microchips, why couldn’t he, Jakob, invent a portable, microscopic HiFi system? He had taken a computing class in college and was the first among his friends to use a computer at work, so he was set to become an inventor.
For weeks, Jakob laboured over his sketch. He diagrammed a tiny turntable with a needle whose eye not even a camel could pass through. The machine’s rubber mat sat on a petite platter, and beneath the platter was a driver belt made from a tiny hair elastic positioned atop a petite base plate. The entire apparatus would be powered by a single coin cell battery. Jakob reasoned that he did not need to develop a head set, since he had seen some of those on the market (though it did not occur to him why). All he needed was to partner with an inventor who could make the head set plug small enough to connect to his platform, then he would be off to the races.
Jakob’s pocket phonograph was a godsend for him. In recent weeks, he had been without love or companionship of any kind. His house plants had died from neglect, and his beloved hermit crab of four and a half years expired. Jakob had gone to a few discos, but could not bag a broad. A terrific loneliness entered his dreams, where he ended up in bed with his ex-wife who lay there like a dead fish.
But more concerning to Jakob was his toothbrush. One morning, after a night of fitful sleep and sour dreams about conjugal coupling, the toothbrush started speaking to him. Initially, it kept repeating “In the morning there’s one less toothbrush hanging in the stand,” which concerned him less than the fact that he still could not replace his favourite record. Steep child support payments kept Jakob perennially short on cash. To fend off a mounting despair, he interpreted his toothbrush’s words as support for his pocket phonograph project.
But Jakob would never find a buyer for his design and his toothbrush would not stop talking. His pocket phonograph sketches made little sense to the companies that received his letters of inquiry. In laboratories all over the country, designers were already working on a similar project that involved the use of cassettes. One morning, Jakob’s toothbrush tried telling him this. It stopped singing its Hall and Oates lyric and said
Jakob, your wife is with a man who bought her a pony with
money he made from selling something called a TPS-L2 to
a company called Sony. That model is already on the
market. It uses cassette technology. You can buy another
copy of the Hall & Oates single you love so dearly for a
mere fraction of the price you will pay to purchase a 45’.
And for the record, your wife no longer needs your child
support. Get a better lawyer.
But Jakob no longer trusted his toothbrush. During a recent visit to the dentist he had been told that he had better start brushing his teeth. When he insisted that he had a toothbrush and that he brushed every morning and night, the dentist and hygienist did not believe him. His teeth told a different tale. And then it occurred to Jakob that actually he had stopped brushing. All he did was listen to his toothbrush and what good had that done him? His new divorce lawyer cost him more than double the fee of the old one and he was still paying support to his wife.
Could this mean his pocket phonograph project was similarly doomed?
by submission | Apr 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: James Eustace
The lights had been flickering in the study for quite some time, but it wasn’t until the room itself seemed to switch off that Greg was concerned enough to call the power company. “Don’t worry,” the lady on the phone reassured him, “we’ll send someone round.”
Within a few minutes there was a knock at the door and Greg opened it to see a helmeted man dressed in high-vis gear. “We’ve had reports of reality problems here,” the man said, flashing his ID.
Greg was confused. “Reality problems?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the man replied, walking past him into the house, “it happens from time to time. Which room is the issue?”
“Where did you say you were from again?” Greg asked, following him down the hall, “The power company?”
“Never mind,” the man said, ignoring his questions and instead brandishing a small handheld device that was all bleeps and whirrs, “my machine’s picking it up anyway.” He marched on through the house into the study, which had by this point reappeared.
When he got there he sucked his teeth as he studied the device’s monitor. “You’ve got a big problem here,” he said.
“I do?” Greg asked, worried.
“Definitely,” the man confirmed, “you’re being removed from our plane of existence.”
Greg looked at him blankly, as the room vanished again. “I’m what?”
“You can’t think it’s normal for your study to keep disappearing, right?” The man added, as the hallway room joined it, wherever it was.
“I don’t, but I thought it was just a power cut,” Greg protested feebly, “the person at the power company…”
“Your house is made of electricity is it?” the man asked.
“No,” Greg replied, feeling stupid.
“Listen,” the man said kindly, “I know this will probably come as a bit of a surprise for you, but our universe’s existence relies on a trans-dimensional energy field.”
“A field?” Greg looked at him blankly.
The man sighed. “Some people call it a ‘field’, some call it a ‘being’. Whatever term you want to use it seems as though there’s less energy to go around at the moment. No one really knows why, but not as much energy means not as much universe, so some things are starting to drop out of existence, particularly things that don’t attract energy, or don’t keep the being’s interest or whatever terminology you want to use. Boring things. Like you.”
“Like me?”
“Like you,” he repeated.
All this talk of inter-dimensional beings had got Greg thinking. “You’re not really with the power company, are you?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“How…” Greg trailed off.
“How can you fix things?” the man asked.
Greg nodded.
“Well, it would help if you could do something interesting or exciting. Make yourself stand out.”
This time the whole house flashed in and out of existence.
“And quickly,” he added, a trace of urgency in his voice, “you don’t have much time.”
“Do something exciting?” Greg thought for a moment, “I guess I could…” His voice trailed off again. And, this time, so did he, along with his home and all his possessions.
The man found himself standing in an empty lot. He sighed and walked back to his truck.
“No joy?” the woman in the driver’s seat asked as he climbed into the cab.
“Nope.”
“Imagine being literally too boring to exist,” she said, as they pulled away.
“Where to next?” he asked.
“An accountant in Lubbock.”
by submission | Apr 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: DJ
The house smelled of rotten eggs. Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. Jeremy took a sip of coffee. The lines on his face suggested that he had had his share of stress in his life. His brother Leon, was cradling his coffee mug. “It’s so cold in this house,” Leon said. “By the way, who else is here?” Jeremy smiled.
“Nobody,” replied Jeremy. “I live alone.” Leon’s eyebrow lifted.
“Where are those footsteps coming from?”
“I told you this place is haunted,” Jeremy replied.
“Prove it,” Leon said.
“Go upstairs. Enter the third room on the left, sit on the bed, with the door closed and wait,” Jeremy instructed. “You won’t want to stay in that room for five minutes.” Leon rolled his eyes and climbed the stairs. He found the third bedroom on the left and entered. A dresser was to Leon’s immediate left. A piggy bank sat in an open dresser drawer. Leon closed the door behind him. This part of the house was warm and smelled of lilacs. Then he sat on the bed and waited for something to happen.
The closet had a sliding door. As it slid open he felt a weight that bore down on his legs. Then it forced him down on the bed and pinned his hands and legs. He struggled to even raise his head, as a temporary paralysis took over. His breathing grew shallow. Suddenly something screamed directly in his ear, “Get out or die!” When he could move, Leon leaped out of bed and ran to the door, which flung itself open. As soon as he was out of the bedroom, the door slammed shut behind him. He ran downstairs; he practically flew outside. Then he got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
A skinless man appeared in the doorway and walked across the kitchen, leaving a bloody trail along the floor. He sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of Leon’s coffee.
“You don’t scare me, Charlie,” said Jeremy calmly. “You never do.”
