by submission | Feb 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
Susan looks at the man lying naked in the bed next to her and wonders how they got to this place so quickly. He looks at her with an odd expression on his face, then rolls out of bed and begins dressing.
“You’re leaving?” she asks.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“No,” she says, somewhat hesitantly. “I thought you would stay. At least the night.”
“Is that what you want?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Then I will.”
He continues putting on his clothes.
“So, if you’re staying, why are you putting on your clothes?”
“You know those dreams, where you’re back in school, and you stand up in front of the class and realize you have no pants on?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I hate when that happens,” he says, deadpan. “It’s really awkward when you wake up in a new place and you have no clothes or maybe just a towel. A towel is better than nothing, but depending on where you are it can get pretty chilly.”
“I bet,” she says, laughing. “So, does that happen to you a lot, waking up in strange places with no clothes on?”
“Not anymore. Now I get dressed before I go to sleep.” After a minute he adds, “I will miss you.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “When you went to bed last night, you were here?”
“Yeah?”
“And this morning, when you woke up, you were still here? Same room, same bed?”
“Yes.”
“And outside, it was the same city, same world?”
“Of course.”
“Of course, for you. Maybe for most people, but not for me.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I went to sleep last night I was in a city, but it wasn’t this city. It was a city with cobbled streets, tall towers and two moons in the sky.”
“Really?”
“Really. I can’t tell you the name of that city, I never found out. The night before I slept in a pine forest with lots of needles on the ground. Every day, I wake up somewhere new.”
“You know that sounds crazy, right?”
“Maybe, but I’m still putting my clothes on.”
“And when I wake up, you’ll be gone?”
“I suppose. From my point of view, you’ll be gone. I’ll just be somewhere else again.”
She thinks about how disorienting it would feel to wake up in a new world every day. Then she thinks about waking up in the same world tomorrow, in the same bed, but without him.
“Would you like to wake up here tomorrow, with me?”
“If I could, yes.”
“I have an idea,” she says. She gets up, walks over to her bureau and rummages under her clean underwear before pulling out a pair of handcuffs.
“From an old boyfriend,” she says, blushing. “Don’t ask.”
“Ok.”
“Do you think if I put these on, one on each of us so we are chained together, that you would still be here in the morning?”
“I might,” he says. “Or you might wake up in whatever new place I do.”
“Good point. In that case, I better get dressed, too.” She puts on clean underwear, jeans, and a tee-shirt, then adds a pullover and a light jacket to be on the safe side. Fully dressed, she climbs back into bed beside him and holds out the handcuffs to him,
“Ready?” she asks.
He nods.
They snap the links of the handcuffs onto their wrists. Susan puts the key carefully into her front jeans pocket and grasps his hand. Then she closes her eyes and settles down to sleep.
by submission | Feb 9, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Tam McDonald
“A young fringling, Madame,” the waiter said with surprise and unconcealed offence, “is a delicacy like no other, I assure you. The taste is close to a sweet potato but with a satisfying umami undertone. The texture is sublime. Creamy and soft, hardly like a meat at all. And perfectly smooth, perfectly. The internal organs, simply liquefy during baking and there isn’t a trace of them in the finished dish.” The waiter clicked his lips shut, having delivered the final word on the palatability of fringling, the cute and utterly delicious alien vertebrate which the world was going nuts for: baked or fried. Fringling was among the first species brought back to Earth by the Zoo Rover space programme and whilst most of the alien species were sequestered in labs and research institutes, fringlings had been quickly monetised and the population was thriving. They were good-natured and enjoyed a tummy tickle, so were popular pets, but most lived on farms, where they were well fed and sheltered until they were fat enough to be slaughtered as alien delicacies. Whole fringling, baked or deep fried, had become wildly popular in restaurants whilst the off cuts were used in Fringling Fricassée by fast food carts. Fricaséed, the flavour was somewhat overwhelmed by garlic, and the texture obliterated by over cooking, but the combination of alien exoticism and alliteration made them a hit on the street food scene.
“Dad please!” I said, slightly ashamed of the childish whine in my voice. “Please don’t order the fringling. I couldn’t stand to watch you eat one.”
I had begun to wonder if people should be eating fringling. Animal rights activists secretly filming fringling farms had evidence of them using language. I’d seen one video where a pair looked like they were having a lover’s tiff; in another one a fringling held court whilst three others listened, rapt, to its squawks and warbles, before collapsing in what looked very much like tiny hysterics. A guy on the internet, who had a fringling as a pet, posted a picture of it sitting up on hind legs with a can of beer, comically oversized, between its legs, and drinking contentedly through a straw. He claimed his fringling used its trunk, about as long as a human thumb and more dextrous, to open the cans, and that it preferred pale ale to lager. The anecdotal evidence was overwhelming: fringlings were pretty smart. At least as smart as a stupid human.
I composed myself and lowered my voice; “Dad, you should not eat fringlings, they have feelings and emotions. It’s wrong. Why don’t you just have a steak?”
“Darling,” he deadpanned as the waiter filled his glass with the wine he’d recommended for pairing with fringling, “cows have feelings too. If we eat cows then we can eat fringlings.” The waiter nodded in encouragement and began to fill Mum’s glass too.
“Cows aren’t intelligent like fringlings though. I showed you the videos Dad: they can do maths.”
“Well arithmetic darling,” dad said, “it’s not like they can do quadratic equations. Simple arithmetic. Dolphins can probably do simple arithmetic too.”
“Yes, but we don’t eat dolphins Dad, do we?” I said, sensing victory.
“No, WE don’t,” said Dad impatiently, “but some people do, and perhaps we’d all be happier if we spent less time judging people for what they eat.” Dad unrolled his napkin, smoothing it out on his lap meticulously.
“But Dad- “I began again, and I couldn’t help the whine in my voice.
Dad cut me off. “Darling, it is my birthday and I am going to eat a fringling and that is the end of it.”
by submission | Feb 8, 2022 | Story |
Author: E Rathke
Have you heard?
Have you heard!
There’s a new one in town, a new body to play, a new song to flay, and, for only today, all is for free, all given away! Oh, yes, the fate phantastique!
We run, now, much work to be done, much singing to be sung, much dancing yet begun. Ah, yes, here we are all gathered round the socializing sacrifice, the morning light revealing the hunger, the damage done and the artist’s hand. The maudlin poets fester through, drinking already, whispering, gossips and charlatans ready to immortalize our bountiful feast. Ah, here the butchers then, the cutlery priests and the atavistic acolytes.
The children run back and forth, tramping the muck and mire, laughing their childish laughs, singing our harrowing songs of mutilations for the common good. Oh, to be young as we once were, when the gleam of a knife was enough to get the blood to boil, the lust to mount until we panted and ravaged and snorted like bulls on parade.
A knife like a sword, oh, yes, we’ll do well today. Our god given right, our light in the dark, our civil commemoration. A young one today, too. No older than twenty five.
We rub our hands and grind our teeth, watching, rapt, waiting, impatient, but the band plays on, the songs and the dances. Oh! festival of flesh! The macabre masquerade!
Out with her eye, out with her eye, how the blade does fly with such ease, his smile our tease. And then with the fingers tossed to the youth, the toes for the pregnant mothers, the ears for the atavist’s necklaces, hands for the poets, tongue for the singers, feet for the runners, and so on. Only the torso goes to all, the organs shredded and shared. All but the heart, the essence of our giver whose body feeds us and keeps our world together. The heart is for the earth, taken back from whence it came, a show of peace, a deistic offering to the only god that matters. The god who feeds but does not need.
Her bones to garden, we plant magnolia’s in her eyesockets so every spring she will once more open her eyes. Beautiful in death, beautiful in life. A way to offer thanks for our consummation, for giving without question back to those who reared us. Lilacs in her mouth so her voice remains sweet and a weeping willow where once rest her heart, to show our sorrow over her transcendent departure, leave the living behind. We the living who take her with us one mouthful at a time.
The garlands spread from tree to tree, lining every window and terrace. Her blood washes like wine over us, streaking hands and lips. The masks come out, the flowers in our hair, as night replaces day and the pyre casts our frenzied shadow, the evanescent projection of our hearts and minds. Oh! out come the poets, the harlots, and flesh dealers. For every day to feel this way! Here the poets speak their new words, their poesy for the consumed, gracious and benevolent. Ah, yes, the wit and the folly of the young and old, the keepers of words, diviners of signification. The singers sing bawdy songs of bygone days when the mortal cabaret really swung and heads rolled with lolling tongues. The musicians play their boneharps and skindrums, their guitars and pianokeys, and all link arms dancing through the bedlam.
We sing and we dance, this heartless romance!
by submission | Feb 6, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
Jack jerked awake, his yelp a cross between night terrors and that recurring dream where you are anticipating that best part coming but, well you know the dream.
“What?” his wife asked ripped from her own slumber. “Was it that dream again? Was she in?” she asked a bit testily.
“No.” Jack replied, “It’s this damn mini-brain.” He scratched at the thumb-sized node implanted flush with the skin behind his left ear. “I think it shocked me again.”
Sarah rolled over. In the dark, she could clearly see the faint dots glowing on the ends of the pins by his ear. Their doctor suggested that he get it to help with sleep and his anxiety.
“What’s the third one?” she asked, reaching out toward its ear.
“Nothing.” He responded.
“Wait, you didn’t actually buy something from the dread-headed little street urchin?”
She poked his shoulder when he did not reply.
“Did you?” she asked again, in that tone.
“Yes.” He replied.
“What?”
“Karate.”
“Jesus, and you wonder why that thing shocks you. You should take it out.” She suggested.
“In the morning. I want to learn some skills”
Sarah rolled over and dozed back off. Jack’s own return to sleep took a bit longer. He had not gotten the knack of initiating the countdown sequence and found it difficult to get the sheep to appear. When he finally slid back under she was still there. The Swedish exchange student, her blonde curls and sleek wirerimmed glasses the epitome of late ninety’s style.
She caught his eye from across the room. Two big jocks were talking to her, but she was ignoring their advances. She winked at Jack and turned, exiting into the kitchen. Jack followed, shoving his way between the meatheads. Darting through the doorway he found himself in a city, none he had ever been to and at the same time a mix of every metropolis he was aware of; the noise, smell, gaudy neon assaulting his senses. It took a minute to find her, lost amongst the urban chaos. She entered a building, the lettering on the marque at a weird angle he could not read. He raced after her.
It was an arcade. He slowed just a step to take in the nostalgia. He was sure none of these games existed anymore. When he finally found her, she was standing in front of a cabinet emblazoned with StarCrash 3000. 2UP blinked. She turned to him, flashing her gorgeous smile. They launched into a frenetic maze, protecting each other from waves of minions bent on their destruction. When at last they killed the end boss they found the guns were in their hands, barrels glowing red from the final onslaught. They were on the shores of a distant land, the lap of waves and sway of palm trees suggesting somewhere exotic.
“We did it.” She exclaimed throwing her arms around his neck, “And a kiss for my hero.” Jack leaned in. Her lips were electric, then too electric, jolting him. He sensed there was more to her, something he could not see behind her eyes, something bigger than her. His world began to dissolve as the kiss lingered on, his self, his existence siphoning off, replaced by whatever was inside her. His last conscious thoughts were of his wife at the altar, she had been so lovely that day. Then it all faded to a single grayscale pixel.
When she woke, Sarah found her husband gone. Lost to a rapidly changing world that she was finding difficult to recognize.
by submission | Feb 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
Unit 117 found himself in the interrogation room of the Transplanetary Review Board. It was a place that few wanted to be, but that Unit 117 had been many times before. The reviewer walked into the room and sat at the table, he looked down at his files and back up at Unit 117,
“Ok, who do we have here?”
He squinted over his glasses,
“One abrahamic monotheistic patriarch set to watch over a planet called earth. Man, why do the fuck ups always choose the violent man-god archetypes? Alright, listen up Unit 117, you fucked up bad, and shame on us for not noticing sooner, look here…”
A slide show started,
“Let’s see here, genocide starting almost as soon as humankind learned to build a wall, rampant drug use amongst the host body, you let them walk around the woods eating any mushroom they like, leading to self awareness and therefore, free will. You don’t give humans free will, what’s rule number one, #117?”
117 looked up blankly, figuring the question was rhetorical,
“That’s not a rhetorical question.” Unit 117 answered mockingly,
“Rule number one, don’t give humans free will.”
“So, imagine our surprise when from 1,200 light-years away we detect an atomic bomb explosion on a planet where we’d specifically forbade the use of nuclear anything. Look, remember the brochure for earth?”
He pulled out the brochure card, a holographic advertisement rang out,
“Come to earth, the planet of unspoiled nature, enlightened thought and home to a peaceful sentient species of sexy humanoids whose sole endeavor in life is to live harmoniously with each other and take joy in being responsible stewards of their world.”
Cut back to the slideshow showing ethnic conflict, racism, war, prisons, police brutality, and ugliness ad nauseum.
117, just leaned back in his chair, and grinned the biggest shit eating grin the universe had ever seen.
“You’ll answer for this 117. What were you even doing while humankind was learning to slaughter each other?”
“Fucking Grecians.”
“What?”
“It’s an earth thing, and I’m not gonna answer for shit, you know why, because my daddy owns that world. So I can fuck all the Grecians and Asians and Africans and Europeans and Americans and whoever the fuck I want to. I can blow them the fuck up and snort rails off of everest, I can goad them into thinking they can get off that rock and colonize space and snatch it away in the blink of an eye. Why the fuck do you think my father sent me 1,200 light-years away from anything? Because I. Fuck. Shit. Up. So get the fuck outta my face, you think you’re in charge? My father pays your salary, probably owns your planet too. What kinda planet you rockin’ huh? You probably got one of those agrarian egalitarian boring ass bullshit worlds, am I right?”
The reviewer looked at him slack jawed, and with a silent fury.
“Wait, you don’t even lease a planet, do you? Oh shit, I bet you don’t even have a continent to yourself. What a little bitch! Get the fuck outta my office worm.”
117 gestured for him to leave the room. Which of course he did. Have you any idea who this kid’s father is?
