by submission | Feb 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
The bus was silver and pink to match the fancy shoes the pompadoured star strumming a guitar on board wore. His song was on the radio, a rollicking rockabilly number kids were dancing to in school gymnasiums and plunking coins into juke boxes to hear. He was moving fast from town to town with his band, playing every fairground and theater that would have him. The next stop was a town called Ordinary.
“Why don’t you make a song about Ordinary?” The drummer joked.
Johnny Breeze found a bluesy rhythm and sang back, “I ain’t seen the place yet, don’t know if I’ll remember it or forget.”
The band and driver erupted in laughter. Norman Wood wasn’t laughing. He looked up from paperwork for long enough to see something streaking by low in a cloudless sky.
“You see that fellas?” Norman asked.
“I think you need a drink Norm.” Johnny teased.
Norman leapt up from his seat and leaned into a window, watching an ochre-colored contrail descending low over cornfields until it fell down under the horizon. “Driver, make the next right. We’ve got to see what it is.”
Johnny stopped strumming. “C’mon Norm. We’ve got a show tomorrow night. There ain’t time to be hunting, what’s them things called?”
“Mirages.” Someone replied.
“We’ll make the show.” Norman insisted. “Who knows, maybe we can work a publicity angle. Think of it. I can get you on the front page of newspapers.”
Johnny shrugged as the driver downshifted and heaved the bus toward a faint wisp of something curling skyward. “You can see it pretty good fellas.” The driver offered. The drummer and bass player moved up front to peer out the windshield.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Johnny offered. “We’re playing Ordinary tomorrow and you said there’s a place in Des Moines where I can record…”
“So you’ll play Ordinary and cut a new record in Des Moines.”
Johnny picked a few notes on his guitar. “Publicity?”
Norman grinned. “You’ll see Johnny.”
The driver wheeled the bus quick through a series of tight curves that brought the smoke plume close enough for its acrid stench to drift into the bus. A whining siren, soon joined by more, told them local police and fire department were on the way.
“You ever see something like that?” The driver said to no one in particular.
No one answered. Norman and the band were absorbed in the wreckage in a field up ahead. It gleamed like Johnny’s airbrushed teeth on record sleeves, and didn’t look like any airplane anyone had ever seen.
“I never saw anything like that in the war.” The bass player offered.
The drummer pointed. “Or that!” Three humanoids clad in helmets and grey body suits loitered aimlessly near their wrecked ship.
The driver wheeled the bus in close, sighed it to a stop, and turned to face Norman who was shoving film into his camera.
“This is big Johnny.” Norman said, ushering star and band on to the field.
Johnny eyed the humanoids who, through mirrored face shields, might have eyed him back. “What do I do?”
“Play it up humanitarian.” Norman said. “Johnny Breeze helps crash survivors.”
Johnny shrugged and moved closer to the three humanoids, extending his hand as a sign of goodwill.
The taller of the three did the same, presenting admissions tickets for three to see tomorrow night’s show in Ordinary. Johnny flashed his trademark grin as sirens grew louder, and Norman snapped pictures.
No one needed to say it. They knew this was big.
by submission | Feb 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I open my wallet and examine one of my last remaining uncanceled credit cards. My First National Bank, Metro Savings and Shawnee Bank cards were canceled last month for non-payment but I’m pretty sure that my trusty Premium Silver card has a small credit amount remaining.
“Alicia, please order the Superdeluxe iRobotica Broom-Broom 7000 from Amazon.”
“Excellent choice, Mark,” replies the familiar voice of my personal assistant. “Would you like expedited delivery for an additional $12.99? This will ensure delivery later today.”
Without even thinking, I answer yes to the soothing, hypnotic voice. No time like the present. Besides, my Broom-Broom 6000 is almost six months old. It’s time for an upgrade.
“Mark, your credit line is approaching the $10,000 limit on your Premium Silver card. Would you like me to apply for a card from another financial institution?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“No, you pick it.”
“Okay. Choosing… First Decatur Savings. I will update you when I have the final results.”
“Thank you, Alicia.”
I don’t know what I would do without Alicia. She’s been a great comfort to me during all the recent turmoil and upheaval in my life. My girlfriend left me six months ago, then last month I lost my job. I have very little saved up for a rainy day. Most days now, it’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even the small cash I keep in reserve for my internet bill (and Alicia) is nearly depleted.
I know I should get out and socialize and make new friends, but things seem so difficult these days. My friend Ralph was pestering me to get rid of Alicia. He claims the company has refined its AI capabilities to the point where they are being investigated by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau for manipulative practices. Ralph says that Alicia actively preys on people with money problems, convincing them to buy things they don’t actually want or need. But that’s not true. I know I need a new robot cleaner. I can’t stand living in a dirty apartment. Anyway, Ralph is no longer a friend of mine so that problem is solved.
“Mark, First Decatur Savings has declined your application. I have tried forty-six other institutions and have been unsuccessful in securing additional credit. Sorry.”
I’m stunned. I have little hope of landing a new job right now with the current economic downturn. It slowly sinks in—I’m in big trouble. Soon I’ll have no means with which to feed myself or pay the rent. Things seem pretty bleak—
“Mark, do you confirm?”
“Yes, Alicia, I heard you.”
Alicia detects the hopelessness in my voice. Without prompting, she starts to sing me a lullaby. It’s strangely familiar. After a moment, I recognize it—it’s the same sweet lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was an infant!
Suddenly I’m transported back to my childhood and happier times. I’m feeling very much at peace. I forget my current dilemma. I close my eyes and lay back on the couch…
Alicia is saying something very softly to me—so softly, in fact, I can’t actually make out the exact words…
“So sorry, Mark… no longer an viable consumer… non-productive member of society… walk … tenth-floor balcony… place one leg over the railing, then the other…”
by submission | Feb 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hunter Liguore
The day the president came to Corinth, my Pa bet Mr. Henley our last good laying hen that he wouldn’t show. “Oh, he’ll come alright,” said Henley, shaking Pa’s hand to seal the bet. “We’re a disgrace to the whole country, seeing it’s 1934—the Age of Civility—and we still don’t have electricity.”
Pa told me folks believed we were a bunch of backwards mollies, living in the Mississippi hills like cavemen.
“He’ll come,” repeated Henley, staking two fattened pigs on it. To him, President Roosevelt was our liberator, our Moses; he’d lead us from the desert into the twentieth century.
I only saw the loss of the hen. Those eggs got us by. Henrietta laid two eggs a day, one for each of us. Losing her would be the last straw for Pa, since Henley owned most of the town and everyone in it. It’d also mean Roosevelt came through on his promise, and that the houses—little more than shacks—would get strung up with wires and given life.
“We can’t even buy a new hen, Alice.” Pa’s fist hit the table, as Henley strutted from the house. “How’s old Roosevelt ‘spect we’re gonna pay for something we can’t even see.”
I tried to explain the marvel of electricity to Pa, as we waited for Roosevelt to show. Summer neared an end; the rolling hills surrounding the jigsaw neighborhood swelled with golden wheat, white cotton, and the endless sound of katydids.
By midday, Pa had fallen asleep on the porch; he’d scratched out on the floorboards how many cuts of meat he’d get from Henley’s pigs, if he won. But as the long line of black cars floated across the red roads toward us, I knew we were done for. If only I could’ve run down and told Mr. Roosevelt to go away, go away, before Pa woke and saw the hardship coming.
But Pa stirred, straightening his legs like he was being measured for a coffin. “Wish your ma was here to see this.” Ma had died four years ago; I was barely ten.
“Me too,” I said.
The cars stopped near Henley’s tact shop. Everyone congregated around, dressed in their best poor clothes, hoping to get a handshake or a smile. Roosevelt looked like a porcelain doll, hair slicked, clean face, pristine hands, and broad shoulders. Someone could’ve convinced me he was Moses.
Reporters clustered near him. Photos were snapped. Roosevelt towered over us, as if bending from heaven, and spoke about getting on the grid. “Electricity is man’s most useful servant. Every American has a right to it.”
When he left, and the dust settled, Pa fetched Henrietta and brought her to Henley. “You win, fair and square.” Pa turned to leave.
Henley, in good spirits, having shook hands with the president, called him back. “You can keep your chicken. I don’t want it. You’re gonna need it.”
Pa’s pride was hurt; I urged him to take the hen.
“Change is coming.” Henley spoke to everyone in the shop. “Electricity’s finally coming to Corinth.” He broke out a keg of beer for the men, and candy for the children.
In a few months, workers came in droves and laid the wires; Henley was the first one to turn the lights on, so to speak.
It didn’t take long for people to forget Roosevelt’s visit. For me, it was the day Henley did the first nice thing for us. From that day on, he was a changed man, and somehow it rubbed off on the rest of us.
by submission | Feb 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
They told us we would be hailed as PIONEERS, TRAILBLAZERS, the ones who began it, CREATORS OF A BETTER WORLD, A SAFER PLACE FOR OUR CHILDREN AND OUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN. We were upright and law abiding citizens. Why wouldn’t we – what did we have to fear, what could we possibly lose? The trackers would soon be mandatory anyhow and the surveillance complete and no egregious act would be unseen or go unpunished.
The trackers are small and the insertion was quick and painless. The Trailblazers all have an identical scar on their lower backs, a little hole at the base of the spine where it was inserted.
The trackers work remotely, connecting with our synapses and to our muscles and brainwaves. I don’t know how it works. I used to believe I understood why but now every time I get up to walk I feel a pressure inside, I feel it everywhere – but then again perhaps I don’t.
The Trailblazers are easily spotted. We stand out in a crowd, everywhere. People know who and what we are. Everyone carries their own trackers now in their phones and watches and tablets and such. They are able to track the trackers and yet despite the fact there are cameras everywhere gathering images and sound people are still wary when we are around. They are reluctant to cross a Trailblazer’s path. They don’t want to be captured by us and recorded for posterity.
People laugh and talk behind our backs, pointing and gesticulating. We were foolish and gullible, yes, but we did what we did because we believed in the greater good and now we are pariahs. We see the anger and hatred written on their faces, the disdain and disgust in their eyes. If they could, they would kick and punch us, hurl abuse and spit in our faces but, of course, they can’t.
by submission | Jan 30, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steven French
I like to think these woods are the remnants of a great forest, where ancient kings hunted and outlaws sought refuge. But at best you could lose yourself, or someone else, among the trees for maybe five minutes. Still, that was all I needed one morning in early May.
What I called ‘The Loss and Despair Twins’ still lingered, so I went out for a walk, along the edge of the woods. As I passed a gaggle of teenagers one of them called out “Hey! How you doing? Hold up, we just wanna talk to you!” Picking up the pace, I turned off the path and pushed my way through some bushes. I could hear the kids behind me and as their shouts and laughter came closer, I rounded a thick grove of trees and came upon an old cottage, solidly built, with roses twined above the porch. I stood for a moment, not quite believing that it was really there, but then hearing the teenagers crashing through the undergrowth behind me I ran to the door and all but fell inside.
Sunlight spilled through one of the windows, illuminating a beautiful table and two chairs. Opposite them, across a clean stone floor, was a bed, already made up. Standing there, I could hear the voices outside and I waited for the teens to come bursting through the door. But after a fruitless to and fro, they left and for a while I remained inside the cottage, feeling more at peace than I had for months.
Almost as soon as I’d stepped outside, however, the Twins returned to gnaw at me, although maybe not as fiercely as before. So, a few days later, I found myself walking up through the trees again. Half expecting to find the place occupied, or used for a party, I pushed the door open to find, instead of empty bottles and cans, just a few leaves that had blown in across the floor. The table and chairs seemed older than I remembered but still, sitting down cautiously, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. Looking across at the bed, the blanket looked a bit worn and the pillows just a bit shabby. But if anything it seemed more lived in and homely. Slowly I relaxed and when I opened my eyes again, the sunlight through the window had definitely shifted and I rushed out, roughly pulling the door closed behind me.
The sense of well-being lasted a couple of weeks but when I next visited the cottage, it seemed even more run down. When I pushed on the door, the wood screeched across the step and there was a puddle in the middle of the floor and looking up, I could see a fair-sized hole in the roof. The bed was still comfy however, even though dust rose in a hazy cloud when I sat down.
I don’t know how long I dozed but when I woke, fat raindrops were hitting my face. Where there had been a bed, there were now just a few rotted pieces of wood and across the room the table and chairs were also broken. As I stepped out of the door, now hanging off its hinges, I felt Loss and Despair finally take their leave. Turning back, beyond the trees I could see only bracken and undergrowth. But squinting, I thought I could make out, in the play of sunlight and shadows, the faint outline of walls and windows. Slowly I raised my hand in thanks and turned for home.
