by submission | Dec 24, 2020 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Poor me, the Israelite
-Desmond Dekker
When the trawlers made their move, shaking off dromedaries and clumps of grass, none of the old fishers noticed. In Kazakh and Uzbek cafes, places where patrons sat on stools made from salvaged steel and piping, there was no market for more scrap. Oxidized metals filled the air; clouds of invisible minerals and rust particles rode the wind into every building, clinging to structures like a cancer. It was the children who watched the trawlers transform themselves from decrepitude into drums. Concave drums, the kind with chisels; instruments played on watery islands no one would ever see. In groups, kids beat rhythms against the dusk, listening for an echo from their departed Aral Sea.
At Poopó, the artisan boats roused themselves from the cracked earth and waddled past fishery officials up from the capital. The bureaucrats did not see them. Andeans watched their former boats with amusement. If the state would not replace old tackle or divert melting glaciers back into the valley, why should they see a boat enter a home and turn into a fish? Tin fish, the produce of Potosí; loving effigies to the silversides, extinct and fossilized in Poopó’s ruins. A blind man could read that dry lakebed like braille, but some official? To the suits, fisheries were spreadsheets.
In Chad, invasive reeds swallowed the water and entangled the sky with their roots. The basin baked as turtles tried to move a dying lake on their backs. From out of this entangling weave, fishers watched their Kadeis walk the murk and gather reeds in bunches. They entered the town, built a bonfire, and burned every reed to loose the waters. Then each Kadei lifted its chosen fisher (and family) onto its shoulders, falling into line behind the turtles, walking east or west, seeking the sea.
In Salton City, residents thought the Chocolate Mountains were crossing the water, but that was a trick of the eye. It wasn’t mountains they were seeing but a great flock of giant cranes. The birds were terrifying: each stood on legs the height of a tall ship’s mast. And if that were not enough, as each clawed foot touched the drying shores of a retreating sea, the cranes turned into tarantulas. Eight metallic legs scuttling down Salton’s dusty streets, harried arachnids of the Mojave. People ran to their homes, slamming doors and shutting windows. A local eccentric walked the streets, calling out to her neighbors that they should not be afraid. “A rust colored tarantula nests above my door. She is a talisman. My companion. The raven of Poe!”
In Manhattan, a luxury liner was overdue by more than a century. And then one mid-April morning it came ashore. It was three wrecks to be exact, a trinity claiming to be a single vessel. Just then New York’s mayor received a call from a peer, her counterpart up in Halifax, a Canadian coastal town. His Honour told the leader of Gotham that a German battleship bearing the name, “Bismarck” had turned up at his wharf. But alas, New York was stealing all of the attention.
These boats -the Titanic and the Bismarck- began transforming themselves. In Halifax, the Nazi warship gave itself away, tearing pieces from its hull and handing them to tourists. Spectators, accustomed to air travel, were amazed that something so heavy might have been buoyant. Meanwhile the Titanic ordered New Yorkers to stand back as it assumed the form of a baleen whale. At the foot of Broadway it beached itself, barnacles and all.
Then it began to rain a hot rain, a monsoon whipped up by distant fires. The storm was driven by an Outback inferno, by the immolation of abused jungles. There was flame enough to float a whale high above the Freedom Tower. It moved uptown, joining the Woolworth and Flatiron buildings to watch the Chrysler genuflect at the moon.
For a time, global deserts grew moist and green before a congenital condition turned them sallow again. Many people could not believe the habitations they had built now refused them shelter; there were few arks and prophets talked about the fact that glass and aluminum was never meant to pile itself up in order to scrape the sky and babble at the sun.
A sun that drops its bulb into the water.
A fisher, pulling in his net, watched that sun swap its spot in the sky with an iron boat doubling as a cormorant. The fisher wondered if a boat taking wing might be a sign of eternal return.
by submission | Dec 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
The water off the point that juts out from the beach at St. Cabo is deep, really deep. The fishermen who sit out at the end of the point all day talk about the strange fish they have brought up sometimes, fish with huge eyes to catch the dim light far beneath ocean’s surface, or blind fish with no eyes at all. Some, even stranger, have little lights that dangle on thin stalks in front of their mouths, little glowing orbs, pieces of their own bodies that they use as bait to lure other fish close enough to grab, down in the pitch black dark far, far beneath the waves.
The water by the beach is clear and shallow. You would never know, looking at it, that the shelf drops off less than a hundred yards off shore into a deep ocean trench whose bottom has never been mapped. There was a group of young people playing volleyball on the sand. Locals, I thought, by the looks of them, not tourists, with sun-darkened skin, and torn jeans. The boys were bare-chested for the most part, the girls in tight little bikini tops that bounced enticingly as they dove for the ball.
I sat back against the rocks and watched them, listening to the cacophony of music blaring out from the radios in the little circle of cars and pickup trucks parked at the edge of the beach. I pulled my straw hat down over my eyes and tried to shade the back of my sunburnt neck as best as I could from the late afternoon sun. I closed my eyes and dozed for a while.
When I opened them again, the volleyball players were packing up, climbing into their pickup trucks and cars and heading back into town. The sun was going down in a spectacular show of crimson and purple on the horizon, but no one else seemed interested. I sat and watched it go down.
I stood up, getting ready to walk back to my hotel in town, when I noticed there was still one car left at the edge of the beach. It wasn’t a new car. It was a big, old showboat Cadillac convertible. The kind your grandfather might have driven to take your grandma to the drive-in. The top was down and I could look in and admire the leather seats. There was a smell like coconut oil wafting off of the back seat, and I wondered if somebody slathered in suntan lotion had been lying there. The radio was playing Despacito.
The words washed over me, pulsating in my blood. The words were sensual, insistent, and I found myself imagining things happening in the back seat of that car that made my heart start to race.
I looked around to see if the owner of the car was coming back for it, but there was no one in sight. Night fell, and still I stood, next to that strange mysterious car. I ran my hands over the tail fins, and the car seemed to throb. Looking around again, I saw no one. I opened the door of the car, and sat down in the driver’s seat, not really thinking about what I was doing. The door closed, and the car came to life. We headed out over the beach and down into the water. The spray from the shallow water splashed up over the sides of the car as we headed out towards deeper water. We reached the edge of the shelf and headed down, and I realized she had been fishing.
by submission | Dec 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Connie Millard
His eyes are going. The images on the other side are blurry when he attempts to peer through walls now. He squints. Is that the criminal or a floor lamp? Sighing, he decides that he can problem-solve when he arrives and bounds off the ground with a raised fist, only managing a few feet in the air before crashing to the concrete with a jarring thud. Embarrassed, he glances around to make sure no one has seen. He tries again, squatting deeper to leverage more power, and with a second leap, he is off, ready to save the day. Just as he has done for decades.
Securing the last button of his shirt at the collar, he ambles back home, one of the masses again, and resists the urge to rub the ache in his knee. He can still get the job done. Save people. Catch the bad guys. Solve crimes. He sighs and nudges the glasses up his nose, knowing the time has arrived to finally order those prescription lenses. At least he already has the frames.
He reaches his building and treks the ten flights to his walk-up apartment, slightly winded as he unlocks the door. Decades of random décor welcome him as he empties his pockets, tossing its contents next to the worn rotary phone on the midcentury desk. He keeps walking, past the charcoal mod style couch propped against the faded floral wallpaper, its once magenta flowers now a muted pink. Past the framed awards, yellowed and curling, that clutter the wall along with newspaper clippings, heaped in abundance at first and then less so.
He reaches his bathroom and contemplates the diminishing stacks of hair dye hidden deep in the linen closet. His hair, thick waves of ebony, is one of his few unfortunate genetic endowments, though thankfully his eyesight is still sufficiently keen so he can catch the tiny stark white hairs betraying his scalp before anyone can notice. He must add more boxes to his online shopping cart, he thinks as he pulls out the hydrating face mask and retinol infused eye cream and set them on the sink. He slips off his suspenders and white button-down shirt, finally reaching the familiar red and blue suit underneath. He discards that too and gazes in the mirror with equal parts disgust and gratitude at the new addition to his uniform. The flesh-colored spandex digs into his ribs, holding his flabby belly hostage. He sighs in relief as he peals them off, the angry red marks on his skin a worthy ransom for keeping his secret.
He makes his way to the kitchen and pulls the blender and protein mix from the dingy mustard cabinets. The vitamin supplements slide down easily with the help of the banana kale smoothie, a healthier dinner than the cheese doodles he covets inside the cabinet. He flops onto the couch with a thud and flips on his tv, clicking through the twenty or so news channels, unsatisfied. Bad news streams everywhere, his constant toiling hardly making any positive impact. Annoyed, he snaps open his laptop, loading familiar websites. He wistfully toggles through the photos of a favorite beach house on the realtor’s website. He pauses, lured by momentary temptation. Instead, he switches over to the online shopping site and taps the “Buy Now” button on the jet pack he has been eyeing for weeks.
by submission | Dec 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Steven Lombardi
He boarded the ship, trailed by gray robes that hid his emaciated frame. An escort of guards met him in the docking bay, and per the Astronautical Law, he requested that they replenish his ship’s fuel, water, and oxygen. Then he relished the sweet, circulated air.
He identified the Captain by the low-hanging regalia clipped to her belt. Out of respect, he touched his forehead and lips.
“You’re the exorcist?” she asked. With a sweeping glance, she inspected his trade tools.
“Aye. I picked up your transmission. Here are my certificates and a receipt of your brief.” She plucked the documents out of his hand and skimmed them over.
“Shall I show you where we’ve had the worse paranormal activity?” she asked.
“Please, Captain.” He lowered his eyes. “May I have a meal before we begin?”
The Captain sniffed. “Right. This way.”
He cherished each spoonful of rice, letting the trace sugars melt on his tongue. A man of his abilities should have been ashamed of such a showing, but work was challenging to find when the boundaries extended into infinity.
“I’ll cut right to the chase,” the Captain said. “The worse of the activity is in our Chamber of Stasis. We have documentation showing when the amniotic wine turned into human blood. It lasted only an hour, and thank God nobody was in there, but someone could have drowned.”
The exorcist shoveled the last of the rice into his mouth and closed his eyes, cherishing the flavor.
“Have you seen anything like it before?” the Captain asked.
“No,” the exorcist admitted. “But I’ve heard tales.”
“Is there anything else you need from me before you begin?”
“Just a question. When will I be paid?” he said, staring into the now-empty bowl.
“When the work is done.”
#
He lit the hædis candle and already the room darkened around him. The amniotic wine turned from yellow to green, not because of the paranormal, but because his very eyes were disintegrating. He dripped the seinaru water in his ears and felt his tongue enlarge. Soon he would be blind and mute at the expense of seeing and hearing the dead who haunted this ship.
He typed a message for his spirit-box to relay. “Spirit. I’ve come to free you. Show yourself.”
He waited, then played the message again. On the third attempt, she materialized, a woman of vaporous essence who looked utterly breathtaking, despite her forlorn expression. She wept, and he could hear her cries, the stuttering gasps made not for want of breath.
“Why stay here, child?” he typed.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to make sense of this man.
“You can trust me. I’m here to help.”
“If I don’t cling to this ship, I’ll be lost in space.”
“So you stay to feel less stranded?”
She nodded, looking even younger and a touch naïve.
“The ship won’t dock,” he relayed via the spirit box. “It’s a mint harvester. People come and go on ships like mine.”
“That’s a lie. I was a crewmate on this ship!”
“When?” he typed.
“I departed on Sentuary 3, 2902.”
“Much has changed in a hundred years. Look around.”
He watched the emotions flash across her beautiful face, the surprise, contempt and sadness, the fear. “How do I escape this?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. But you can come with me.”
He collected his fee from the Captain and signed a guarantee of service. Then he returned to his ship.
All alone, addressing only an empty cargo bay, he said, “Welcome. I’d like you to meet the others.”
by submission | Dec 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Madeline DeCoste
The silence is unbearable. So too is the darkness, so too is the light; all are absolute. The primordial and the pseudo-holy converge from all sides. Like warmth, like humanity, the stars and home are unreachable.
This is the wild, lonesome universe. This is outer space.
The astronaut’s radio has long since gone quiet. Even the strongest waves cannot come out this far. It was supposed to be an honor. The first manned voyage to OGLE-2014-BLG-0124L, the farthest known planet in the galaxy. It was a solo mission, the less weight the better, and he had been not-so-secretly delighted. Nobody to share the spotlight with, nobody to hog the glory. And then – a navigation miscalculation, a burned-out engine, a lost astronaut waiting to die. He cannot see the sun anymore, cannot pick his out of the millions surrounding him.
The astronaut drifts over to his radio for a last attempt, turning front flips and back flips and barrel rolls on his way. He has so few amusements in this cramped and sterile shuttle.
He says “Is there anyone there?”
He had meant to say something brave. He tries again.
“Is anybody listening?”
Nobody answers, not even a burst of static. He is alone, and the utterness of his isolation washes over him, high tide of his last ocean, and he sobs. The tears lift off of his young face and float suspended in the air. The harsh lights of his control panel shatter through them, sending fragments of rainbow scattering over his tomb.
His radio beeps with an incoming call. An incoming call when no living soul – no living thing, soul or no – should be within ten thousand light years of him.
He answers.
“Hello?”
There is a pause, and then the answer comes in no language spoken on Earth. It is melodic and primal and mournful. It is the wind whipping through rubble, a fire razing a prairie, a moon-soaked desert. It is whalesong and hawk-screech and fox-cries. It is the cry of a dying thing who will not die alone.
The song is incomprehensible and it means everything. The astronaut makes his way to the shuttle’s little window and peers out. He sees an alien ship, constructed of some purple-maroon material resembling sea glass. It is roughly conical, with three jet-plane-like wings protruding on either side. Pistons extend backward in the same incarnadine sea glass.
He cannot see the alien inside. Perhaps it is microscopic, or gaseous; perhaps the light works on it in different ways; perhaps the ship itself is the alien.
“I see you,” the astronaut says into his radio. “I see you.”
This will mean nothing to the alien, but it must be said. More song answers him. The astronaut’s life support is running out. The alien’s must be as well. And though neither can speak to each other, both are certain the other will not leave.
“Hi, friend,” the astronaut says. He is crying again, but he is smiling. The alien drifts closer and gently bumps his ship. They talk for hours, until the lights have gone out and air is hard to come by.
They will be holding hands when the universe takes them.
