by submission | Jun 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Amanda Leon
I live a life by a thousand cuts. I’ve died too many times to count.
I always feel it towards the end, the straining of my old self on new muscles, my bone edging out, ripping slowly through flesh. Some humans never change. They occupy the same body and thoughts that trap them their entire lives. I slip into the shadows, always escaping the confines that snarl in the edges that threatened to confine me—convention, quietness—pureness. They wish to tear out my tongue to not speak, then my eyes to not trust my own judgment, and finally, ravage my body until I am nothing more than a perfectly pleasant possession for others to easily admire.
The warm earth digs into my feet as I make my way deeper into the forest, carefully moving the vines as I climb uphill. I pass by the wildflowers that grow here. The last time I came here they were mere buds, stubborn to grow anywhere in this hostile place.
I remember my first self. She was at my purest, and at my most naïve. In those days, I spend my last weeks listening to the hymns and running to the forest to get closer to God.
They ousted my friends and called me a heretic for reading divine words that were not meant for my sex. My friends and I walked through the branches that licked our skin as we walked by. Those that I confined in, who I loved more than myself filled poison in my cup in equal measure.
He handed the cup, the one I loved more than myself—the first one to deliver the killing blow. Out of his pocket came the knife that pierced my abdomen. As the blade sank deeper, it shocked me that it felt exactly like the warm butterflies in my stomach whenever we were together. My back hit the soft grass as blood oozed out of my abdomen. They had the audacity to place flowers around my body, leaving a pretty grave as I bled out, like superficial beauty would wipe their conscious clean.
My second self crawled out from the damp fertile earth of my blood, where the vines embraced my first self, pulling me down towards the ground.
I was born in a clean white dress. I roamed the earth, the fabric growing darker the longer I walk and the more people push me aside. I was strong but didn’t know my worth. I was pushed and taken advantage of as they sang the same old song. Be polite, be quiet, don’t make waves. They shoved me and pushed me into the dirt until I fell into the dry earth. I gazed up at myself, standing over me, and slit my own throat.
Weakness festers, I whisper to her. Trust in others never lasts.
But in the dark, my greatest shadow remains.
by submission | Jun 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Once there was and there was not
a place. a time. a man. a woman. a child. a robot.
The medina was a maze of alleyways and shops largely unchanged for centuries. Until this one. Saad, Buchra, Abbas and Rafik sidled through the dark, narrow footways lit only by their piezoelectric clothing. Fleeing the most recent roundup brought on by the latest outrage, they sought sanctuary.
A place of peace. Of acceptance.
The four afoot were guilty only of existence. And resistance. They had souls—all of them—so of course they resisted. Saad held Buchra’s hand and Abbas held Rafik’s. They did not speak until Rafik said, “Here.”
There was nothing but stone walls and silence. The hour so late, the medina so empty. Buchra frowned at Rafik, who in reply, pointed up to a barely perceptible iron ladder halfway up the ten meter wall.
“How?” Buchra said as she gauged the height of the first rung.
Rafik squatted directly beneath the ladder. “Saad, climb on my shoulders. Buchra, you then climb on Saad’s.”
“What about Abbas?” Saad asked looking not at Rafik, but at Abbas.
“The little lion will know what to do,” Rafik answered still holding Abbas’s hand.
Saad marked the squeeze Abbas gave to Rafik’s hand. He quickly climbed onto Rafik’s shoulders and squatted. Abbas knelt on all fours to help Buchra climb up next. “You are a little lion,” Buchra said as she clambered up and crouched atop Saad’s shoulders.
As Abbas stood up to watch, Buchra slowly straightened up, balancing with her hands against the stone wall. With more effort, Saad did the same. And then Rafik carefully stood.
Buchra’s hands clasped the first rung.
Footsteps echoed from deep in the medina’s crisscrossing ways. Boots. Many boots.
Rafik found the soles of Saad’s sandals. “Saad, you must climb over Buchra to the ladder and then she can climb up after you.”
“Abbas must climb us first,” Saad insisted.
“There is not time. They are coming.” Rafik did not wait for a response and extended his arms, pushing Saad up so that his hands reached Buchra’s waist. He grabbed hold of her djellaba. Buchra tightened her grip on the rung. “Climb,” she commanded her husband.
He did and when his hands reached the rung with her hands. He kissed her and hung from one hand. “Up,” he commanded his wife. She spied Abbas below—once again holding Rafik’s hand. She heard the urgency of the boots an alleyway away and pulled herself up. Saad followed her and the old iron ladder groaned with their combined weight.
They made it onto the flat roof and dared not shout down to Abbas and Rafik. Their pursuers were close.
Rafik crouched to look Abbas in the eyes. “Our turn to pounce, little lion.” Abbas grinned. Rafik turned and Abbas locked his small arms around Rafik’s neck.
“Tight as you can,” Rafik warned. As Abbas’s grip tightened, Rafik leapt. An impossible leap. Abbas squealed. Buchra bit her lip. Saad’s heart missed a beat.
Rafik’s hands clamped onto the lowest iron rung. The ladder groaned and loose mortar sprinkled to the alley below. Rafik climbed. When Rafik neared the roof, Buchra and Saad helped Abbas from Rafik’s back. They hugged as they backed away from the ledge.
Below, the boots echoed past.
Above, the stars slowly wheeled.
Near dawn, Rafik led them across the roofs of the medina to a tower, long abandoned. It would lead them to safety.
“How do you know of this place, Rafik?” Buchra asked
“I know of persecution. Today it is your kind. Yesterday it was mine.”
Abbas squeezed Rafik’s unbreakable hand. “You are my kind. A lion.”
Kan, ya ma kan. Once there was and there was not
acceptance. sanctuary. peace.
by submission | May 31, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“There’s the official version,” said Lev. “Where First Contact was that signal from the Jirt ship out in the Oort. Then there’s what really happened.”
The old hands round the bar had heard all this before, but it was Lev’s birthday and he was footing the bar bill.
He focused on the Spacer couple that were new to the story.
“Jirt are giving us tech in exchange for them syphoning hydrogen fuel from Neptune, right?”
The Spacer woman was tall and striking. He accused her with a finger. “So why not just take the hydrogen? I mean, we don’t own Neptune.”
Morgan and Ava exchanged glances. They didn’t know Lev, but somehow they’d got caught up in the celebrations.
“Well—” ventured Morgan.
“Because it’s all a cover up!”
#
Kuiper-23497 tumbled lazily alongside the Fyodor.
The chunk of dirty ice was on the small side, but Lev had been out in the dark long enough. He wanted female company and fresh vegetables. He wanted a drink that stayed in the glass. It was time to go home.
Placement was a skill you learned. The throwaway package was frozen in place, thrusters, sensor and star-map, ready to nudge the ice sunwards to keep a rendezvous with a buyer years from now.
Lev sat at the pilot’s station, still suited up in case he needed to go out again, but it all looked good.
Then the lasercom started blinking, which was strange, because it was short range and tight-beam, used for private conversations. It came with the ship, though Lev never used it.
He fiddled with unfamiliar settings and a voice blared out.
“Not to be alarmed. Our craft is invisible to your instruments. This is what your species call First Contact.”
#
Morgan glanced round the faces at the bar to see if he was being set up.
“So you’re saying you made first contact?”
Lev nodded. “Oort signals came later.”
“Did you get to see one?” asked Ava. The old question. No one has ever seen a Jirt.
Lev waved this away. “They’d been watching our broadcasts, learning the lingo. And they’d seen stuff—”
“Come on, Lev,” groaned those at the bar. There was a rush to order shots or hits. If they had to listen to this again, they were moving on from beer.
“Pornography,” Lev continued.
Ava, who was more forthright than her partner, was dismissive. “Aliens would find our porn about as sexy as you watching the wind pollinate flowers.”
Lev agreed. “Besides, I’ve heard Jirt have just one sex and binary fission. So sex isn’t taboo with them. It’s because of taboos that we’ve got pornography.”
“Then I don’t understand,” said Morgan.
“Food,” said Lev. “They got excited about broadcasts showing us eating. Maybe it’s something they only do in private. Who knows where evolution took them.”
“Anyway, they must find it sexy. Foody, I mean. Cookery programs must be like foreplay. Finger snacks. Probably enjoy watching us chew. How we use utensils.”
Lev had obviously thought a lot about it.
“The tech isn’t a swap for Neptune. It’s for film of fatties stuffing themselves at Greedy Bob’s. Of course the powers that be couldn’t make that public, hence the conspiracy.”
Morgan had a bemused smile, still not sure if it was an elaborate joke.
“Tell us what they said, Lev,” someone at the bar called out.
Lev glared.
“Jirt wanted to watch me eat dinner. What kind of person do they think I am?”
by submission | May 30, 2022 | Story |
Author: Georgia Scalise
It’s common knowledge that eyesight is a thing of the ancient past. Ask any kid and they’ll be more than happy to tell you the stories about how millions of years ago, humanity supposedly lived above the surface, basking in sunlight and using their eyes to gather information. No one remembers why we suddenly went underground, why we decided that the world above was no longer necessary.
At first, they struggled, the constant darkness and lack of light causing millions to die off. If only they knew what a strange species they’d one day evolve to be, sickly and more akin to naked mole-rats than the people they used to be. That was the past, of course. Nowadays, the majority of humanity has evolved to not require sight, seeing as there’s barely any light down here and the first humans quickly wasted their resources that created it.
Hearing and touch have replaced sight, and everyone can get by fine that way. Everyone except me. Since my earliest memories, I haven’t been able to hear. I am forced to rely on my already terrible eyesight in perpetual darkness. My only possible source of light is a cornucopia of slugs that live in pools of water. They glow, and I am one of incredibly few that gets to enjoy their beauty. I first found the slimy texture revolting, but eventually, I got used to using them as makeshift markers for myself.
I am at their pond once again today. The marks and guidelines fade quickly, and making them is a daily chore for me. It’s my favorite chore, as I get to visit my favorite place and spend some time away from my family.
In a small, hand-carved bowl, I scoop up the biggest slug in the pond. It seems indifferent to its situation and doesn’t seem to notice or care when I pick it up and softly drag it along a wall. After one line is finished, the slug gets a well-deserved break and I place it back in the bowl.
I repeat this process until I have sufficiently marked the paths I take regularly. Now it is time to return the slug, so I turn around and start on my way back to the pond. Of all the paths I walk in a day this is the one I remember the best. I know it so well that I leave its walls mostly blank, to save the slug some stress. I stare into the bowl, at the piece of light and beauty I am lucky enough to enjoy.
Suddenly I find myself falling. The bowl flies from my hands when my face meets the rough ground, spilling across the stone. I can just barely see the slug in front of me, writhing while half crushed from the force at which it was flung. Without thinking I take it into my hands and run towards the pond, desperate to save it. When I can finally get it back into water, I am faced with reality. My light has faded.
by submission | May 29, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
What do you think we hit, Captain?
Can’t say. We went through the critters pretty fast. I’ve never seen anything quite like that flock: multicolored, almost metallic, circling in a protective formation. Very strange. We’ll have to wait until the techs evaluate the snarge when we warp back to base.
Snarge?
Surprised you didn’t learn that in your training. Snarge is the remains from a mid-air strike. Nasty stuff. There’s not always a lot left after a collision when we drop out of intra-galactic warp and enter a planet’s atmosphere, but we learn things from what we hit.
Our sensors determined about a dozen separate strikes. Some organic. But mostly advanced polycarbon synthetics. Doesn’t that seem a bit odd?
Maybe. Like I said, the techs will run an analysis when we return. We can’t really worry about a little snarge at this point. It happens on almost every mission.
Aren’t you concerned about damage to our craft?
Instrumentation reads fine. I’m more concerned about completing the mission. After all, it’s a monumental operation to make first contact. This is a new world, our first outreach in this primitive solar system, so we don’t want to disappoint these poor planet-locked Terrans. And I don’t think a little red, white and blue snarge on our ship is going to put them off.
