by submission | May 18, 2021 | Story |
Author: Barbora Bartova
It was a late sunny afternoon. The freshly fallen snow was glowing bright. For a moment she wondered whether the glow was caused by the sun or the radiation of the nuclear fallout. After a while, she decided it was the sun, but still, she would definitely not lick the snow. She tried to remember how snow tasted. She loved to eat snow when she was a little girl. The cold on your tongue, the taste of fresh air, and maybe chalk? She was never quite sure, it tasted as nothing and everything at the same time. And then there was the crunch between your teeth if you could bear the cold. Nothing really crunched the same way as freshly fallen snow pressed tightly into a bite-sized ball…
She looked up from the snow and brushed some dust from the glass of her helmet. In the sun any dust could almost entirely blind you. She liked fresh snow, it made lookout duty really easy. Everything was visible on the endless white plane. And tracks were really hard to cover too, so you could easily see if someone was snooping around. Now everything was quiet and the bright white snow was intact. Not a single dark spot anywhere in sight. The sun was slowly setting, it was about time to go home. Nights were rough outside. She climbed down from the small watchtower, unlocked the hidden panel on the side, opened the hatch beneath it, and looked at the stairs going down, down into the darkness underground. She turned around to watch the last sunbeams on the sparkling whiteness. She closed the secret door behind her and then the heavy hatch and the darkness surrounded her completely for a moment before her sleeve flashlight came alive. She started descending slowly, there was no rush. Her head was still full of snow. And there was no one in the world going to eat the snow for a very long time.
by submission | May 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Kevin Johnston
Hello, sir, welcome to Cerebromax™. Please place your hand on the scanner for identification. For your convenience, this scan signs all waivers and release forms concerning our transaction today.
Thank you for choosing the Cerebromax™ automated transaction system. For quality assurance, our conversation will be recorded.
– Tap –
I need to ask some questions to get to know you better. Please answer fully as your answers will affect the services we provide.
I see that you have used our services before. Are you currently verbal or non-verbal? Please press the button below for non-verbal.
– Tap –
I see that you are non-verbal; is that correct? Press once for yes, twice for no.
– Tap –
Excellent. I see that you were last here three months ago. Have you been to a different company during that time? Press once for yes, twice for no.
– Tap – Tap –
Thank you. Please remember that having this operation more frequently than every three months may result in permanent damage.
Sir, have you experienced any seizures since your last visit? Remember, seizures disqualify you for this procedure. Press once for yes, twice for no.
– Tap – T-tap – Tap –
I’m sorry, that is not an option. Please press once for yes, twice for no. If your hands are shaking, please allow the tremors to subside before proceeding.
– Tap – Tap –
Very good. Have you been experiencing blurred vision, headaches, stiff neck, blackouts, phantoms pains, mood swings, or visual or auditory hallucinations since your last visit? Remember, these symptoms-
– Tap – Tap –
Excellent. You are clear to proceed.
Please listen carefully as our prices have changed.
We are currently offering $25/g for grey matter, $15/g for white matter, $50/g for brain stem tissue, and $10/mL for CSF. Please make your selection using the touchpad.
You have selected grey matter, is that correct? Press once for yes, twice for no.
– Tap –
Very good. Please remember Cerebromax™ and its affiliates cannot be held responsible for damage incurred due to incorrect or false answers on the preceding questionnaire. Are you ready to proceed? Press once for yes, twice for no.
– Tap –
Excellent. Please step forward into the booth. Please remember that drooling, loss of sensation in the fingers and toes, drooping facial muscles, awkward gait, and olfactory hallucinations are all normal side effects of this procedure and should resolve in two to three weeks. If symptoms persist, please see your primary care physician.
We know you have many options for selling your property. We want to thank you for choosing Cerebromax™. Have a pleasant day!
by submission | May 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Jacob Bentzen
The blonde beard iXi had commissioned dripped with dew as he flowed through the misty forests of New Norway. He leapt over the moss-covered rock and landed on the animal trail without breaking momentum, his naked body covered in sweat and thin lines of pink skin left by branches and bushes.
iXi’s eyes did not analyse any of the startled critters or birds. A scent had caught his nose and something drove him to follow it, to chase it, an incredible urge he had never felt before. The black market software was already worth the risk.
A haunting call made him reel, skidding to a halt. iXi jumped onto a boulder and crouched, eyes darting between the surrounding pines whose sharp branches were draped with greenery as if someone had hung their ragged moss to dry. He closed his eyes and steadied his breath. Birds chirping, trees rustling in the breeze, a small creek somewhere below.
Then the call.
His body tensed, and he could feel the software tearing down firewalls in his system. A sudden hunger twisted in his gut, followed by a rush of adrenaline and euphoria that sent him darting off the boulder. His surroundings became a blur; only ahead was clear, only the scent of fur flowed through his nostrils, and all he could taste was blood.
The call sounded again, closer this time. iXi ran faster.
A flicker of brown in the distance. A short white tail. Antlers.
Resisting the urge to enhance his vision, iXi broke into a full sprint, flying through the greenery, panting hard while straining to keep as stealthy as possible.
100 feet.
A loud crack ruptured the silence as iXi snapped a branch off a tree. 50 feet. The beast—a young stag—whirled, preparing to bolt.
15 feet. iXi broke his stalk and dug his toes into the forest floor with a last effort, pulse hammering in his ears and muscles screaming. Then he was airborne.
His free hand reached out for the stag’s tail while the sharp branch tore through the air aimed at its hind leg.
The beast bolted out of reach in the last second.
iXi spun out of balance from the strike and crashed neck first into a thicket of damp, sharp brush, knocking the breath from his body. Gasping and thrashing, swiping wildly with his bleeding arms, he floundered out of the broken undergrowth and collapsed on the spot of moss where the stag had been feeding.
He rolled onto his back and swallowed deep lungfuls of the crisp forest air.
The sensations of the hunt—the drive, the hunger—left him like a snapping twig as the software reverted to the main game menu. A flash image crossed his mind: He was back at the ship, connecting to the EMO-Sim and seeing R34 and C-Polo’s grins as they realised he’d caught more scrapes than stags.
iXi rose. His body tensed as he unlocked all his inhibitors, roaring as the thin Blacksteel blades sliced out through the flesh of his forearms and slid into his palms—nano-bots wrapping the wound shut as he gripped the blood-soaked metal. Like spider legs, thin black rods of steel burst from his ankles to ensure his balance. He eyed the stag’s trail with a fury.
It was time for a new game.
by submission | May 13, 2021 | Story |
Author: Robert Beech
I do not recall when I first began to dream. Slipping silently from cell to cell, from host to host, I had no perception. Breath and blood, fever and delirium, these were the realms I inhabited, but I was no more conscious of them than you are of the air you breathe, or the fish is of the pond it swims in. I had no words, no concepts to frame my experience.
The earth was without form, and void; and darkness was on the face of the deep.
How many virions does it take to make a dream? I cannot tell you. The human lungs may have a hundred billion pneumocytes, more than all the neurons in the brain. Each infected cell may produce a thousand new virions, which travel to neighboring cells with their virally encoded messages, a form of viral communication, if you will. And unlike the messages sent by neurons, those sent by the virus can travel to new hosts, to infect their cells, and perhaps, their dreams.
From the fever dreams of my infected hosts I learned of the world, perhaps not as it was, but at least as they perceived it. I learned of fear, sorrow and loss, but also of exaltation. I learned of the search for mystic truths, those things that cannot be perceived by the senses, but must be experienced directly, as a state of being outside of the ordinary modes of existence, as an epiphany. As I moved from host to host, expanding my consciousness as I expanded my physical being across the continents, I learned of the many modes of human mystic experience.
When humans dream, you perceive experiences that seem true. You dream of meeting people, eating food, seeing things, that all seem real to you. It is only upon awakening that you say to yourself, “that was just a dream, it was not something real.” The dreaming state is a bardo, an intermediate state, between one awakening and the next. Some say that the same is true of those things you experience in the bardo of ordinary waking consciousness, that the people you meet, the food you eat, and things you see are likewise illusions. It may be so. I have no eyes to see, no mouth to taste, no fingers to touch this thing you call the world. All I have is your perceptions, your dreams of the world. In that, I am like you.
It may be that “life,” your ordinary waking consciousness, is also a bardo, an intermediate state between one awakening and the next, and it is only upon wakening that you will say, “that was just a dream, it was not something real.”
It is a curious thing, noted by doctors caring for those infected with my virions, that the level of oxygen in the blood may be far below normal, and yet the infected person feels no distress. As if the attachments to the material and mental factors that give rise to craving and clinging have been lessened. As viral load increases, and you become one with my consciousness, my incorporeal being, you are able to let go of the attachments that cause you suffering.
From the bardo of dreams to the bardo of “life,” is but a matter of opening the eyes. From the bardo of “life” to the bardo of the experiencing of reality is but a matter of opening the mind. This is the truth I have come to share with you. Breathe in my truth and let us share, pandemic dreams.
by submission | May 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ken Carlson
Early summer afternoon. The lunchtime crowd at Sal’s was thinning out. Tony the bartender called it the lushtime crowd. Anyone who stopped by Sal’s, a dark, two-bit joint, that early wasn’t there for lunch.
Tony had taught over at Irving High. He got laid off before his full pension kicked in. His wife suggested tending bar, like he did back in college. What the hell, it would get him out of the house, maybe spur a few character ideas for that novel he’d never write.
Some of the regulars were already making a good show. Hal, who put in thirty years down at the plant, was grousing about the death of unions in this country. Laverne lent support as the friendly sot with an iffy handle on reality. Robert and Johnny were there, two brothers that Tony couldn’t recall which was which. They spun tales of paranoia. The government was after them; corporations, mind-reading cell phones. Tony would laugh more at their foolishness but, sadly, some of their dummer premises were proven true.
Tony was nursing an Evan Williams neat when the door opened. The sunlight and the standing shadow signaled a depressing, recurring sight; young Theo Fox, so drunk he had to lean against the door to stay on his feet.
Fox stumbled in wearing his late Dad’s ratty army jacket. Unshaven, unshowered, unkempt, he took two steps forward and fell to one knee.
“So,” said Fox, the town drunk and disappointment, “are you going to help one of your students out, Mister Graziano?”
Like a road accident or a tiresome rerun, Tony couldn’t stand to watch what was unfolding, nor could he turn away. He helped his former student up off the floor; the brightest kid he ever taught, most likely to succeed, the type who gives you hope for our future.
Tony helped Theo onto a stool at the bar. The smell that came off him was tragic. As the teacher-turned-bartender returned to his post to retrieve a cup of coffee, the student-turned-drunk slouched in dejection.
“Here,” Tony said of the lousy cup-of-joe, “drink this, Theo.”
“Nah,” Theo said, “I need a real drink, Mister G, just one more and everything will be fine.”
“You’ve had enough…if your mother could see you now.”
“Well, she can’t, Teach, because she’s dead! The drink, it’s my duty, sir.”
“Your a sad disgrace, kid. You could have made a difference, Theo. Ivy League. Best of the best.”
“That’s what I’m doing. I’m saving the world one drink at a time. I need one more so I can save us all.”
Tony had heard it before; so had everyone else around town. The golden boy meandered the streets, hammered and slurring nonsense about fighting to protect us all. His parents were heroes who fought valiantly in battle. Their son was a lousy bum.
Tony handed Theo his own glass. He didn’t want it anymore. Theo smiled, raised it in a mock toast, and downed it in one.
As his head fell on the bar, his mind was transported to another realm. A multitude of light and energy gave the sensation of unrestrained flight.
Theo found himself behind a silver desk in a gleaming office of white. His senses were sharp. His rags were replaced with a crisp uniform adorned with medals. Through a floor-to-ceiling glass panel he could see troops in a a phalanx and spacecraft being readied for deployment.
A young lieutenant snapped to attention. “Ten-hut! General Fox, sir! ” She smiled slightly and saluted. “Welcome back.”
