by submission | Jul 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: B.W. Carter
She knew he’d really been thinking about this one. They’d made their way across campus to the shop and he was still on the conversation started back in the classroom. She let him keep talking. And he did, as they wended through the crowd to a table by the window; he let her carry the drinks, too caught up in what she would not tell him to his face was pure nonsense.
Isn’t that what you did — or did not do — when you liked someone?
Apparently. So, she clenched her jaws and listened.
It’s what she’d wanted, after all.
“What if,” he said (and here we go) as they took their seats, then stopped. Blew hard on his drink and started again. “What if,” he said, slowly, “like, what if an idea of an idea is, like, you know, more real than the idea itself? I mean, what if being is in itself an idea born of, like, the idea of being? Know what I mean? Yeah? Like, just take walking here, right? Made me think. What if the idea of walking interprets itself, like, as an idea called running? Does the idea of walking no longer mean walking or does it now mean running? Know what I mean?”
(No. No, I do not.)
“Like, you know, are ideas more substantive than those things born of ideas? Or is the idea only ever an idea until it is, like, a thing, at which point the idea never existed, you know, only the thing? Know what I mean?” He grinned, but his thick fair eyebrows seemed clenched in confusion. Did he know what he meant?
(No. No, you do not.)
But he was really thinking, bless his heart. Second thoughts and on to third, really mulling over his ideas before trying to articulate. And he was so gorgeous, and she was lucky. Lucky, she knew, to be here now. The very idea of a jock like him (rugby captain and philosophy major both!) talking to her had not even occurred as a possibility before today. Much less a reality, so remote was the idea.
(As ridiculous as this “conversation.”)
She owed it to him, right? To think, to really think, about the utter garbage he was so passionately spouting.
And she really tried. She did. He was gorgeous, after all. She sipped her latte and she considered. To be considerate. Though she began to wonder as she was doing so what she even thought, anyway, about this idea of thinking about the idea of thinking itself.
(Huh?)
Or the quintessential being of an idea as itself or something else. The thought, or the idea of the thought, rather — which came first? Which mattered most? Was there an egg involved? Did she even care?
(Is he really that hot?)
Finally, she made her decision. Exhausted despite all the caffeine, and late for dinner shift at the diner, she shrugged, stood, and answered him at last as she turned to leave:
“You know, I really, like, haven’t the faintest idea. Know what I mean? But I think, you know, I can, like, honestly say that you and me? As an item? Is, like, no longer on my list of things to think about.”
And she was gone.
She’d always thought rugby sucked, anyway.
by submission | Jul 4, 2021 | Story |
Author: Riley Meachem
“You eat before you got here? Because, not to be gross, but this is a fuckin mess.”
“I’ve seen worse.” Catalonia whistfully gave the cul-de-sac a once over. “He staged the killing in the middle of his own private amphitheatre. A downtown cul de sac, where no one ever goes. His own private pirandello play.”
The uniformed officer raised an eyebrow. “The fuck?”
“Pirandello? He was an Italian thinker, who came up with Umorismo, the…” she stopped. “Doesn’t matter. Look, the fact the killer left the body here means something, ok? It’ll help us catch him.”
The officer shrugged, his fat grey mustache twitching sadly as he responded “Whatever you say, boss.” He said the last part with a bit of derision and scorn, that could have meant a million things. Did he resent the fact she was a celestial, giving a native low-towner orders? A woman? Or the fact she looked so young? She didn’t let her mind wander too much over the picayune. The man was nothing to her. What he thought made no difference.
The officer lifted the fencing surrounding the scene, and Catalonia slipped under it, into the Cul-De-Sac. 20 years ago, a place like this would have been a bazaar of illegal wares: uppers, downers, digital scrips, weapons, pimps, organs, new DNA transplants. But ever since Walt Templeton’s cartel had been wiped out, this area of town was dead quiet.
With the occasional exception of something like this.
The Celestial lay spread eagled on the cracked asphalt, mouth wide open, arms extended like an angel. His eyes were glassy and unfocused, and the bloody puddle around him had begun to dry into a thick, rusty brown.
Both his hands had been chopped off. His ID bracelet was missing. And someone had taken his jacket. He lay there, shirtless, so that anyone looking down from the surrounding high rises would see the gruesome lacerations that had opened his toso.
She slipped on some gloves, and slowly approached the scene, getting down on her knees when she reached the cadaver.
The wounds were precise. Surgical. This wasn’t the work of some incensed serial killer as she’d suspected. The fact there were no ligature marks or gunshots meant he hadn’t been tied up, tortured or killed before the cutting started, right here, where she was standing. A couple of men had held him there, while someone with a scalpel made the incissions.
“Shit,” she muttered, then stood up. “Who’s in charge of this territory?”
“Well, Councilman Xanders is…”
“No, no. Who really runs it. Who has street presence?” she clarified.
“No one, really. Ever since Templeton got pushed out of that high rise, the only person who’s ever moved shit here was officer Caldwell. And he filled out ricin resignation papers when he was caught stealing product from the evidence locker.” The officer shrugged. Somewhere near her, there was the loud clicking of a device taking a video inventory of the scene.
“Well, it belongs to someone now. This guy was left here for a reason. He’s a challenge. whoever did this is showing that his crew can kill a celestial unopposed, with no consequences.” She looked up at the man in question. “Prove him wrong.”
“Sure. Top of my pile of casework. Soon as the papers pick this up I’m sure I’ll get some unlimited overtime.” The man said. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth as he said it.
“Why take the organs though? The ID bracelet, the hands? Why make it harder for us to ID him when he could have just shot him in the face?”
“You kidding?” the officer asked.
She gave him a stern look. “No. What does it mean, officer?”
“People down here get fucking sick. They fucking die of every goddamn thing you can imagine. No growing new guts when they get gangrene or a new stomach after poisoning. They fuckin’ die. And they’ll do anything to stop dying.”
“So they… get the organs transplanted from murder victims?” she asked.
“No, they just juggle them. It’s a big thing down here, organ juggling. My brother ustacould juggle seven kidneys at once. ‘Course they fuckin’ transplant them.”
“But the organs won’t grow back. Won’t regenerate. not when they’re not in the host body.” “So? They still work, for a little while. Free organs, guaranteed to fit with any blood type, that any poor bastard can afford without any C-town creds, and a hefty loan from the local loan shark. Most of us would rather live with new organs from some dumb schmuck who was too stupid to stay alive than die poor and helpless. Not that you’d know anything about that. Fuckin… he trailed off.
“Sorry?” Catalonia asked, sternly. “Didn’t catch that part. Fuckin’ what?”
The old man sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. it’s just not every day I gotta go through shit like this.”
“It’s fine. Why the hands and bracelet?” she pushed. But she knew the answer to that one already.
“More money?” the cop hazarded. Catalonia scoffed and left the scene.
Only a fool would sell a bracelet like that, and two hands that bore prints in the C-town data base. Whoever owned those was a celestial in all but name.
She gave one last parting look at the ravaged corpse lying on the ground, staring up at the uncaring ceiling. No wonder she’d thought it was some sort of mad animal or deranged serial killer that had done the work. If you spent enough time down here, it was easy enough to become both.
She made a mental note to herself to write another check to the C-town gives foundation.
by submission | Jul 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: David Barber
In 1969 the Canaveral Timeport was brand-new. The future had come to meet us and everything was possible.
This is the Chronos Tavern, with its much-polished wooden bar, a dozen booths, subdued lighting, and no hint of clocks, hourglasses or calendars.
The overweight man behind the bar talking to a time-traveller is Frank Court. This is exactly why he opened the Chronos. He would work here for nothing, he once told a traveller.
“So, you’re some sort of future law enforcement,” Frank was saying. “After a runaway.”
There were two of them, Frank was sure of it. There was an occasional ripple in the air, a flicker in the corner of the eye. The disturbance seemed to have settled near the door.
The traveller smiled a smooth curve of enamel where teeth should be. Why didn’t Frank like this man?
Sometimes he wondered what customers made of the place. A shack bordering a jungle airstrip, where a native offers hooch across a plank on two oil drums.
The Timeport Authority had planned an automated refreshment zone, but Frank made a clever pitch. The government could bug the Chronos and listen in on conversations about the future, though it only gathered miles of tape hiss.
“He will walk through that door presently.” The man had put his box of tricks on the bar. Even his lips seemed to speak English. It was only technology.
Frank was wise to the rookie mistake of asking how the man knew. Because it was documented history. It was the smug hierarchy of time travellers who have seen your future.
“I didn’t even realise there were runaways.”
“Idealists, who think we interfere with the past. When in fact we ensure peace and stability. They come here to warn you, but are ill-equipped for the squalor. After enduring a night out there, he will be glad to be apprehended.”
Frank guessed it was the runaway he’d talked with yesterday, sitting on the same stool as this cop. Best not to get involved, he decided.
“What did he tell you?”
Don’t play poker with someone who’s already seen your cards.
The man had made an impassioned speech about worlds that never happened, and Frank had shrugged vaguely. Runaway seemed a misnomer. More like a zealot.
“Like your moon landings,” the man had insisted, these natives seemingly deaf to his warnings.
“What do you mean, moon landings?”
“Didn’t your rivals put a man in space?”
“The Soviets? Oh, right, sixty one. Before the Timeport.”
“Without the Timeport it would all have been different. They need dead-ends to anchor the wormhole…”
After that, the man’s words had become indistinct, his translator on the blurred edge of causality violation.
Frank grew up during the Cold War, which was quietly abandoned when the future arrived and let slip WWIII never happens. He couldn’t recall spaceships fired at the moon, though as a child he’d been promised colonies in space, and von Braun’s winged and shiny rockets docking with the Big Wheel, ready to set out for the red planet and adventure.
For a while he’d debated opening a bar called The Right Stuff here in Canaveral, but then the space program went the way of Zeppelins.
Before Frank could ask his own question, the door opened, and the runaway was seized and bundled back outside by the stealthed presence. Unless you were looking, you wouldn’t even have noticed.
“No harm done,” said the time traveller, getting to his feet. No mistaking the contempt on his face.
Frank had missed something here, but he didn’t know what it was.
by submission | Jul 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Steven Zeldin
My grandfather hated the Buffalo Bills.
In 2019, when Harrison Phillips tore his ACL for the second time, I remember him partying.
Friends drove in from across Philly—all toting bags of beer and food, all in full Eagles regalia.
That was the first time I ever had an alcoholic drink, and by far my best memory with the guy.
It was also the last time I saw him.
Even over the long years after my grandfather’s passing, we remained an Eagles bunch.
I was Jalen Phillips for my final Halloweens and enjoyed every second.
Sundays were fun days, and family days—
the community and belonging that some got from church, we got from watching the pigskin.
I remember the winter of 2023.
It was the year after I got my license and the month I got my first car.
I had taken it out of Philly with my soon-to-be-ex, making the over six-hour trek to Buffalo.
“The Nickel City”: a fitting nickname, as the place looked like it was paid for with change.
Know your enemies, I guess.
This was the dragon’s maw, the Ninth Circle of Hell.
We pulled right up to Highmark Stadium.
I may have spray-painted some not-so-nice messages about the Bills.
I may have suggested an uncomfortable place for them to put their footballs.
Perhaps I regret some of those things.
Yet I do not regret all of them. I remember the trip fondly.
Eagles forever. The Bills could burn.
Cheer for the Home team. Boo the away team.
That was half the fun of it.
Sure, hostility was bad, and no one likes a sore loser.
But what is New York pizza except “the real pizza—none of that Chicago, deep-dish nonsense”?
Living somewhere gave you an identity. Part of that identity was poking fun at others.
“West Coast, best coast, East Coast, least coast” (both untrue).
“West Coast, worst coast, East Coast, beast coast” (the actual nature of the matter).
I was a Philly kid. I still am, at heart.
But that’s meaning less and less.
I work at Checkyll’s Philly Law firm, a thirty-minute drive from my house with moderate traffic.
My youngest is a lawyer at Samson’s. It’s in Buffalo.
On a generation-two hyperloop, at thirteen hundred miles per hour, it takes him twenty minutes.
That’s counting the short walk to the station and the walk from the station to his job.
This man has made a 280-mile trip for burgers and returned before his episode of House ended.
The burgers were still warm.
My house is no longer an Eagle’s house.
The grandkids come over attired in blasphemy.
Patriots, Bears, and Vikings jerseys are as plentiful as those of the Eagles—
And why not? The East Coast and Midwest are our backyard.
Not that I don’t want to strangle them sometimes. But I get it.
If I am going to be fully honest—and I may as well—I went to some of those traitor games.
I liked a few, a bit.
My children liked them a lot.
Thankfully, Los Angeles is still two hours away.
I hate the Chargers.
West Coast, worst coast.
We watch the game. We root for the Eagles. And the Bears, and the Patriots, and the Giants.
My grandchildren boo California lightheartedly.
And we celebrate when we win.
Yet the world is getting smaller.
I fear it’s getting smaller still.
When the entire world is in your home,
For whom do you cheer?
by submission | Jul 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
He was sitting in a wet towel when the phone bleeped. It was late, too late for good news.
Poullis’ voice cracked as she spoke, “They’re asking for you.” she said and fell silent.
His calender was cleared. His diary emptied. A damp towel lay on the floor where it dropped. His apartment looked the same, but things were missing, important things, things he cared about. He was prepared.
“He was warned.” They chimed.
Poullis was called in and questioned. She denied knowledge, but there were transcripts revealing her treachery acquired through sorcerous means. Poullis claimed fakery and forgery, and then she claimed skulduggery. But she had passed before the day was through.
The world turned cold. He burned incense and made an offering of blood in her name. It would please the Gods, he hoped, and he would see her in the next world. They would search for him, he knew that. They would find him, he knew that too. They had sentries everywhere, people he knew and strangers alike, equally committed to their barbaric cause.
Something saw him in the market. He heard his name, a name he hadn’t heard in years, and stopped and turned. They were fast, like a jaguar with claws to match. He suffered lacerations as he fled, and wondered if everybody heard them growl?
Hiding in trash cans and back alley’s, behind restaurants with the homeless who asked no questions, he nursed his wounds. It was a shadow world, unseen, a place where people look but rarely see. His absence had upset chronology. It was his time, his turn and things could not continue until it was resolved. It was as old as the time itself, with harmonic lines that stretched back aeons. He knew the songs by heart, although he denied it and heard them day and night. They found him alone in a crowd.
The next time he would be prepared. He needed a twin to double his chances and searched amongst is fellows, the dirty and under-trodden, the stinky and forgotten. He needed a twin to substitute, to take up the fight and pay the ultimate price, transition was assured with a placed marked in the stars.
Someone his size turned up in the river. Dressed up and animated they were inseparable and content.
When they came, they came in droves, all claws and teeth, and fur and teeth. They were marked by their origin, every place represented. They would take him without asking, or extinguish his influence. He was prepared and cowered somewhere safe. Like his ancestors he had lines to compose, lines to recall and lines to arouse the vibrations around us and ring out existence over and over and over again.
In the melee the rhythm was heard in a thousand thunderous voices and pounding limbs. He became one amongst many while his twin took full force. Then his voice rose above it and the heavens rang with every word, every vibration of energy spilling colour into material existence. The harmonics of the universe are so tightly woven, only the song, the vibration itself, caused movement and change, and change is the chaos that keeps it all together.
At the end he closed his eyes and held his breath. There was nothing more to sing, no more time to sing it. His time was done. His twin was done. The song man’s journey ended here and the next singer was unfurled.
