by submission | Nov 12, 2021 | Story |
Author: Riley Meachem
The day I finally had enough of it all, I hiked with my rifle all the way to the old amusement park, shooting any of the slow-creatures I encountered. By this point, their faces had mostly been subsumed by the spores, so it was easy to separate them from their old selves. I remembered the amusement park from when Denny had been little, but I hadn’t thought of it before that day.
It was dark when I got there, but the sun was coming up, and the slow things were more active at night anyway. I saw them shambling behind me, glowing phosphorescent from the fungus that had eaten away their brains, and soon everything else.
It took me an embarrassingly long time to get the Ferris wheel up and running, but if a stoned high school kid could do it, I knew I could, too. I timed my entry just right, just as the horde of them began to shuffle around the corner and into view. The ascent was slow, but that was for the best. More time to prepare the shot.
I wondered, as I took the first shot, if this was how Charles Whitman felt. Or Oswald, or God. As I gradually rose away from the things I increasingly saw as unworthy of life, of the label humanity, I thought it must be.
My first shot was a kill. The next one blew threw a fungal skull and removed the leg of another. There were more of them than bullets, but I didn’t mind. I was still only half way to the top.
What surprised me the most was how they all gathered closer to the base of the wheel. Jostling and moving like children. “Me next! My turn!” Perhaps they agreed with my assessment of their humanity. Perhaps they wanted oblivion. Absolution. Whatever my bullets brought.
I passed the apex of the climb, and gently fell to the nadir. Shots would be harder to take now. When I reached the bottom, I wondered, would they swarm and consume me? Or would they wait? Would they let me go around again?
by submission | Nov 11, 2021 | Story |
Author: Shelly Jones
It had been easy to crush the pills, sprinkling them over his pasta like parmesan. She had been surprised how easy: that he hadn’t noticed, that she felt nothing as he nodded off after dinner, collapsing on the couch, eyelids heavy, muscles limp. Still, she hesitated, waiting an hour, watching him in silence, before standing over his supine body.
The emotional index indicator blinked on the metal chain around his neck. She reached down slowly, hands trembling, still afraid he might awaken. He had been angry before dinner, angrier than she had ever seen him.
“Whose handprints are these?” he had asked, pointing to a faded outline on the bedroom wall. She had been sorting laundry and was reluctant to look up, wary of his tone, knowing what would come next. “Did you hear me?” he growled.
“I guess it must be yours or mine,” she said quietly.
“Well it isn’t mine.”
“So?”
“How did it get there?”
“How should I know? It could’ve been there for years. When have we ever washed the walls?” She swallowed her words, regretfully.
“I think you screwed someone against this wall,” he spat, the emotive necklace flashing red as his anger downloaded to its circuits. She had never seen the chip turn that shade of vermillion; it dazzled her momentarily, before the blow.
Standing over him now, she sighed, remembering other accusations: the profile picture on a dating website that wasn’t her; performing sexual favors in the car when she took too long shopping. She unclasped the chain, slipping the device away from him. She held his anger in her hand, felt its heat seer her skin as she crushed his emotional circuitry in her palm. Letting the weight of it drop to the floor, she turned to leave.
by submission | Nov 10, 2021 | Story |
Author: Cesium
The stone fell to earth some distance west of the city, in the grassy valley of a stream running between two hills, and it remained undiscovered for several days. Once news had filtered up to the university, an expedition was dispatched to investigate the strange occurrences in the area. A large area had been blasted and churned up by the impact, and the remnants of the watercourse trickled uncertainly through the crater. The pack animals shied away and would go no further. The scholars shivered and set up a camp.
Inside the barren area, grasses, which normally sprang up wherever earth and water mixed, did not grow. Nor did rotting meat produce maggots. Iron set in the ground, on the other hand, turned brown and seemed to be being eaten away at. The water that flowed out downstream was tasteless and gave no nourishment.
“We brought illumination for our experiments, of course,” said the professor, placing a lantern on the lectern, with its elemental flame dancing inside the sealed glass tube, specially shaped to direct the light. “But inside the perimeter, they immediately went out.” A gasp went up from the audience as the professor produced a second tube, one which had held an identical flame just days before. Now there was only the faintest scattering of some kind of dust.
Inside the area, heavy objects fell at the same speed as light ones, and distant thunderstorms were not heard until after they were seen. Several people developed angry red burns on their exposed skin after working through the day. Those taking measurements at night fared no better, as the stars flashed and wavered, while the planets strayed from their assigned courses, spinning in wheels within wheels.
Screams echoed from the hut that confined a worker who had gotten too close to the rock. Convinced he had fallen through reality to another world, he raved about houses, so many houses, and lamps that glowed without fire, lining the roads black as night.
“What’s more,” continued the professor, “once we were able to set up the more precision instruments, we found deviations in every measurement. From the tendency of heavy elements to fall and light elements to rise, to the reactions between materials of different types. In the affected area, elemental water can be split using lightning, and then somehow transmuted into fire. We even took measurements that would imply the world is spinning.”
As the days turned into weeks, all the researchers developed strange ailments, and the rations they had carried did not seem to nourish them. The team decided to cut their losses and evacuate, packing up all their tools that had not degraded into uselessness, and their carefully notated data. They recommended that the area be sealed off, unfit for human habitation.
The professor stopped mid-sentence. The audience filling the lecture hall were staring at the extinguished lantern still standing on the lectern. A sunbeam from the high windows had hit it straight on, and continued on to paint the wall behind the professor, split into seven colors.
by submission | Nov 7, 2021 | Story |
Author: A.M. Miles
Somewhere in the Amazon Desert, a cactus bloomed in a fractured riverbed.
Cara couldn’t take her eyes off it. Vibrant, cool pink in a sea of dead, ruined red. A single flower with head held high to the raging sun, defiant and unapologetic. She ran her cracked fingers along its petals, and the sensation was alien—smooth, soft, welcoming.
“Bacon, the fisher was right.”
Her daughter, carried on Cara’s back roused. “Mommy?” Her arms were strapped across Cara’s shoulders in a harness to keep her from falling.
They’d met the fisher on the coast of what used to be Suriname, living on a desolate beach of endless sand dunes, watching over an Atlantic filled with the acidified corpses of reefs and the bones of fish colonies. He’d told them of something miraculous; of life in a dead desert.
“It’s a flower.”
Bacon opened her yellowed, sunken eyes. “Where?”
With a grunt, Cara bent to her knees and unstrapped Bacon from the harness. The girl collapsed.
“You’re okay,” Cara said, and took her into her arms.
She brought her daughter closer to the flower’s brazen pink and motionless gaze to the sky.
Bacon’s arm, made of twigs with jaundiced stretches of skin bandaged around bone splayed out before the flower. Her glowing blonde hair had turned to straw in both colour and texture. Her knees had started protruding out, heads to the sharp pins that were her legs, and her belly had become bulbous and large. She was balding. She was twelve.
“It’s right here, Bacon.” Cara brought Bacon’s head further up, closer to the flower, and pushed her towards it like she was an offering. “It’s right here.”
“Mommy.”
Shaking, Cara pulled their mud-caked water bottle out and unscrewed the cap, begging Bacon to drink. No drops came out against her fissured lips.
It was incredible, in a devastating way, how fast water became ephemeral—how fast civilisation did. There had been a century of warnings, and then, within a year, collapse. In January, Cara was preparing to defend a murderer in court. In December she murdered a 17 year-old boy for food.
She still remembered the first messages and posts on social media when it began. Runaway ecological collapse. To be so blind.
“You wanted to see one, and I found it. I did.”
Bacon spoke small, smothered nothings. So small her mother couldn’t hear them. It was only her lips moving in slow motion, pointed towards the unrelenting sun.
“Please look, Bacon.”
Bacon turned her head by only a few inches, and even that made her whimper. Her eyes struggled up to the flower. An eyelash snapped off and lodged itself in her eyelid. She didn’t wince, and Cara couldn’t find the energy to fish it out.
“Can you see it?”
Bacon’s lips moved, but again there were no words.
“Please tell me you see it.”
Her fingers twitched against the puzzle piece of riverbed dirt, her nails long since fallen off like leaves in mythologised Winters.
“Mommy,” Bacon said, then stopped.
“Bacon?”
Cara rubbed her thumb across her daughter’s cheek. Bacon’s eyes wobbled, and saw nothing.
And Cara didn’t cry, because there was nothing left inside her that could.
She pulled the pistol from her belt and turned it over in her hand. Checked the cartridge, and was satisfied. It was a simple decision—she’d made up her mind months ago.
The crack of man-made thunder rang out for miles, and as fast as it came, it vanished.
The cactus continued to bloom.
by submission | Nov 5, 2021 | Story |
Author: Kiel M. Gregory
I live in a world where most things move too fast or not at all. Molasses or honey like water. Lives. I’m thinking more of others and less of myself and I think that’s precisely where this all started to go wrong.
What’s the point of doing anything at all when eventually the stars will burn out and there will be no light and literally nothing will happen forever? How can you escape that or rush toward it?
Imagine trillions of years in the future. We all look the same except we’re inside a cold alloy hull, dodging gravity wells or cannibalistic black holes. The interior of our domiciles is lit only artificially. We “print” everything useful. We recycle everything used, including us. We still fight and occasionally kill each other, but it’s usually over “food” (dinner wafers or quantities of nutritional quasi-solids) and not the color of our skin since we’re all coffee-and-cream colored. Not reproductive rights since we’re all the same sex and fuck ourselves full of kin. Finally, we found something else to feel a way about. Finally, we can be alone and hear only what we want. I can’t imagine what music sounds like in this future, but I can imagine a group of someones are still at the top, letting us own nothing and be happy.
Entropy has stretched the universal fabric to the point where we share thoughts. Occasionally this drives someone mad. This is how evolution works. Time means nothing.
The frictionless drive whispers its secrets along the ship’s expanse.
One of us is dreaming.
The shackled machines weep viscosity, capillary their own tears.
This doesn’t mean anything at all.
