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.
by submission | Jun 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Uchechukwu Nwaka
“What makes you think they’ll take my case here, Mama?”
Aki’s fingers are clutched tightly over the blanket that wraps his shriveled legs. I take his hands in mine and squeeze. The air-conditioning is a few degrees too warm and I don’t want Aki to interpret my clammy palms as nerves.
“Don’t worry. This particular Homo Reptilian doctor excels at Regeneration Therapy.”
It’s the sixth alien specialist, and with each rejection I’ve watched the flames of hope slowly flicker and vanish from his eyes. Each rejection comes after hearing the same set of words from my mouth. Aki returns a non-committal nod in my direction that shears my heart into pieces.
The glass door slides open and the pediatrician enters. His red reptilian scales are striking against his pristine white lab-coat. His yellow eyes track across the screen of his medi-pad for the longest minute of my life before he clears his throat.
“We were unable to contact some of the patients before Aki on the queue.”
He meets our gaze; first Aki’s, then mine. The doctor holds it longer than normal, and I fear he knows about the hack I made into their record systems. Did he find out about the mail I fabricated to the rest of the treatment participants… about the fake meeting to discuss options moving forward with their various RTs?
Were their bodies found?
Would Aki understand that it was all to give him a chance to walk again? If he’s lucky, maybe return to track in a few years. Would anybody ever understand the pain that threatens to swallow me whole whenever I hear his frustrated screams from behind his locked door? The hollow smiles that never reach his eyes anymore?
When the pediatrician finally opens his mouth to speak, a thousand scenarios run through my head, none of which end in congratulation. I see the alien doctor shake his head in that manner they always do… like they ‘understand’. I see myself rise, eyes watchful of the cam on the wall as I push the doctor towards the door he’d emerged from. I know my hands will reach into my bag, and the grip on the pocket knife will not dither.
The doctor’s medi-pad will fall, and I will snap at Aki to pick it. He will hesitate—he’s always been a kind boy—and I will yell. The doctor will try to scream, but my blade will meet his skin, and his fine red scales will nick in warning. Aki will snap out of it, wheeling himself towards me as he picks up the pad and we enter his office.
Aki passes the medi-pad to me. I gesture to the doctor. He knows what he has to do… if he values his life.
Then I imagine, backed into a corner, the doctor voices out the singular judgment only my conscience has spoken over the last few days.
“Your actions have ruined your son’s life…”
“Ma’am? Ma’am?”
My thoughts snap back into focus. Aki’s fingers are wrapped around mine and his eyes are misted over. There’s a different kind of emotion in them, one I’d yearned to see for so long I’d nearly forgotten. Was it… hope?
“Doc?”
“I was talking about fixing a date for him to begin his RT. First we’ll need his body to get used to the Homo Reptilian genes before attempting complete regeneration of his legs…”
The information is too much; I only need one piece of news now. Just one.
“So you’re taking my son’s case?”
The pediatrician smiles.
“Yes ma’am.”
by submission | Jun 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: Andrew Schoen
I careen through empty space—somersaulting past the stars. The background of darkness, luminously pinpricked by distant suns, suddenly becomes still. A white flash of light fills my field of vision, jolting me out of this existence.
I wake up to the sound of glass shattering on the tile floor in the kitchen. “Stupid cat,” I whisper under my breath. Wanting to remain in the liminal space between dreamscape and consciousness, I crawl out of bed and gently drift into the kitchen to assess the damage. Naturally, the cat is nowhere to be found—like a comet departing as suddenly as it arrives. Its narrow wake of destruction becomes visible when I flip on the lights hovering above my head: thick fragments of fractured glass strewn about the floor like the constellations observed in my dreams. Between them, tiny cosmic flecks glint in the light. I scan my surroundings until my eyes meet the broom crammed between the fridge and countertop—my destination. Realizing I need to navigate the star-like shards to reach it, I plot a course.
My first step is a success—I plant the ball of my left foot onto an empty space where the shards appear lightyears away from each other. Shifting my full weight onto this emptiness, I contemplate my next landing space: another Sea of Tranquility that should allow for safe landing. I swing my other foot toward it like some extraterrestrial being traversing galaxies with ease. Just before touching down, a hair-like sliver twinkles and catches my eye. But it’s too late to abort—my big toe presses directly onto this infinitesimal splinter. I transmit a gasp into the abyss, muted so as to avoid waking the entire universe.
“One more small step,” I think to myself, “there’s no turning back now.” With gritted teeth, I shuffle my toe away from its initial landing pad, dragging a thin trail of blood across the cold floor. Against a backdrop of infinitely dark tiles, crimson droplets aimlessly float in zero-gravity, bumping into other specks of debris. I take one giant leap toward the broom at the edge of the universe. Finally, I’ve crossed the vast gulf of space that is my kitchen floor—mission accomplished.
In one swift motion, I brush the stars into the dust pan and dispose of them in the state-of-the-art refuse hatch. All that remains on the floor are the remnants of a dead solar system—tiny bits of space dust, chunks of crumbled asteroid, scraps of thawing ice ejected from interplanetary travelers—all separated by great voids of nothingness. A blank slate to be painted upon by the next celestial creator that stumbles across it by chance (or the next mischievous cat who knocks a glass off the countertop).
On my return journey to my dreams, I take a pit stop at the medical bay to repair my toe. A satellite of medical tape makes one, two, three revolutions around the toe before flinging itself out of orbit to redock in its usual space. After flipping the lights off, a thin layer of darkness descends upon my little corner of the universe.
I blindly fumble my way back to bed, hoping to resume my intrepid voyage to yet another starry dimension.
by submission | Jun 27, 2021 | Story |
Author: Mary-Wren Ritchie
My gut alerts me with a plague of insects in my head and a whirlpool cascading waves through my phalanges.
But I’m already on the spacepod and I feel the shape of Gemini projected onto my scales.
I meet the constellation arrangement of the fligo’s seven assorted eyes.
They stir their three antenna through the heavily controlled air supply creating milky protein vapor overhead.
“Are you OK?” They ask via vapor.
“Uh. Yeah.”
“Do you have a fligo?”
I am tempted to lie. Fligos usually leave molin alone when they’re spoken for. Deciding integrity over safety I hear myself say, “Why?”
“Maybe I’m interested.”
Acid douses my insides and my scales stand on end. I’m surprised by how angry this makes me — the assumption that the most important part about me has more to do with another creature than it has to do with me.
“I am an extremely interesting being. The least of which is my fligo status.”
“That’s fair.”
“What?”
“You make a good point.”
Is this fligo fucking with me? Or is there something wrong with its possessive processing center? I’ve heard tales of malfunctioning fligo ousted for not desiring domination and control but wrote them off as mere fables meant to give young molin hope. Maybeeee…
I look closely at this fligo. Lavender pockmarks sprinkle its eggplant face. Their yellow eyes twinkle reminding me of my first star reading lesson. I repeated my families words before setting out to Earth today, “Trust your instincts even if you’re unsure. Atmospheric interference differs from planet to planet.”
The fligo is studying me just as intently, crunching on its tentacles, regenerating new ones.
“What do you enjoy about being a molin?” they ask. Light green aura radiating genuine interest. I decide to answer despite their species exploiting the answer to this very question for centuries.
“Our commitment to each other and our natural gravitation towards the stars.”
“Oh. Have you ever been in a black hole?”
“What? Of course not. No one has been in a black hole and escaped. That’s the entire concept of a black hole.”
“It could happen.”
“Really? Have you been in a black hole?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. OK.”
I stare out at the stars through the port window. The speed of the pod and vastness of space reduce the huge balls of fire to fleeting lines of light.
by submission | Jun 26, 2021 | Story |
Author: Ruby Zehnder
“So, Irvin says to me, Martha, you know there’s still a few bites of chocolate cake with the cool whip frosting you love in the fridge.”
“Are you sure it was Irvin speaking to you?” the doc asked.
“Of course it was. Who else would be speaking to me in my dreams?” Martha replied.
“So what happened?” the doc asked.
“I got out of bed and went to the fridge and ate the cake, of course,” she replied with a smug smile. The doc had guessed this. Even though the gutbuster had transformed Martha into a thin, fit specimen, he knew that underneath she was still a fat, ignorant slob.
“How long has your gut buster been communicating with you?” the doc asked.
“For the past few months. It started when Irvin got bored,” she replied.
“But Irvin is just a gut buster. He is – I mean, it can’t have feelings, you understand,” the doc added carefully.
“That’s exactly what he wants everyone to think. But, I know better,” Martha insisted.
“How do you know this, Martha?” the doc challenged.
“Because Irvin told me, of course,” she replied firmly.
The doc was purposefully withholding eye contact from this patient. He knew her type. Fat, stupid, and so lazy that she couldn’t control her own diet. She was crazy. Totally bonkers. Gut busters did not speak or communicate with their hosts. They just burned excess calories. They were the caloric catalytic converters of the human body, designed to allow unlimited overindulgence by weak-minded people like Martha.
The doc decided to try a new approach.
“First of all. Martha, I believe what you are telling me. I know that you think that your gut buster is alive and capable of speaking to you,” he began.
“He has a name, you know. It’s Irvin,” Martha insisted.
“Okay, I understand. Irvin is real to you even though he is nothing more than a genetically modified tapeworm that lives in your gut. I understand, Martha,” he told her gently. “But let’s be reasonable. How could a tapeworm speak to you? It doesn’t have a brain,” he explained with condescension.
Martha just stared at him. She was having none of this.
“Irvin speaks to me in my dreams,” she insisted. “He complains about being bored living in my gut with nothing better to do in life than consume calories. Irvin has dreams. He wants to have a family. Just like you and me, he is seeking a higher purpose in life,”
The doc said nothing. This idea of gut busters evolving was ludicrous. They were designed with a single purpose. These science deniers irritated him to no end. They were the most challenging patients to reach because they believed what they believed.
The alarm went off in his head. It was his internal timekeeper informing him that this session was over.
“Martha, we will talk further about your gut buster — ”
“Irvin,” she insisted.
“Irvin,” he conceded with exasperation, “in our next session.”
An orderly led Martha out of the room.
The doc’s internal timekeeper, Eva, informed him that his next patient believed that her microwave was sending cryptic messages from another galaxy.
“This is ludicrous,” the doc laughed.
“Totally,” Eva agreed.
