by submission | Nov 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: Tyler James Russell
We shook her and asked if she was okay but she wouldn’t budge. Even when Davey tugged on her jacket and said Mommy she held her position on the sidewalk like it was something that might be taken from her. She clutched her briefcase, a paper bag of groceries.
911 was already overloaded. Marissa pressed her face to the window while Davey held his belly. I hollered. The operator, thinking it was meant for him, waited for me to speak and I waited for him to speak and in the end, neither of us did.
Outside, Trish still hadn’t moved. I apologized to the kids, held them, the kind of patient that only comes after losing your temper. It was almost dark. We pulled back the curtains and worried, made faces, but she was impenetrable. What are you supposed to do? In the end I went out barefoot, plucked a few groceries from her hands, but even when I said her name, snapped in her face, it was like only her body was there.
For the rest of the night I kept the curtains drawn, and glued myself to speculations. Apparently, this was going on everywhere, all kinds of people. A lot of women, but not only. A stripped-down newscast showed strings of people along highways—Black, Hispanic, you name it, all frozen in place. Corners crowded with question marks. A transgender woman wore a shirt that said, “Until.”
“Experts say this is voluntary,” a newscaster said. It begged the question, expert in what? “That they all chose it, together, at a designated time.”
Another anchor, obviously crying, said, “Nobody knows. What is happening to these people, and will it happen to us too?” After the commercial, she was gone.
I didn’t do this. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t my fault.
In the morning she was still there, still frozen. For days they didn’t move, didn’t eat. Some fainted, others shrugged off paramedics urging them onto gurneys. Counter-actors—spurned spouses, I imagined, involuntarily now-single parents—screamed in their faces. The kids branched around her like little rivers on our way to the restaurant where the waitstaff wear animal costumes, but even there three employees just stood in the way.
“Ignore them,” a manager sighed.
What gave them the right to just stop in the middle of their lives? Don’t we all have problems?
Then, on the news that night, an otherwise normal-looking man was handcuffed and gentled into a police car. He’d been arrested prowling the streets of Des Moines with a rifle. As they zoomed in on his face he showed a palm and two fingers, mouthing, “Beat that.”
I turned my phone off. I sat for a long time in the dark.
There was one else on the entire street. By now the groceries had gone bad in her hands.
I imagined a sort of abstract trauma-cloud in the air and thought of what it would be like to take that into your body, to own it, voluntarily or not. I didn’t get it though, not really.
“Please,” I whispered to Trish, “I just want to listen.”
But I also wanted her to hit me, to snap awake and take a dented soup can to my temple. I wanted to be emptied at her feet, bloodied and begging, a reckoning sprouting into the air like breathable atomic dust.
But she didn’t, of course. She just stood there, frozen, waiting.
by submission | Nov 22, 2020 | Story |
Author: Emily Wilcox
She died today. Blonde ringlets trodden down into the hardwood floor. A world overlooking her, eyes slick with awe and grins stitched firmly just below. A kingdom, a fandom, whatever we were, we were building from the inside, elevating the pedestal in which we already stood. Like a princess, they loved her. Like a superhero, they beckoned her. Like a diamond, they were not worthy of her. And like a star, nearing the end of its lifetime (which I guess is exactly what she was), she was unstable, finite, destined to burst fiercely into the night. A supernova of gold and now dust.
She’s really gone.
I shouted, “Cut!” on set. Tried to pull her out of it. *Milking the role a bit*, I thought to myself. I hopped up, clapped my hands, shouted at the cast. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Her life did not resume off-camera. But it ended – there on screen.
It was ironic really; *live television*, when there she lay, anything but.
by submission | Nov 21, 2020 | Story |
Author: Tyler James Russell
When a wall of bone and fascia bloomed from the earth a hundred miles from our village, my dead almost-girlfriend stood over my bed, waiting for me to wake up.
“You,” I whispered.
We’d been longtime girlfriends but only vaguely girlfriends just before she died, making out for the first time the same week a vein throbbed open and the rushing blood sledgehammered her brain. Now, in the dark, her eyes buzzed. Her hair floated and sang.
I didn’t know anything about the wall, not until later, picking up whispers on the road, second and third-hand. People said it was pollution, visitation, a further sign of the planet’s death. As far as walls go it was stupid, just erupted in the middle of a field, dividing nothing. You could walk all the way around it.
She was cold. Every time she opened her mouth, she sputtered. Like her lungs weren’t made for air now. We did our best. For certain things, it doesn’t matter. I imagined mirrors facing each other on either side of some watery barrier, trying my best to anchor her to this side, to me.
There were riots. Mobs and fires. Armies were called in. Some treated the wall like a holy place. A man with no mouth left it speaking. Allegedly a pregnant woman burrowed into it and came out with a baby that glowed. But then a parade of pilgrims arrived to be cured of their sins and one by one they touched their foreheads to the surface and it killed them. Their companions dragged the bodies away, then went back and took their chances.
* * *
When we finished, I felt whole. After she died, all my want had been sharpened to this tiny dagger, this lethal-need. Now I slept like I’d finally been stabbed with it.
But by morning she was wormy again, fly-covered. Centipedes crawled under her skin.
* * *
I set out for answers. It was dark, but everything was always dark. Even day was a shadow. Apparently, the same thing had happened in other places too—a jagged streak of deaths and short-term resurrections, bodies like wind-lifted leaves. Maybe it would have brought a better person hope, but the more I heard of miracles, the more I wanted to burn the world down. A black hole ate everything I fed it.
I followed the Moon-ring from horizon to horizon, heading west. Monolithic shapes drifted in the sky, so exactly the color of night I was never sure what I was actually seeing and what I only thought I was seeing. The wall, when I got there, was the same way. It grumbled and shifted, a thing constantly being born. There were ribbons of color in the air. I thought maybe I’d feel different when I saw it for myself, but everything was still the same.
Soldiers, mounted and armed, streamed out of the hillsides. The pilgrims closed their eyes, held hands in a protesting line. Just before they collided into slaughter, one by one, everyone lifted into the air, floating. I watched them pedaling their feet, faces giddy, in awe.
It made it easy for me to nab someone’s weapon and do what I did.
by submission | Nov 20, 2020 | Story |
Author: Gwynfryn Thomas
Shena’s fingernail glistened under the afternoon sun. This one didn’t hurt when it came off – it fell like a mere petal onto the dusty ground. A breeze stung the exposed skin. Wrapping his tongue around the sore finger, he kicked a spiral of dust into the air, almost tripping into the hole. He’d been digging again, against his grandmother’s advice.
Stories of the old world teetered on the cusp of extinction and his grandmother knew them all. By her telling, their land once homed an unfathomable number of people. They’d named the place London in the old language and it was the crossroads of that world, in a time of great fatness. People would come from lands now long-barren – from Yorup and Amer and Frica and all the places Shena dreamed of after his grandmother had spun another tale of far-flung, far-gone adventure. In this London, there were so many people together they had to pile up huts so high the inhabitants would rest with birds at night.
Shena couldn’t imagine what so many people might have looked like. He’d only ever met maybe thirty, and that was at a profound event: the celebration when his mother moved away to start a new village.
He couldn’t imagine the time of fatness his grandmother spoke of, nor just how many grandmothers’ grandmothers ago that must have been. So he dug, knowing that stories were buried not only in memories.
Once, there existed people whose only task was to dig. That was the way of things, he’d heard – one person was digger, one person was fixer, one was builder, one was protector, and they all shared what they’d dug or fixed or built. Everyone knew their one task well. Shena had too many tasks: listener, fetcher, cleaner, and soon—now that the first wisps of a beard had sprouted—husband. That was the way of things now, in their land.
So he dug, hopeful it was not only stories buried here.
His grandmother warned of terrible things buried across their land. But she insisted Shena wasn’t old enough for those stories yet, not before marriage. The dangers hidden under the earth might bring great destruction once again and once he has children of his own, Shena can learn of them to keep their village safe.
So he dug, to learn for himself. To save himself not from the past but from the dangers of the future.
After many days in this desolate spot, he heard a dull tink. Scratching at the dust, he uncovered something flat. A cold, hard material he’d never touched before.
It was a red triangle. He looked at the black symbols daubed on its surface: wavy lines and a bolt of lightning through a skull. He stared at the painted face, the terrible laughter of it. Shena laughed back.
Another of his fingernails fell to the ground. He grew tired. It must be all that digging. Shena lay in the dust under the afternoon sun, hoping to dream of tall huts and flocks of birds. Or maybe to dream of his mother. It should be just/only a quick sleep. He still had plenty to do.
by submission | Nov 19, 2020 | Story |
Author: Dick Narvett
It sat on the shelf behind a T-Rex action figure and a feminist coffee mug with the saying “If they can put a man on the moon, why not all of them?”
Finding a laptop in Mr. Chapa’s secondhand shop was like discovering an Apple watch on an Egyptian mummy. Vern latched on to it immediately. It was the size of an IBM Thinkpad, yet felt incredibly light. It carried no manufacturer’s markings.
He had come to this place of discarded treasures to find a gift for his girlfriend. The occasion was the first anniversary of their life together. The laptop, however, had brought out the geek in him. He felt guilty about buying it, but eased his conscience by picking up the mug for Elena.
Vern carried his finds to the shop-owner’s desk. “Ah… Excuse me, Mr. Chapa. I’m wondering if this laptop works, and how much you want for it. It isn’t marked.”
Mr. Chapa looked up from his jigsaw puzzle. “If it works? Who knows? You found it where?… Never mind. Twenty dollars.”
Smiling, Vern handed Mr. Chapa a twenty, plus another dollar for the mug, and headed out the door into the brisk, morning air.
***
The next time Mr. Chapa looked up it was to the sound of heavy breathing, as if someone were rushing to catch a departing flight. A most unusual customer stood before him. The man’s features seemed exaggerated, yet were indistinctive. He could just as easily been in his twenties as in his fifties. His black hair, perfectly parted to one side, lay flat against his head as though painted on. He was smartly dressed in beltless, black slacks and a long-sleeved, blue shirt with no buttons.
“The computer… where is it? I must have it!” The man’s lips moved as he spoke, but he exposed no teeth.
“Computers! I have no computers,” Mr. Chapa said. “My only one I sold this morning.”
“You sold it? To whom? I must know!”
Mr. Chapa pointed out the window. “It is surely none of your business, but to the young man who rents that house across the street.”
The strange man turned and raced awkwardly to the door.
Mr. Chapa shook his head. “You would think it a matter of life or death this computer,” he muttered.
***
Elena poured the fresh-brewed coffee into her mug. “I hope you didn’t spend all of next month’s rent money on this fine present,” she yelled.
Vern called to her from the next room. “Lena, come here. Looks like this baby works. It’s firing up.”
Elena carried her coffee to the living room where Vern’s newfound laptop was just coming to life on his desk. The screen lit a soft red. The dark outline of a circle formed with an arrow protruding from the two o’clock position.
“What kind of operating system is that? Looks like the symbol for a male,” she said.
“Or Mars.”
“Mars?”
“Yeah, it’s also the alchemical symbol for the planet Mars.”
The symbol slowly faded, leaving a lone folder marked ‘Avatars’ on the computer’s desktop.
“Looks like the machine’s pretty clean except for this,” Vern said. He clicked open the folder. A list of individual files appeared, each labeled with first and last names.
Just then they heard a pounding. Elena looked toward the front door. “What the…”
The pounding grew louder and more frantic. Vern right-clicked on the folder and hit delete, then quickly rose from his chair to investigate the clamor.
By the time he reached the door, the pounding had stopped. He looked out. The street was empty.
