by submission | Apr 17, 2020 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
Dr. Humphrey Devereux is the famous polymath who won the first Nobel Prize in mathematics. We were best friends since we were mischievous little boys. He became a mathematical physicist and I’m still an English Literature professor. He was slightly bigger than me but much stronger.
Humphrey has some truly amazing mathematical abilities. He could tell you off the top of his head the answer to incredibly complicated calculations, like the result of 3,478 times 9,403. People thought it was just a trick but I knew better. However, he frequently didn’t know what day of the week it was.
Two weeks ago, he told me, “I know who God is and you don’t.” I thought if anyone knew who God was then it was him.
Humphrey was a modern-day follower of the 6th century BC Greek philosopher Pythagoras. He led a secret, esoteric brotherhood and today is best remembered for the Pythagorean theorem. In antiquity, he was best known for a doctrine: all things are numbers.
And, according to Humphrey, “God is a specific mathematical formula.”
“Well, are you going to tell me the formula?” I asked.
He just laughed and replied, “Yeah, like you’d understand it. But if the values for all of the variables were known then you could explain everything and do incredible things.”
“And you think you could do that.”
“Pythagoras knew the universal mathematical notation and the right value for a key variable, the geometric formula for a monad, a point within a circle. But he didn’t know higher math. Nobody did back then. Once that geometric formula is inserted into the God Formula then, using higher math, you can calculate the unknown values and know everything about everything and accomplish unthinkable feats.”
Yesterday, the day just before his 70th birthday, Humphrey dropped by my apartment and told me, “I finally figured out the God Formula. Well, technically, a quantum supercomputer helped. But God then manifested Himself.”
“God’s a male?”
“Whatever.”
“And what did He have to say for Himself?”
“He explained how to reverse time. By simply inserting the appropriate values into the God Formula and using reverse mathematics, I can make time go backward for any period of time. And then, like a swinging pendulum, make it go forward again for a designated interval. I can make time repeat itself over and over again forever within a specified time span.”
“You can do that by writing a mathematical formula on a blackboard in some universal mathematical language?”
“I merely have to think it in order to activate it,” he replied
“Even if you could do that, why would you?”
“To cheat death.”
“You want to reverse time before you die?”
“Living life backward would seem just as natural as living life forward.”
“And do you have any idea for how long you’d like to have time flow backward before reversing it again to flow forward?”
“You should know the answer to that,” he said.
“Me, I know nothing about higher math and even less about reverse mathematics.”
“But you know arithmetic. And you know exactly how old I’ll be tomorrow.”
by submission | Apr 15, 2020 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
He is known by many names. Most people call him Jack. He prefers Old Zero. His campaign starts on the first nippy morning in late September when the average person wakes with a chill in their bones and turns the heat on for the first time in six months, wrapping up in a warm sweater. At this point he is just a scout, picking and choosing his moments to catch glimpses of the onslaught ahead.
But as October really gets going and pumpkins adorn front porches his work is in full swing. Bloodying the healthy leaves with stabbing pricks causing most to run red, orange or yellow, draining their life’s fluid.
By November he’s not even attempting to hide his presence. He is strong and vibrant and on the hunt. Furry mammals take refuge from him in hollow pine trees and underground caves. Small shrubbery goes dormant. Yet most people shrug off his fore-coming with silly scarves or a pair of gloves. At this point he is joined by his comrade Boreas, that old harsh tyrant, assisting with his sharp tool in stripping the dying carcasses of the trees down to their skeletons and leaving them denuded so he can do his dirty work. And on exposed human skin, Bo knows pain.
His full arsenal is on display in December and his army is complete when the fat bastard Ullr joins them as he travels down from the north and pounds relentless with his white reign of fury. The three, led by Old Zero, start taking lives by any means possible. With their combined strength they bite into flesh, snap limbs and bone, cripple anybody or anything that dares come up against them and their insurmountable force. Their name is on everyone’s lips and they are cursed for their tactics.
The war is full-on as the new year turns and the masses finally begin to fight them with their primitive tools of shovels and ice scrapers. How feeble their attempts are. The death squad can wreak havoc on the highways shoving cars into crashing piles of metal. Rip trees in half or just yank them from their moorings. They take great pleasure in applying pressure onto weakened structures until roofs cave in. And they snatch life away from every possible stranded passerby or homeless gent who does not respect their cold bitter power. For months they rule the world with an icy iron fist and their battle seems victorious on all fronts.
The first to tire is Ullr, dragging his hulking mass around wears him down and he leaves suddenly to retreat back to his northern home, sulking away battered and spent. They try to soldier on, but their impact lacks the aggressiveness that they presented as a unit. Soon Bo has blown himself out and he can no longer sustain the ugliness he once delivered with extreme prejudice. Old Zero is left to fight the battle alone clinging to what is left of his strength.
However, he now has a formidable enemy as the bitch Persephone joins the little people with her emergence in the spring and she bolsters their weak demeanor with her newness, rallying their defenses and raising her mighty hands, armed with thorny flowers and stinging bees.
The final blow delivered, Old Zero drags his wounded body off to a remote corner of the arctic tundra to curl up next to an ice mountain and die. But demigods like him never die; they postpone, they abide, they wait…then return with a vengeance. When his cold heart will be ready for the next wintry battle.
by submission | Apr 14, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
“What is it?”
“My boy, this is an Elephant.” The man responded, never taking his eyes from the animal.
“What does it do?” His grandson continued, Looking woefully unimpressed.
“Well, it eats, it drinks, you see those horns at the front? They’re called Tusks. Not many animals had those.”
The boy stared for a few seconds longer.
“Why is it frozen? Can’t they just walk around? The mechs in the hangar can walk everywhere and they’re much bigger than this.”
The man sighed. Taking a seat on an observation bench set back from the stasis tank.
“They are much more special than the Mechs and the construction bots and even us, Jacob. These are the very last Elephants. We thought they’d all gone. Then just as we were leaving, after all the fish and the birds were saved in our gene banks a man came to us, a very rich man.”
“He tried to buy his way here, bribing and blackmailing wherever he could, and then he showed us these. You see Jacob, the man didn’t want a place here for himself, he wanted to ensure his greatest treasure continued on.”
“What happened to the man? Is he here? Can we go see him?” Jacob asked, his interest growing in his grandfather’s story.
“I’m afraid not, see he knew that his wealth and the greed of people were what caused the Elephants to disappear in the first place And he didn’t want to carry that here with him.”
“He was offered a place, as he knew best how to care for the Elephants, but instead sent his Son on ahead, the boy had grown up watching these animals, and he was tasked with ensuring they were kept safe on our Journey.”
“So when will they wake them up?”
“Not just yet Jacob”
The man remembered his father fondly, and as he would probably not live to see his father’s dream come to fruition, he would leave that task to his own Grandson.
The ArkShip “Pan” would not reach its destination for another 17 years. The 2065 People, 12000 Human Embryos, a billion seeds and enough genetic samples to clone what was left of the Earth’s animal life back into being were the only survivors of the human race. The man looked at his grandson, too young to know yet that his life on a ship was nothing compared to what he would know when his feet touched the ground and the only thing above his was sky.
“Run along and find your mother now, you won’t want to miss the seed vault”
The boy looked at his grandfather, and then behind them to where his parents were wandering over to the exit of the zoological gene bank.
“Actually I think I’ll stay.” He said. “The tusks are pretty cool, right? They have kind if a weird nose though”
The man shuffled up smiling, making room.
“Let me tell you all about how they’ll use them”
“Awesome.”
by submission | Apr 12, 2020 | Story |
Author: Joshua Fagan
To the human who found my spaceship:
I am sorry the front door was locked, but the open house does not start until tomorrow. You’re free to come back then, and in fact, I encourage you to do so. I have an offer to make you.
Living out of a spaceship gets very boring very quickly. I hoped someone would offer to buy my spaceship, but there have been no offers yet. Maybe I should have tried a different way of communicating. Do humans still use radios? I’m not sure.
The spaceship has three and one-third bedrooms and two bathrooms. It has a nice library, though I doubt you could read any of the books unless you have a universal translator. There is a big kitchen where you can cook all your favorite meals, and there is even a gym, though I don’t recommend swimming in the pool. Humans can get radiation poisoning, right?
There is a top deck where you can sunbathe, and included with the spaceship is a cabinet full of sunscreen. It’s about SPF 1000. Sorry if that is a bit high. Our species is not used to the rays given off by your star. While you’re sunbathing, you can read one of the sixty-three magazines I bought for human reading pleasure. I hope they are to your liking, though I do not yet comprehend the purpose of the ones featuring humans in strange uniforms wearing helmets and carrying strange oblong balls.
The electricity and plumbing work. There are no known issues of system failure, except for the malfunction that caused me to crash-land here in the first place, but unless you are planning to start the spaceship’s engine (which I do not recommend, as it has a twenty-five percent chance of igniting the largest supervolcano on your planet), the only thing you will need to know is how to operate a fusion reactor. It is fairly straightforward, so I assume you know how to do it. In case you don’t, there are instructions on the front table. There are only fifty-two and a half steps. Enjoy!
Since I will no longer be using this spaceship, I will disguise myself as one of you. I hope this suggestion does not offend you, but I believe it is the best way to avoid detection. My new life will be on the coast, so I have considered it most optimal to disguise myself as a classic seafarer. However, the human media I have consumed suggests the disguise will not be complete unless I have a wooden leg and an exotic talking parrot. Do you know where such accouterments can be located?
Come back tomorrow if you’re interested! The spaceship could be yours for the price of 4.56*10^7 poldoas, or about $99.99. If that price is excessive, I am open to negotiation.
Warm regards,
The owner of the spaceship
by submission | Apr 11, 2020 | Story |
Author: Lewis Richards
We all have little rituals.
Lily braids her hair every night before bed, Daisy rubs the same spot on her arm when she worries, Jasmine taps out the same rhythm with her fingers when she daydreams in lessons. We all wear our white silks and pearls from the Harbour on Giving Day.
We line up, The priests from our church appraising us in turn. They lead us through the gold gates of our Garden, our place, and through the bleak town beyond. Grey faces line the streets as we pass, never touching, never making a sound. 15 girls this year, the biggest procession in living memory. They’ve waited for this.
The heart of town is a Square a stone’s throw from the sea and it’s centre lies the Well. As we approach the priests escorting us lead the gathering crowd in prayer “Take what we give, Give what we take”
It’s a funny kind of Well. No buckets and fraying rope, just old steps carved into sides. We are presented to the crowd, told how honoured we are to be fulfilling this duty and are lead down below the town. No great Ceremonies here.
We are all taught what happens during the procession, prepared and rehearsed, we reach the bottom of the stairs, far from the sunlight we left, and enter a damp, torchlit cavern.
We form a circle around the head priest waiting for us in the centre of the cave. He takes us in. Daisy Rubs her arm.
“This cave has lain here since before our people first fished these shores” he began. The same lecture they heard every Church day. Jasmine’s fingers tap a steady beat against her leg as she glances around the cave.
“When our people starved this hallowed place gave us shelter and full bellies. For a price.”
“Once a year we give back what we take from the sea, our brightest pearl.”
“Now, we find out which of you that is. Each of you will take a candle, the one with the last flame burning will be our Pearl”
15 flames light the darkness. We watch each other, Listening to the priests’ prayers. 3 flames die, Jasmine’s candle fizzles out next. The girls step back. Soon just 4 of us remain. Daisy rubs her arm, her alarm growing seconds before her candle dies. We whisper prayers of our own. The final two candles flicker away.
“Rose, Sweetest of the bunch” The head Priest proclaims.
I step forward. No one knows what happens next. No lessons on this part. The others are led back up the Well. No goodbyes. We had our own back in our home.
At the end of the cavern, a doorway has opened in the stone, a black void drinking the shadows of the cave.
“I’m afraid my dear only you may continue from this point. I am not worthy of such a gift.”
I take the torch offered to me and step through into the darkness, heart pounding.
I walk through mist. Something stirs before me, a great crested head turning to look at me. I panic. Eyes widening at the horror moving towards me. I turn to run.
“That door no longer goes back the way you came.”
The voice hits me like a wave, stopping me in my tracks. It’s calm and soothing, I can’t help but look back at it. It floats forward, it’s head shifting like living rock. No, I thought, like the corals the sailors bring back as gifts for us. At its centre a large bright pearl swirled with light.
“What are you?” I ask. Terrified and awed.
The voice rumbled “We watch your world and preserve. We hear your hunger and cries and give what we can”
“Preserve what?”
“You little one. All of those given to us. The star of your world is dying, you will sleep while we find you a new one.”
Images flash in my mind, waves of fire boiling the sea and incinerating the town I know. Then far away, a string of pearls kept safe, ready to start again.
They lead me through the fog, I see them more clearly now, one body with a million voices. They show me the sleeping pearls. Hundreds, Men and Women. I take my place and join them, singing myself to sleep like always.
We all have little rituals, we will use them to start again.
