by submission | Jun 27, 2020 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
I’m writing this down because at some point there are going to be questions and I want to keep the facts straight. And no computer, don’t want anybody catching wind of this.
About three weeks ago I got a call that my grandparents had died. Not at the same time but pretty close. Seems my grandfather turned bedridden sick, then died some months ago, the autopsy people are not quite sure when. My grandmother must have been tending to him until he went, and then just decided to sit down on a chair in their bedroom and waited to die as well. A city fellow went out there to collect some past due payments and found the two corpses, if they could still be called that. Not much left after lying there decaying for months.
They lived in Grady, New Mexico, and the place needed to be cleared out before they could sell the property. Well my dad’s got Alzheimer’s and his brother lives over in Europe, so the task fell to me. So, I rented me a truck and took a nine-hour road trip from Austin, Texas to their house.
On the way there I thought about them and the old place that we kids used to call the Weed Ranch. Not what you think, not marijuana. Just that nothing seemed to grow there except weeds out in the middle of nowhere. And we used to call grandfather the ‘Pieman.’ Not pi, even though he was always talking about vectors and nuclides and the like; worked for Experimatics, some government facility out in the desert. But pie, because he loved him a nice piece of grandma’s fruit pies with a mountainous dollop of whipped cream on top. And grandma baked him lots of pies.
When I got there the house smelled awful, I guess you can’t clear that kind of smell out no-how. It was dusk but thankfully the electricity was still on. I brought in a couple of cartons, figured on throwing in some collectibles for the family, stuff that looked valuable. The rest of the crap I’d cram into the truck and sell to a thrift store somewhere. Walking around the place brought back a bunch of great memories. Nights we played cards at the dining table. Birthday parties we had there. Even the scary stories that my grandfather would tell us kids after dark about men changing into monsters.
I came across the basement door, still with the big padlock on it. I remember my grandfather saying that we couldn’t go down there because it was his la-bore-a-tor-ree, pronouncing it with all five syllables. Well, that renewed a curiosity in me that I’d had since I was a kid but completely forgotten about. I couldn’t find a key anywhere so I got a hatchet from the barn and chopped it free.
It was pretty much a letdown, no Frankenstein machines or nothing. Just a bunch of small chemical tables full of empty tubes and bottles, lots of written on notepads and cobwebs. There was an old-fashioned fridge with a pull-down latch. I wondered if anything in there could possibly still be good, maybe some beer. Inside, it was filled with old Cool-Whip tubs, the lids labeled with marker. A whole lot of them had a big X, five were marked NG and one said ‘STUFF.’ I took a chance on that one and opened it. It looked good, looked like regular Cool-Whip so, what the hell, I took a finger taste. It was delicious…but apparently not what I thought it was.
There have been changes.
by submission | Jun 26, 2020 | Story |
Author: Arkapravo Bhaumik
As I recall, at first it was a middle-aged woman from Sicily, Ariana Antonella. It was then I realized that though the feminine anatomy is a work of art but it felt out of context as I am derived from a man. On the brighter side, it was very satisfying to see the sights of Sicily, it was not Milan or Venice but better than most of my later experiences. I felt reinvigorated with the salty air of the Mediterranean. The language, or rather its dialect was different from the one known to me, but it hadn’t changed by a lot. Another delight was to see people fly in air. As many as 500 people can fly together for great distances in long metal vessels with wings which were called aeroplanes. Finally – we had imitated birds. As a downside, I could not get her to engage in the arts, her thick fingers and stubby palm just would not work a paintbrush, but Ariana was a good cook.
Next excursion was a man from the orient, Honshu islands in Japan. Junichi Koizumi, he was a politician at a city council. How disconnected can such a pair feel! A body from the orient in the 21st century and a mind from 16th century Milan. Never had tasted uncooked fish, but it was a fair experience, maybe a wee bit too spicy for my liking. I was aghast to know about the second world war. How could the entire world go to war? That too with weapons which can kill millions at one go! From Junichi I also learned about Lord Buddha and his teachings.
A week later, I found myself in the body of a whale and I spent most of my time hunting for food. It was fascinating to observe its swimming mechanism – the synchronous flapping of the fins and the tail which helped it to negotiate through the water. I missed my sketchbook.
Next was Brian, a scientist from Manchester. I wasn’t with him for long but it was a learning experience. The world had been reduced to 108 building blocks which are called as atoms, molecules sometimes. This modular structure of the world was brilliant – God indeed had a recipe to make this universe.
Now as I think about my previous experiences, I am probably in the body of a philosopher. His taste in food is nothing too great but he has an assortment of likable wines.
I really wonder if my mind is genuine or another illusion created in this world of future. How much future this future is? Or is it black magic? Have wizards and sorcerers taken on the reign of society? How can my mind be restored after six hundred years? What happened to my body? These surrogate bodies are they genuine, or just another magical manifestation of the new age? Can I add such minds, streams of thoughts to my paintings?
Clearly, the body is a vehicle, and the mind is the lesser of the two illusions. The mind and the body are not unique, not really meant for each other rather their convergence helps form reality. Or alternatively, it is a sick game and we are all monikers for chess pieces.
Am I a painter and sculptor or Ariana, Junichi, Brian, or the whale? Or another collection of atoms which had acquired some sort of an identity and values and which will once again assimilate into the womb of the universe.
… maybe atoms are also a lesser reality.
by submission | Jun 25, 2020 | Story |
Author: Morrow Brady
The four magic words.
Complimentary Bed and Breakfast.
Javed smiled. Somewhere, someone needed his critique.
Rolling green countryside sprawled forever below the single white dot of a departing pod-cab. Mossy grey granite outcrops peppered the treeless landscape that terminated abruptly at a sharp cliff edge beyond which the horizon capped a blue sea, calloused with worn lonely rock stacks.
Nothing artificial. Just beautiful nature.
Nearby a distinctive rock formation lay like piled whale corpses, teetering at the cliff’s edge. Within a shadowy overhang throbbed recognisable fine blue hologram lines. They faded and an intricate curved silver door opened to reveal a pale blue circular lobby. Sealed inside the lobby’s stainless steel tube, the familiar hum of hidden energies tickled the skin, neutralising viral loads.
Javed waited in expectation for the grand reveal. He imagined a futuristic open white space, populated with revolutionary furniture overlooking an exhilarating sea view. The ideal human habitat. He quivered at the potential of this content to increase his followers.
The micro-needles came from all sides of the tube’s reflective curved walls. Their menacing sharp tips inched slowly toward a terrified Javed. Panic pounding at a solid curved lid as it lowered to mould around his skull. Futile screams of pain at thousands of puncture wounds and a final glimpse of red lines of blood.
He wailed into unconsciousness.
A white floor and ceiling came into focus. Javid felt revitalised like he just woke from an afternoon nap on a luxurious couch. The memory of needles wiped.
Light rippled outward as he rose, revealing a perfectly formed white room. Organic and relaxing. Familiar shapes gathered here and there, giving unspoken meaning. A space to live, a space to dine, a space to dream. Refined, rational, functional and ergonomic. An idealised realisation of pure design evolution. He became deeply emotional at the beauty before him.
The long open space flowed toward a wall of blue specks that pecked at whiteness until the view revealed itself. A glassless opening like a catfish yawn. Clear blue skies met white breakers on a living sea. Grey stone stacks remembered each passing wave. Javed thought this was truly the ideal place for a peaceful life. This was content.
Exquisite cuisine appeared when he hungered. The comfort chair was where it needed to be. Chaos was silently dealt with behind the scenes. And that scent. Like honey and true love.
Cradled in comfort and the warmth of a perfect beverage, he watched the most beautiful sunset. He knew instinctually where his bed would be. A fluffy cloud-like womb that gently hugged him to sleep. A protected niche for dreams.
In the morning, blue light filtered through from the yawn, softly teasing him from a dream of monarchs. At the ideal state of consciousness, the aroma of a ready-made bedside breakfast lured him into life.
From a misty ceiling crevice poured a temperate rain shower, backed by an unrivalled sea vista. Dried in a sympathetically warm breezeway and adorned in pre-pressed attire hovering on a silken web. At his first thought of departure, he blinked and stood blissful before the open pod-cab.
He turned to gaze one last time upon the weathered rocks, longing to return and spend the remainder of his days in its delights.
As he sped over the rolling green hills, he put the final words together for his critical review and uploaded it for public viewing.
The VR capture and suspension log registered the outstanding online review and published the first of its worldwide advertising campaign.
The optics were off-the-chart.
by submission | Jun 24, 2020 | Story |
Author: Renée Jessica Tan
When we had isolated the predator gene, it was with all good intentions. The idea was to build a hyper-focused, unrelentingly driven, unapologetic and fearless Alpha. We knew these characteristics aren’t always considered a positive in society, but these are also traits exhibited by the greatest people in history, from heads of state, athletes, inventors, artists.
Lead by pioneer geneticist, Dr. Joan Gudas, we created two specimens with the same material. They were not identical in the classic sense. They were two separately mapped and successfully fertilized zygotes. The only difference was the XX and the XY chromosome.
They were both implanted into one volunteer hostess. Everything was proceeding well until the fifth month when our researchers noted Fetus A overtook Fetus B in size. We don’t know why. It was only two millimeters. But it was enough.
Two days after the inequity was recorded, the hostess reported discharge and bleeding. An ultrasound showed that Fetus A had consumed the partially developed brain of its wombmate. In disbelief and somewhat stupefied by grief, the team rushed back to the lab to document and to develop a hypothesis as to what went wrong. We failed to administer to the hostess as we left her alone to heal. It was a field intern who found her three days later. Her abdomen had been eaten through by Fetus A, who itself was near death from malnutrition.
Despite the hell it had wrought, we tried to save Fetus A, but we were unsuccessful.
There was heated debate as to how to handle the death of the volunteer. While we all felt tremendous guilt, the primary concern was that filing a fully transparent account would alert the government to the nature of our research. Considering the outcome, we realized what we created could easily be weaponized. Many championed the proposal to pass it off the volunteer’s death as the tragic outcome of an unsanctioned late-term abortion. Ultimately Dr. Gudas felt such a profound ethical breach was unjustifiable. Instead, the body was simply delivered to the coroner with the signed volunteer waiver, which disclosed the name of our laboratory.
It took a few months for the harassment to begin. It started with emails sent from official-looking addresses demanding we provide a comprehensive detail of our field study. People from various agencies started calling and showing up at our workplaces and homes. Some implied we were under criminal investigation. It was suggested that implicating others would be to our individual benefit. When we proved uncooperative, unmarked vehicles began to circle our neighborhoods and follow our children to school. Bank accounts were frozen, distant relatives contacted. Foreign colleagues were told their work visas would be revoked and their families deported. Some of us started receiving death threats.
Dr. Gudas finally made the decision to submit a carefully edited dossier of our failed experiment. We all agreed the best way to mitigate the worst possible outcome was to only provide data on the unknown variable. In other words, we omitted the existence of Fetus A. The government was only given the genome for Fetus B. After this report was submitted, all data from our years of research was destroyed.
The situation is now out of our hands. The government has barred any of us from their highly classified project based on the information we were forced to provide. But we are out there, keeping tabs on all the new hostesses who have no idea what they are carrying inside them.
On the one hand, we pray for their survival. On the other hand, we pray for them to fail.
by submission | Jun 23, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“Yes, I remember this one. His ex called it in. We found a bookcase full of porn. Vintage 2D on magnetic tape,” said Frank.
The woman sitting on the other side of the desk is Jan Fierro, the Department chief.
“When you say we, for the record.”
“Frank Scott, Officer with the GenderPol. And Jen Johanssen. She was my partner at the time.”
“But you and Officer Johanssen disagreed about it.”
“What to do about it, yes. We all know porn’s linked to gynocrime, but he was a collector. It was all shelved by date. Jacks collect stuff. I mean, friend of mine has a Toyota classic that runs on gasoline.”
Fierro is about to put him right.
“Yes, yes, I know what the law says, but he was never going to rape anybody.”
“In your opinion. And what did the courts decide?”
“Oh, biochemical castration. Behaviour mods. Temporal lobe remodeling, the lot.”
“And you don’t approve.”
“Crime against women’s down isn’t it? It’s just… No. Nothing.”
He shrugs at the next file.
“Thought you’d bring this one up. Yes, I may have mentioned victimless crimes and Jen really stomped me. Desensitisation theory, learning to think about women as objects, you know?”
Fierro was a looker, a fatal mix of desirability and the unattainable. He’d never had much to do with her, even when GenderPol was first set up and they were still the same rank. He was just a jack, right? But when somebody pinned up a photoshopped picture of her in the men’s locker room, he was the one who took it down.
“Jen hated virtual stuff. Said you never knew what you were plugging into. The jack had a silverlace on and…”
“For the record.”
“A silverlace, a neural interface for total immersion software. He was under the spell; didn’t even hear us crash his door. A work colleague apparently. All it takes is a picture and some code.”
Wearily, he explains how the software morphs faces onto bodies, so a jack can have sex with any woman he wants. Virtual sex. Under the spell.
“Yes, I know a lot about it, it’s my job. And I resent the implication.”
Fierro hands over a statement she wants reading out. For the record.
“I have never used morphing software involving… who said this?”
“Sit down Officer Scott. Unless you’re resigning?”
On the street it’s what they call being jackknifed. “I never thought about Jen like that. We were partners.”
He realises he’s clenching his teeth so hard they hurt.
“Yes, I’ve heard about the new scanners. I’ve heard they can hack your dreams. I also know my rights.”
Fierro smiles, something she only does on special occasions. She knows something, the bitch.
“Yeh. That’s my signature.”
The tech adjusts the silverlace on his scalp. “Try to relax,” she says.
“Easy for you to say. Even thinking about women will be a crime soon.”
“All gynocrime begins in men’s heads,” the tech says primly.
“And how long before this is compulsory?”
“Ask yourself what you have to hide.”
“What, from the Thought Police?”
“From women.”
This is a test. The scanner will record your brain state while you are under the spell. Here is a picture of Jan Fierro.
Begin.
