by submission | Mar 16, 2018 | Story |
It’s the lack of sleep that’s the worst. I can live with the brutal beatings, the agony of untreated broken bones, the drugs that fuck with your head, the insidious cold, the gnawing hunger, the burning thirst and the routine rape, but I would literally kill to sleep. We’ve all been trained in withstanding torture and interrogation techniques, but nothing really prepares you for not being allowed to sleep for six days straight.
And I hate feeling dirty. I know that’s the least of my worries, but it’s a symbol of everything I have been stripped of. Not just my freedom but also the smallest of dignities.
Only one of the five interrogators is into rape and I’m hoping he’ll be rotated in soon. My notion of time is rather sketchy, but they seem to do six-hour shifts. I’ve been able to read from him that rape is discouraged by his superiors, which is why he switches the monitors off when he wants to scratch that itch. I’ve been biding my time until I was able to sift the security access codes from the minds of our captors. I have them all now. I’m not normally this slow, but pain has a habit of getting in the way of your focus. And I’m very weak now. It needs to be soon or I won’t be able to see it through.
Yes! He’s been rotated in. We go through an hour of him slapping me around. I make sure to show the pain, as I know he gets off on it. I’m hoping he’ll soon be turned on enough to switch off his brain.
Ok. We’re there. He’s switching off the monitors and removing my restraints so that he has full access to my body. As he shoves me face first into the wall, I grasp the hand pulling my head back by my hair and rip into his mind.
His scream is most satisfying. I hold nothing back and within minutes he’s a jabbering wreck on the floor. He’ll be lucky if he ever remembers his own name.
For a moment, there are black spots in front of my eyes and I sway. No! I can’t pass out now. I punch the wall and the fresh pain cuts through the fog.
I reach out to the guard I sense on the other side of the wall and fry his circuits too. It takes me a bit longer this time.
God, my kingdom for a bed.
Stumbling to the door, I key in the code that slides it open. I take the guard’s weapon and do a shuffling run. I’ll be on their monitors now and even destroying them as I pass them (I got the schematics from the mind of one of the guards), I have to move as fast as I can.
I’ve used the last six days to also locate the minds of the three other survivors from our raiding party. Luckily, one is our pilot. I kill the guards and interrogators the old-fashioned way, with their own weapons.
Apart from the lead interrogator. I allow myself to enjoy his death too. I sweep through his mind like a wrecking ball in slow motion, letting him feel the collapse of his higher motor functions before I erase the rest of him.
His last coherent thought is “no, you can’t exist, you’re just a myth!”
by submission | Mar 15, 2018 | Story |
Author: Jules Jensen
Things are changing. The line in the sand is gone, washed away by changing tides that everyone saw coming but not this fast. In his eyes, I see the difference. I see the tech.
“You have no idea how good this feels.” He says, smiling, and I bite back the comment that he used to feel good all the time, and he doesn’t need the tech to do that. We used to have fun all the time until he started to obsess over the latest trend in self-augmentation.
He focuses on something in the distance, the lenses in his pupils narrowing in on something so far away that no normal person would be able to see it.
Actually, most normal people probably can see it, since I’m one of the only ones that didn’t think shoving tech into my eyeballs was considered an upgrade. He catches the look I have on my face, and suddenly he frowns.
“Don’t be all high and mighty. You have a hearing aid, don’t you? How is this any different?”
His words hang in the air. I think of losing most of my hearing as a teenager, and now that I’m in my thirties I finally did something about it and got the hearing aid. Did he feel the same way that I did when he got his lenses put in, the intense hit of emotion when I realized my life was going to be better?
“There was nothing wrong with your eyes,” I say finally, defiance and guilt battling for supremacy within me.
“People all over the world do lots of things to make themselves better. They go to school, they get training, they work out. This is just how I’m choosing to better myself.”
My contempt of the tech is starting to wane. He looks very unimpressed with me when I say nothing, and he walks off. We don’t see each other or talk for days, and I fear losing my friend, but I don’t have the guts to say sorry and make amends. A different kind of guilt gnaws at me, a curse that darkens my days and keeps me awake at night. I feel bad for not expressing how much I care and worry about him, for not saying sorry, and for not being more open-minded.
A week later, it happens. To this day, I’m not sure what started it. Some say solar flare, some say aliens, some say weapons testing, some even say it was divine intervention. I say it doesn’t matter; the outcome is the same.
People stumbling blind or deaf or not stumbling at all because they had tech in their spines to make them stronger and now its toast, cars not starting, radios broken, every piece of tech non-functioning and burnt up. I find the friend that stopped talking to me because of mutual ignorance, slumped in his home, cowering and crying. My hearing aid is gone, but my ear that can sort of hear on its own catches his shaky apologies. I feel guilty all over again, not because I had anything to do with the EMP blast that rocked the world, but because I wasn’t there for him when it happened.
I tell him that I’m sorry, that it’s okay, we‘ll get through this together and I’m there for him because this is what friends are for.
by submission | Mar 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Henry Peter Gribbin
There is a young boy who lives all by himself in a meadow. For miles and miles, there is nothing but soft flowing grass which sways in a gentle breeze. In a small depression stands a tree, an apple tree. This tree plays an important part in the boy’s life. It provides him nourishment and shelter when a light misty rain falls. Other than the boy, the apple tree, and the flowing grass there is no other form of life. There are no birds, animals, insects and more importantly, no other form of human life.
There is a brick wall that runs as far as the eye can see in both directions. It reaches into the clouds. The young boy walks every day along the wall. One day he walks to the right-the next day to the left. He is searching for life, for he is lonely. But at dusk, he always returns to the tree. It is his only sanctuary.
The boy is being punished for the transgressions of his father. The boy is a prisoner.
There is a circular hole in the wall six inches in diameter and five feet off the ground. He has only recently been able to peek through the hole. He is amazed at what he can see. There are all kinds of trees, animals, birds, and in the distance there are mountains. He has no language and has no words to describe what he sees, but every day for hours he is enthralled by what is on the other side of the wall.
One day he heard sounds that he had never heard before. He went to the hole and observed a group of children about his age playing. The sounds he heard were the squeals of laughter. He watched but made no sound. One of the children came close to the wall to retrieve a ball. It was a young girl. The boy made no sound, but when the girl stood up something caught her eye. She came closer and put her eye right up to the hole. The boy and girl stared at each other for several minutes. The girl called to her friends. They took turns looking at the boy on the other side of the wall. Each one laughed at him. They laughed at his unkempt hair and his nakedness. Then they returned to their play. The girl stayed behind. She tried to talk to the boy but had no luck. Somehow she got the message across that she would return the next day.
Well, she did. She returned day after day, and she managed to teach him language. Her name was Grace, and since the boy had no name she called him Ash because of his fair skin and blond hair. The boy liked the name she gave him. For the first time, he had a friend. For months the boy and girl communicated. One day Ash reached his arm through the hole and touched Grace’s hand. It was the first time he had ever felt another’s touch. It felt wonderful.
The following day Grace and her friends did not appear. They did not return the following day either. The boy always waited by the hole in the wall, but after several more days passed he realized that he was alone again. The next morning he resumed his walks along the wall.
by submission | Mar 11, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
Barden loved Saturday mornings, rambling with his young daughter through the deciduous forest. Perpetually wet underfoot, the forest always kept the eight-year-old entertained.
“Look! Dad!” shrilled Megan. “Someone’s dropped their train ticket!”. She peered precariously at the litter next to a large muddy puddle, “And it says Guildford!”.
Barden frowned, “Megan, leave it, it will be dirty and you may fall in”.
Megan was already stooping expertly to collect it. She proudly handed Barden the sodden ticket, covered in wet mud, “See… Guildford!”.
“Thanks, love, now race you to the climbing tree”. Megan squelched a hasty path to a partially fallen sycamore and started scaling it.
The ticket was stiff and hard, and thinking it might be a valuable season pass, Barden cleaned the ticket’s face with his handkerchief, revealing a purple background with raised silver lettering stating: Guildford (Verger) – Bordeaux (Gravité), Vacuum Avion, Premier Classe, RETOUR, 37e Avril 2053, EU$459. Against the purple background was a subtle animated clip in yellow depicting a passenger jet ascending vertically behind a church before accelerating into the distance, trailing the words ‘Chaque quinze minutes de GV à BG et au-delà’.
Barden was baffled by the astounding technology and the French. Surely a promotional gimmick, but for what?
The sound of rotting branches giving way was accompanied by Megan squawking, hitting the ground with a wet ‘thunk’. Barden stuffed the ticket in his trouser pocket and sprinted to pluck her from the mud.
Barden was wet and muddy after carrying Megan to their car. She stopped sobbing when he promised her cake, imploring irresistibly, “Can we go to The Dabbling Duck? I want lemon cake!”. “Me too!” replied Barden.
At sunset, after their hot chocolate and cake, Barden and Megan held hands returning to the car as the hush of the English Countryside fell, amplifying both their boots clacking along the lane and their inane chatter.
“Mummy loves this little village” he divulged, “She loves cake you mean!” came her whip-smart reply.
Barden stopped abruptly, squinting through the final sunrays at the 13th Century Church. Megan continued tottering up the path, shouting “Come on lazybones”.
His mouth agog, he fumbled for the purple ticket, held it in front of his face. The animation perfectly matched the church, albeit without a launching jet. “Hang on Meg, let’s walk around the side of the church”.
Adjoining the church was not a landing strip or helipad, but a small thatched cottage with a working orchard.
A young estate agent was erecting a For Sale sign in the garden. Barden waved politely.
“Afternoon sir, are you interested in buying a farmhouse?” inquired the agent.
Barden hesitated, half-tempted to tell his intriguing story, expose his purple ticket to some public scrutiny.
“You can go in and look, it’s open and empty, the Jones’ have moved on”.
Megan skipped through the gate, Barden followed. Up close, it was every inch a Fairy-tale cottage of his dreams. Megan bounded through the door, muddy footprints on the clean tiles, her delighted screams echoing, ”Daddy, I love it!”.
Barden’s excitement was building, and wasn’t deflated by the dank smell indicating ancient mould, persistent damp, and rotting timbers.
Megan screeched, bounding into the room, “Daddy, look, I’ve found another train ticket!”
She proudly handed over a second purple ticket, “Look! it says Megan”.
He read the purple ticket ‘Carte d’identité: Megan Barden-Jones, âge 43’.
Barden shuddered, wobbled, the blood draining from his face. He pursed his lips and knelt.
“What is it, Daddy?”
“Pumpkin, I think we’d better show Mummy this house. And find us all some French lessons.”
by submission | Mar 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Are you insane? This was supposed to be a negotiation of terms for surrender. You made it a slaughter!”
COL Mikalelan holstered her weapon and gave her two aides the command to stand down. “I’ve been fighting them for twelve years, Ambassador Nieves. This was no delegation. We specified three, they brought six.”
“Three extra and you kill them for that?”
The Colonel walked forward and kicked the closest alien with the tip of her boot. “This one here- look at its caste mark. Not branded and dyed as their political caste should be, but painted on. It’s really a warrior caste.”
Ambassador Nieves growled in frustration “They told us because of their heavy losses their delegation would be unusual, I thought I made that clear.”
“Indeed you did Ambassador. That’s why when I saw them walking in twice the numbers, I knew they would betray us.”
Ambassador Nieves gritted her teeth. “You military types are all alike. All you see is a threat. We’ve already beaten them. Clearly, we’ve won and they have to come to terms. In time, who knows what we can do together”
COL Mikalelan laughed. “Ambassador, neither one of us is white nor male so spare me your white man’s burden guilt speech. They don’t think like us, have the same standards that we do, have the same values. They are totally alien. Hell, even their math is different.”
Ambassador Nieves was livid. “Of course they’re different! I’m not a child. They have only two fingers, different thinking, alien minds, I get that, but there are still universals. Things that alien and human can and do share.”
“Cut them and do they not bleed? Guess what: they don’t. In fact, we don’t know what the hell they are exactly- reptile, mammal, insect- who knows? All we know is even after extensive negotiation, our first three encounters ended in the total obliteration of our contact parties followed by an all-out assault on our most populated systems with the extermination of ALL human life wherever they took our colonies.”
COL Mikalelan looked at her watch. “SGT Zander call in the air strike. 1LT Ives, engage our shields.”
Nieves looked stunned “Shields? We told them we wouldn’t bring any! Air strike? You had no intention of negotiation at all- you used me! When I get back to HQ you’ll lose your head.”
COL Mikalelan roughly pulled Ambassador Nieves into a huddle with Zander and Ives. Ives pressed a button on his belt and the tell-tale sign of shields crackled in the air around them, encompassing the group of four. Mikalelan and Nieves were almost nose to nose.
“Look over there at the ‘delegation’.” COL Mikalelan tilted her head toward the six bodies. “Their ‘ambassador’ had a transponder which has just turned on, giving their command our exact position. We win or lose with them. We occupy the dirt we stand on or they do. Us or them. In twelve years of contact it has never been different. Binary fingers, binary thought, binary decisions.”
1LT Ives spoke up. “Ma’am, message from command. Our nuke just destroyed the remainder of their forces and 46 of their inbound missiles including two targeted to our position. Advised to stand fast, shielded, until the shock wave from our nuke passes.”
A mushroom cloud appeared over the horizon. A great roaring wind rolled over Nieves, Mikalelan and the Colonel’s aides. Nieves could barely keep eye contact with the colonel but when she did COL Mikalelan raised one eyebrow and spoke.
“Safe or Sorry?”