by submission | Aug 21, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Barber
These days visitors were few. The slim guidebook mentioned the Palace of the Red Emperors, famed once, but felled by an earthquake and never rebuilt; also the market, where travellers of discernment might purchase items from ages lost; a broken radio, wrist clocks, a set of X-ray plates.
His guide, who called himself Jamshidi, seemed friendly enough, though sly. He led Masterson through the marketplace, waving away stall-holders and dismissing their wares as fakes.
All fakery, he insisted, and vowed to show Masterson the real thing. Doubtless, he had deals with select vendors to recommend them to the outworlder.
“Very delicate,” the merchant began, proffering an ancient light bulb at a price so trifling it would mean robbing himself and depriving his children.
“Very rare,” he added, though a dozen more lay on his stall.
Masterson towered over them both. The outworlder radiated good health and common sense. “And why would I want this?”
Jamshidi and the merchant exchanged glances. “To remember your visit.”
“All recorded.” Masterson tapped his head where the implant was.
His guide’s gold-toothed smile faded.
Perhaps the merchant was less perceptive, or more optimistic. He angled a nameless data disc so that interference patterns chased colours across its surface.
“Like magic,” he said.
The outworlder raised an eyebrow. “You know about magic?”
Afterward, Jamshidi took him aside. “I see you are not here for ruins and trinkets. There is a place of magic the guidebook does not mention. It has a reputation.”
Masterson gave a disinterested shrug; anything more would inflate the price. He would ask about the reputation later.
They perched on local beasts, long-legged and imperious.
“I visit a desert and get sea-sick,” laughed the outworlder as their mounts swayed and lurched across the sands towards an ancient walled building.
Jamshidi pulled at the bell-rope. “The sorcerer will have sensed our coming. If he approves, the gates will…”
The gates opened a little and they squeezed through. An ancient fellow in a threadbare brown cowl greeted them and they followed him down long dim corridors.
Jamshidi translated. “He says his master bids you welcome.”
“Tell him I’m paying for real magic,” Masterson said. “Not card tricks.”
His guide blinked in puzzlement. “Real magic, yes. This apprentice will take you. I shall wait behind because of the risk.”
“Risk?”
“Magic wastes the flesh of those that use it, using them in return.” Jamshidi lowered his voice. “This fellow here is younger than you.”
Masterson glanced uneasily at the apprentice’s gaunt features.
“You know Jamshidi, I think…”
“His master will already have begun; at much cost to himself. You cannot just leave.”
At last, something Masterson understood. He drew himself to his full height. “I’d like to see them stop me.”
“Magic also makes its users cruel. I fear a spell would be cast against you. I have witnessed dreadful things.” He shrugged. “Perhaps this fellow can be bribed to forget you.”
“Forget me?”
“The sorcerer would need your true name. Have we used your true name?”
“I… I don’t think so.”
“Then distract this fellow with money and go.”
“What about you?”
“You already spoke my name.”
Masterson held out banknotes but the man barely glanced at them. He studied the outworlder’s anxious face. In the end, Masterson flung them down and fled back the way they came.
The monk did not understand.
“Outworlders,” Jamshidi said, as he gathered up the money. “They do not comprehend the Godly life.”
He considered almsgiving, and felt pleasantly virtuous. Yes, perhaps the next timed he brought traveller to the hallowed monastery at Isfahan.
by submission | Aug 18, 2019 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Port-Tuckett
They danced until midnight. She kissed him full of hunger. Her chaperone watched from afar.
“I have to go,” she said.
He walked her to the car.
“Who are you?” Dave whispered into the neon. “Where did you come from?”
He watched the lights until they were swallowed by the darkness of the city limits. She had lost her shoe. He picked it up.
“Come inside,” his mother said. He stood in the rain staring into the dark. He didn’t sleep. Too many butterflies.
“Please,” his mother said, “eat.”
He could not.
In the morning he packed a bag. He packed her shoe. His mother cried.
“Don’t go,” she said. He walked out of the city. It was cold but he was warmed by the thought of her.
“I’m coming,” Dave whispered. Moonlight kissed his face. He slept. He dreamed of her. The smoothness of her skin. The manner of her speech. Her clipped tone. Her laugh. It sounded like crystal clockwork. Innocent. In the morning he walked again.
The sea sang a lullaby. He stared at the island. It looked like paradise. He held up the shoe.
“Please,” Dave said.
He waited on the beach, on the night smothered sand. Stars danced in the sea. A voice sang. He followed it into the jungle.
“You have it?” the voice said. Dave nodded.
“This way.”
Dave followed the voice. Lights twinkled among the leaves; red and green. Blue.
“What is this place?” he asked.
“A place of dreams.”
A manicured lawn sprawled under phosphorous plants. Music.
She came to him in the clearing. Limping. She listed to the right. Behind her he saw the chaperone waiting.
“You have it?” the chaperone said.
He passed the chaperone the shoe. She held him. There were tears in his eyes. The chaperone retreated into the jungle. Drenched in moonlight he held her. Drowning in her. They lay down on the grass.
“Come with me,” Dave whispered to her. She slept. Dave listened to her sleeping. It sounded like purring. Her heart was ticking. Dave had never heard a ticking heart before.
A man came. He wore paramedic overalls. He carried the shoe. The man lifted her dress to reveal the socket, the plug of her ankle. Broken. Snapped while dancing. The man shook his head. She woke.
He pushed the shoe on. She smiled.
“Thank you,” she said. Slurring. The man rolled his eyes. He rolled her over so she looked into Dave’s eyes, pressing his finger to her neck.
“Who are you?” Dave asked her.
The man inserted something in the back of her head.
“Ella,” she said. “Version 3.1” The slurring more prominent. The man frowned.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “Moisture in the circuits. From the grass.”
“I love you Ella,” Dave said pulling his wallet from his pocket.
“I know,” Ella slurred.
“Can I get money off?” Dave asked the man. “This one’s broken.”
by submission | Aug 17, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
What is it that grips onto the edge of a shadow in the too-close distance and peers around its corner with yellow pinprick orbs and a spiky grin?
Who is the ethereal figure in the night that I scan for outside my window as the rain sheets down but who I can only see for an instant when the flashbulb sky pops with jagged white shards?
What is that ticking sound, possibly of hooked claws, that taps along the hallway outside my room and halts by the door making me question the validity of the meager metal bolt that secures me?
How is the night sky so enduring and majestic, yet the dozens of pulsing lights that maneuver easily in predetermined formations seem to be watching my every breath and are coming to steal it?
What about the bladed creature that I know is squatting in the corner of my dark room, anticipatory drool dripping onto my hardwood floor, who will only be there if I open my eyes?
When will the atrocities that gather at the outskirts of projected time, discharge into the world, predestined to eliminate the mass of humanity and leaving me alone to cower against the enormity?
What waits afore me, lingers behind me, slithers astride me, hovers above me…all cunningly concealed and just beyond my tentative touch?
Can I persevere until tomorrow?
How is it that the monsters that live inside me, gnawing at my mind and terrifying me beyond any sense of reason, still allow my hand to transcribe all my fears onto the page in bloody black ribbons?
by submission | Aug 16, 2019 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
The beaded curtains sounded like the patter of soft rain as they closed behind Georgina. She navigated the dimly lit room, taking the only seat at the small round table situated in the middle. In the LED candlelight, a crystal ball gleamed in the center of the shawl-covered table. Georgina sighed. Why did she let her roommate talk her into this? A visit to a mystic-bot was likely a complete waste of time and money.
A soft light ignited within the crystal ball; dark blocky letters grew and took shape: “Welcome to Stella’s Parlor, a division of Mystico Entertainment. Please place right palm here for chip scan.” Georgina did as advised, annoyed with herself the whole time. A tiny, tinkling tone signaled her payment had been approved. There go twenty-five credits.
Soft ambient music began to emanate from the corners of the room, almost masking the mechanical swoosh sound of the fortune-teller’s entrance. Stella, the mystic-bot, docked at the table across from Georgina. The bot appeared to be right out of Hollywood Central Casting for horror-movie gypsy fortune tellers, circa 1940. Paisley silk headscarf, jangly bangle bracelets, multiple gold-coin necklaces, a face creased like a road map. Her dark glass eyes met Georgina’s.
“I am Stella. Tell me what you wish to learn. I know all.” The mystic-bot’s mouth moved convincingly.
Georgina cleared her throat. “My boyfriend, will he—”
“Five to ten,” Stella interrupted. The mystic-bot put her hands together, as if in supplication, and continued. “With time off for good behavior.”
“What? No, will he ask me to—”
“His cohorts will testify against him.” Stella droned on.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about! My boyfriend has a great job as a loan officer. He’s honest, he’d never—all I want to know is if we’ll get married! Or am I wasting my time with him?” Georgina was exasperated; Stella obviously had her confused with some other client. Maybe her prediction program was corrupted?
“Your Simon has a gambling addiction, well hidden from those he loves.” The mystic-bot closed her eyes. Georgina could see the glass orbs rolling spasmodically beneath Stella’s silicone lids. She watched in fascination as Stella’s factory-tinted lips moved in silence, as if the bot was whispering prayers; Georgina wondered what deity a mystic-bot would invoke. The God of AI? The Goddess of Entropy?
Georgina refocused on the session. “No,” she objected, “he doesn’t have a problem, he’s a dream come true, and how did you—ah, you learned Simon’s name when you processed my payment,” Georgina realized. “You did an instant search on my name, that’s all. Nothing ‘mystic’ about that. This is a joke.” Georgina began to rise from the table, but Stella clamped onto the woman’s wrist with a machine’s unshakable grip. “Later this very afternoon,” Stella hissed, “he’s arrested for embezzlement. Big time bookies, human hookers involved. You must distance yourself.”
“If you don’t let go, I will report you and your ‘entertainment company’ to the authorities. As it is, I’ll be filing a grievance to get my credits back.” Stella relaxed her hold and Georgina jerked her arm away. Without looking back at Stella, Georgina stormed out through the beaded curtains, ignoring the mystic-bot’s plaintive warning: “Leave him now and save yourself from a world of hurt!”
Standing on the dirty pavement outside Stella’s Parlor, Georgina mashed Simon’s number in on her phone. Her fury quickly morphed into rising panic, and her button-punching became more frantic, as over and over again, the call went directly to voice-mail.
by submission | Aug 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Skye Sweven
Sand slips through my fingers.
The sky is dusty gray, with a mix of amaranthine glow reminding me that it is dawn. This time of the morning is quiet. Stars, too, must feel this way, as they lose their glitter on the clouds and begin to fade away into the break of day. The sea breeze shyly tousles the silky strands of my black hair. When I sniff in a handful of breath, the somewhat sticky smell of salt still lingers in the air. My nose has tinged slightly pink, but the cold is the least of my concerns.
Dreamscape. Oh, would it have been a dreamscape, had not the ocean been taken away from us.
The vintage radio barely held together with duct tape consistently spits out hisses of static noises. It isn’t time yet. I once again run my hand through the sand absentmindedly. Sighing, I let the soft grains fall to the ground. Some blow away as the wind catches them before the fall. Then I lay my blank gaze on the horizon—where the sand meets the sky and the sun prepares its rise to shed its luminance on the godforsaken land. What use is all this sea of sand when there is no sea?
A few melancholic moments later, the first line of orange finds its way through the crusts of the earth. My pupils greet the emergence of the sun’s young rays. They soon taint the purple sky blood red—the lighter it gets as their hands stretch further toward the withdrawing dominion of night.
I nearly don’t notice the static noises morphing into unintelligible debris of voices. It is finally time. I raise the volume on my beloved radio and adjust the frequency so I can get a clearer sound of whatever’s coming through the aged speakers. And then, taking the machine in my palms, I listen to the sounds it delivers as I fix my eyes on the dreamscape unraveling before my eyes.
Waves crash onto the shore, spewing white foam everywhere. Children giggle when the briny drapes of seawater chase them away from the borders of their emerald empire. Dogs shake the moisture off their furs as they run alongside their masters. Families are having the time of their lives, basking in the sunlight and relishing the summer bliss. The clear blue sky blesses every soul underneath its embrace with a feeling of revival and freedom.
A small smile appears on my dry lips. I can see it. I can see the ocean, not through my eyes but through my ears and my heart. The sound of the bygone days oozing from the radio opens the inner eyes within me. It is almost as if I’m back in those times, before I grew up, before I lost everyone, before the ocean was taken from us. I’m once again the clueless, innocent 7-year-old building sand castles with my brothers and sisters. Wading in the shallow parts of the ocean to observe curious sea creatures that resemble the stars. Listening to the radio as my mother rubs sunscreen all over my back for the fourth time that day.
My reminiscence is suddenly interrupted by the familiar static noise. Time’s up. The abrupt quiet is like a slap in the face, but it does what it should to scoop me back to reality. The sky is already a palette of myriad hues. Stronger than before, the wind brushes all the hair off my face and takes away my purple scarf in its grasp. Golden light is approaching.
I scramble to my feet, facing the rising sun with a million different feelings muddled up in my heart. I know this is unhealthy. I know that clutching at the echoes of what had been will never get me anywhere far from these shores of asphyxiating solitude. I know what I see every morning is but an illusion, and that it will never bring back the ocean that had been taken away from us.
But I also know this. I will come back to this same spot every dawn, watch the same sunrise and relive the past through the radio again and again. Again and again, until there is no past for me to remember anymore.
I look at the radio hissing in the sand. A single tear travels down my flushed cheeks as I shift my gaze to my shaking palms.
Memories slip through my fingers.
