by submission | Jan 4, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Barber
“Drugs. Alcohol. Sex.” The missionary was praising the tolerance of the Jirt. She leaned forwards. “They don’t care.”
Francisco shuffled awkwardly on the bench. A woman like her saying sex. His grandfather placed a heavy hand on the lad’s shoulder without taking his gaze from the missionary.
She turned to the old man. “You remember how it was. I saw a Jirt once, being asked about the Ten Commandments, and it just did that eye-cleaning thing with its front legs – you know, like a shrug. No, the important thing is the Rolling.”
“Then she did that circle with her hand,” fumed Francisco later.
“Yes,” murmured his grandfather. “I was there.”
Francisco did a creditable impersonation.“They just did that eye-rolling thing.” The lad rolled his eyes. “You know, like we do when someone mentions holy rollers. No, the important thing is the bullsh…”
“Enough.”
The Policia had come knocking after his grandfather took Francisco out of school. A school run by Holy Rollers now.
Sheriff Pérez and Eduardo Balcázar had grown up in the same village, where Eduardo’s mother had been known as a brujo, a witch. The sheriff’s gaze kept sidling away, glancing round the room.
“Can’t risk it,” he repeated. “Look at Rome. Look at what happened in Utah. Look…”
What happened in Utah, Francisco wanted to know.
“They wouldn’t let Roller missionaries in; wanted nothing to do with the Jirt.”
“Yes, but what happened?”
“Don’t you teach him nothing Eduardo? Is why I got to bring you both in. Can’t risk it.”
Francisco watched the man’s hand coming to rest on his gun butt, then taking off again, like a wasp shooed away from something sweet.
“All gone. Just white ash.”
Their instrucción started next morning; half a dozen folk waiting uneasily. One of the teachers was the missionary from yesterday. She held the door open for a man rolling a chest-high dung ball.
Even amongst the Jirt there were differences in interpretation, she explained, different factions. Only the ultra-orthodox rolled dung wherever they went. She kept her own ball of dung safe at home, and rolled it of an evening.
The man interrupted en mal español. “We are humbled by a superior race. They tell us our God is nonsense; how their insect ancestors rolled balls of dung; that it is the correct response to an indifferent universe.”
He glared from face to face. “Who are you to question them? This is your last chance to convert.”
An old fellow stood up. “You think at my age I will join in this madness?”
He limped out the door, giving the parked dung ball a kick.
That afternoon they were two less. Francisco watched the Policia take the old fellow and his wife away. Waiting for the Holy Roller, the woman missionary sat down amongst them. “There is no choice,” she said sadly. “Jirt don’t tolerate choice. Get a ball of dung. Roll it sometimes. It is all they demand.”
The yanqui came in, preceded by his dung ball. In its travels, it had acquired a wispy halo of leaves and straw.
The woman stood and smoothed down her robe. “We were just saying, cow dung is fine, and loses its smell when dried.”
Afterward, Francisco tried to get his grandfather’s attention.
His grandfather’s gaze was very far away. He still held the handout, Caring For Your Dung Ball.
“First the Catholic priests,” he said. “Now the Jirt.”
Francisco chattered anxiously. “Perhaps we should keep one in the barn. Just roll it into town on Sundays. Is that what we should do, grandfather?”
by submission | Jan 3, 2020 | Story |
Author: Glenn Leung
The Star was rising to the Significant Angle once again. The inhabitants of Planet finished their chores and went to bed. We had to keep our celebratory noises down as they don’t take kindly to drunken songs and pointless countdowns. Some of us gathered at Bar Number 2, the second bar built on this planet and the only one built to accommodate hapless Earthlings.
This Significant Angle day was a little different. Twenty from Down-the-River was with us. Born and raised on Planet, he had never seen or heard much about other alien races until the first Earth refugees arrived.
“So you celebrate when your planet finishes a trip around your star?”
“Yes, we do.”
“And you celebrate by incapacitating yourself with alcohol?”
“Well, not all of us. Just, a lot of us.”
Twenty wasn’t drinking. Nineteen and Nineteen-Two had told him what it did when imbibed.
“And a lot of you gather and drink together? That sounds like a recital for disaster.”
His Earth Common had room for improvement.
“The word is ‘recipe’, but yes. It quite often becomes messy, but we …” I circle my finger at my mates, “drink responsibly.”
It was easy to tell that Twenty was confused by that phrase. Planet natives and Earthlings look quite similar; a fact that was instrumental in establishing diplomatic relationships, and their willingness to take in Earth refugees.
“You say Earthlings celebrate this New Year for this thing called ‘hope’, even making these… resolvents?”
“Resolutions.”
“Right. And instead of preparing to do these resolutions, you incapacitate yourself the night before?”
“Well, it’s an excuse to party.”
“Do you think that if Earthlings were truly responsible, you wouldn’t have to escape your planet?”
It suddenly felt a little suffocating. I wasn’t sure if it was the rising alcohol fumes or the tension Twenty had inadvertently dumped on us. He had been so nice to me at work that I forgot his race could be uncomfortably blunt. How the first diplomats overcame this barrier is still a mystery to me.
“Well, it’s time for bed. Work tomorrow,” said Tom.
“Yeah, we’ve had four rounds already,” said Dick.
I was left alone with Twenty, who was looking down at the spills on the table, uncharacteristically quiet.
“I said something wrong, didn’t I?”
I pushed my chair a little closer to him and asked the barkeep for a fifth.
“No, nothing about what you said was wrong, my friend. It’s just that, you know, some truths are hard for us to hear.”
“I really need you to explain it to me, Harry. I want to get along with your kind.”
“Ok…let’s see… erm… We Earthlings, like to attach meaning to things, for more than just practical reasons. Hope, you see, is a pretty big thing. It’s something we like to carry with us and it keeps us going when things look bleak. Some of us brought this hope here, to start a new life away from the evils that are plaguing our planet. Some of us stayed behind to fight them. In any form, hope is what gives us the will to move into the future. To many of us, that is what the New Year means: We don’t give up, and we are going to try again.”
The barkeep arrived with a fresh mug of ale, one of the few fine exports from Earth.
“But not before drowning our regrets.”
I pushed the mug towards Twenty. He carefully brought it towards his mouth, then took a wary sip.
“I see,” he said.
by submission | Jan 2, 2020 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Debra dipped a shrimp in cocktail sauce. “I’m glad my folks could take the kids so we could have a quiet night in. How’s your father spending this New Year’s Eve? As if I have to ask.” The couple sat at their dining room table in a space open to the living room.
“Same as always since Mom died,” replied her husband, Richard, as he smeared mango chutney crab spread on a cracker. “He’s time-traveling back to when they went to Vienna for New Year’s Eve on their honeymoon.”
“That’s sweet, but it’s a little sad he always uses his annual temporal allowance to revisit the same time and place. I’d think since he was a science teacher for all those years, he’d like to peek over the shoulder of Newton or Einstein. Shake hands with Kryne of Euler. Even get crazy and see a T-Rex for gosh sake.”
“He misses her so much. And the day he describes sounds wonderful— Sachertorte in a Viennese cafe, seeing the Lipizzaners, waltzing to The Blue Danube at midnight… Speaking of temporal allowances, where would you like to go this year?”
“I was thinking the Globe Theater, 1610, first-ever performance of The Tempest. It would be wonderful for us and educational for the kids.”
Richard raised his champaign flute. “One of my favorites. ‘all … are melted into air, into thin air…’ It’s a date.”
Debra touched her glass to her husband’s. “I wonder if the future will ever be declassified? I’d love to take a peek.”
“Time will tell.”
Debra laughed. She loved Richard’s sense of humor. The couple spent the evening lost in conversation. A few minutes before midnight, Richard announced he had a surprise. “Computer, run New Year’s Eve program.”
A virtual stage and a tuxedoed man at a standing microphone appeared in the living room. “For Debra and Richard,” he said.
“Our song, Honey. Shall we?” Richard stood and held out his hand. Before Debra could take it, his ring began flashing. “Who’d contact me so late?” His voice was pitched with alarm. “Computer, pause program.” The crooner’s face froze in a microexpression that made him look as if he were screaming in pain.
Debra’s husband twisted his ring. “This is Richard Rinehart.”
“Mr. Rinehart, Temporal Command here. I’m afraid I have disturbing news. Your father has somehow deactivated his Paradox Prevention Buffer, gone off-script and refuses to return. Our agents are en route to perform the necessary corrections — and elimination. You should say your goodbyes.”
“What? Wait! No!”
“Richard?”
“Don’t panic, Debra. Dad’s wiley. Maybe he’ll elude the agents … at least long enough for him and Mom to …” He pointed to himself. “I —”
#
“Five minutes till midnight,” Samuel said loudly above the din of the festive jazz club. Debra forced a smile across the table. The vague sense of loss that never left her gnawed especially deep this time of year and made her reflect on her life. Her parents had thought her too young to get married all those years ago, but Samuel turned out to be a wonderful husband — smart, romantic, and someone who’d have been an excellent father if she hadn’t decided against having children.
The singer began her last set. Samuel stood and held out his hand. “I got her to do your favorite song, Honey.”
Yes, my song, Debra thought. It made her ache for some lost place and time. She’d go there with a temporal allowance — if only she knew where and when.
“Debra?”
“Sorry.” Debra tried to smile, took Samuel’s hand and danced with him into tomorrow.
by submission | Dec 31, 2019 | Story |
Author: Irene Monaner
Matthew had never heard of the Association of Friends of Planet Earth until he was invited to their NYE Gala Dinner. Having no better plans for the last evening of the year, he had donned a tuxedo and now shared a table with a couple of herpetologists, an astrophysicist researching wormholes, a social scientist investigating the shortcomings of communism and a few spokespersons of NGOs he had never heard of. Matthew felt weird among so many accomplished people. He felt even weirder when they called him MagicMat, his nickname for his hacking mischiefs, and had spent most of the evening wondering what he was doing there. But that hadn’t stopped him from enjoying himself. The food was exquisite and the conversation interesting, if surrealist at times.
At 11’30 pm, the chair of AFPE’s Preservation Committee stood up and shushed everyone. All eyes were on the metallic helmet crisscrossed by cables he was wearing. “We have clearly failed,” he said and everyone nodded. “Global warming, wars, famines. We have been unable to solve any of the problems that threaten our existence on this planet. Until now. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the solution.” He pointed at the device on his head and pressed some buttons on its side. Silence became deafening as he vanished from the scene.
“A time machine!” screamed someone as the committee chair reappeared an inch left to where he stood only seconds ago. People oohed and aahed as he took off the helmet.
“We can now travel back in time and changed things for the future. Go back till the moment the first monkey stepped down a tree and kill that monkey,” said the chairman.
“It won’t do, evolution will always find its way,” replied a man.
“True. We could go back and talk Gutenberg out of inventing the moveable press,” continued the chairman.
“Meh, someone else would. We cannot really influence individual choices,” replied a woman.
“Right. We could then go back and blow all the steam engines that pushed the Industrial Revolution forward.”
“There would always be more machines somewhere,” said the same woman.
“Right again. It’s delightful to be sharing this evening with such smart comrades.” He paused for applause. “ We need to think big. The Millennium bug.”
“Almost a hoax,” Matthew heard himself saying. And he suddenly realised why he had been invited to this dysfunctional party.
“A hoax it was. But you’ll make it real the second time around, MagicMat.” The committee chair gestured him to join him on stage. Matthew wanted to disappear but he obliged, encouraged by a roar of clapping hands. His vision blurred as he felt the weight of the misshapen helmet on his head. “Five minutes, maybe less. That’s all the time you’ll have to hack their – our – systems and make this filthy capitalist society implode. You’re our last hope!”
The chair’s last words blended with the funky millennial beats from Jennifer Rodríguez, N’Sing, and Brittany Sears. Matthew was lost amid hordes of women wearing strapless dresses and men in tight, shiny shirts. He really was back in 1999. He had to get away. Move, run, find a quiet spot to get out his laptop and code something quickly. He had to make all systems crash and end the world he had once known.
A few lines were enough to change humanity’s fate. The countdown had already started. Five, four, three, two, one. Happy 2000! Time had run out. Matthew smiled as people panicked while the city blacked out and he vanished to the uncertain future he had just created.
by submission | Dec 30, 2019 | Story |
Author: Lachlan Redfern
My mother once told me I will never know the feeling of sunshine on my face. I remember telling her that was ridiculous. I’d felt the warmth of UV lamps, and in terms of physical sensation, there wasn’t any difference. Mother told me that there was, that sunshine had some sort of intangible quality she couldn’t express. I asked her if she could be more specific, and she burst into tears. I stopped arguing and just pulled her into a hug. I never mentioned sunshine to her again. I don’t mention a lot of things to mother.
It’s not strictly true that I haven’t felt sunshine. I’ve felt it filtered through several inches of reinforced polycarbonate, where it seems to have picked up some of the cold of space. I make a deliberate effort not to think about the things I could have experienced in the Age of Earth. We have enough depressed adults sitting around the colony as it is.
But every now and then, I get a voice in my head telling me I’ve been robbed of a future. Not very often, just once in a while. But when it comes, I give it the answer I always give; That no boy in the previous century ever got to stand on the lunar surface and gaze up at the Earth. That I’m one of the first to see lush green forests of radiation-absorbing moss, as oceans dyed a rich purple with poison-eating algae shine in the distant sunlight.
