by submission | Jan 20, 2021 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
I pressed “play” on my digital recorder.
“See doc, I wasn’t always a hoarder. Yeah, I know what my place looks like right now, but if I didn’t have clutter, I’d have nothing at all.
I was up late watching a classic movie from the 80’s. I noticed during one scene, they had the same mug as I did. I laughed and went to get a cup of noodles thinking I’d use that same mug. But I couldn’t find it. No big deal. Moved four times since I got that mug. I didn’t think too much about it. “Three moves equals a fire,” as my Auntie always said.
About two weeks later, I was watching a stupid sit com re-run and noticed they had the same platter on display I had. I got up and went to where I keep that platter and it was gone. Thought I’d drop a load right there but shook it off ‘cause even I knew what I was thinking was crazy.
Then all sorts of things went missing- a pen holder with pens, and hole punch. Wound up on an episode of “The Office,” on the receptionist counter. A framed Currier and Ives print from my hallway. That one I saw in a bar scene on “Law & Order.” Then my Mom’s sewing basket disappeared. It went to “Golden Girls”. My Grandmother’s silver tea service- “Downton Abbey.” I was getting desperate. I moved all I could out to the shed, especially the real valuable stuff, heirlooms and the like. That worked for a while. Until I went to put more out there, and everything was gone including the plywood flooring. Two days later the shed was gone. Saw it on a “Brady Bunch” episode, exterior shot.
Finally, I figure out if I just stacked things in jumbles around the house, they couldn’t find things to take. They didn’t catch on… for a while. Then stuff started disappearing again. I had to get even more complex and disheveled. You know the rest. Nieces and nephews dropped by and now here I am in the looney bin. Can’t say I blame my family. Actually, I’m glad to be here. The stuff I took with me is safe, and I can breathe easier.”
I pressed “stop”. Now, after his death, I was here to help the family process their feelings as they emptied the contents of his home. I was first to be at his house, secured since his committal. A 30-yard dumpster in the driveway, another set for delivery the following day. Taking a deep breath, I unlocked the door and walked in. The air left my body as if I had been punched in the gut. The place was empty. I ran from room to room in the entire house, including the attic and basement. Nothing. No furniture, curtains, bedding, paper goods, not even cleaning supplies under the sinks. Nothing. When his relatives arrived, all of us shared our shock, our utter disbelief. Thieves. Obsessive-compulsive ones, at that.
Two days later I reported the theft of a family heirloom to the police- my great-grandmother’s wedding veil. It was set in a display case on my mantel. I filled out a report. Gave them pictures. Never thought I’d see it again.
But I did.
Last night, 1939 B&W classic, “The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex.” The Queen herself, wearing great-grandmothers veil. To her left on a table, the display case. I began packing stuff into boxes, hoping I wasn’t fighting a losing battle.
by submission | Jan 19, 2021 | Story |
Author: Chris Preston
I just turned six years old and, for my birthday, Dad gave me a grown-up mask. It was supposed to be Mom’s, but she didn’t come home when she was supposed to. Before the sirens started.
I was only four years old when we went into our hideout under the basement. No mask fit me so only Dad could go back up into the dirty air outside.
Life in the hideout is boring. At first, there was a lot to do because Dad was very prepared. He worked as a scientist and his boss told him that something bad was coming. When it looked like we would be in our hideout for a long time, Dad even made rules for the different days of the week.
The weekend days are a “free-for-all,” as Dad says.
Mondays are cooking days. I don’t like the smell when Dad burns our soup, it stinks for hours.
Tuesdays, we read the whole time. My books, adult books, even some magazines. Sometimes, Dad thinks I am reading but only because I know which words always come next.
Wednesdays, we run the generator extra long to watch many shows and movies. Sometimes, we don’t if Dad hasn’t found any new gas.
Thursdays are grooming days. I always like the taste of minty toothpaste because Dad ran out of real mint a long time ago. We also trim our nails, wash ourselves with new water, and Dad cuts my hair. His hair is all gone. Mine is falling out too but Dad says that happens when you get older. After, I use a broom to collect the little bundles of blonde hair off the ground and put it in the trash can.
Fridays are my favorite day. Garbage day. Well, they used to be scary. Being alone is always scary for me. But now, it’s different. Dad made this new mask tight, as tight as it could go, so it fit my face. It was what I needed to leave our secret bunker again.
My heart was racing when I first left for my first garbage day with Dad. To get out, Dad as made a path through our house that fell over. It was daytime, but I wasn’t used to the sun anymore. I have what my dad calls indoor eyes. After I didn’t need to squint anymore, I remember saying, “what a mess!” Everything was different, like a big storm came through and knocked the whole world over. Our neighbours were all gone, it was just Dad and I left. Nothing like my television shows.
Since I started helping, almost our whole street is clean again. Dad says if we pick up all the garbage, and pluck all the weeds, people will come home again. Maybe even Mom too.
We would go out more, but Dad says we can only go once a week without getting sick. Our medicine would be gone if we did more.
I asked Dad when we can start cleaning up the next street.
“Next year, honey,” he said.
It will be a big job. There’s rocks and paper and bags everywhere. There’s even two people always asleep in the middle of the road. Dad said they’re just big plastic dolls. I don’t believe him.
I can’t wait until next year.
by submission | Jan 17, 2021 | Story |
Author: Barry Boone
I could see Damian’s girlfriend wanted to sock me, but she knew she’d break her fist against my brass jaw. So she held back. Which I knew was hard for her. She was even more kickass than Damian. Damian might be her first love, but a good fight was a close second.
“Admit it,” she said. “You’re in love with him.”
She’d asked me to join her at her favorite dive to hash things out. My drinks were lined up in front of me — three martinis, untouched — my way of renting the barstool. She’d already downed hers and was onto a fourth.
“Impossible,” I said. “I’m a robot.”
“Then he’s in love with you.”
“Yeah, that’s why he waited a year to reinstate me from backup.”
She looked at me sideways.
“He didn’t know you were in the file system. You idiot.”
After I’d sacrificed myself to save his stupid life in the Milky Way’s ongoing skirmishes with Andromeda, it had taken Damian way too long to pour my historical copy into another shell. I had to say, though, I liked the improvements since my last self — especially the new weaponry in my fingertips.
“Catherine…”
“Don’t you dare call me that. I don’t even know your name.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but she cut me off.
“I know, I know,” she said wearily. “Robots don’t have names. As a way to keep your kind from gaining citizenship.”
I wouldn’t know about that; I wasn’t up on politics. Anyway, who cared about a name?
Still, I was starting to understand. She was jealous. Just like she was jealous of his new cat, who always hid whenever she stayed over. A cat, a girlfriend… I guess Damian really HAD missed me when he thought I’d died. He’d been looking for substitutes.
“Hey, if it isn’t a dish and her boyfriend!”
This from some creep stepping between the two of us. If I hadn’t been distracted by this ridiculous conversation, I’d have noticed the five of them crowding us.
“Don’t you know the rules here?” said a second, putting his arm around her and looking me over. “No mixed race couples.”
What came out of my mouth was, “Don’t you touch her!”
I know. It was a cliche. And I’m sorry. But my mind was still foggy from being archived all that time.
By way of reply, two of them lifted Catherine and tossed her behind the bar. I heard bottles smash as she fell out of sight.
“You’re gonna be sorry you ever thought you could be a loverboy, robot,” one said, raising a crowbar. “Better scram.”
As if. Have you ever been attacked by five thugs with metal pipes, broken bottles, and a baseball bat? Me neither.
My new fingertips were very useful, though, sending back electric shocks when they smashed at my face, and shattering the bottles in their hands via sound waves. Cool! There was a bit of blood, and some crunching, and I thought I’d gotten the better of them, when one of them pointed a reverse-ion-shooter at me.
Just when I thought I was about to be de-energized, Damian’s tabby was literally on his face, scratching his cheeks off. Where had SHE come from?
The guy reeled, screamed, then ran from the place.
Catherine knelt next to me. I guess I had a LOT of cobwebs to shake off. It just dawned on me she was a shapeshifter.
“Well, boyfriend,” she said. “Thanks for saving me, I guess.”
“It’s okay, Catherine. It’s what I do.”
“Call me Cat,” she said. “All my friends do.”
by submission | Jan 16, 2021 | Story |
Author: Sabrina E. Robinette
The choice was obvious for most, but I struggled. Should I die freely on Earth, or live in debt on Mars? “In debt”– that’s what they called it, but everyone knew better. There were rumors of labor camps and brutal mining colonies, none confirmed but all believable. Everyone knows what will happen to them when they board the Applewhite Corporation’s space shuttle to Mars, but they go anyway. It’s not like there’s a better fate to be found on Earth, where millions have been wiped out by the nearly unlivable atmosphere.
The trip to Mars requires a down payment of ten thousand dollars. The rest will be paid over a period of ten thousand years; generations of mining the land for resources to pay back the Applewhite family for saving the select few that could afford to evacuate Earth in the first place. Nearly everyone eligible had chosen to leave, and today, my family is among those lucky few at the boarding dock. My mind is still torn, even as we stand in line to board the shuttle.
I turn around to observe our shipmates. Their eyes are glazed over, pamphlets in their hands, grim expressions settling on their faces. Lambs to the slaughter. I can see the reality of the situation hitting them; the condemnation of future generations to lifetimes of labor, the horror of thousands of years of indentured servitude. My mind is made up; I’ll be the first to break this cycle. I pull my father aside, and we argue in urgent, hushed voices.
“You’re going to burn if you stay here,” he reminds me, one hand clasped tightly on my shoulder. “Or die in a hurricane, or a flood. You’ve seen the news, haven’t you?”
I can’t play dumb. I know what will happen to me, and I know it’s going to be a painful death. But when I look at my father, I see a lifetime of slavery and servitude ahead of him, and I’m not sure which one of us will have it the worst. “I know what I want to do, Dad,” I assure him. “I’ll be happier here than I would be if I came with you. There are survivalist colonies all over the world, you know– I have a chance at life here.”
“Sweetheart.” My father’s grip tightens, but tears begin to form in his eyes; he knows I’m slipping away, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. “Life on Mars won’t be ideal, but it will be structured, and certain. Any chance you have at survival here would be entirely unstable. If the weather doesn’t kill you, the radiation will.”
“I know,” I whisper, taking his hand in mine. “But you have to let me go, Dad. I’m twenty, and I can make my own decisions. And I choose not to go through with this.”
My father considers me for a moment, then pulls me into a tight embrace, resting his head on mine. He squeezes me so hard that I can barely get a breath in. “I already knew you were going to do this,” he murmurs, his voice resigned and broken.
“I love you,” is all I can manage without breaking down.
There are tears leaking down his cheeks; he gives me a quivering smile and kisses my forehead, returning to the line. I say my last goodbyes to my mother and brothers as well, and as I leave the boarding dock, I look back to catch my father’s eye. We exchange looks one last time, each contemplating the other’s fate, resolved in our own choices.
by submission | Jan 15, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hillary Lyon
“On a sloping hill, see the field of varicolored flowers? Blossoms of geometric shapes, slowly spinning in the gentle breeze.” Commander Oswald closed his eyes and tapped his own temple with his manicured finger.
Private First Class Ichor, who was the grunt seated before him, took a deep breath before replying. “It’s like a rainbow wept.”
“Yes! I do like that,” the Commander grinned with approval. “Must use it in our ad campaign.” He rubbed his soft hands together. “You’ll get full attribution, of course.”
“Of course.” Ichor crossed his arms, bundling his courage for what came next. “So after, after my passing—whenever that is—my body will be launched into this dead planet’s atmosphere, and when I crash to the ground—”
“We don’t say ‘crash.’ We prefer the term ‘seed.’ Much more noble sounding, isn’t it? But yes, you will seed the sterile soil of this barren world beneath us.” Commander Oswald closed his eyes again. “Imagine the trees! Groves of woody giants—towering, slender, and bursting with blue-green leaves. Leaves that shimmer like Christmas tinsel in the sunshine. Ahhh!”
“ ‘Breeding lilacs out of the dead land ,’ ” the grunt whispered to himself.
His commander ignored him, lost as he was in his own imaginings. “And before you know it, curious little creatures, scaled or feathered, gliding across the bright, clear sky; sleek wiggly things, kaleidoscopic, and swimming through cool crystal streams; furry, bulging-muscled beasties scampering through the forest shadows, streaking through the sun-lit fields. . .”
“Yes, well, that’s a pretty vision you have,” Ichor sighed. He’d already signed up for this terra-forming project; his commander didn’t have to convince him. Every new recruit was encouraged to sign up. In the name of science, in the name of survival of the species, in the name of contributing to something bigger than yourself. Most signed up, eventually.
The commander opened his eyes, tilted his head like a curious cat as he looked at the young man seated before him. Such a wonderful specimen!, he thought to himself. He actually looked forward to what might spring from the grunt’s seeded remains.
* * *
Less than six months later, according to the solar calendar of the lifeless world beneath them, an unfortunate accident occurred on the hanger deck of the orbiting starship. Commander Oswald was informed—something about a strap breaking, a bolt snapping, a stray projectile in a deadly training mishap. The commander didn’t read the official report; it didn’t matter to him. What did matter, though, was Private First Class Ichor was now available for his terra-forming launch. The commander sat behind his formidable desk, templed his fingers, and smiled. Of course, he would see to it they named the seeding site after the young man.
* * *
Ichor’s body launched from the starship via missile tube, perhaps a bit too fast. He initially soared across the uppermost alien atmosphere, then descended in a gentle slope, heating up until he burst into flame. From the ground, he was a meteor, glowing, smoking—finally vaporizing long before he touched the surface. Like a tear from the eye of God, he was gone in a flash.
