by submission | Dec 20, 2019 | Story |
Author: Cesium
I started making a map of the places in my dreams.
It used to be that more often than not, when I fell asleep I’d find myself wandering the streets of an old new city. I’d ride the 88 bus alongside a gaggle of frat boys in dresses heading to a Mardi Gras party, speeding eastward down the parkway to the bridge, lonely lampposts flashing above us beneath a totally black sky. I’d descend the escalators below the glass pyramid in the plaza at the river’s bend, schooling like fish with the masses of noonday shoppers, down to the graceful concrete curves of the multilevel platforms and the trains that came trundling in, every six minutes during peak hours, like clockwork; and I’d ride them west till they emerged from the ground along the shores of the new district, past the casino tower glistening in the sun, and the sea birds circling against the sky. I’d step into the intercity rail terminal, the long straight hall built of soaring glass and wrought iron straining against gravity, venerable only by local standards, the trails of steel converging from points inland to meet, parallel, at the bumpers beneath the grand staircase. I didn’t know, in the dream, whether I was going to board any of those trains. I didn’t know if there was anything beyond the city — or, rather, I knew my subconscious would be able to make something up, if I headed out past the dockyards and the industrial zone and the suburbs beyond, but it didn’t matter. I felt the lifeblood of the city flowing and I was part of it.
So each morning, before I got out of bed, I’d grab the drawing pad from my nightstand and try to remember where I’d been, which side of the river, which colored subway line and which numbered bus. I penciled in major roads, the ring highways, the boulevards and bridges, the tunnels beneath the water, and I scrawled a grid of connecting streets where I felt they must have been. I started making a map of the places in my dreams, and I always felt a thrill when I slept and dreamed of an intersection I recognized, a segment, a station between places I knew, anything I could use to anchor myself, to push into the blank spaces, and perhaps, one day, fill out the whole map.
In April my job requirements changed. I got more stressed and worked longer hours. I was a mess after I got home, and I changed meds on my psych’s recommendation. I slept more soundly, after I’d adjusted. But I didn’t dream for two months.
Then one day, I forgot to take my meds. The next day, I forgot again. And after I’d collapsed into bed that night, I found myself back under the glass pyramid, in sunlight filtering through grimy panes, just beginning to taste summer’s heat. But the escalators were stopped and barred with yellow stanchions. Aboveground, there were few cars, and fewer buses. The small knot waiting forlorn at the bus stop turned as one to watch me pass, their gazes accusing but resigned. I hurried past, but everywhere people looked at me the same.
Had I done this? Had I had a duty to this place that I didn’t even know about? I awoke around two, my blanket lying in a heap on the floor. Had the city’s lifeblood ceased to flow when I was gone? I fumbled for my meds, choked down the pills, and sat on my bed, despairing about what I should do.
Well, I pulled my old laptop out of the closet and downloaded a city sim off Steam. I spent the hours of the night transferring the outlines from my drawing pad into the game, hoping, desperately, that I could get it out of me and into something that didn’t rely on my brain. When it was finally running, I deposited the laptop on a corner shelf and buried my face in my pillow. I didn’t want to face them again. I made a map of the places in my dreams, and I haven’t dared go back since.
by submission | Dec 19, 2019 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
The Man walked into the empty room. He sat down on a chair.
“Why do you want to change?” the Voice asked.
“Because I’m tired,” the Man said, “because I’m tired, and I’m broken.”
“Please explain your reason,” the Voice required.
“Yes. You see, all my life, I’ve tried to be a good, honest, hardworking person, but all I’ve ever gotten for it is a lot of suffering. It doesn’t matter what I do or think. There’s so much in the world I can’t control. There’s so much that’s impossible to control, and good doesn’t always return good. You can be kind, polite, and respectful, yet people will still talk behind your back. People will spite you, envy you, hate you, and want to destroy you, and it makes no difference how much you try to satisfy anyone. I used to be able to ignore it, but after my wife died in childbirth, and when I had to commute three hours underground into the City for work, everything got much worse. All those shambling strangers like shadows in a cage—indifferent, uncaring, shifting. You cough, and someone moves away as if you have a disease. You sit next to someone, and the person jumps away. Those are the things that made it very hard, that made it very painful, in the tunnels, on the trains, in the cage. It was very difficult. It was so difficult when my wife died. I lost my ability to trust anyone. There was a neighbor—an old housewife with a husband, a professor of childhood education, and a son, an apathetic postal worker—who offered to help, and she watched the baby for the length of the day until evening, when I came back from work, maybe for a week. But then she said I couldn’t be depending on people. The words were so painful because when she first offered to help, she told me that since my wife had been her friend, I was her friend, too. After she said what she said, I visited her the next afternoon to get the baby, and I gave her a small gift bag of chocolates, and I told her her chore was finished. It wasn’t easy for me to take care of the small child alone. And when I couldn’t work anymore, the Monitors came and took my beautiful little girl away. Sometimes now, I wish it was a dream, a bad dream, but it happened, and it can’t be any other way. I—I’ve wandered off from my main reason,” the Man said.
“All reasons are germane,” the Voice replied.
“But there are so many reasons. There are so many things in my mind, so many things that go back and forth from now and before that, I don’t know where to start. I don’t know, so it all comes out aimlessly and incoherently. I—,” the Man paused. “I’m tired. I’m so tired. Too many things have happened and accumulated, and I’m alone. A long time ago, I wanted to like people, and I wanted to be liked, too. I didn’t want anyone to misunderstand, but everyone goes about things in their own frame of mind, and everyone has their own way of seeing things, so no one can really understand, and you can’t understand yourself. I want to change because I don’t want to feel the hurt anymore. I don’t want this awful, terrible pain in my heart. I don’t want to have to worry about what the others think and say—the slights, the insults, the cruel things; yet I still want to be useful and needed. That is why. That is why I want to be … a computer … a mechanical, processing, insensate computer. I won’t have to take the hurt anymore.” The Man was silent.
“You qualify for the change,” the Voice confirmed.
And the Man, who sat down on the chair in the empty room, changed.
by submission | Dec 18, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Lt. John Peters tosses a foam ball to his son, Petey. The boy giggles when it goes through his hands and bumps him on the nose. Lt. Peters lies back on the gurney. Norene sits, legs crossed, anxiety like a current of electricity twitching her foot.
At the direction of Capt. Spencer, a man in a lab coat places a metal cap on the lieutenant’s head and slides probes into numerous ports that have been inserted in his body. The cap and probes connect to a tubular machine that resembles an elongated CT scanner.
“We’re ready, folks,” Capt. Spencer says. “Corporal Lindor, escort Mrs. Peters and the boy to level three.” The captain nods at the white-coated man.
Mrs. Peters takes her husband’s hand. “John, are you sure about this?”
“It’s perfectly safe,” the captain says. “We’ve already teleported objects and small animals. In fact,” — the captain walks to Petey, tousles his hair and takes the ball from his hands — “we teleported this very ball from here to our lab across town.”
“But never a person,” Mrs. Peters says.
Lt. Peters sits up. “Somebody has to be first, Honey.”
“You’ll be famous, lieutenant,” Captain Spencer says. “A book deal and movie rights. In the history books. Now, up to level three you go,” he says to Mrs. Peters and tousles Petey’s hair again.
***
The captain hands Lt. Peters blindfolds and earplugs, then wheels him into the machine. Even with senses masked, the lieutenant cringes at the clanging and can see the inside of his eyelids from the bright light. After a few minutes, everything is quiet and dark, and Lt. Peters feels as if he’s floating. So this is what teleportation is like, he thinks. Nice. Then he feels someone shaking him by the shoulder.
Lt. Peters removes the blindfolds and earplugs then sits on the edge of the gurney and looks around the room. “Where’s Norene? Where’s Petey?”
“Up on level three, lieutenant,” Capt. Spencer says.
“The teleportation didn’t work?”
The captains flips a switch, and a large screen on the far wall shows Norene hugging someone who appears to be Lt. Peters. Behind them is a machine like the one the lieutenant was in.
“What? Who?”
“You see, Peters, although we haven’t achieved true teleportation yet, we can approximate it with the advances in 3D printing and quantum computing. In fact, we’ve had the technology to do so for some time. But not the guts … so to speak,” he chuckles.
Lt. Peters feels the room spinning and squeezes the gurney with his legs. “What will you do with … it?” He points toward his double on the screen.
“He will be rich and famous and provide a wonderful life for your family.”
“That’s crazy. Norene will realize it’s not me.”
“He is you. Down to the last strand of DNA and every memory you had prior to me wheeling you out of the machine a moment ago. And he’s fashioned from reconstituted human … stuff … we found lying around so to speak.”
Lt. Peters bolts for the door. When he opens it, two guards hustle him back to the gurney.
Capt. Spencer holds up a hypodermic.
“What are you going to do?”
“We need raw material. I’m afraid there’s some grinding involved, but you won’t feel a thing after this little prick.” The captain puts the syringe to Lt. Peters’ neck.
As darkness closes in on the lieutenant, he stares at the screen and sees his dancing replica twirl Norene then toss the foam ball to Petey, who giggles when it bumps him on the nose.
by submission | Dec 17, 2019 | Story |
Author: Stephen C. Curro
The air is sour with smoke. Emergency sirens shriek in the distance. All around me the world is burning.
My four arms cut through the haze. I stumble over the rubble, hardly able to believe that this was a busy plaza moments ago.
“Mal’ven?” I call out. “Where are you?”
“Soo’so?”
My three hearts quicken at the sound of my mate’s voice. My stilt-like legs nearly trip as I climb over the carcass of the building. “I’m coming, my love!”
I see her now. She’s straining to push a chunk of stone off her abdomen. It breaks my hearts to see her battered and blue with blood. I’m crying with grief…oh, Holy Spirits; I haven’t wept like this in years.
I lower my body and cradle her in my arms. The embrace she returns is weak. “Don’t worry,” I whisper. “We’re getting off this planet.”
“Soo’so,” she groans. She’s in shock. I must free her immediately.
I grasp the debris and strain to lift it. With a grunt I flip the slab of concrete and metal over, freeing my mate. I help her to her feet and we hobble together down the ruined street, toward the embassy.
People are stirring in the ruins as we pass by. Some human, others alien. There are bloody bodies half-exposed in the rubble that do not move. All for what? For fanatics to express how much they detest our presence?
May the Spirits forgive me; this is my fault.
I was the one who insisted we take our holiday here on Earth. “We must show that our race holds no animosity”, I said. “After all, the war was so long ago. Earth is a civilized world again.”
We have paid for my naivety. Too many humans feel that “revenge” must be sought. There is no word for “revenge” in my people’s language; it is a strange, violent concept that has driven humans mad long before my people ever landed on Earth.
I’m burning with an anger that is almost as hot as the fires around me. I cannot comprehend how these humans are incapable of forgiveness. A century has passed since the war ended.
My people have absolved humanity for the crimes of the old war, and still the radicals persist in their violence. They are under the delusion that killing innocent aliens (who were not even born during the war!) is an act of justice. They bomb restaurants, and assault hotels, and gun down pedestrians on the street. They even strike against humans who are accepting of visitors from other worlds. Spirits above, they kill their own people!
I was wrong. Perhaps eventually humanity will come of age, but I fear that day will not arrive anytime soon.
I have wasted enough time musing about human nature. The important thing is we survived, and I will atone for my foolishness by getting us home.
I can see the embassy in the distance. Just a little farther…
I have seen what civilization looks like. It does not exist on this planet.
by submission | Dec 15, 2019 | Story |
Author: Brenda Anderson
The Little Time Machine got tired of ferrying passengers back and forth in space-time. He wrote a polite letter of resignation to his employers, Time Taxis, and fled to the 18th century.
Here he discovered a life of culture, refinement and music. Time Taxis eventually caught up with him at the back of a baroque concert. They seized him, brought him home and began a complete overhaul.
“Life isn’t about constant movement,” he protested. “Seriously, guys, I’ve found another way. Music. Enlightenment. I can explain.”
One mechanic rolled his eyes. “Ooh, I can’t wait.”
His mate laughed. “What a wally.”
The third mechanic looked thoughtful. “He’ll contaminate the others. Let’s lock him up.”
That night Wally broke free from the Time Out locker and dragged himself up a nearby hill. Below lay an orchard. The trees looked so peaceful he longed to join them, and started down the slope towards them. Unfortunately, lacking steering skills, he lost control, sped down the slope and crashed into a tree.
A pear fell on his head.
Data flooded through him. Disoriented, Wally tried to assess the level of damage. Who knew that pears packed such a punch? One dot point flashed on and off: 72% of humans who bit into a pear claimed to be transported back to their childhood. It was a light bulb moment: time travel and pears, inextricably woven together.
Still, he had to admit that he couldn’t function properly. “I can beat this,” Wally mused. “I think I can, I know I can. I’ll find something to focus on, something to give me motivation.” Finally, it hit him. “I’ll go to work in the trauma wards of hospitals, and give everyone –especially children—back their happy childhoods.”
His plan worked, for a while. He pretended to be an encore act, straight after the therapy clowns. The staff welcomed him. “Such an original idea: a Time Machine that can spin stories to keep even the sickest children spellbound. He even looks funny. All those dents and scrapes.” But once again Time Taxis caught up with him and this time they sent him to scrap.
“I’m a pear, I am, I am,” murmured Wally. “I can give you back your childhood. Just bite into me.”
A machine with a large circular saw rolled towards him, its metal teeth spinning.
Only then did Wally realise that, even in the world of semi-retired time machines, things often go pear shaped. But he fought back. With a huge effort he time-jumped and crashed into the same pear tree. “I knew I could. I knew I could!”
Pears showered down on him.
The Little Time Machine couldn’t believe it. He was back where he’d started from, in a forest, with not a machine in sight. He buried himself in the soft soil. Maybe I’ll turn into some sort of seed, and spring up in some new, glorious body.
A pear, perhaps?
He activated hibernation mode and went to sleep, utterly confident of a glorious renaissance.
