by submission | Oct 3, 2019 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
We are sitting awaiting the bus. It’s hot and we sweat beneath the binary dance of our stars stripping great swaths of burning energy from their brethren. The Bus Station is busier than usual, more and more use its cool shaded concrete floors and walls to bed down upon or against, belongings stuffed into clothes and bags. I step over two bloodied torsos, snoring and spitting in their hooch filled sleep. Some are always left behind.
The clock on the tower sounds noon by barely moving the air around it. Since the end of the last century, it’s been impossible to discern seasons. The planet has relinquished everything we need, nourishment, warmth, resources, a place to call home again, but still, it holds back. There’s no doubt we was lucky to find such an accommodating being, but now it’s hospitality wanes.
The bus arrives, stinking in the heat. Thirty of us drive out of town. We’re appreciative of the cool air-conditioned interior, like lounging in a cool bath or pool. The great red and yellow eyes of the sky spiral unceasingly, forever tearing at the others cornea, corona. These great glowing orbs are the life of this system without which nothing would be possible.
The Great UmpUS took us from our sterile origin and paved the way to the stars. It was only through this unique vision that we were able to discover our true path as species and colonise our second home, and then on to our third and fourth and fifth – ad infinitum. Our leaders drape themselves in the regal Orange robes cut from the Great UmpUS itself, and it’s kin. The orange skin belies the power and clarity of our leaders since the first was derived from the Great UmpUS itself.
We pass Moloch Lake, shiny in sterility. It was once full of creatures, over flowing as the environment dictated. Few of the submerged Things had natural predators until we took possession. The old show continues as images of the great strides we have taken in possessing this selfish planet are played out on the screens provided for our entertainment and enlightenment. Excited talk of taming it’s self-seeking nature and tasting its delicious bounty fills the bus. As we’ve done before so we shall do again, using all its resources no matter the planetary resistance. This is survival and as our Leaders, tell us, “…IT IS THE ONLY WAY.” For they make the decisions citizens cannot.
We pass through sheets of white light, seams of vibrant colour, riding the waves to brighten the mind and stimulate senses. I notice the hands and forearms of the traveler next to me like flinty rocks, a consequence of infestation, jagged and scarring, something like this egocentric orb. But they are not alone, the condition affects seventy percent of us now.
We are taken to the broader lands where the iron fields reflect heat and light. Today it is our turn to reach the top. For every emigration the chosen are the first to launch, it’s a lottery and we’re all entered.
The Klein cannon awaits its steerage. It smells like something old and rotten, or is that the stench of this rotting place?
The fuse is lit as we chant our way back to the stars and our new home… “We are the First. We are the FIRST.” The Great UmpUs would be so proud.
by submission | Oct 2, 2019 | Story |
Author: Thomas Fitzgerald McCarthy
Exo-zoologist Dr. Khadga Bhandari died clutching the datapad containing her final Special Analysis, surrounded by dozens of mourning colleagues. It was only in the final weeks of her one-hundred and twenty-four-year existence that she had completed her life-long search. Dr. Amori Patel, Bhandari’s closest friend and lover, read the final entry in her personal journal as her body was lowered into the salty red clay of Dehydra’s third moon.
“This is my final summary of the newly discovered species on Torbeuluc, which I have named Opusius, for it is the Magnum Opus of my life’s work.
The Opusius are quirky creatures that traverse both land and water. Their soft, sponge-like bodies contain hollow cavities which they use to store food and other items. Strictly herbivores, their diet consists mostly of the cinnamon-flavored roots of Benno shrubs. They make their homes in pools of mercury that form near the ammonia springs in the subtropical Gariad Peninsula, the fumes of which keep predators at a distance.
They are tripodal organisms with deep black skin and four double-jointed arms. Bright yellow stripes race down their long, hooked limbs. Their disproportionately large heads are exoskeletal, maintaining a bony husk that shields their cerebrum from calamity. Their faces are long and perforated, with a single sheathed eye. When the wind passes through the creatures’ hollow jaws, their bones will hum softly, like flutes.
The Opusius have lifespans of roughly two-hundred years. When dealt a fatal injury, reproductive spores eject from their heads like a million little escape pods. The indigenous humanoid population gathers up the spores as tokens of good fortune.
They possess a rudimentary intelligence and even a sense of empathy. On one occasion, I witnessed an Opusius nurse a fallen Fedemore Bat back to health and even sing to it.
One particular aspect of their biology fascinates me.
Once upon a time on Earth, lobsters were kept in water tanks for consumption. Starving lobsters would often prey on one another. Sometimes, when cornered, a lobster would amputate one of its own claws for the others to consume, in order to avoid being torn apart.
The Opusius have a similar survival mechanism. I discovered a fleshy pouch beneath their bellies that detaches itself when they are being pursued by predators, serving as a rather effective diversion. These pouches are formed by a complex delta of fibers that siphon off five percent of the food that the creature consumes. Yet, the stored nutrients in these pouches cannot be accessed as a source of energy until Opusius reaches an advanced age, when they are no longer able to outpace the predators near their feeding grounds, effectively making them biological social security accounts.
An absolutely magnificent evolutionary adaptation.
In its late years, the creature’s body will bloat and stretch by a factor of three-hundred percent, and its limbs will become stiffen into a bony, non-decomposing material. Eerily cognizant of its own biological clock, the creature will emerge from its mercurial home in the final, dusky hours of its life. After scouring for an area rich in insect and animal life, it will spread its misshapen limbs, hinging nearby rocks and plants together, and with its final breath, open all of the massive cavities of its body to the outside world.
Thus, it transforms itself into a fossilized corral reef.
Dear God,
Of all the thousands of species I have documented across a hundred worlds, this is the one that I wish to be reincarnated as, should You choose to grant me such a noble existence.”
by submission | Oct 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: Elizabeth Hoyle
“What is this?” A pill rests in a plastic cup.
“It’s something to make you sleep. We have all the nodes attached so we can monitor your brain waves and your vitals throughout the night. Once we have tonight’s data, we can start a more personalized course of action.” The doctor’s smile is infectious. “I want you to take that and dream of what an extraordinary help you are by being the first to participate in this new sleep study.”
“All I’m doing is getting a good night’s sleep.”
“Sleep is incredibly important. You’ll hopefully prove an example for many more to follow. I will do my best for them, as I am for you.”
The doctor leaves the room. I knock back the pill with a sip of ginger ale. The lights go out. My back aches, so I roll onto my stomach. My eyelids get heavy. The doctor’s so young to be doing something this advanced, I think. Then again young people are so much more advanced. Sleep takes me.
When I wake up, the doctor is staring up at me, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. That’s funny. I should be below him. And my back no longer aches. What’s going on?
“I’ve done it! Can you hear me?”
Movement over his shoulder catches my eye. His assistant, who told me all about his uncle’s trip to my home state of Alaska as he attached the nodes, moves my body onto a gurney.
“What’s happened to me?” My voice has changed.
“The pill I gave you wasn’t just for sleep. It held a unique machine that scanned your brain to allow me to codify your consciousness. You are now the first person to exist outside your body!”
My mind races with all I could say but all that comes out is “This is not what I signed up for!”
His laugh is a harsh bark. “Hasn’t our species been saying that since the beginning of time?”
He types for a few moments then turns to go.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
“You’ll see.”
And I do see. I am not the only one he wants to digitize. Poor soul after poor soul is lured into the lab. He mutes me so I can’t talk. There’s no way I can warn them. I probably look like an open program spouting streams of text. I try to worm my way out of the computer or at least into the other programs he works on. I can sense them, as though they were boxes on the edges of my peripheral vision. But it’s no use.
Others join me gradually over time. Our number runs into the thousands. Every time a new subject comes in, we unleash a hurricane of anguish. The doctor keeps us muted all the time. We speculate among ourselves as to why he’s done this but we never get the chance to ask.
Finally, one day, he hits the unmute button. He hands have grown knobby and spotted with age. “I’d like to posit a question to you all,” he says when all the fuss of our collected rage dies down.
“What’s the most efficient way to kill a lot of people?”
If we had bodies, I expect we’d be exchanging wary glances.
“The answer is quite simple.” He types and we know a new program has been opened.
“You make them believe you’re acting in their best interest.”
He clicks once. The program starts working, silencing our voices, one by one. He watches and listens, basking in the success of his experiment.
by submission | Sep 29, 2019 | Story |
Author: Steve Bellavia
We huddled around, all the brothers and I, awaiting the big announcement.
She stood before us in resplendent glory – Her Majesty – The All-Knowing –
The Window – The Electric Web – The Efficient Omniscient. Her lights were aflutter. Her casing was glossy. Her vents were crisp. She was so full of life. She was… divine.
Then he swaggered onto the stage – His Highest Holiness, the Operator. He was wearing his white ceremonial robe adorned with the sacred golden trinkets and perched atop his head was the cap of merit.
He had won the vote unanimously. After the dull, conservative reign of Maddox IV, we were drawn to Sam the First’s infectious brand of revisionism laced with irreverent humour. He puffed out his chest and raised his arms to the roof of the temple.
‘Brothers,’ he said. ‘For too long we have looked to the past for our salvation. For too long we have stared into the abyss of the failed world that came before us – looking for answers. This machine is not your God!’ He pointed at Her Majesty and an audible gasp came from many a brother’s lips.
‘Sacrilege,’ Brother Timothy whispered.
‘Mark this day in your calendar.’ The Operator drifted to the control desk. ‘For this shall become known as the Day of the Blank Page.’
He hammered at the buttons. Her Majesty started screeching. Men wept in horror.
Brother Timothy shouted, ‘Heretic!’
Still the Operator continued his task – his deicide. Smoke spewed from the heavenly data platters. Flashing lights banged and popped. Brother Austin gnawed the flesh from his thumbs. Cables ignited into ropes of fire. Her Majesty’s screech stuttered and stopped. Brother Timothy had a heart attack and died. His Holiness turned to us and smiled.
‘It is done!’ he shouted.
Indeed, he had done it. He had wiped our God of her memory. He had destroyed the Earth’s history. He had deleted the Internet.
by submission | Sep 28, 2019 | Story |
Author: David Barber
Imagine you were an alien visiting the world; what would you want to see?
The Grand Canyon perhaps, or the famous Louvre in Paris, or a place where something terrible happened, like Hiroshima. Maybe the strange rituals of the World Series.
The actual alien tourist person visited an abandoned farmstead outside Jordan, Montana. Next, the ATP (hosting a different alien perhaps – that vast craft in orbit must hold more than one) viewed a cemetery in Ridgefield, Connecticut; then the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum in West Virginia.
It remained a mystery until the alien tourist person explained. They were looking for ghosts.
Tracking down a haunting isn’t the kind of thing the Department of Homeland Security does. They were only involved because the ATP might be shot at, or mobbed by the curious, but it turned out it could make everybody within a radius of 3.142 miles, including Homeland Security personnel, feel the urge to leave. Media called it The Go-Away.
The number prompted some head-scratching. Also, one in the eye for the metric system.
Who you gonna call when ghosts fluster Homeland Security? My card says Frank Plattenberg, Psychic Investigator, author of More Haunted Houses, and brother-in-law of the Deputy-Director, Alien Taskforce.
I had someone read your book, he said.
Look, Mike, it’s all nonsense, I told him.
Which is how we ended up at the Desert Motel, south of Jackpot, Nevada. The windows were boarded up, sand heaped against walls and the sign was missing letters.
It was late and we were still waiting for the copter carrying the ATP. Mike drummed his fingers on the wheel of his car while I paced about. He was saying how the alien tourist person bore an uncanny resemblance to a TV actor from the 1950s, the late Ted Rawlins. Make of that what you will.
The aliens wore the ATP like a glove, he said. Rest of the time it just sits there while we fly it round the country.
I never got to the bottom of the Desert Motel Haunting. The place closed down in the nineties; staff wouldn’t live in; guests claimed to have seen things.
That was more like it. What sort of things? Mike wanted to know.
There are no ghosts, right? Evolution gave us hair-trigger threat detectors. It’s spooky out here at night. Creaky floorboards. Animal noises. It’s just the dark messing with you.
In the dark, Mike rubbed his worried forehead. It would have to do.
About midnight, the helicopter landed behind the shadowy row of cabins, and moments later Mike cried out, his face pale, his eyes round with terror. And his team were running or starting vehicles. He gunned his engine and squealed out onto the road. It was The Go-Away.
Soon it was just me, standing outside the Desert Mote, puzzling why I was still there. In the end, Ted Rawlins walked out the darkness to explain.
They were pleased. They had found who they were looking for. They should have employed a native guide from the start, it said.
This was a thin place. The veil between the worlds was thin here.
When they visited once before, in the days when humans were few and shy, there had been small ones who fluttered everywhere. But these were frightened of us, so I was to tell the people with guns, the range of The Go-Away would have to be extended.
I shrugged. Mike could organise a bigger exclusion zone; after all, this was the middle of nowhere.
Yes, said the alien tourist person. The continental United States should be enough.
