by submission | Dec 4, 2019 | Story |
Author: Breeze Navarro
This is it.
I remember the nights the scent of mint would gently pull me to consciousness. Our home would be lit by a single candle. You don’t want to disturb the darkness too much, mom would say. I’d sip tea. She’d sip whiskey and tell me the history of what we were about to see in hushed tones, as though someone was trying to listen in when they weren’t supposed to.
The telescope called us like a lighthouse. It stood alone, facing the phenomenon. When we stepped outside, the air revolved around us like ocean currents and invited drops of sweat. Mom would ask me to look with my bare eyes first. Mars was small and red. When I matched my eye to the telescopes it was glaring, though I don’t know at what. I knew I wanted to go. I knew I wanted to do more than see the heavens through a magnifying glass, bulbous and unreachable.
“The stars carry infinite possibilities. And we are stuck on a lonely planet,” she might say. I was standing next to her though. I was always next to her, coming to her room to say good-bye before I walked myself to school, making dinner because she didn’t seem to be able to make it herself.
She didn’t give hugs or read bedtime stories, but we were always outside to behold something you could only see “once in a lifetime.” Even if it occurred twice a year, or every 10 years, mom said you never knew when you would see it again. Maybe that was something beautiful. Even though she couldn’t be my mom, she sought rare beauties in the sky. Maybe I should have thought about those moments more, instead of how we didn’t have any others.
She knew Mars was my favorite. The night came that I didn’t fall asleep because I was waiting for the scent of mint to drift through the air but it never did. The candle wasn’t lit. She’d forgotten or perhaps she’d slept too heavily to hear her alarm. I left the next day. I went to many places but I never went back.
I sent her a letter when I applied to go to Mars. I didn’t expect to get in, which is why I didn’t go see her. But once you get an acceptance, you can’t say no. We trained for a year before the launch but she never appeared on the days families visited.
I felt the engine disrupting my heartbeat and shaking my bones. This would be my first and last journey from Earth to Mars. Once you leave, you don’t come back. I thought of the boiling pot and the melting candle and imagined her watching a streak across the sky, first with her bare eyes and then through the limiting lens of the telescope.
by submission | Dec 3, 2019 | Story |
Author: Lynn Finger
“How much to fix this glitch?” I said.
“You can’t afford it,” he tossed back.
We were suspended in our respective amplifications, parked in an enabled space elevator made from light. We were formed and holding in the black expanse, our talk focused by the radios in our helmets. I, waiting to join the mines of a meteor near V616 Mon. He, on break from whatever con he was planning next. But I’d heard he was the best.
“No–I can afford it, I will. When I start working in the mines, I’ll throw some coin your way. But I can’t go on like this. This breakdown, whatever it is, is shredding the quarks in my field.” Our eyes met over the shimmering lasers of the space elevator. Our oxygen provided by self-replicating capsules in our skin.
“For the kind of thing you’ve got going on, you’d have to bind your protons to mine, become my slave.”
“You don’t even know if you can fix this,” I said.
“I do know. Shredded quarks I do all the time. You’d be surprised how often this happens off-planet. Your coherence is off. When that goes, you go. The binary holding you together is shit.”
“It’s getting worse,” I said. “Harder to breathe, to see.”
“Your company won’t repair you?”
“My protons are chained, and they have no intention of clearing those.”
He said, “They don’t want you anymore. “
I pressed on. “I want to get out of this shredding, can you do it?”
He laughed. “Yea I could do it. I could let you go free even. But for you, you gotta pay the price.”
“So my life, bound to yours, would buy me—?”
“More time, much more time.”
“Do it,” I said.
He typed into the virtual keyboard at his side. I waited. Nothing happened. I was still being pulled apart.
.
“You didn’t clear it, I’m being torn down.”
He shrugged. “Too bad about the glitch. Guess I don’t need a servant. I’ve helped you on your way to a sooner resolution. Goodbye.”
“What did you do then?”
“I sped up the shredding process.”
“It’s catching you know,” I said. Grabbing his arm. “The shredding doesn’t stop at physical boundaries.”
His image broke momentarily.
“You didn’t ask me what I’ll be doing in the mines,” I said. “Binding protons. Can’t do it for myself, but I can ensure the shredding virus spreads to you. You liar.”
“I let you think what you wanted,” he said.
I took his arm in both my hands. “Here comes the shredders! We’ll disintegrate together.”
With his free arm, he frantically typed into his virtual board. “Shredding’s reversed,” he said.
In a moment my form became coherent, my body could uptake my oxygen easily, and I was able to suspend without a problem.
“You had no intention of helping me.”
“I didn’t need your servitude, just wanted to see how much you would give up.” He laughed.
He pulled away, began his descent down the elevator. “I’m needed on a satellite. And watch your protons. You have nothing to give if you need my help next time.”
I called after him. “I left you a souvenir, a shredder seed in your cellular structure.”
His eyes met mine with alarm as my ride to the mines pulled up. “Don’t worry, it isn’t activated. Yet.”
“I need you to fix it!” he yelled after me.
“I know,” I said, stepping into the shuttle and closing the hatch.
by submission | Dec 1, 2019 | Story |
Author: Shon-Lueiss Harris
The dining hall offered the best view. All the brushed steel and matte finishes throughout the rest of the ship stopped at the door. Entering the kitchen felt like stepping into a new world replete with delightful aromas, vibrant colors, and sleek furniture. So much consideration for comfort and style juxtaposed by an uninterrupted view of the endless, dark expanse outside.
Samuel pressed a hand against the glass. Warmth spread into his skin in a way that felt impossibly familiar. Between his fingers shined a massive, yellow sphere in the distance.
“I heard they called it Sun.”
Samuel rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Merrick sipped his coffee, a little dribbling down onto his oil-stained jumpsuit. “When things got tough they begged a big ball of gas for help. Can you imagine?”
“Maybe the engineer was a drunk,” sighed Samuel as he traced the outline of the star with his finger. “You know a lot about Sun?”
“Ol’ Earthen legends, mostly.” Merrick grinned and took a seat next to the window. “One story goes Sun gave its only moon to protect the Earth. Only the idiots destroyed the moon treating it like some mine instead of an asteroid shield. Surprised that wasn’t the end of’em then and there.”
“I think I heard that somewhere. You know any other stories?”
A big bushy eyebrow bent into an arch high on Merrick’s forehead. “Since when do we talk? This some trick?”
“I’m interested, okay?” Samuel turned toward the window. “So, you know any or not?”
“Yeah, I know another. Actually, it’s an Ol’ Earthen saying,” Merrick teased, pausing to take another drink. “Never look at Sun. I guess people stared at Sun long enough they’d start to see things. Strange things nobody should know. Sun show’em so much that after there really wasn’t nothing left to see.”
“And then what?”
Merrick stood and shrugged. “Paradise, I suppose. Anyway, I gotta get back to it. I’ll catch you later and we can talk more.”
“Yeah, catch you later,” Samuel repeated.
His eyes flicked to Sun the moment Merrick was gone. The thick, radiation dampening glass muted the intense brightness just enough to be bearable. Once more, he laid a hand against the window. Flames danced across Sun’s surface, swirling and coiling until what looked like an open hand leaped off the surface. Samuel rubbed his eyes. He caught a glimpse of the fire dissipating in space, but that was enough. He’d seen it.
Samuel ran out of the dining hall. He heard the questions and the shouts as he bumped into all manner of the crew, be they human or droid, but he didn’t care. Didn’t apologize or so much as acknowledge them.
The airlock was empty when Samuel arrived. He slipped into the nearest suit, attached the safety line, then began work on the door. Soon enough Samuel stood in the middle of the chamber, red lights flashing, the reinforced blast door lurching aside as specs of dust and moisture from the air shot into the void and glistened like diamonds in Sun’s light. With one hand gripping the line, Samuel walked through the door into empty space.
Samuel felt warmth like never before. Vague memories of childhood, of loving arms holding him tight, of gentle whispers in his ear and soft fingers rubbing his back. Memories he could neither recall nor place in his own life. All of it rushing in as Samuel turned toward Sun. His eyes watered and one voice raised above all the whispers.
“Welcome home.”
by submission | Nov 30, 2019 | Story |
Author: Griffon Kaye
You sit on the bathroom floor to smoke, on the thin rug, back hunched up against the tub. Whatever, your back hurts anyway, twenty minutes on the hard floor isn’t going to make it any worse, you’re not that old yet.
Sit in the bathroom because it’s the only room in the tiny apartment that doesn’t have a smoke detector. It has a vent although you don’t run it because it’s goddamn loud and because you like to watch the smoke swirl up against the window in the dusk.
You were in a bad place today, did okay at work but came home early to the empty apartment and kind of slipped down. You’re getting sick of the way things are here on Earth: nothing too wrong with any one thing, but a sense that this isn’t where you want to be soaking into everything. Tired of the day job, same shit every day leaving you jumpy as hell and pissed about it. Tired of the weird weather, although you know it’s only strange compared to your home colony. Earth is a lot warmer and wetter than Mars. It leaves you sleepless, breathless some nights, sweaty and exhausted in the morning.
Funny considering how you sold your soul to the military in the first place for a shot at getting off the red-dirt space-slum, only to end up here. After discharge you finally landed in the glossy manicured suburb you used to fantasize about- trees and grass and chrome, the nine to five job with the soft, wealthy crowd who’ve only ever pulled a trigger in VR. If this was what you wanted, why does it make you want to climb out of your skin so bad?
You miss the cold you spent years cursing. Drag on the cigarette between your teeth, the end hot enough to sear, glowing gently like a thruster on slow burn. You didn’t die out there the way you thought you would. You breathe out innocent silver smoke, all cancer and tar on a molecular level, wonder if maybe you should give space one more shot at killing you. Tap the cigarette on the edge of the jar lid you’re using as an ashtray, wedge your feet up against the cabinets. Check the bandage on one heel, rubbed raw this morning while you pounded out another extra mile in your battered trainers. Got sick and dizzy after, but the physical work keeps you a little saner. You can’t stand the idea of getting soft, and anyway you don’t smoke as much as you used to, so your lungs can suck it up.
Now, though, it’s almost dark out, and you’re still sitting on the bathroom tile in a haze, your eyes starting to sting. Don’t think about how it’s only Monday, don’t think about another week of work or the bills or the phone calls you have to make, don’t think about how you’re tired and scared that this is all there is, some fucking reward for playing hero out in the endless void, getting run ragged and shot at and sent back to play house. Push yourself up, take a couple of pills to sleep because it’s looking like one of those nights and you’ve been up since five-thirty. Turn your head and catch sight of a single, bright point of light in the darkening sky, through the open blinds: a planet. Turn your head away again, smoke the last of the cigarette so quick your chest burns.
by submission | Nov 29, 2019 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
I was twenty minutes outside the airport going 65 on the interstate headed to a meeting to smooth some feathers; my illustrious job. Watching the road around me I passed a bus on my right, in front of that was a small red hatchback, then an eighteen-wheeler dump truck with a dirt payload. My eyes continued to scan forward and in front of me, the lane was clear for a quarter-mile. I came alongside the little red car and saw at a sideways glance that there was a family inside. Two boys in the back seat between the ages of nine and twelve, laughing and poking each other, a mom in the passenger seat, turning around also laughing, and a smiling dad driving with hands on the wheel, eyes on the road. My mind registered the family…and then they were gone.
The safety latch of the dump truck had come undone and the hydraulic cylinder sufficiently leaked, tipping the front of the dumpster just high enough that it couldn’t fit under the overpass by inches. It caught and brought the massive rig to a jarring halt. The red car with the family inside disintegrated into the back of it. The bus behind sandwiched what was left and exploded the gas tank. This all happened in my peripheral vision, then I was beyond it. I frantically checked my rear-view mirror and saw only an erupting cloud of brown dust, like a CGI movie avalanche. Nothing came through the miasma and it was if the world behind me was swallowed up.
I wanted to stop, even though there was nothing I could do. But I didn’t. I just drove on. I arrived at my hotel sometime later, met with the clients, had dinner and drinks and the meeting was a success. I didn’t mention the incident although it probably would have been an interesting conversation piece.
That night, alone in my room, sitting on the edge of the bed in my boxers, I popped the TV on. It was tuned into a news station and the story was about the accident. The reporter said that the truck had struck the overpass and damaged it so severely that the road above and the highway below were currently closed pending a safety inspection. The driver of the truck and the bus were both in the hospital in serious but stable condition. It had taken firefighters an hour to put out the inferno and rescue crews four to extricate the smoldering metal debris. They could not determine the occupants of the vehicle in between, as there was almost nothing left of the wreckage to examine.
I knew what had been there. A family. I turned it off and went to bed.
The room was pitch black and only the monotonous hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. My mind went back and envisioned the last, slow-motion milliseconds before the crash. I saw the family obliquely, alive and vibrant, members of this trivial planet. And just before everything went cataclysmic, my eyes almost completely off them and focused on the impending tragedy of the truck, the family went away. They simply vanished. Their seats were empty. The vehicle was unoccupied. I was sure of it.
Did they have the capability to instantly teleport to another location? Was mass dematerialization a possibility? Maybe divine intervention and they were lifted to a better place, saved from a horrific finality? Or was it just a needful deception of my own mind. I contemplated everything and soon fell asleep, my eyes closing and tearing up a little bit.
