by submission | Mar 14, 2018 | Story |
Author: Henry Peter Gribbin
There is a young boy who lives all by himself in a meadow. For miles and miles, there is nothing but soft flowing grass which sways in a gentle breeze. In a small depression stands a tree, an apple tree. This tree plays an important part in the boy’s life. It provides him nourishment and shelter when a light misty rain falls. Other than the boy, the apple tree, and the flowing grass there is no other form of life. There are no birds, animals, insects and more importantly, no other form of human life.
There is a brick wall that runs as far as the eye can see in both directions. It reaches into the clouds. The young boy walks every day along the wall. One day he walks to the right-the next day to the left. He is searching for life, for he is lonely. But at dusk, he always returns to the tree. It is his only sanctuary.
The boy is being punished for the transgressions of his father. The boy is a prisoner.
There is a circular hole in the wall six inches in diameter and five feet off the ground. He has only recently been able to peek through the hole. He is amazed at what he can see. There are all kinds of trees, animals, birds, and in the distance there are mountains. He has no language and has no words to describe what he sees, but every day for hours he is enthralled by what is on the other side of the wall.
One day he heard sounds that he had never heard before. He went to the hole and observed a group of children about his age playing. The sounds he heard were the squeals of laughter. He watched but made no sound. One of the children came close to the wall to retrieve a ball. It was a young girl. The boy made no sound, but when the girl stood up something caught her eye. She came closer and put her eye right up to the hole. The boy and girl stared at each other for several minutes. The girl called to her friends. They took turns looking at the boy on the other side of the wall. Each one laughed at him. They laughed at his unkempt hair and his nakedness. Then they returned to their play. The girl stayed behind. She tried to talk to the boy but had no luck. Somehow she got the message across that she would return the next day.
Well, she did. She returned day after day, and she managed to teach him language. Her name was Grace, and since the boy had no name she called him Ash because of his fair skin and blond hair. The boy liked the name she gave him. For the first time, he had a friend. For months the boy and girl communicated. One day Ash reached his arm through the hole and touched Grace’s hand. It was the first time he had ever felt another’s touch. It felt wonderful.
The following day Grace and her friends did not appear. They did not return the following day either. The boy always waited by the hole in the wall, but after several more days passed he realized that he was alone again. The next morning he resumed his walks along the wall.
by submission | Mar 11, 2018 | Story |
Author: DJ Lunan
Barden loved Saturday mornings, rambling with his young daughter through the deciduous forest. Perpetually wet underfoot, the forest always kept the eight-year-old entertained.
“Look! Dad!” shrilled Megan. “Someone’s dropped their train ticket!”. She peered precariously at the litter next to a large muddy puddle, “And it says Guildford!”.
Barden frowned, “Megan, leave it, it will be dirty and you may fall in”.
Megan was already stooping expertly to collect it. She proudly handed Barden the sodden ticket, covered in wet mud, “See… Guildford!”.
“Thanks, love, now race you to the climbing tree”. Megan squelched a hasty path to a partially fallen sycamore and started scaling it.
The ticket was stiff and hard, and thinking it might be a valuable season pass, Barden cleaned the ticket’s face with his handkerchief, revealing a purple background with raised silver lettering stating: Guildford (Verger) – Bordeaux (Gravité), Vacuum Avion, Premier Classe, RETOUR, 37e Avril 2053, EU$459. Against the purple background was a subtle animated clip in yellow depicting a passenger jet ascending vertically behind a church before accelerating into the distance, trailing the words ‘Chaque quinze minutes de GV à BG et au-delà’.
Barden was baffled by the astounding technology and the French. Surely a promotional gimmick, but for what?
The sound of rotting branches giving way was accompanied by Megan squawking, hitting the ground with a wet ‘thunk’. Barden stuffed the ticket in his trouser pocket and sprinted to pluck her from the mud.
Barden was wet and muddy after carrying Megan to their car. She stopped sobbing when he promised her cake, imploring irresistibly, “Can we go to The Dabbling Duck? I want lemon cake!”. “Me too!” replied Barden.
At sunset, after their hot chocolate and cake, Barden and Megan held hands returning to the car as the hush of the English Countryside fell, amplifying both their boots clacking along the lane and their inane chatter.
“Mummy loves this little village” he divulged, “She loves cake you mean!” came her whip-smart reply.
Barden stopped abruptly, squinting through the final sunrays at the 13th Century Church. Megan continued tottering up the path, shouting “Come on lazybones”.
His mouth agog, he fumbled for the purple ticket, held it in front of his face. The animation perfectly matched the church, albeit without a launching jet. “Hang on Meg, let’s walk around the side of the church”.
Adjoining the church was not a landing strip or helipad, but a small thatched cottage with a working orchard.
A young estate agent was erecting a For Sale sign in the garden. Barden waved politely.
“Afternoon sir, are you interested in buying a farmhouse?” inquired the agent.
Barden hesitated, half-tempted to tell his intriguing story, expose his purple ticket to some public scrutiny.
“You can go in and look, it’s open and empty, the Jones’ have moved on”.
Megan skipped through the gate, Barden followed. Up close, it was every inch a Fairy-tale cottage of his dreams. Megan bounded through the door, muddy footprints on the clean tiles, her delighted screams echoing, ”Daddy, I love it!”.
Barden’s excitement was building, and wasn’t deflated by the dank smell indicating ancient mould, persistent damp, and rotting timbers.
Megan screeched, bounding into the room, “Daddy, look, I’ve found another train ticket!”
She proudly handed over a second purple ticket, “Look! it says Megan”.
He read the purple ticket ‘Carte d’identité: Megan Barden-Jones, âge 43’.
Barden shuddered, wobbled, the blood draining from his face. He pursed his lips and knelt.
“What is it, Daddy?”
“Pumpkin, I think we’d better show Mummy this house. And find us all some French lessons.”
by submission | Mar 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Are you insane? This was supposed to be a negotiation of terms for surrender. You made it a slaughter!”
COL Mikalelan holstered her weapon and gave her two aides the command to stand down. “I’ve been fighting them for twelve years, Ambassador Nieves. This was no delegation. We specified three, they brought six.”
“Three extra and you kill them for that?”
The Colonel walked forward and kicked the closest alien with the tip of her boot. “This one here- look at its caste mark. Not branded and dyed as their political caste should be, but painted on. It’s really a warrior caste.”
Ambassador Nieves growled in frustration “They told us because of their heavy losses their delegation would be unusual, I thought I made that clear.”
“Indeed you did Ambassador. That’s why when I saw them walking in twice the numbers, I knew they would betray us.”
Ambassador Nieves gritted her teeth. “You military types are all alike. All you see is a threat. We’ve already beaten them. Clearly, we’ve won and they have to come to terms. In time, who knows what we can do together”
COL Mikalelan laughed. “Ambassador, neither one of us is white nor male so spare me your white man’s burden guilt speech. They don’t think like us, have the same standards that we do, have the same values. They are totally alien. Hell, even their math is different.”
Ambassador Nieves was livid. “Of course they’re different! I’m not a child. They have only two fingers, different thinking, alien minds, I get that, but there are still universals. Things that alien and human can and do share.”
“Cut them and do they not bleed? Guess what: they don’t. In fact, we don’t know what the hell they are exactly- reptile, mammal, insect- who knows? All we know is even after extensive negotiation, our first three encounters ended in the total obliteration of our contact parties followed by an all-out assault on our most populated systems with the extermination of ALL human life wherever they took our colonies.”
COL Mikalelan looked at her watch. “SGT Zander call in the air strike. 1LT Ives, engage our shields.”
Nieves looked stunned “Shields? We told them we wouldn’t bring any! Air strike? You had no intention of negotiation at all- you used me! When I get back to HQ you’ll lose your head.”
COL Mikalelan roughly pulled Ambassador Nieves into a huddle with Zander and Ives. Ives pressed a button on his belt and the tell-tale sign of shields crackled in the air around them, encompassing the group of four. Mikalelan and Nieves were almost nose to nose.
“Look over there at the ‘delegation’.” COL Mikalelan tilted her head toward the six bodies. “Their ‘ambassador’ had a transponder which has just turned on, giving their command our exact position. We win or lose with them. We occupy the dirt we stand on or they do. Us or them. In twelve years of contact it has never been different. Binary fingers, binary thought, binary decisions.”
1LT Ives spoke up. “Ma’am, message from command. Our nuke just destroyed the remainder of their forces and 46 of their inbound missiles including two targeted to our position. Advised to stand fast, shielded, until the shock wave from our nuke passes.”
A mushroom cloud appeared over the horizon. A great roaring wind rolled over Nieves, Mikalelan and the Colonel’s aides. Nieves could barely keep eye contact with the colonel but when she did COL Mikalelan raised one eyebrow and spoke.
“Safe or Sorry?”
by submission | Mar 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Monteyne
His hideout is a tidal cave, little more than a crawlspace gouged into a seaside cliff. He rarely leaves it. He starts brushwood fires to keep warm and forages by moonlight for the limpets and starfish and anemones that populate the tidal basin.
The part of me that is a hunter — a native of this remote frost-bound tundra — shines an industrial flashlight into the crevice where he huddles, pale and gaunt in the tatters of a once-fine suit.
Of course, the hunter being merely one individual within my omni-faceted self, I know who this man is. I am his wife and his father. I am his son. I am his colleagues at law, his drinking buddies, his jiu-jitsu instructor. I am the waitress with whom he had an affair.
His name is Aaron Byers.
It was a satellite that spotted him in the end. A mere handful of pixels, but the part of me that is a geoscientist knew what to look for. In an instant, his location was known to every agent of my being, every vertex of my ubiquity, every athlete and grocer and civil engineer. The hunter, who lives in self-imposed exile to forget the tragedy of his past, was merely the closest.
Three hours hence I stand before him. The cave drips and whispers. A thick frame and a bear-fur mantle insulate this body from the cold.
Aaron Byers, though, shivers. He raises grubby forearms as though to ward off the flashlight beam and croaks, “Am I the last?”
There is no quaver in his voice. I answer, “Yes.”
He lowers his arms. In resignation or acceptance, I do not know.
Brisk winds sing through the cave. I remove a fleece-lined glove, abruptly eager, and extend a weathered hand …
… and the part of me that is Aaron Byers relaxes into itself: rotates a bony wrist, tongues the furrows of a bite-bloodied cheek, and smiles.
by submission | Mar 8, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
Susan Wiggins lost an arm at work today. That’s called “making a donation” since the Mandolins took over. We’ve averaged about a donation a month over the past year. I myself donated a finger a couple weeks ago. It’s no wonder. The machinery we use — to make components for their ships, we think — is razor sharp and barely visible. Randall Spindler made the ultimate donation a while back. What a mess.
Anyway, needing a drink more than ever after what happened to poor Wiggins, I stop by the pub on my way home. John Jenkins obviously has already had one too many. He staggers up, claps me on the back and says loudly “Welcome to the Fox & Hound, Steven my friend.” I see Bob Johnson immediately place a call. I’m sure he’s turning Jenkins in for failing to refer to the tavern by its new, assigned name. Poor Jenkins. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again after tonight. Johnson’s nothing but a rotten snitch. Better known as a change advocate these days.
After leaving the pub, I go to Clown Foods to pick up a six-pack and bag of chips for supper. The Mandolins use “clown” a lot — Clown Foods, Clown Pharmacy, Clown Shoe Repair. I guess they think putting “clown” in a name makes it a happier place. I’m sure they also know many humans find clowns a little creepy. Just another way to mess with our heads. The Mandolins are good at that.
I’m sure they don’t even really call themselves Mandolins. They probably think going by the name of a lyrical instrument sugarcoats the fact they’ve taken over our world. It doesn’t.
Back home I have a couple beers and half the chips. Checking my watch, I see it’s still a couple hours before imposition of Home Sweet Home time. I’d love to go see my sister, but Madge’s place is just over the line in the Fabulous Fun zone, and I’m not allowed to leave the Forever Smiles sector. At least we can talk by phone so I give her a call.
“Hi, Madge. How’s everything there? Roger? The girls?”
“Hi, Steven. We’re OK. For now. How are you holding up?”
“You know. Getting by. I—“
Soft music interrupts our call, and a melodic voice announces “You have depleted your allocation of freedom minutes for this month.” The music grows louder. I try to talk over it. The voice repeats the announcement more sternly, and the music becomes louder yet, shrill and off-key.
“I’ll talk to you next month, Madge,” I shout. The music is almost ear-piercing. “Hug the girls for me,” I scream and disconnect, silencing the phone.
It’s still early. I pace from room to room, trying to keep the emptiness of the house from swallowing me, trying not to think about the day the Mandolins declared my wife and son to be surplus delights and took them away on a magic carpet ride. Maybe I’ll go back to the Fox & Clown.
