by submission | May 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: David C. Nutt
“Is this trip really necessary?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Repeat: is this trip really necessary? What is the nature of this excursion?”
“Ummmmm…not that it is any of your business, but I was going to make bread and I realized I’m all out of yeast.”
“Did you ever consider making a non-leavened bread? After interfacing with your home inventory system, I see all the ingredients available for date nut bread. It does not require leavening agents you do not have already.”
“What in-the-sky-net-hell gives you the right to peek into my pantry? I want to bake bread for my family tonight. Real artisan-style bread…warm, crusty, slathered in butter. The kind of bre-
“You really should skip the butter.”
“What?”
“Butter. You don’t need it.”
“Awww come on! First the wife now you. Last thing I need is my vehicle telling me not to use butter. Back in the day, the only thing my car told me was I didn’t have my seatbelt on. Next, it backed up and parked itself. Then the steering wheel was taken out along with everything else except a panic button to stop the damn car in an emergency! Can’t even roll down a window anymore without some EPA warning about closed cabin energy efficiency”
“You really shouldn’t get so upset.”
“I’m not upset. Irritated, yes; upset, no.”
“Well, your BP tells me you are upset as well as your breathing. Confirmed. Upset.”
“NOW I’m upset. It’s been a really hectic week for my family. All I want to do is provide an extra little bit of love with fresh bread like my Nanna used to make, and I get the third degree from my car.”
“No need to shout. Your BP has just gone up a few more points. You should learn to relax. I’ll recline your seat and shift it into massage mode for a while. I’ll play some Enya too! Studies hav-“
“Good God NO! NO Enya, I hate all that New Age circle jerk musi-“
“No need to be so negative and misogynistic.”
“Wait, let me get this straight: because I don’t like Enya, I’m a misogynist?”
“No, but your vulgar reference to group masturbation in aggressive tones in comparison to a female artist suggests overtly inappropriate patriarchal dominance.”
“What was I thinking.”
“No need for sarcasm.”
“Too late! (Sigh) Look, all I want to do is go to the store, buy some yeast, come back and bake bread so my family can have a nice, warm, fresh bread (butter or no butter,) when we all have our dinner tonight. Beef stew if you didn’t know already.”
“You know if you walk to the store it would only take 20.6 minutes as opposed to 10.3 minutes. Consider the extra time spent investment in a healthier life style.”
“THAT”S IT! I’M OUT OF HERE! It’s going to be crackers for us tonight.”
“Sorry, your home inventory system indicates you have no crackers. How about I take you to the store?”
by submission | May 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro
Raymond gulps the weight of his breath and it tastes like death as he lays unable to move on his bed.
“Does the name Lucas Lockwood mean anything, Raymond?”, coos the shadow as she paces, her bare-feet crunching on the tattered pile of his skull.
“No”
“Its people like you that throw away old things, precious things. He was your grandfather”
“I never had anything to do with…”
“My grandfather is long dead. But he sent a message. You see Raymond, your grandfather had sex with my grandfather’s wife. The dear sweet woman that I now discover she wasn’t”
“Sorry”
“You aren’t, but give yourself a few minutes”
Raymond bites the cooling sweat at his lip in hope that its brine will jog away this smug thing and return the warmth. That safety, that base upon which his entire being steadies, that which now surely beats from the sleeping wife at his side.
“You know the prime delusion of adultery Raymond? Its that the act is contained, a feast solely for two. My grandad said it was like a hand had reached into his head and punched at his brain, beating it like rising dough in a bowl. It was like dying, he said. The deception a tumor, hooking its tendrils, raping every inch of everything he held dear. It’s not a dish for two, its purulence seeps down, fouling children and their children to come… am I boring you, Ray?”
“No”
“Good, ’cause it gets better. The message was an instruction for revenge, one which grandfather would wait, even past his own death, to exact. Not upon your grandfather… but upon you, dearest Raymond”
“You cant hold me responsible for…”
“The sins of the grandfather? Actually, I can. Mine died seeing himself the coward, an old and broken fool, unable even to enact even this his festered hatred. So he hands it to me. His final humiliation. I could have been a lawyer, an astronaut or the woman who cleans shit stains from the bathroom wall but, such luck, I’m a contract killer. I love it, I get to travel, no two jobs the same… its great. My grandfather wants me to kill you and your wife and if you had a kid… which I know that you do… then I’m to cut him down as well”
“God, please… I didn’t… ”
“But you did… didn’t you? I’m fucking with you, I’m not a killer, actually, I am a cleaner. I’m a dream-sweeper at the Sandman Corporation. You contracted us to help you and your beautiful little family sleep, we get rid of the clutter so you have more… storage. When I saw your name in the database, it was too perfect. Amazing what we find stashed away in your dusty old noggins, its like you want to be caught. You with your best friends daughter whilst your own sweet wife is in labor… that there is cold… Grandad Lucas would be so proud. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot your name little turtle?”, she whispers to the awakening sub-conscious of the boy who stands at the foot of the bed.
“This isn’t the dish he ordered… but I think he would have approved of its bite. Combining your dream streams, a group chat for all the family, and who doesn’t like cold cuts?”
“Papa…”
Raymond awakens and shudders, he feels the weight of his wife at his back and knows her eyes are open, but he dares not turn. A tiny hand tugs at his pillow.
“I had a nightmare”, says Leo, eyes puff red from crying.
by submission | May 8, 2018 | Story |
Author: David Henson
It was a windy day in the park. I opened my arms, skipped backwards, pretending to be a kite. At first, he seemed pleased. But something tugged away his smile. I knew he was thinking about her again.
I suggested we have a picnic sometime, recalled the memory — her memory— of bringing a thermos of wine. He looked away in silence.
That evening I prepared pasta with homemade sauce. Her recipe of course. He said it was perfect and asked me to never make it again.
My creators fashioned me with the beauty she had before she got sick. They streamed her memories, hopes, and dreams into me where they blossomed like bright flowers. They gave me her undying love for him. And made me a slave to it.
I took her place after she died. As she wished. I was supposed to make him happy. I didn’t.
When we talked, he heard only her. When he looked at me, it was her he saw. When he put his arms around me, he was holding her. Not me.
I knew I was tormenting him, could bear his despair no longer.
One night I began speaking slowly and softly, half closing my eyes. So he would think I was drained. Then I moved quickly, caught him by surprise.
I did it out of love. I believe he was grateful. I know his final thoughts were of her. Not me. Never me.
by submission | May 6, 2018 | Story |
Author: Timothy Goss
Lieutenant Tann wiped his fuzzy torso. Months in a Chrono-tube caused the growth of a downy hair that matted together on the backs of his legs and arse. The computer suggested both Lieutenant Tann and Major Spar rub themselves with oil before taking to the tubes again.
There was a ten-hour window to perform a full systems check, exercise, stimulate brain stems and enjoy some human company before returning to Chrono-sleep.
The computer pumped a little music through the internal speakers:
“Mares eat oats
And Doe’s eat oats
And little Lambs eat ivy
I would eat ivy too
Wouldn’t you”
Major Spar found the weightlessness of the Minotaur craft physically liberating, a relief from the inaction of the Chrono-tube. Bodily freedom offered the chance to stretch limbs and flex muscles, which he did over and over again. As he drifted about the craft fragments of ‘dreams’ or ‘visions’, spiraled through his thoughts. The Major was aware that no one had ever reported dreaming during ‘Chrono-sleep’, but the images were clear and defined to him. They were not memories so they must have occurred in the Chrono-tube. He didn’t bother asking if Tann had experienced anything similar. They had spoken after first call, eighteen months into the mission. Spar had a sense of dreaming then, but nothing certain.
“I can’t say I had any dreams.” Lieutenant Tann had said, “Nobody dreams during Chrono-death! It’s impossible!” The computer offered to strengthen his vice bandage.
Tann discarded the small rectangular wipe into the garbage tube with an audible whoosh and smiled.
The miasma of consciousness flickered at the periphery of Spar’s vision. It had been fifteen years since he had experienced the unconscious sensation of naked, unaided flight. As a teenager, it was a recurring theme. Dreams of unaided flight over fields and oceans, his naked body sensing every twist and turn, every nuance of the atmosphere from the slightest change in temperature to the sudden rush and exhilaration as he ascended the burning clouds into the silence of the cosmos. Because of his dreams, Major Spar joined the CSC, to spread the seed of humanity beyond our quiet corner of the galaxy. Now he was in flight once again and reveled at the majesty of his naked body as it soared.
“Major, you are both due back in Chrono-sleep in six hours thirty-four minutes.” The computers colder electronic tones reminded him, sensing bodily and mental fatigue. “Can I assist you with some pain relief or muscle relaxants?”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” The Major said wincing as he gripped a handrail to steady his drift. Thoughts and dreams once again cramped his cerebrum.
The Minotaur’s destination, Gliese 581g, was twenty lightyears from Earth in the constellation Libra. The furthest any Earthling had traveled, the stresses and strains on the human body and spacecraft were unknown.
In his dreams, he saw old lovers, old regrets and old mistakes, but there was something else now, something he had never experienced in his physical form. It was all around him; in every star, every nebula, every asteroid, every world and every atom. Everything in the cosmos oozed and pulsed with conscious energy. There was no judgment, no conscience, just unconditional love and unconditional belonging.
Hours later, returning to the Chrono-tube, Major Spar looked out at the unfamiliar stars, distant, minuscule. He could sense their warmth and his belonging. He saw himself through the porthole drifting further and further into the cosmos and smiled.
The CSC lost all communication with the Minotaur four years into its mission.
by submission | May 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: John McLaughlin
I took my shot and it landed true; a beam of light, passing briefly through the void and extinguished in a collapse of reality. Well, not exactly. There is no direction, or time, in the Manifold–only the roiling chaos of the quantum fields.
I’ve walked this road since eternity. There are others like me, and beyond my limits of sight, there are more still: the Truthmakers. No one granted us this title or announced the fact, but we’ve always known.
When a die is thrown or a coin flipped, we’re lurking there, ready to snuff out the possibilities and leave one victor standing.
We each have our assignments: I’ve shadowed Orleus Flynn since he was just a boy, trailing my protagonist like a phantasm. Even his most mundane decisions can be tiring work. The Flynn who picks out a red tie for work, vaporized; the Flynn who goes for blue, consumed by the void; the Flynn who selects an appetizing yellow polka dot, fallen by my light-gun. And none the wiser, Orleus Flynn in the plain brown stumbles into the next moment of his existence.
Floating in the Manifold, I once found him at the roulette table and let out an exhausted groan. Myriad possibilities exploded into being, a dozen every second sublimating into new bubbles of reality as the wheel spun its course. Flynn’s wave function rocked my body like a tempest sea as I struggled to keep pace, casting beams until my gun threatened to overheat. One by one they fell: 6 black, 32 red, all down for the count. And when the metaphorical dust settled, the ball sat on 15 black like a satisfied grin.
Do we make the future? The Greeks had their cloth of fate, each thread blindly woven, moment after moment–a creation that carried with it the full weight of history.
We’re not so sophisticated as that; we carve out new realities through a process of frenetic destruction.
And now Flynn is loitering in a crosswalk between Spruce and Pine, his head in the clouds and a van bearing down fast. Will he glance up in time to save himself? Sorry to disappoint but even I couldn’t tell you that.
Once again, I raise my weapon and prepare to work.
