by submission | Nov 1, 2017 | Story |
Author: Adam Fout
“All of it.”
The creature’s look is quizzical.
My helmet inhibits no sounds; I feel that my words are quite clear.
My hands shake. My gloved fist smashes the surface of his table.
“I need all of it. Not some. Not a bit. Not most. All. Is this a problem?”
I had looked for so long. Its existence here was impossible.
And yet, here it was.
My heart throttles my throat.
Fear is a vice.
The creature MUST give it to me.
Underneath my cape, my gloved fingers caress a dagger of diamonds.
My breath comes in tiny streams.
My pupils envelop my eyes.
The creature shakes his head, mutters “No, no, no, n-n-no problem, no problem.”
My fingers relax. He twitches and scurries, wrapping, questions in his eyes. He hands me the package, paws nervously brushing whiskers.
“W-w-what will you d-d-do with it?”
I do not bother to answer. I give him payment beyond what he might make in five years time.
And I run.
I run out the crumbling door from the crumbling shop to the crumbling streets of this crumbling city. The bones of this dying country drip gas, remnants of ancient poisons injected into black stone. The twists and turns coil up and up, through darkness and disease, the streets tilting crazily to lead out of this wretched planet.
I burst upon the surface, and the gas lingers under a sky of ash and blood, and my helmet burns crimson as it tries desperately to filter the thick clouds of chlorine before they reached my lungs.
And I catch my breath.
And I look into the package.
And I weep.
For here, in this decaying place, in this infested fenestration into the bowels of a wretched, bloody world, this venomous hole bored into ebony rocks bleeding miasma from unhealing wounds, in the dark light of a fading star, here, in this most unlikely place, from this most unlikely creature, here was something that my people had sought for ten thousand years.
And the light from the package sweeps across my face, and my priceless cape flies from my suit, blasted by the violence of the light, and my helmet and breather and gloves and suit and boots and tools disappear into the ether, and a stream of particles dives deep into the sleeping parts of my mind, infuses my cells, twists my essence, penetrates an essential part of me.
Wrenches that part.
Until it cracks.
And the light breaks me.
And my body is destroyed.
And my ship cries out at my death.
And I rise.
And I whisper nothings into her mind.
“Do not be afraid, my love.
“I am with you.
“Always.”
And my ship smiles.
And I ascend on wings of light, and my body is energy and brilliance, and I ride particle beams across the black seas of emptiness, and my ship races around, over, and through me, her joy blasting through the universe on laser and radio, and I scream, and a message flies forth from my crystalline lungs, heralding my coming, and it rides to my brothers and sisters through the relays, and it contains three words.
And my joy repeats the words.
Over.
And over.
And over.
“We are saved.”
“We are saved.”
“We are saved.”
by submission | Oct 30, 2017 | Story |
Author : J.D. Rice
The worn grandfather clock stood idly in the corner, looking out of place against the stale, concrete wall. Its slow and steady ticking echoed quietly around the room, breaking up the silence between the room’s two occupants. Sitting behind a white-washed desk, Mark Wells, a young loan officer, shifted his weight uncomfortably as the woman seated in front of him stared at him with desperate eyes. She shed no tears, holding her resolve that he may, miraculously, find a way to give her what she wanted.
“Mrs. Simpson,” Mark said. “There really isn’t anything else I can do. You financial situation precludes any additional loans from us. My hands are tied.”
“My son needs this treatment,” Mrs. Simpson replied. “He’s been so happy for so long. I can’t bear to see his entire world change just because I’m a few thousand dollars short.”
“I understand your predicament, but~”
“Look here!” Mrs. Simpson pulled a worn photograph from her purse. In it, a young boy smiled at the camera, chocolate frosting covering his face. To all appearances, the boy could have been no older than four.
“This is my son a few years ago, on his 15th birthday. Look how happy he is. You would really take that all away from him, just because his father ran out on us? I’ve already skipped half a dozen treatments for myself. I won’t let that happen to my son.”
Mark tried his best to look sympathetic, taking the picture from Mrs. Simpson and looking it over to buy himself some time. If what this woman said was true, her son was now just a few years younger than Mark himself. Most people didn’t start taking IV-88 until they were adults. But some parents just couldn’t let go of their young ones. And given that the children were happy and considering the relative safety of taking the so-called “immortality drug” – the government could do nothing to stop them.
“My husband had the career. That’s him in the background. When he first left, James was so distraught. He cried for his father every night. But after a few years, it’s like he hardly remembers him.”
“And your husband has no interest in supporting your medical expenses?”
“He won’t even take my calls.”
Mark nodded and looked back down at the photo. The kid was cute, all right. But to spend almost 20 years in the body of a four-year-old? Mark couldn’t imagine it if he tried.
Just then the grandfather clock gave three loud bongs, indicating the passing of the hour. Mark looked up at the clock’s worn, wooden frame, and his thoughts drifted to his own grandfather, who had passed the clock onto Mark when he died, just a few years before IV-88 hit the shelves. What would Mark and his family had done to keep his grandfather around just a few more years? How much money would they have spent on treatments? Would his grandfather have even wanted to live forever?
“Is there really nothing you can do?” Mrs. Simpson finally said, looking down at the floor.
“No, you’ve reached your financial limit. I’m sorry.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Simpson said, quietly taking the picture back from Mark and stuffing it in her purse. As she walked out of the room, Mark heard her finally start sobbing. Her voice echoed down the concrete halls, growing fainter every moment, until all went quiet.
by submission | Oct 28, 2017 | Story |
Author : Michael Holt
“This gives a whole new meaning to the term peep show don’t you think?” said, Trayden.
“Mr. Rice while we enjoy your humor you really must get your rest, we have some more tests for you tomorrow.” said the intercom above the doorway.
“I really need to get out of here is what I need to do.” Trayden said.
Trayden picked up his chair and hurled it at the window. The window transmuted like a bubble blown through a wand, the chair acting as wind. The window retreated to its original shape leaving the chair in splinters on the floor.
“There is no reason to try to escape Mr. Rice; you may leave at any time.” said, the intercom.
“This isn’t what I signed up for!” yelled, Trayden.
“Mr. Rice, on your eighteenth birthday you signed an intergalactic draft, voluntarily stating that in your galaxy’s time of need you would gladly step up to defend it. If you choose to go back on your word we will provide you with transport to the planet of Gitash, strip you of your rations and planetary identification to live out your days in exile.”
“I know what I signed up for you fu-.”
“Mr. Rice there is no need for profanity, please lay down, the men in white will be in shortly to settle you down. Try to get some rest.”
Defeated by his failed escape Trayden laid on his bed, waiting for the men in white, planning another escape and wondering if the war he was forced to fight in was a war worth fighting for.
by submission | Oct 27, 2017 | Story |
Author : Kent Rosenberger
“It’s happening,” announced Saul Quick from two minutes ago. “Is everybody ready? We’re only going to get one pass at this.”
“Who cares?” sniped Saul Quick from sixty-six years ago, his grungy concert shirt in terrible need of a wash. “What does it matter if we do this or not? It’s going to happen either way, isn’t it?”
Saul Quick from sixty-two years ago shook his head, comparing his dress uniform to the sloppy attire of his younger self. “I forgot what a snide little creep I could be. It’s amazing what a few years and a little discipline can do, huh?”
“I’m dressed better than he is,” Saul Quick from sixty-six years ago mentioned about his eighty-four year old self. “He’s only got a hospital gown on.”
“That’s okay,” Saul Quick from fifty-six years ago stated matter-of-factly, strutting around in his impressive top hat, white tie and tails. “I show you all up. We clean up good when we try, huh kid?” he asked of his eighteen-year-old self.
The rebellious adolescent ran his fingers through his long, greasy locks, staring in disbelief at the young man he was to become. “Dude, what did you do to my hair? And what are you wearing?”
“Would you rather have your hair and that black tee or Cecelia Cunningham?”
The sour expression Saul Quick from sixty-six years ago was holding softened considerably. “We marry C.C.?” His astonishment could not be stronger.
“More than worth a trim and a monkey suit, huh kid?”
“I’ll say,” the youth concurred, finding it strange to agree with anyone, even if it was himself.
“Let’s not forget,” piped in Saul Quick from sixty-five years ago, “before you landed her, you managed to snag Valerie Gale and Liz Kapizzi as practice first.” The transition installment of himself between hoodlum and veteran bore a vague resemblances to both, featuring long but managed locks and a posture halfway between the stooped teen and upright Corporal.
“Really?” the high school senior marveled, quite impressed with himself and what were going to be his future conquests.
“A monkey suit, huh?” Saul Quick the soldier scoffed.
“C.C. wouldn’t go for the uniform,” Saul Quick from fifty-six years ago shrugged. “Frankly, she looked so amazing in her wedding dress, I didn’t even care.”
“And our daughter,” declared Saul Quick from thirty years ago, sporting a different, more reserved tuxedo and a snowy, receding hairline, “looked even more beautiful than her mother on her wedding day.” A small tear leaked from the eye of the heavier, balding man as he recalled the milestone event.
“Daughter?” the younger versions of Saul Quick asked in unison. Their two voices were joined by a third; one that sounded like it had not hit puberty yet. They all turned to see Saul Quick from seventy-six years ago, sporting filthy dungarees and a backwards red and blue baseball cap. He appeared as though he had been digging in the dirt. “I’m too little to be a daddy,” he declared nervously.
“Don’t worry kid,” reassured Saul Quick from thirty years ago, “you’ll do fine. She turns out great.”
“Really?” The boy gave an apple-cheeked smile, revealing a missing baby tooth in the front of his lopsided mouth.
Saul Quick from sixty-two years ago marveled at the sight of his tiny self. “I forgot what a cute kid I was.”
“Thanks,” Saul Quick from seventy-nine years ago squeaked. As small as his third grade personae seemed, he towered over the Kindergarten version of himself decked out in a miniature vest and tie for his first day of school.
“Good Lord, I remember that embarrassing suit,” cried out the white bedecked groom.
“Our mother made us wear it,” the others chorused, breaking into polite identical laughter. “We’ve had our share of embarrassing moments,” Saul Quick from fifty-six years ago observed.
“Yes, but we’ve had some great times,” Saul Quick from forty-two years ago stated, fresh from vacation with the family. A pair of binoculars still hung about his neck, resting against the khaki safari shirt he sported
A distraught Saul Quick from seventeen years ago, rubbed his stubbly chin, the shine gone from his downcast eyes. “And we’ve had some hard times. Like when C.C. left us for a better place.”
Trying to brighten the mood, Saul Quick from twenty-seven years ago reminded all of them, “true, but we’ve been with others along the way who have made the journey happy and worthwhile. Like the grandchildren.”
“Mommy,” remembered Saul Quick from eighty-one years ago.
“My high school buddy Butch,” came a friendly recall to the mind of Saul Quick from sixty-eight years ago. The smell of French fries accompanied the fast food uniform he wore.
“And all our relatives, schoolmates, army pals, work colleagues and church friends,” Saul Quick from two minutes ago summed up. “It feels strange that here at the end we are resigned to die alone.”
Still mourning the loss of his wife, Saul Quick from seventeen years ago uttered under his breath, “Everybody dies alone.”
“No,” the five-year-old pointed out, demonstrating a wisdom beyond his years, “we’re not alone. We have everyone we’ve ever known in our hearts and minds. And we have each other. We always have. And we always will. All the way to the end.
Unable to keep dry eyes, the other versions of the man down through the years teared up as Saul Quick from two minutes ago helped them all to line up in order, placing himself at the end of the line. “Alright, gentlemen, it’s time. Let’s make this an event none of us will ever forget.”
And in the last few heartbeats he had remaining, Saul Quick became the sole spectator of his own lonely parade as his life flashed before his eyes.
by submission | Oct 26, 2017 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
Let me be clear: there is reality, even when there is not.
What I am writing here exists.
It is both linear and classical.
It is on paper, and it is not.
It’s on paper if you print it.
But you cannot, with certainty, proclaim that it is not on paper even, if you do not choose to print it.
I could have printed it here, for instance.
It could be stapled, paper-clipped, perhaps even bound.
Let’s assume neither of us decides to print this.
It is nothing but zeroes and ones, or energy, or even some telepathic link.
It is a series of thoughts transmitted from me to you.
An intimate pairing of two minds that will maybe never meet.
You are likely thousands of miles away, receiving my reality of the moment.
You are receiving what I feel is important to share with you.
I was named Erwin, which I believe is an important fact.
I will share a fact with you, in our telepathic link, you will receive the fact, then you will apply some critical thought to the fact in order to determine whether you accept it as such.
After all, my name could be George.
I was named Erwin, though, not George.
I was named after an Austrian Physicist named Erwin Rudolf Josef Alexander Schrödinger, to be exact.
He may or may not have had a cat, which may or may not have lived or died.
And there was a steel cage, from what I was told.
I’m not a scientist, but I dabble.
I “know enough to be dangerous”, to be exact.
In the other room there may or may not be a prostitute.
She may or may not be in a makeshift kennel.
Furthermore, she may, or may not, be alive at this moment.
I’ll go check in on her after I’m done either writing this, or not writing this.
You still haven’t decided whether I’m actually Erwin, and whether you’re accepting any of these statements as fact.
I will tell you this: she wears way too much perfume.
My olfactories adjusted to this quite some time ago.
I joked with her that all one needs to bring to a party is a steel cage, a hammer, some hydrocyanic acid, a Geiger counter, and, of course, some randomly decaying radioactive substance.
Who needs coke, right?
She could either be alive, dead, or in some superposition of both…or maybe neither?
She didn’t think my joke was funny, so I’m not particularly eager to check on her well-being at this moment, to be honest.
If she does exist, I likely had to gag her.
If I were experimented on against my will, I’d likely be vocal about it.
Especially if it were a life or death experiment.
Pavlov didn’t seem to care about what the dogs thought, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to allow a hooker’s objections to get in the way of hard science.
But, I’ve written, or not written, enough at this point.
I’m going to stop maybe writing this, and you’re going to either read it or not.
It’s time for me to wander into the next room and check on someone who really should learn to use less perfume, and should maybe develop a more open-minded sense of humor.
I mean, assuming any of this is real, of course.
