by submission | Aug 10, 2018 | Story |
Author: Roger Ley
The Land Rover stopped, and Riley pointed, the prehuman footprints showed clearly impressed into the flat, dry, African rock surface. It was the third day of their family safari in the Great Rift Valley
‘We can spend a few hours here but we need to get to the next lodge before dark,’ he said.
‘These footprints are half a million years old boys,’ said Estella to her sons. Hank slipped off his flip-flops and tried one print for size, predictably his younger brother Cliff did the same. ‘Look, Dad, they fit,’ said Hank.
‘It looks like a family group, two adults, and two juveniles,’ said Riley.
Estella slipped off her sandals and stepped into the smaller adult set. She looked good in her shorts and tee, he’d always admired her Nordic looks. After some encouragement from the boys, he did the same. They tried walking forward, but the footprints were too far apart.
‘I think they were running Dad,’ said Hank. They all jogged forward, the hard stone became soft and damp. They were running across the mud at the edge of the lake, chasing the antelope they’d been following for the last four hours. It was tiring and slowing down.
The skin bag of flint tools banged against his side, tied with a thong around his waist, he’d wrapped the flints with grass so they didn’t rattle. He hoped to be using them to process the antelope soon. The liver would be first, easy to eat and full of blood. The woman looked across at him and grinned, she knew the end of the hunt was coming. Her white teeth contrasted with her dark skin, her dreadlocks flailed around her shoulders as she ran. They were all sweating freely and covered in dust, but they didn’t need to carry water this close to the lake.
He gestured to each of the juveniles to move around and flank their prey. He listened to the world around him and scanned ahead, hearing the birds call, the grunting of the antelope, a dust devil rose from the plain in the distance. There was a cluster of rocks ahead, some as big as an elephant. As the antelope passed one, part of it detached and jumped on to its back. The hominids stopped as more lions appeared and made short work of their kill. Three of the younger ones, who would have to wait their turn, were looking towards the hunters and sniffing the air.
At his gesture, the family turned and ran back in the direction they’d come. Their tracks in the mud ran parallel to the ones they’d made before. The ground was soft but hardened into flat dry rock as they ran.
‘Well,’ said Riley puffing, I didn’t realise there were tracks going in both directions. Our ancestors were running both ways, I wonder what that was about.’
They sat and replaced their footwear. ‘Okay boys, get in the car, you in a heap a trouble,’ said Riley. Nobody laughed, it was an old joke.
‘I wish you wouldn’t keep saying that Martin, we’ve heard it so many times before,’ said Estella.
‘Car start,’ Riley sighed as the engine whirred into life. ‘We need to get to the next lodge before dark,’ he said.
‘Yes, and you said that before.’
‘Car go,’ said Riley and the Land Rover set off.
The hominids washed and cooled down in the shallows, the lions had lost interest and returned to the kill. The female pointed at a fig tree a few hundreds of paces away. She gestured that the fruit was ripe. The male motioned to hold back and went ahead with his pointed stick, he circled the tree checking for leopards, there were none. He gave the ‘all clear’ and the family got on with the serious business of filling their bellies with fruit. They found a bird’s nest with two hands of big eggs, they shared the crunchy half developed chicks. It wasn’t real meat, but it was good. The warm night fell, and they slept in a huddle under the tree.
by submission | Aug 9, 2018 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro
Large Hadron Space-Time Shunt, Saint-Genis-Pouilly/Global Broadcast in …3…2…1 – Transmitting:
“I’m no speaker. My life a desert of beautiful numbers, a place where words stick as I swallow. I haven’t been chosen, it’s but chance that I find myself blessed with the ability to calculate and decode this mad, brutal, gentle world.
I’m not a particularly brave man, but I do not fear this mission. However, I fear the privilege it is to afford this message. We’re few, we who find ourselves addressing not just our nation but the planet entire.
It a privilege generally delivered after the unachievable has again fallen to the ebullient progression of human achievement. Spoken in the afterglow of unprecedented success, in which we celebrate the advancement of our species as we reach into darkness and return with the grandest of tales to tell”, Dr. Francis Hing coughs into his fist.
“As I literally prepare to step into the future, I can but return to the children of your children’s children, and to them, I will speak and my words will be yours.
So, I ask of you one thing – stop. Address the self-destructive tendencies that have plagued our race since the first instant we formed groups and looked upon each other as rivals and not merely as mates.
Peace can no longer be talk tossed as uncaring coins into the hands of a curbside mendicant, no hollow resolutions, no cease-fires brokered on the backs of munition strafed children.
Cradle this world, smooth for me a destination worthy of return. Allow me to step from this pod and say it was you that built the paradise upon which the future now flourishes.
Shun territorial greed. Be first to slam your compromise on the table, shrug away entrenched bigotry as you dress the wounds of your enemies. Reflect religions inward, for they are personal and not able to be consumed readily by all. Listen to those who warn of the effect we are having on this planet and know – we’re human, we’re family and we’ve no place else to go.
I trust your ability to consider these words, again, they are not mine but ours – stop – listen – build. I’ll miss you all”.
The Hadron shunt fires and then…
Incoming Transmission:
“Dr. Hing, I realize you cannot reply to this message. The answer to your probable first notion is yes, there is a problem…
Eleven months ago a massive earthquake laid waste to your city, your home. That simple building that you instructed must never be entered until your return. And it never was, until the earth smashed and tore it to a shell.
The words of your parting address gripped and a global peaceful evolution miraculously replaced the violent revolutions of the past. Heralded as our greatest and most affecting of voices, oh how we awaited your return.
We cried when your hallowed shrine it fell to ruin and we cried again as the children were found desiccated and dismembered in its walls. You weren’t stepping into the future Doctor, you were running.
As result of the accords formed from your teachings execution is no longer an option, but we must heal, find due punishment for your crimes and the lies you set at our feet.
Our scientists have modified your course, infused in it a flaw. You’ve now arrived at your destination, but never will you disembark – entombed in these my words”
Terror scratches the doctor’s eyes and then, a confused smile as a voice breaks the silence.
“Dr. Hing, I realize that you cannot reply to this message…”
by submission | Aug 8, 2018 | Story |
Author: Irene Montaner
The pink young woman was followed by a green man. A deafening explosion and hundreds of sparkly green dots illuminated the night sky. His features could be properly distinguished against the darkness. A middle-aged frowning man; he wore glasses and was already going bald.
The people cheered and clapped their hands gladly, forgetting for a while the hardships of their daily life in this brand-new global autocracy. Tonight, and only for one night, was a time of celebration to commemorate the first five years of peace since the arrival of the Mayor to power.
Everyone marveled at those splendid fireworks that depicted human and animal shapes so realistically. Some said it was the Mayor himself who came up with this new powder mix that rendered such beautiful fireworks. Most people knew this wasn’t true, though, but they played along and passed on the lie. This is how you got by these days.
A pretty couple closed the show. A golden boy and a silver girl illuminated the sky one last time, their sad faces clearly signifying the end of the happy holiday. Everyone was to go home and be up tomorrow at 6 am, just in time for the pledge of loyalty to the Mayor’s government.
“Seems like people enjoyed the show,” said a coarse voice. Ton looked up to see Joris’ face emerging through the smoke that still hung in the air.
“Yeah,” Ton replied and continued cleaning the debris that was left after an hour of fireworks. “We’ll see what we can grind for next year’s celebrations. Each day there are fewer dissidents left.”
Joris shrugged. “Never mind, I’m sure the Mayor will provide us with some other useless souls. There’s always something unsettling about them anyway, the dissidents. They don’t sparkle as much as the rest.”
by submission | Aug 5, 2018 | Story |
Author: Ian Hill
Farmer Hoggins stood bent in his field, working over a particularly embedded knot. Sweat dripped from his brow and mixed with that of the ground as he repeatedly scratched at the sinuous snarl with the jagged end of his plow. The fibers before him were so terribly intertwined, and already he could feel his tool protesting; the cable that ran from his plow’s handle back to the house pulsed with quick trembles, and each scratching strike to the knot felt stiffer than the last.
Then, with a terrible rending sound, one of the tool’s four prongs snapped. Farmer Hoggins swore and straightened up. A withering sigh escaped him. The sun was high overhead, and he could already see the flabby lowlands beyond his property flooding. Soon, the ground on his hill would be too wet to work at all. The farmer bent his eye to and fro, scouring the lumpy hills about his estate. Plenty of puffy red lines indicated that the tilling process had seen some success, but it still wasn’t enough.
After he had rested enough, Hoggins hefted the plow and brought the working end close to his face so he could appraise the damage. The poor tool had convulsed into a fist, and it remained spasmodically clutched, digging nails into its own seized meat. Drops of blood trailed down the bony handle, and the sustaining vein that snaked back up the hill was weak, almost dry.
“Alright, then. Easy does it,” Farmer Hoggins soothed as he teased the hand open. Slowly, his coaxing prods and kind whispers relaxed the overworked muscles, and the plow opened up. The farmer winced when saw that one of the four fingers had been denuded of its nail, leaving an inflamed, soft bed behind–totally incapable of disentangling the cramped knot of flesh at his feet.
“That’s no good,” Hoggins murmured. The fingers twitched before him and then, as if eager to prove his disappointment unfounded, returned to the crooked-knuckle plow posture. The farmer was impressed with its tenacity. Still, it would never do.
“More like this,” Hoggins said, holding his free hand up. He made a claw with three of his fingers, but bent the pinky to his palm to protect it. After a moment, the tool matched the shape as best it could, shielding the raw, nailless appendage against its palm.
“Hold fast there,” the farmer encouraged before hunching back to work. With greater caution, he lowered the rigidly bent plow to the unruly sinews below. He carefully maneuvered the three tearing points between two sheaths of meat, twisted, felt for the hooking bite, and then tore out with a great heave. All at once, the bunched node broke apart with a rupture of mucus and sweat. The farmer reared back as the swollen flesh at his feet voided and paled to match the rest of the field.
“That’ll do,” Hoggins said at length. He held the plow aloft and admired its drained, slack hand, all smeared with blood and pus. A muscle along its heel twisted painfully, and ribbons of shredded flesh dangled from its almost dislodged nails. It hurt, but the farmer was pleased.
As the irritated lesion continued to damply unwind, Hoggins set the plow down and watched as its innervating vein retracted back up the hill to his bony house. The tool slid wetly over the humped ridges of his property before disappearing into one of the many pores at the sloping, skin-stretched base of his home. Hoggins mopped his brow. It was hot work, but someone had to do the planting.
by submission | Aug 4, 2018 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Tight bindings held her fast to something upright and cold. She stood blindfolded before her captors. Sweat trickled over her eyebrows, infiltrating throbbing eyes, and then eroding mascara into rivulets over her black cheeks and paralyzed quivering lips thwarted from screaming. Her flash memories were of a comforting living room couch beckoning after a trying day delivering news headlines from a national broadcast center in New York. Unusually vicious August heat had exhausted her in a short walk from a parking garage to her air-conditioned apartment. Everything was going to hell, providing red juice for blenders drawing violence voyeurs. Her ratings were skyrocketing.
“You may speak soon.” A mechanical voice filled her like an implanted speaker in her head. It shook her body with bass and authority. Was this death? She wondered in agony.
“No harm will come. Be still.” A new woman’s voice soothed her, like her grandmother’s solace on an Atlanta porch when summer lightning rumbled windows.
The male voice took over. “This place is far from Earth. We will return you, but you have a task to perform. You are chosen above all others. Listen carefully.”
Sarah Jefferson did not listen. She shook her head violently, mumbling, cursing and pleading. She prayed to Almighty God. She felt her bladder failing until something warm touched outside her waist. She calmed. She breathed normally.
“Sarah, you are heard by many people on your planet. We could interrupt every radio, television, and phone on your sphere, but it would simply be called a hoax by your governments. That would leave people unprepared.”
Sarah felt drugged as her inner terror dulled…but these kidnappers, whoever they were, knew her name. That alarmed her, but she soon sank back into a dull swamp of buffered fright.
“Here is what you must do, dear one.” The gentle voice returned. Sarah could feel granny’s hands on her neck—safe and soothing.
“In early December of this year, a comet will appear. Your scientists call it 46P/Wirtanen. It will draw attention to the Pleiades. Visible first at night, it will later appear brightly even in daylight. People worldwide will be watching skyward. Then, on December 24th, our mother ships arrive. There are hundreds of them waiting now beyond the planet you call Jupiter. There will be no doubt then that we, as many others before us, have been among you. Now you may speak.”
Sarah felt her lips free. She was still bound and blinded. “How dare you…bastards! Let me go!”
Disturbing silence was the only response. Another feeling of warmth filled her mind as something rubbed against her forehead.
“We anticipated your fear, Sarah. Let us continue, please.” Again, the soothing tones of a female voice gathered Sarah’s composure.
“Your role, child of Earth, is to communicate to your audience that we are coming. They need to know our intentions to help after the chaos they will experience starting now in August. We can bridge their passage through the coming changes. We are embedding words for you to share. You will remember later. You will speak for us. You will do this to help your people be ready for a new Earth.”
Sarah woke on her settee, soaked in sweat and with soreness around her mouth, eyes, wrists, and ankles. She did not know why, but she felt she had something to do…something urgent. Her widescreen TV was on with her station colleagues covering something about multiple massive quakes across the U.S. and in other countries. She rushed to her bathroom to vomit after realizing her blouse and dress were on backward.
