by submission | Dec 28, 2017 | Story |
Author: Samuel Huang
“It’s time, Ms. President.”
Sarah Juanita Chen wanted to run, but a dozen secret service agents filled the Oval Office, barring every possible avenue of escape. The regal room where she had once guided the course of world events now felt like the bars of a cage.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” President Chen whispered. “They were supposed to repeal the 32nd Amendment before the end of my term!”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the nearest of the secret service agents said. He appeared to be the agent in charge. What was his name again? Johnson? Smith? Something generic and forgettable—unworthy of her attention.
“But it’s not fair!” the most powerful woman in the world whined. “I wanted to help people. I did help people. How can you punish me for that?”
“You knew what you were signing up for when you ran for President, ma’am,” Agent Johnson or Smith said. “Besides, the American people had an opportunity to repeal the 32nd Amendment during your presidency, and they chose to uphold it by a landslide.”
“But they love me! My approval numbers are higher than they’ve ever been!”
“I’m sure you’ll go down in the history books as a great leader, Ms. President. But it’s time for your presidency to end.”
For a split second, Sarah thought about grabbing an agent’s sidearm and fighting her way out. Then she slowly slumped into her very expensive chair. The idea was absurd. She hadn’t used a firearm since… well, ever.
Had it been worth it? The power had been so addictive and intoxicating—better than any drug. Making others conform to her will, reshaping the country in her image—they had been the best four years of her life.
They had also been the last four years of her life. She had a reputation for being a devious politician, but this was one law she wouldn’t be able to bypass. There were no loopholes, no exceptions.
Agent Johnson or Smith drew his sidearm. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But the law is clear.”
“Then to hell with the law!” Sarah screamed. “And if the American people won’t vote to change the law, then to hell with them too! How dare you treat me like this! Can’t you see that the country needs me? How will you survive without me? I’m the only one who knows what needs to be done!”
The secret service agent shook his head sadly. “There it is. It always comes out, before the end. Power corrupts, you see? It cannot do otherwise. And now it has corrupted you. I am sorry, Ms. President.”
Agent *Jones* shot former President Chen in the heart, a clean kill that still allowed for an open casket funeral. “All right,” he called out to the other agents. “Let’s get this room cleaned up before President Williams arrives.”
by submission | Dec 27, 2017 | Story |
Author: Janice Rothganger
This was the spot. No longer needing his compass, Jackson tucked it inside his shirt. He dropped his pack and went about setting up the campsite: pitching a tent, igniting the fire, cooking dinner. He had planned the trip right down to the number of matches he needed. As the desert sun prepared to set, the temperature dropped. The teenager added a layer of clothing and drew his watch cap over his earlobes. Tendrils of smoke arose from the fire, drawing the Scout close to its heat. His witness, Tony, jotted observations in a field notebook.
“Are you scared?” the older boy asked. His tone could have been mocking. Instead, it was matter-of-fact, as if to say that fear would be normal at a time like this.
“No. I’m nervous, maybe. But not scared.”
“You’ll be fine.” This was the only time the two would meet. To protect the integrity of the badge, Jackson’s tasks must be witnessed by a Scout who he didn’t know. Normally a witness was unnecessary. But Jackson was seeking a highly coveted award, and the process was steeped in tradition.
He retrieved a foil packet from the coals, slowly unwrapped it, and allowed the steam to escape in halting wisps. He poured the liver and onions into his mess kit. When he divided it into two portions, Tony stopped him cold.
“I’m good. I brought my own food, but thanks anyway.”
“You sure? I’ve got plenty.” Jackson tried to hide his amusement. The stench of liver chased Tony into the tent. For a second, he hoped the kid wouldn’t earn his badge. Ever.
As the sun disappeared and the desert was swallowed in darkness, Jackson turned his attention to the stars. If he earned the merit badge on his first attempt, he would receive an additional oak cluster. And the feat would all but seal his nomination to the Air Force Academy. He watched for hours, fighting fatigue and boredom. Sleep tugged at his eyelids; playful dreams tickled his subconscious. Many Scouts failed to earn a badge because they couldn’t stay awake. But Jackson was too disciplined for that. He slammed a Red Bull and paced around the campsite while Tony scribbled notes. So far, Jackson had accomplished his tasks in the proper sequence. There was just one more thing to do, but the final step was out of his control.
At 3:00 a.m. Jackson was stoking the fire when he saw it. An ethereal glow lit up the night, casting long shadows from the cactus onto the desert floor. A round, spinning aircraft edged closer and lowered its altitude. Through the curved windshield, Jackson gawked at the pilot, a small being with an over-sized head and wide eyes. The strange visitor flitted like a hummingbird for a few seconds, then retreated to the Heavens. Tony clapped Jackson on the back hard enough to rock him onto the balls of his feet.
“Congratulations. You’ve just earned your U.F.O. Merit Badge.”
by submission | Dec 26, 2017 | Story |
Author: Tyler Hawkins
Bernard gasped awake suddenly, and his eyes frantically darted around the darkened room looking for threats. Greeted only by the slow, rhythmic breathing from his wife laying next to him in bed, he focused on remembering the harrowing dream he just had. Bits and pieces stubbornly bubbled up, along with other dreams from earlier in the night. Setting aside the (admittedly nice) dream he had about his old high-school sweetheart, he focused on the hazy memories of his most recent dream.
He remembered a light outside his window, and his wall glowing softly—then laying on his back on a comfortable, heated metallic table. His very next memory is inside of a tank full of a thick, viscous gel. He can see himself in a mirror, but somehow in the mirror, his eyes are closed—then suddenly he’s back in his room, just in time to see a glimpse of a child-sized shadow stepping through his rapidly darkening wall.
Bernard sat in silence while his heart rate returned to normal, and looked over at his wife who was still sound asleep beside him. As the memory of the now quickly fading dream floats off, Bernard decides to lay off the late-night TV from now on and gets up and steps with practiced routine into the bathroom to relieve himself.
He absentmindedly scratches the annoying mole on his neck, only to sluggishly realize his life-long ridealong is now missing in action. He flicks on the light and notices the constellation of freckles across his face and neck are unfamiliar in a way that’s hard to place. Intrigued, he takes off his shirt and notices the scar on his arm he earned mountain biking as a kid is missing too, along with other moved or missing moles and freckles. It’s only when his eyes settle on the spot where a belly button should be that he starts screaming.
by submission | Dec 23, 2017 | Story |
Author: Rollin T. Gentry
Moira-1403 awoke, eyes wide open, ignoring the slight feedback in her sensors. She stood next to General Sabatyn in a small cave of which she had no record. The last thing she remembered was helping the General select the Cadet of the Year in his office.
And now this. They were ghosts in an otherworldly scene. Moira could see straight through the General to a stalagmite at the opposite end of the cave.
A lantern-sphere floated in a nearby puddle, illuminating the blue-green crystals protruding from the pale rock walls. She noticed a man in a pressure suit lying unconscious on the ground. Even through the moisture beading on his face shield, she easily recognized the former Ganymedian Ambassador, Osbat Kurelle. A ragged bandage snaked its way around his abdomen, the sort of crude device one would find in a zero-g, first-aid kit.
A younger version of the General stood near the mouth of the cave, tapping the controls on the front of his suit. He leaned against a giant, cream-colored, billowing thing, his arms extended.
“Sir, where are we?” Moira asked. “Why do I have no record of this time and place?”
“It’s a recording from my private log. Do you remember thirty years ago when those Ammuran extremists tried to kill Ambassador Kurelle?”
Moira nodded.
When the General remained silent, she focused on his younger self for clues. Lieutenant Sabatyn had placed five decomposition grenades on the pale thing ballooning from the mouth of the cave. He ran a hand over the bulbous surface and whispered, “Forgive me, brother, but we’re out of time.”
“Sir?”
“I’m sorry, Moira. Sometimes I forget that this is new to you.” The General paused the scene with a tap on his forearm. “That thing blocking our only exit is a Banchu worm, a giant, carnivorous grub. Our fight with the Ammurans led us into this system of caves. The weapons fire must have attracted the worms.”
The General touched his ear and whispered, “Listen closely. How many heartbeats do you hear?”
Young Sabatyn — that was one. The Ambassador — that was two. And a third … “The Banchu worm lives?”
“No,” the General scowled. “The worm is quite dead. My brother, Django, made sure of that. How he managed to get swallowed up in the process I’ll never know. He’s inside that damned thing, unconscious, but very much alive in his pressure suit.”
The General pointed toward the Banchu worm. “This is why I’ve brought you here, Moira.” He tapped his forearm. The scene resumed in real-time. “A rescue party is searching for us, but our suits are running out of air. I know how good you are with puzzles. You have 30 seconds to save him.”
As the young Sabatyn dragged the Ambassador into a corner, shielding the old man with his own body, Moira focused all her resources. 30 seconds was more than sufficient.
Cycling through one million permutations, even examining ideas that seemed absurd, Moira stopped with 10 seconds to spare. “I cannot find a solution, sir. I am sorry…”
On the General’s forearm, words flashed red beside a checked box: Clear History for Last Hour.
Moira understood. Her failure was a favorable outcome. And she wouldn’t remember any this: not the cave, not the worm, not the tears welling up in the General’s eyes.
“We have done this many times before, have we not, sir?”
“Yes, and it’s always a great comfort.”
“I understand, sir.”
Around them, Ganymede flickered out of existence, and fading herself, Moira hoped that she never solved the General’s puzzle.
by submission | Dec 22, 2017 | Story |
Author: Kemal Onor
Arkwell sat at the kitchen table. He was looking down into his coffee cup, admiring the roll of clouds. It reminded him of fast-moving July storms, and of rain on grass fields in the country. He made no attempt to stir the liquid. The mug was still full but no longer hot. His son was in the playroom. He could hear his voice rise at an injustice from his oldest daughter. It was one of those muted nights in November. When the snow has begun to accumulate at the windows and doors. That muted blanket that swallows sounds.
“Do you really have to go?” said his wife. She was still only half dressed and her hair was not yet tamed. Arkwell knew he would be able to sit a moment on the porch while she was getting ready.
“Too late to back out now,” said Arkwell, taking the coffee cup with both hands.
“You don’t think we could do without it?” Again, the voices from the playroom rose in high-squeal laughter.
“We might, but do you really want that?” His voice hung in the air like a string that had been pulled tight, then flicked to dither a single note. He looked to the window. Outside, the lake was frozen. Shadows were falling in deep patterns, and bruises of purple and apricot were filling the evening sky.
“More coffee?” She got up from the table and returned with the pot.
“I haven’t touched this one.” She put a finger in the cup. “It’s cold,” she said, and she poured the cup into the sink, and filled it fresh.
“Does it have to be tonight?”
“It’s best they don’t know. Marty is still young.”
“He starts at the academy Monday.”
“Really, they’re starting younger and younger now.”
“It runs in the family.” She gave a weak smile. The two sat a while, allowing the silence to fill between them, allowing sadness to grip the edges of their voices, and to sit in the unknown. The hours passed in their unwatched fashion. Six following five, seven following six, until the clock and time lost all meaning. It was a night where time is to be measured in the number of times the coffee pot is filled. And even that is not so dutifully watched. At some point, Arkwell rose from the table.
“Let’s walk to the water.” The two wrapped their bathrobes tight around them and put on their boots. Stepping outside, they found a cool evening. The snow was crisp to the touch, and it broke and crumbled under their weight. The two walked the path down to the water, and up the small hill where the dock would be on the other side in the summer. The night was clear, and all the stars of the universe unrolled before them, like a black carpet laid with hundreds of thousands of jewels. There Arkwell pointed to the brightest star in the sky. “See that star? Its name is Sirius. That’s where I’ll be going.
