by submission | May 14, 2017 | Story |
Author : Matthieu C. R. Cartron
Funny that they called her a mother, for she had neither sons nor daughters. Ancient but lively, she was as old as all of those who had been created alongside her. Every day she would look around, slowly, to watch her neighbors, hoping that it would be different, that they might awaken from death. But every day she was given a sorrowful reminder.
She was alone.
She ate the warm light, and had no choice but to do so. She waited. And waited. Eventually, she experimented, and found a way to create it–something to bring her a passive sort of company. She had found a way to create them, microbes, and once they came into existence, they became essential to her.
They borrowed some of her energy, but she didn’t mind. They returned the favor with their innocent presence, an ignorant sort of mutualism. She knew of them but they never knew of her.
For some reason she had survived. The red being to her right and the yellow being to her left had also survived, but only for a desperate moment. Putting up a vicious fight, the red being came the closest, but like the others, he too fell into a deep sleep. If anything, the Mother thought, he would be the one to awaken once more.
She wondered if there were others out there in the darkness, others who had survived the blast long ago. Maybe they too could entertain themselves with the microbes. Were their creations the same as hers?
But in the latest few seconds of her existence, something went horribly wrong.
A new microbe had evolved onto her blue and green skin, and they were unlike anything she had ever seen before. They were neither the smallest nor tallest, the fastest or slowest. But they were the smartest. In the first few moments the Mother could sense promise.
But after that brief moment, they attacked her. They dug into her crinkled skin and let the black and blue blood spill. They multiplied, using her flesh to produce more offspring and propel their devilish mutation. Why were they not like the others?
She writhed in pain, jolting and disrupting the mutated microbes. They seemed to take no notice though, and perhaps this was because they simply did not care. They were galvanized by self-interest–but if only they were when it mattered. Had that been true, it might just have saved them.
No, she thought. Perhaps they weren’t all that smart. The holes they had dug would become their own graves, she thought. What stupid little things they were. She searched her memory for a solution but came up empty. Her mind fought for ideas but yielded nothing.
Mother Earth sat there, on her axis, wondering what she could do in the next few moments before she too, was dead. And this time, no one would be around to hope that one day she might wake up.
by submission | May 13, 2017 | Story |
Author : Mark Adel
I felt the urge to write speculative fiction. But I couldn’t. So I swallowed a nil pill. Still I couldn’t. So I swallowed another nil pill.
Then I couldn’t remember my name.
But when my fingertips touched the keyboard I realized I was sitting in the part of heaven that had been settled centuries ago by Native American Zen monks.
“Amazing,” I said to a small weathered man sitting beside me at another keyboard. He was typing with the index finger of his left hand, while in his right hand he held a short stick wrapped in a strip of leather and adorned with feathers and turquoise beads.
Because he didn’t acknowledge me, I decided to fill the silence: “Is this going to be speculative fiction? Is this going to be an epic everything-but-the-kitchen-sink story, a sprawling conceit, a junk drawer that holds the meaning of life and whatever in the universe has no home and belongs nowhere but here?”
“No,” the old man snapped, whacking my knuckles with the stick. “It’s going to be painful unless you stop babbling like an idiot while I’m holding the talking stick.”
“May I hold the talking stick?” I asked, rubbing the back of my hand. “I have a question.”
The old man whacked my knuckles again and said, “Quiet. You asked a question and you were not holding the talking stick. And what makes you think this is speculative fiction. There’s not a speck of speculation in it. There’s not a speck of fiction in it. Everything here is true.”
I pointed from my mouth to the stick to my mouth again, trying to pantomime that I wanted to hold the stick so I could talk. The old man whacked my knuckles again.
“Hey!” I cried. “Why did you do that? I didn’t say anything.”
“Not with words,” he replied. “But you spoke with your hands and there’s no difference. You’re lucky this is not a gangster mondo. Then you’d really get whacked.”
“But—” I started to say.
He whacked my knuckles again and said, “Knucklehead! You are Knucklehead! The name you can’t remember is Knucklehead!”
by submission | May 12, 2017 | Story |
Author : Vanessa Kittle
Max stood looking out of his window into the night. He lived on the 50th floor of the Palmer building in New York. The rule was the higher the better, and while he was nowhere near the top, he was still far up enough to get above most of the smog. He could just make out the jeweled lights at the top of the wall that circled the city and protected it from the ocean. It was a lovely view that was worth the cost. Over half of Max’s pay went to the rent for his apartment. Max kept the servers running for Palmer holdings. Of course he had never actually met Harald Palmer, but he was good at his job. It was easy so he enjoyed the work.
His controller buzzed. It was Cara Wite, the Cara Wite, inviting him to a party that very evening. Sure, it was a mass message, but this meant that he was on her contact list! He would go of course. What would he wear? It had to be something special. Max screamed to the room, “Emily, I need you!”
A holographic representation of his life helper appeared in front of him. She looked calm and cool as always in her gray skirt suit. Max had an odd sense of pride in the professionalism of his helper’s settings. There was some very subtle sexuality there. He didn’t deny that, but it was buried beneath a layer of cool intellect. So many people he knew had theirs set like a teenage boy would, with a bouncy short skirt that barely covered anything and just a push-up bra for a top. “How can I help you, Max?” she asked.
I’ve been invited to Cara Wite’s party. It’s in two hours. What should I wear?”
Emily took off her glasses and put one of the ends in her mouth as she considered the problem. “Your new yellow suit and blue tie are the best selection. You will look very handsome, Max.” She smiled reassuringly to punctuate her suggestion.
As Max began to think about actually going to the party, a wave of dizziness hit him. He steadied himself by holding the back of a chair. “Emily, what will I have to do at the party?”
“There will be hors d’oeuvres and drinks. There will be music, accompanied by some light and voluntary dancing.”
Max nodded. That sounded all right. Then a terrible thought came to him. “What will I say at the party… if someone talks to me?”
“I’ll be right there with you if you need me, Max.”
“I know that but I can’t wait for your suggestion every time… or can I? Won’t that look odd?”
“Most of the people at the party are very similar to you, Max. I have analyzed their profiles from your invitation. I suspect they have similar concerns.”
“So you think I should go to the party?”
Emily considered his question for some time, before responding, “You shouldn’t go to the party if it upsets you, Max. Your blood pressure is elevated. Sit down and relax.” Max sat on his sofa. Emily spoke to him again in her most soothing tone, “No one will know you weren’t there. Send a message thanking Cara. The result will be better than if you went.”
Max suddenly brightened and stood up. He was able to take a deep breath. He smiled at Emily. “You are a genius, my dear,” he said. Then he asked her, “What shall we have for dinner now that we have the night to ourselves?”
by submission | May 11, 2017 | Story |
Author : Linda Breneman
“I can control a computer with my mind—from inside a dream,” New Scientist, February 2017.
At first I was content to fly like a bird and have brief tea parties with my dead mother.
Later I took to diving off buildings and bridges. Like the patron saint of lucid dreaming, the Marquis d’Hervey de Saint-Denys, I’m a glorious fool.
When I was recruited by the government spooks, I leapt ahead. Their tech, the LD3000, is a groundbreaking headset that delivers harmless, quick zaps to the brain while you sleep, a 40-Hz alternating current transiting your cranium. When they add infusers to deliver smells linked with your favorite activities—such as flying, eating, and libidinous encounters—it’s not long before you can control the plots, the scenery, the characters, and your point of view.
Recruits: I’m sure you’re aware that we are an elite force. We move attack drones with our minds while we’re sleeping, eliminating insurgents as necessary. What you might not know is that our job doesn’t have to be unpleasant.
While stabilizing and sweetening your dreams can be difficult, it is not by any means impossible. Think of dreams as little children who do not wish to be tamed. The more intent you are, the more recalcitrant they become. But with patience, time, and a little Skinnerian conditioning, you can learn to direct your dreams like Spielberg.
It helps that the LD3000 multiplies the gamma brainwaves in your frontal lobes, temporal lobes, and hippocampus.
What’s really going on is brain regions telling their inside-out stories to each other, like the one where you’re swimming with dolphins rather than bombing villages.
When a giant baby grows the head of a camel and waltzes with you in the oasis, you know you’re getting there. All you have to do is dart your eyes right and left. That’s the signal that you’re ready to let the bombs fly.
Just between you and me, juxtapositions are your friends. Transform that desert hut into a delicious frosted cupcake you’re about to savor.
Let the convoy of Humvees on the highway become a ribbon in your lover’s hair.
Maple trees in lovely fall garb are one of my favorite morphs for fire.
If witches and monsters startle you, or if video manifestations of maimed enemy combatants leak into the dream, run straight at the apparitions with your chest open, and they’ll slip right through.
You’re a conjurer, making up the future as you go along.
You’ll almost fall in love with this job, I guarantee it, once you realize you are in control, and reality is only another place, a place filled with suffering and pain, but a place you have official permission to ignore.
by submission | May 10, 2017 | Story |
Author : Joachim Heijndermans
They won’t stop staring at me.
I’ve been stuck here for forty-two hours. I haven’t slept in all that time. I don’t know if I can keep it up. Normal procedure is to set the beacon on board the ship off, then find shelter and food and stay put ’till they come for me. I haven’t eaten. I haven’t found shelter. I haven’t even moved from this rock. I’m afraid of what they’ll do. They’re all around me. Looking at me with those big eyes.
I don’t remember the crash, nor do I know what happened to my co-pilot. The last thing I saw before I blacked out was the starboard wing of the Daedalus, shredded into Swiss cheese by the asteroids. Then I woke up on this hill, surrounded by these…things.
I think they’re lizards. Tiny little bipedal lizards, about six inches high. And there are thousands of them. A sea of tiny bodies, tails, and large eyes.
I don’t know what they want from me. Are they intelligent? I tried speaking to them, but they just stared at me. Either they don’t understand, or aren’t interested in what I have to say. They don’t seem to carry weapons, so I don’t think they’re violent. Nudging them with my glove does nothing. I tried to get them to move. No dice. They just stand there and stare. Every now and then, they blink in unison, making an eerie clicking sound.
The Daedalus is close, about twenty yards from my current location. Was I dragged over here? For what purpose? I’m trying not to think about that. I’d rush them, but I’m afraid they might turn hostile if I step on one. Even at their small size, they outnumber me. They’ve taken my tool belt, so making a weapon is out of the question.
My back is killing me. My eyes are heavy. My stomach roars at me. I don’t remember when I last ate. I might have sustained some internal injuries in the crash too, so the pain in my side isn’t helping matters much. My–
Shit! They licked their lips. The sound is bone chilling. Like a thousand wet rags being smeared across a window. Was that a sign? Does that mean what I think it does? I hope to God not.
“What? What are you staring at?” I grunt at them. They blink, all at once. It’s disturbing. I can’t take it.
“What do you want?” I scream.
A wrinkled one with a small bone through its nostrils steps forward. “Shabaaaaa!” it shrieks.
The others join in, bowing and chanting: “Shabaaaaaa!”
Is that it? They think I’m a god? I can imagine seeing someone in a silver and orange suit can lead to conclusions. But in this case, it means I’m saved.
“Shabaaaaa!” they cry again.
“Okay, Shaba! I get it. Now, how about some grub for your new leader? You know, food?” I ask, making a “nom-nom” motion.
No response. They keep their heads against the ground.
“Hello? Some food for your God, maybe?”
A shadow falls over me. I turn around, meeting a larger set of eyes. A seven-foot lizard with eight arms is behind me. Its entire skin is covered in golden scales, with an enormous frill around its neck. It looks at me just like the little ones did; intensely, with unblinking eyes.
“Shabaaaaa!” the little ones cry out again, raising their hands and waving them. It’s not me they’re praising.
It belches, then licks its lips. Behind me, I hear a thousand little voices shriek: “Shabaaaaa!”
