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.
by submission | Oct 25, 2017 | Story |
Author : Matthew J. Beckman
The Deputy stood in front of the patched screen door, staring down at Danny Willis. Moths flickered around the porch light.
“Were you up there three nights back? In the canyon?”
Danny licked his chapped lips. A moth landed on the side of the Deputy’s face and he brushed it away.
Footsteps approached from within the pitch-black interior of the trailer. Danny’s father stepped halfway onto the porch holding the screen door open. The stale musk of cigarettes and sweat he brought with him brutalized the night air.
“Deputy.” He peered down at Danny, squinting against the porch light. “What’s he done now?”
“Just need to ask Danny a few questions, Art. The Parker boys are still missing.”
Art grunted. “Kids are always running off. No goddamn respect anymore. Get inside when you’re through.” He went back inside letting the door slam. From the cavernous darkness came the sound of a loogie being hawked.
“Did you see the Parker boys go into the canyon?” the Deputy asked.
Danny nodded slowly.
“Did you go after them?” Danny didn’t answer. He’d been interviewed by the Deputy before. He knew what he meant by “go after them”.
The Deputy sighed. “Did you see anything strange? Something like lights?”
Danny nodded.
“Floating lights?”
Danny nodded again.
“Look, Danny. Their bikes were up there. Nothing else. Their parents are frantic. They’re just little kids. You gotta tell me what you saw.”
“You’ll never believe me.”
“Try me.”
Danny looked away into the darkness and then frowned at the Deputy.
“Spaceships.”
The Deputy nodded.
—–
Danny lay on his bed in the darkness tonguing a fresh swollen lip. The window was open, and the desert air was cool and clear. Through the thin walls came the droning sound of Art sleeping off a bottle of Kessler.
Danny made his decision and slid off the bed. He pulled a Crosman air rifle from the closet and slipped out the window. He slung the Crosman over his shoulder, dragged his Mach One from underneath the trailer, and started pedaling towards the canyon.
A quarter of an hour later, Danny’s bike was lying on its side beneath the manzanita overlooking the pump station. He squatted in the sand with the loaded Crosman balanced on his knee. On other days he sat up here waiting for neighborhood kids to come by, walking or maybe on bikes. Terrorizing them was Danny’s favorite pastime, even though sometimes he felt sick afterwards.
He thought back three nights ago and shivered. The Parker boys, the lights. The strange humming that filled the air and then his head. Transfixed and unable to move, the garbled vocalizations, so terrifying, became words in his head.
“Which one?” the voice demanded. The Parker boys stood below, frozen in a shaft of light.
“Which one?” it demanded again.
“Not me! Not me!” Danny had shouted in his head.
From across a gulf of echoing wind, he’d heard the boys whimpering.
“Not me,” he’d said again, straining against the swath of light holding him. Then he was released, gasping and retching in the sand. When he’d looked up, he’d seen two small bodies lifting into the sky.
Now he looked down the canyon toward home and then up into the night sky. A moth landed on the muzzle of the Crosman and began walking down the barrel towards Danny’s hand. He closed his eyes and cast his thoughts to the stars.
Take me. Take me. Take me. Bring them back.
by submission | Oct 21, 2017 | Story |
Author : R.D. Harris
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by submission | Oct 20, 2017 | Story |
Author : Christina Dalcher
You have to bid right in these things. Too low, you wake early; too high, your money is lost. No refunds, no exchanges, all sales are final. The first decisions are made on the outside, when the surgeon wears white and not green, when talk is of likelihoods and estimates. Not pain. Never pain.
Everyone bids low, thinking they can gut it out if it isn’t enough.
The next patient rolls from pre-op into surgery, her face covered in a caul of fear. She’s not old enough to remember the days before the medical free market, before modern medicine morphed into part Über marketing strategy, part game show. Not old enough to bankroll the bucks for add-ons and upgrades. The old woman next to you rattles something about an appendectomy, says she still feels the surgeon’s blade slicing through flesh and fat and nerve, hands pulling muscle apart, slow fingers stitching. You wonder if the body remembers pain; the woman’s eyes assure you it does.
The girl disappears behind the door.
When the first sobs seep into the ward, a dozen phones chime in unison, reminding you of the approximate duration of operations, paid minutes of sedation, deficits. A suit in the corner calls his bank. The old woman who used to have an appendix begins to weep, turning the invisible diamond on her finger, the one she pawned to pay for her half-hour of pentathol that won’t be enough, not for the procedure on her chart. A father bends over his small son, whispering apologies.
Last chance, offer expires in thirty seconds, upgrade now! warnings flood your phone, each accompanied by a cheerful tweet punctuating the screams from a room that can only be the deepest circle of hell.
Your deficit is at zero. A fine number—assuming no complications, no unforeseen glitches, no hemorrhaging, no organs punctured by unsteady hands. One finger hovers over the screen before tapping ‘No.’ A sole ping answers. Are you sure? One thousand dollars buys five more minutes of unawareness.
A howl, hoarse and hot, comes from the girl in the operating theater.
The suit yells into his phone, demanding another transfer. The father pleads for an emergency mortgage; his son is only ten, he says. He breaks down as a nurse announces an unexpected delay. The girl’s voice, thin as thread now, begs the surgeon to let her die. They want you to hear this, the anesthesiologists. They pipe the sounds in. Motivational Muzak for the miserly.
Pre-op explodes into a symphony of beeps and chimes and pings; suits and grandmothers and desperate fathers scrambling for last-minute purchases. The red circle appears on your phone: Price surge. Current rate: $500 per minute. Upgrade?
Images pop up, full-color reminders of surgical squick. Gigli saws severing limbs, Finocchietto retractors spreading ribs, curettes, cannulas. Bone drills and chisels and cutters. The Italians win for sheer creativity on how to wreak havoc on the body electric.
Ten seconds remaining.
The voice in the operating room silences, and the orderly calls your name.
Yes. Five thousand dollars; ten extra minutes. Ten thousand all in for a simple appendix removal. When you wake up, you’ll have to sell the car.
In the theatre, bright lights blind you as the mask covers your nose and mouth. Numbers are punched into the gas-passer’s machines. Voices, distant now, call a procedure from the wrong chart, a bypass. Six hours. Patient paid for one. Poor guy. The lights dim and the voices muffle.
We’ll be making the first incision now.
