by submission | Feb 7, 2016 | Story |
Author : Suzanne Borchers
Within a huge classroom, Professor Stella watches what appears to be a wild party. Twelve divergent beings converse in languages of uttered speech, thought, movement and touch. Shouts, laughter, and slaps resound. Is this a scene of galactic insanity?
No. It is an experiential warehouse of virtual reality learning which spins in space billions of parsecs from the nearest star. Images of cooperative and competitive thought-architectures fill the shelves, spilling onto the floor and piling upon each other.
Stella calls to Xerus who immediately blows a gust of laughter at his tottering bot to prevent it from smashing into his partner’s project. Stella turns her attention to another team.
Often during this past season, Stella had contemplated how she would feel on her last day of teaching. Would she regret the seemingly infinite number of seasons she had spent here? Would she regret her sacrifice of personal time and relationships for this full-time network? Would she find another vocation in her mandated retirement?
Stella’s breathing is heavy and her two hearts pound.
Last day is here.
Stella smiles as she gathers her students into a circle. The playful shoving, poking, and guffaws take time to settle into place. Each “other worlds” student has grown in personal and interpersonal confidence. This season has been successful. Now is the time to release their images back to their own worlds. Her smile falters a moment at her future loss, but again Stella smiles.
“The universe survives by intertwining cycles with networks. Use these to prosper the spheres of light in our worlds.” She breathes deeply. “I am satisfied you possess the tools to network successfully.” Stella reaches out her rainbow-colored fin toward each student. “Network wisely, my children.” Professor Stella closes her eyes. “Power out.”
The darkened room becomes empty space promising a new season.
by submission | Feb 6, 2016 | Story |
Author : Christos Tsirimokos
You would think living in paradise is easy.
And it is, physically, since our creations provide for everything.
But mentally? Have you tried to keep sane when you have nothing interesting to do?
Even the most extreme experiences can become trite given time and we have all the time in the universe to try everything. It’s not like we can die from disease or accident anymore, so why not?
I’ve seen most of my friends get more and more bored as time passed. Someone found it a good idea to die and not come back. He started a trend. I’m not the only living person yet, but I know us all by name.
Truth is I don’t know how long this situation will keep me interested. I have already made my decision to follow everyone else and I keep smiling these days, not from insanity, nor from relief, but the irony.
Who would have thought that humanity would end not in some terrible disaster but in utter boredom?
by submission | Feb 5, 2016 | Story |
Author : Ben Sixsmith
John Byrne woke up, a hundred and ten years after he had died. He had the vague impression that he had been sitting at his desk, but now he was suspended in the air. He tried to move his arms and legs but found they were immobile.
“Mr Byrne?”
John found it hard enough to accept what he could see that there was no room in his brain for what he could have heard. Unable to move his head, he looked up at the ceiling, where lights blinked in colours even ecstacy had not exposed to him.
“Mr Byrne?”
Two men appeared above him. They had smooth scalps, angular beards and pained expressions. One was tall and one was short but both were lean. Around their necks were stiff white collars and around their brows were strange devices that resembled scorpions.
“Yes – what – where…”
John was breathing hard and fast and rough. There was a hissing sound and a warm feeling spread up to his chest from his legs. John realised that the air bore the faint scent of vanilla. He began to feel embarrassed for being unwashed and unshaven in such clinical surroundings.
“It is 2026,” said the shorter man, “You have been resurrected by the Christie Group in accordance with LD4564. I must inform you that you have been injected with a mild shock suppressant.”
It occurred to John that he would have liked a more powerful shock suppressant. He remembered a hideous bolt of pain striking his chest but then everything was black.
“You have – you have cured death?”
“In a sense.”
“Look, Mr Byrne,” the tall man said, “This technique has been controversial. Its use is strictly limited and regulated.”
He smiled.
“We haven’t cured regulation yet, you see? We applied to resurrect you and for a good reason. You write novels?”
“Yes…”
It had been a good way to earn a crust a hundred years before: cranking out doorstoppers about sex, drugs and serial killings.
“You were working on a novel when you died. The Third Betrayal.”
John remembered seeing his text blur on the screen in front of him.
“So?”
“Your books are popular.”
“Really? Jesus. I was eating out of cans before I died.”
“Well, Mr Byrne, filth is always in fashion.”
“What we want, Mr Byrne,” said the short man, “Is the ending.”
“What?”
“The ending, Mr Byrne! Your book was published incomplete and people want to know what happened.”
John realised that he could open and close his eyes and did it several times in quick succession.
“You have cured death! You have cured death! You never have to die! And people want to know if DI Frayn can catch the killer of the prostitute in the pond?”
The short man looked impatient.
“People want to know. Surely you can understand that, Mr Byrne? People always want to know.”
“But this is…I’m alive! I have another chance to…Can my wife come back? I feel like I could…”
“Look, Mr Byrne, if you will not cooperate we are under no obligation to keep you…”
“Okay!” John yelped, “Okay! It was DI Frayn. The divorce sent him mad and he killed her with…”
There was a click. John suddenly felt as if a whirlpool had materialised in his stomach. He disappeared before he had a change to scream.
“A bad ending,” frowned the tall man.
“Yes,” his colleague shrugged, “Well, let’s move on. I don’t want to be here all month.”
He pressed a button and a name appeared before his eyes. It was “Shakespeare”.
by submission | Feb 4, 2016 | Story |
Author : Beck Dacus
“Sorry,” Merida said, “but why did we let him come aboard with a gun?” She looked warily at Jonathan’s holstered pistol, his hand guarding it from her and preparing to draw it.
“You do know why he’s here, right?” Vennix asked her. “Right?”
“Yeah. To show him the world’s not flat. One of the last Flat Earth theorists, right?”
“Yes. He is. So think about it. We’re willingly taking him into orbit to show him this. Don’t you think he would think that we were trapping–”
“I know, but this is a space shuttle, for God’s sake! We can’t possibly–”
“Is this lady tellin’ me to get off?” Jonathan asked. “Because I can if I can’t carry–”
“It’s fine,” Vennix told Merida, telling her to shut up with his eyes. “We’re taking off as soon as your men are finished with their… inspection.”
“What. The hell. Are you talking about?” Merida asked.
“He’s having his men check the rocket to make sure the windows are actually windows, and not screens. What did you expect?”
“’What did you expect?’” Jonathan interjected. “What else was this dumb freak gonna do, right? I’m making sure that you’re not tricking me! What’s so hard to understand about that?”
“Because we’ve done experiments for thousands of years! Because we’ve verified this over and over again! Because you can see the horizon, moron! We’re letting you have too much power in all this!”
“MERIDA!” Vennix said. “We’re trying to show him that with this trip! Remember?” He pulled her up the ladder, to the pilots’ seats. “This is the last known Flat Earth theorist on Earth. We’re bringing down an immense amount of ignorance, superstition, and bigotry right now! Do not ruin this. He won’t shoot us if we don’t provoke him, which we obviously won’t. Understand?”
It wasn’t really a question. “Yes, commander.”
The rocket swiftly made its way to orbit, as they all did now. It was this affordability that inspired this crusade to remove all doubt about Earth’s shape. Because it didn’t cost millions of dollars to launch five people into space anymore, they could manage to remove this man’s twisted ideology.
“There it is,” Vennix said. “You saw it unfold, right from launch. You saw it turn from the launch pad to the entire, spherical planet.”
“And that,” Jonathan said, “was incredible.” His eyes were glued to the window, his face contorted with deep thought. “I just– everything, put into perspective like that… my God.”
“Do you acknowledge Earth’s curvature?” Merida pressed.
He looked back at them. “I… can I have my moment?”
“No!” she said. “We brought you up here for one thing, and I’m not going to let you evade the matter to spare your pride! Do you accept, or do we need to send you outside to have a look for yourself?” Her face had turned red.
Jonathan sighed. “Fine. All right?” He put his right hand on his heart, and said, “The Earth, my planet, is round.” He sighed. “Now all my friends are gonna disown me. Call me flaky.”
Merida sidetracked. “Why do you care? You’ve seen Earth from up here. Didn’t you just say that was amazing? Focus on that.”
Silently, he turned away, and took her advice. Merida turned to Vennix, who was smiling.
Now everyone knew.
by submission | Feb 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Jared Lynch
The water quit flowing from the taps shortly after the sirens stopped. I hadn’t paid my rent in three months, but I didn’t expect to receive an eviction notice. None came. There hadn’t been a train for four months.
Karen and I were always in before curfew. At night we hid away in our attic apartment, looked at the empty faces of the houses. Sometimes we read by candlelight. Sometimes there was light in other windows.
Gunfire eventually replaced the vacant ambience of the trains. Sporadic became more frequent. Pistol shots, then automatic. It reminded me of the fourth, lighting sparklers down by the river, gunpowder accumulating in a cloud beneath the fireworks.
The pepper plant and onion were growing well in the planter hung outside my kitchen window. Then one day heavy boots thudded up the stairs, a gloved fist on my door, an AR-15 pointed in my face. “Food can only be grown by government approved producers. This is your only warning.”
The next day we drove to my sister’s and stood in their yard with her husband. The peppers, lettuce, onions, carrots, kale, cucumbers, zucchini, garlic, rhubarb, corn, and radishes were all gone, picked clean from the stem. There were boot prints in the pumpkin patch. Mark said, “We’re leaving soon, going to your dad’s. Come with us.”
I said, “We’re still waiting to hear from her parents.”
That night there was an explosion in the distance. We saw fire on the horizon. Gunfire moved across the river. When she pulled back the curtains, and saw what our world had become she crawled back into my arms. I said, “Calm your fearful pulse my lover.”
She said, “The skyline is beautiful…everything is washed in a thin orange haze.”
I said, “You’re beautiful. Kiss me.”
We fell into each other. Automatic outside. Short bursts. Another explosion, closer. There were no lights in the windows.
The next morning we drove to my sister’s. The trunk was filled. Our packs were in the backseat. Gallons of water stacked on the floor. We parked off the alley in the back, walked through the trampled pumpkin patch. Empty house. A note on the kitchen table: Had to leave. Made copy of map for you. Meet us.
We drove through empty neighborhoods. We approached a checkpoint on the road leading out of town. Five bodies haphazard on the shoulders of the road, four soldiers and a man dressed in combat boots, cargo pants, and empty holster, laying facedown in a halo of blood.
We followed the map out through the country. The smoke was sporadic. That day the solitude felt barren. We hadn’t left the city since the spring’s green. She asked, “What are we going to find out here?”
I said, “Another house. Maybe the future.”
There was smoke in the rearview mirror.
