by submission | Nov 5, 2016 | Story |
Author : Sheryl Normandeau
“See these skyscrapers here?” he says, jabbing a finger at the pile of photographs splayed out on the tabletop. “I made ‘em all.”
I stare up into the red-rimmed eyes of Phillipe L’Oiseau, and frown. The man is staggeringly drunk, and the worn, yellow-edged photos in front of me are of the Eiffel Tower, the Empire State Building, the Burj Kalifa. And the Egyptian pyramids.
“Mr. L’Oiseau,” I say, “I didn’t come all this way to interview you and have you feed me bullshit. I told you, I work for The National Tribune. My publisher and I aren’t interested in printing fantasy stories. We’re about real news. I’m here to talk to you about your upcoming urban farming project in Singapore.”
Phillipe leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his thick dark hair. I had done my homework, of course, before I embarked on this difficult journey from Toronto to this hole-in-the-wall bar in Bratislava, but I had been unable to find many photographs of Monsieur L’Oiseau, the lead architect on the Aeroharvest contract. The ones I had managed to uncover online were from the late ‘Eighties. Forty years of living – and drinking, if tonight was any indication – had not burned a single line in the man’s face, nor painted slashes of white along his temples.
“No,” he says, and he suddenly looks very sober to me. “You’re not here about vertical greenhouses. You’re here because of your mother.”
I’ve been a journalist for nearly two decades and I’ve schooled myself not to react when someone springs a whammy on me. But his words make my heart skid against my breastbone, and it takes me too long to reply. “How did you know?” I finally whisper. Because the man is right – despite what I told Jackie, my publisher, I didn’t come to Slovakia to discuss concrete and glass and steel with Phillipe L’Oiseau. I came to tell him about my mother’s death, and her revelation about the father I never knew.
I stare at the photographs on the pocked, stained table. The steely reporter can no longer bring herself to face the man she is interviewing. “How many of us are there?”
Look up at the skyscrapers, then beyond them, at the stars. You’ll see.
by submission | Nov 4, 2016 | Story |
Author : Russell Bert Waters
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s a bit overcast outside.
There’s a nice breeze.
The trees are beginning to drop their leaves, and Autumn is right around the corner.
I hope this letter finds you well.
There are some things I feel I must tell you about; even warn you about.
A year ago, I invented a device to make events in time travel to me.
You read that right.
Not a device for me to travel in time, but quite the opposite.
Everyone who’s been working on this, to right wrongs, to make themselves wealthy, whatever their motivation, has been looking at it backwards.
I can’t go deeper into the technicalities.
I don’t have much time, I fear.
There are notebooks full of my findings, some of which are filled with information I eventually deemed irrelevant.
Yesterday, I killed a man using a discarded chunk of concrete at a construction site for a new Walmart.
I’m in hiding now, of course, as it’s very hard to do anything unseen these days.
Any time of the day or night, there are always people around.
The man I killed somehow had some of my notebooks.
They were not the irrelevant ones, unfortunately.
I’m not sure how long he had them.
Hopefully he didn’t show them to anyone, or make copies, but considering recent events, I feel that’s unlikely.
Someone’s coming, I need to stop writing now, I’ll tell you the whole story when I can come back here.
If I can come back here.
My name is Alex.
It is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
It’s about ten degrees below zero, actual temperature, and the howling wind outside makes it feel like it’s closer to twenty below.
About a year ago, the United States government’s researchers developed a device to bring various events in time to the user of the machine.
Evidently making matter, such as a human being, travel through time, is far less easy to achieve than it is to bring points in the timeline to the human in question.
The reason I’m writing this journal entry of sorts is because I’m scared.
I’m being hunted by serious men who seem to have unlimited resources.
I’m having strange dreams that I don’t understand.
I just want this all to end; I just want to be safe again.
Yesterday, I had to kill one of these men, at a construction site for one of the government-run mega stores.
I’m hiding in an abandoned out-building on some farm property outside of town.
I’m thankful to have found a bin containing one of the worker’s dirty coveralls.
Thermal-lined for extreme weather, super lightweight, and somehow it doesn’t make me sweat or feel hot.
I’m actually comfortable right now.
I’m not sure why I’m being hunted, but that’s the only word I can come up with for what’s been happening.
I know it’s only a matter of time before they get to me, and I need to tell you some things.
I need to warn you about some things.
I’m hearing some noises outside, I need to hide, I’ll write more later if I’m able to.
My name is Alex.
Today is Saturday, September 24, 2016.
The rain has slowed down some, but even when it’s raining it still feels tropical; the humidity doesn’t lessen one little bit.
It’s about 97 degrees right now.
Feels more like 115 in my opinion.
Last year, the Emperor’s valued research team developed a time travel machine.
I’m writing this letter because I’m scared.
Very, very, scared.
by submission | Nov 3, 2016 | Story |
Author : Leanne A. Styles
I woke, squinting through the harsh dawn light; the girl’s bloodied face emblazoned on my brain. It was always the same girl, from the Whirlpool galaxy. I couldn’t remember which planet. They all blurred into one.
Like the battles. The explosions.
The walls of my cube apartment seemed to be pulsing in and out, the glass wall at the back rattling violently, threatening to shatter at any moment.
Nothing was moving really. It was just the withdrawal ‒ all in my head.
I heaved myself from bed and staggered over to the coffee table, snatching up the bottle of Blue Titan Rum and unscrewing the cap before swigging a few large gulps.
The room stilled and the girl’s face began to fade, her ruined features becoming less defined, as the alcohol assaulted my senses.
I headed over to the glass wall and looked out over the city. Opposite, in the soaring apartment block which mirrored mine, the residents were rousing. Most, like me, were ex-military; forgotten heroes of the famous Galaxies war. To the left of the blocks, the holographic billboard, spanning the faces of several buildings, had a new campaign.
It was a Galaxies war recruitment drive. A young man wearing full body armour and a shiny new helmet stood proudly in the middle. His mirrored visor was pulled down, covering most of his face.
He could have been anybody. Just another number.
Running down the right side in big letters read the slogan:
The Galaxies War
For The Justice
For The Liberty
For The Glory
The girl’s face, buried in the rubble, crept back into focus. I lifted the bottle to my lips and repeated my own slogan in my head.
The Galaxies War
For The Lies
For The Horror
For The Nightmares
I stretched up onto my tiptoes, peering over the edge of my balcony. The suicide nets had been down for two weeks. An all-time record.
Shame it wouldn’t last.
It was zero six hundred hours. Betting time. I logged in, and the left half of the glass flickered into life, displaying the betting site. I sat down on the coffee table and placed my first bet on a robot I fancied in a boxing match, and another on a sandhog battle. But the big money bets were happening on a private chat between a dozen or so army buddies in my block.
It was the same bets every day.
Will anyone jump today?
Who will jump?
What time?
And so on.
Just one win would have been enough to get me out of the hole I was in. But my soul was screwed enough as it was.
I took another gulp of rum, and watched my robot get obliterated to scrap by his rival.
Movement from across the void caught my eye. A young man had emerged into his balcony and was staring over the side.
The betting started going wild on the chat.
The sandhog battle kicked off. My hog came out strong and bloodthirsty, mercilessly setting upon his smaller opponent.
The young man climbed onto his railings.
My hog grew cocky, made a mistake, started to tire. The inferior hog seized his chance. Blood gushed from my hog’s throat, staining the dirt where he’d fallen…
The girl’s face came racing back.
The young man jumped.
I raised my bottle and said, “For the glory,” before necking the last of the rum.
To a soundtrack of screaming and sirens, I placed a bet on the next jumper.
Soul? What soul?
by submission | Oct 30, 2016 | Story |
Author : Aaron Koelker
Two Cardinalis cardinalis, the northern cardinal. Five Zenaida macroura, the mourning dove. One Toxostoma rufum, the brown thrasher. And the highlight of the excursion – one Pandion haliaetus, an osprey! I couldn’t wait to tell Maria, but for now I only had Ron’s apathetic ear.
We hefted our packs upon our shoulders, took up the instruments in their polypropylene cases and set off for the CP. The thick bed of pine needles beneath our boots made the walk more bearable, and the cool steady breeze told us autumn had finally made its way south. We picked our way through derelict neighborhoods of crumbling gingerbread houses drowned in kudzu and sunshine.
Crossing the river where the interstate once did, we paused to plunge the sonde into dark waters and recorded the numbers. From the far bank came a splash that I thought might be Mugil cephalus, the striped mullet, but neither of us had gotten a good look.
We made the CP just before dark and I told Maria about what we’d seen. She and Sarah had seen Dryocopus pileatus, the pileated woodpecker, but the osprey would become the talk of the CP. It marked another confirmed apex predator, and was the latest in a string of positive indicators for the region. With any luck the council would approve resettlement by this time next year.
Sara wandered off for dinner and Maria led me by the hand to their tent. I gave her a kiss and was about to try for more when she stopped me.
“Have you thought about staying yet, Harold?”
“You mean here?” I asked.
“Yes, when they resettle. Mild weather all year round. More water and sunshine than we’d know what to do with…”
“A little. But what about Tom and Jenna back on the colonies?”
“I think they’d understand, don’t you?”
“Maybe…”
“Well, when the resettlement gets approved those applications are going to go fast.”
“I know. It would be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“Let me think on it some more.”
“Don’t think too hard,” she said with a smile, pulling me down onto the cot alongside her.
At the evening debriefing Ron and I reported our findings and were met with generous applause, and the following day we were dispatched eastward along the coast. It was midmorning by the time we arrived and the tide was low, leaving a wide, sloping beach littered with sargassum weed and small white crabs, Ocypode quadrata, darting in and between. I was watching a pair fight over an old plastic bottle cap when a thunderous boom sounded from overhead and frightened them back into their burrows. Two gulls, Larus delawarensis, hiding in the dunes behind took flight and made for sea, chanting in protest.
“Another colony ship,” said Ron, pointing.
The massive vessel plowed its way through the afternoon clouds, heading somewhere north and deeper inland. Sand from the top of the nearest dune broke loose under the vibrations of its thrust and collapsed quietly. I was drawn back to the gulls by their incessant screeching.
“Do you think this planet is ready for us to come back?” I asked Ron.
“They’re talking about resettlement here within the year.”
“I know what we think. But did anyone ask them yet?” I gestured to the birds, now almost invisible against the sun-clad waves. “I just wonder what makes us so important when we seem to screw up the most.”
I looked to Ron for an answer but he was already walking toward the dunes. When I turned back to find the birds, they were gone.
by submission | Oct 28, 2016 | Story |
Author : Mark Cowling
I had Dad drop me off at the rear of the complex. Last time I didn’t know better and rolled up to the front, got swarmed by the news-crews and the paps and like a thousand screaming fanboys. It was super embarrassing to be driven there by my parents, but I’m only fifteen so I needed them to sign a bunch of contracts and stuff.
I made my way past security and then I get escorted to makeup by two dudes with crewcuts and sidearms. They tell me you have to have makeup because of the cameras, everyone does it. While some guy is messing with my hair, he’s pumping me for info. How did I get here? Am I nervous? That kind of thing. People are always looking for some kind of story but there isn’t much to say. I’m just a normal kid with good grades and no drama. My father expected me to become a doctor like him and my aunt, but no parent would stop their kid from going pro. The sponsorship alone is seven figures.
This was to be the first time I got my hands dirty. Before, they didn’t let me near the action. I had to see this guy who I guess was a psychiatrist. He was asking a bunch of questions he read off a form and didn’t really seem to care if I gave one word answers. Some people don’t think kids should even be given contracts, but it’s a simple fact that our reaction times are better. So they passed a bill or whatever and here I am.
I first started taking things seriously at thirteen – which was when I chose the dorky tag I’m now stuck with: MegaKillz. After only a few months of playing on the semi-pro circuit, I won back to back events and that was the first time it had happened like that for a kid my age. Soon after that second win I got the call-up from the US Armed Services.
After the makeup people were done, the crewcuts lead me through to the control room. Looking around, I had to try and keep my cool. Some of the biggest names in gaming were there, including the big man himself, Merlin. Merlin was ancient as far as the pro game goes at twenty-nine. The man was a legend; his last feed got the highest ratings ever on the US Army’s Freedom of Information channel. Which just about makes it the highest ratings of anything ever.
I was too nervous to speak to anyone so just followed the crewcuts who took me to my plugin. I was still more used to playing in the sims than real life, but everything was real natural in the tests the army made me run. I made a few little movements and the symbiot reacted good, minimal timelag.
“Hey kid, don’t sweat it,” Merlin said, shouting above the noise. I looked around like a fool before realising he was talking to me. He flashed me that famous, doped-up smile. “Hey, the blood and shit don’t even look as real.”
I turned back to my screens and hoped no one could see my hands shaking. Soon the cargo drone would drop our symbiots onto the battlefield and it would be show time.
“Yo, who we schoolin’ today?” someone said.
“Egyptian fucking terrorists,” said Merlin.
“Syrians,” said a crewcut.
“Why is that guy still in here?” said Merlin without looking up from his screens. “Clear the fucking room.”
