by submission | Jul 16, 2016 | Story |
Author : Philip Berry
London, 1348.
Tantlas turned away from the rough-hewn window and its view of the wooden spire of old St Paul’s Cathedral. His three children slept. It was a very warm evening, mid-August, and the sheen of sweat on their exposed arms caught the moonlight.
Tantlas stared at their foreheads with an expression of concern, but stopped himself from feeling for fever. Instead he approached the hearth and stroked the smooth pebble on his narrow mantelpiece in a circular pattern. It pulsed. He spoke to his distant supervisor, Sumeedan.
I fear for my family.
: Remember Tantlas, you are a scientist :
They say it has crossed Europe. The first cases have been seen in the port towns. A seafarer’s child – she had not seen her father for two years – and a cooper’s wife. Three days after the onset of fever and stiffness came the black bruises, then the swellings, and then blood began to seep from their eyes and noses. They lived for six days. It is coming here, to the capital, and I fear for my family.
: It is not your concern Tantlas :
A year ago I would have agreed. But I have integrated now, as you instructed me. I have taken a wife – a widow – and grown to love her children. They are five, seven and ten. I love them.
: She believes you are her husband only because we performed a retro-implantation, at your request. You have gone too far. Your mission is to observe :
Observe annihilation? The death rate is over 60%. They say, in the city of Florence, that dogs drag the recently deceased out of shallow graves and feed upon them.
: Nature is blind Tantlas. You have changed :
I have. But do not think me sentimental. This species is no better or worse than others in our sphere of influence. But I am not comfortable with the persecution of innocence.
: As I said Tantlas, nature is blind. The pathogen will do as it will :
But on Pleon the same disease burnt itself out much sooner. They lost only 8 percent. My estimate here, based on reports from the source continent, is 150 million.
: Your observations will help our species if we are ever infected :
But haven’t we learned enough already. The Yersinia is not evolving. I believe we know the profile of those who can resist it. I… I request that the pandemic be forestalled.
: Impossible :
Why? Our designers can introduce a counter-pathogen in the north.
: No. This is not the attitude of a scientist. It is the desperation of a father. A false father! Now, if that is all, I will disconnect :
No! I must have a guarantee.
: You are in no position to make demands :
I will report my suspicions.
: What? :
That Yersinia pestis is a manufactured organism. That this is an experiment.
: You risk everything by speaking this way Tantlas :
I mean it.
: I will not be blackmailed. So you will choose Tantlas. Either your children will be protected… or the epidemic will burn itself out in six months :
I… I… that is not moral…
: What is your choice? :
The… children. Save the children.
: It is done. The children will live. Now, do your job. Disconnect :
Tantlas returned to the bedroom and wept over the three sleeping forms. Torn by relief and guilt, his thoughts grew misty and his memories were displaced by remote retro-implantation.
by submission | Jul 15, 2016 | Story |
Author : Kristin Kirby
As she trudged across the rocky sand, shivering, she stared at the one dim star in the sky and wondered how the inhabitants of this soggy planet could see anything. Her gasps were harsh and wet. She was breathing water.>
Lost, drowning, she knew she wouldn’t make the rendezvous. Her companions would leave without her, abandon her in this cold, sodden, desolate place.
Movement to her right startled her, and she stumbled, then caught herself. A curious feathered creature, brown and mottled, struggled in the sand, one wing flapping. Its other wing appeared broken. Its head was bowed. A brown serpent chased the feathered creature, triangular head reaching, mouth agape and full of fangs. A whirl of kicked-up dust enveloped them.
Ignoring the gurgle in her throat, she stopped to watch. The serpent was patient but determined, following the feathered creature in circles, dodging its powerful wing as it thrashed. She thought the serpent wasn’t cruel, just hungry. But she felt for the feathered creature as it fought for its life.
She coughed, doubled over, staggered to one side. She remained hunched and shaky until her gasps subsided. She didn’t have much time. Her companions would wait only until the deadline. They might search for her if they felt inclined, but it wasn’t part of protocol.
The feathered creature now lay sideways, panting, clawed feet splayed, beak open, eyes glazed and bright. It had been struggling for a long time. She could almost feel its utter exhaustion and hopelessness. The serpent rested too, expectant, in the shade of a great boulder. Neither seemed to noticed her.
She and her companions weren’t to interfere in the doings of this planet’s inhabitants. But she couldn’t watch this, and she couldn’t walk much farther.
Wary, she moved toward the serpent. It saw her and spun into an angry coil, tail rattling, forked tongue darting. She stooped, almost fell, but straightened again and in her fist was a rock.
She raised her arm and threw. A dull thunk as the rock landed on the serpent. It jumped, struck out at air, and recoiled. She kicked the ground with her boot. The serpent struck again, but was pelted with sand. Finally it yielded, slithering off to find easier prey. Soon it was out of sight amid brush and spiked plants.
She gave a rheumy cough. The feathered creature didn’t move. Peering closer, she saw the reason for its trouble: its head and one wing were entangled in a flat, opaque, flexible apparatus with six rings. She had no idea its purpose, but realized it was a death trap for anything caught in it.
She kneeled carefully next to the feathered creature, saw its sharp eyes widen in panic. She reached gentle hands to the milky yoke of rings. They were strong. But she found if she pulled, the material stretched, widened. And finally, with the last of her strength, she broke two rings apart.
The creature didn’t hesitate. Free, its head snapped up, both wings arced, opened–she felt the gust of them on her face, heard the flapping–and the feathered brown body rose into the air. Nothing like this magnificent being, that owned the sky, existed on her planet. Her heart rose and flew with it, her eyes squinting as they followed it away on the horizon.
Then she lay gratefully on the sand near a tall, thorny plant, amid the buzz of insects and meager heat from the dim star. The day continued around her.
Her companions would search for her. They’d find her. They’d be there soon.
by submission | Jul 14, 2016 | Story |
Author : Karin Terebessy
This is German language lesson number twelve. Let’s review. I will ask if you understand. Verstehen Sie? If you understand, how would you answer?
“Ich verstehe.”
Very good. Let’s continue.
Pretend you see a woman across the park and you want to get her attention. How would you call to her?
“Entschuldigen Sie!”
How would you say, “Good day.”
“Guten Tag.”
Now ask her if she understands English.
“Verstehen Sie Englisch?”
She answers, “No, I understand no English.” “Nein, ich verstehe kein Englisch.”
But she thinks you understand German very well. “Aber Sie verstehen sehr gut Deutsch.”
Tell her, “No, no. Not very well.” “Nein, nein, nicht sehr gut.”
Tell her you are a phony.
Go on.
Tell her even when you are truthful you feel like a phony. Though you don’t understand why.
But wait. She says, “I am a phony too. I speak English.”
Ask her why she lied to you. Never mind. It probably doesn’t matter. You don’t have a chance with her anyway. Might as well tell her the truth. How you always lie. Because knowingly speaking a lie is somehow the only honest to do.
“People who think they speak the truth are the biggest phonies,” she agrees. “Hypocrites. They delude themselves into thinking they speak truth.”
You marvel that she understands. “Sie verstehen.”
“Ja, ich verstehe.”
Ask her why the truth never seems real.
“What is real?” She asks. “Is it real to say, ‘I am in love,’ or ‘I am happy.’?”
Right now you may be in love. With her. Would that make you happy?
“What does that even mean?” She asks you. “People say it all the time. But ask them what it means to be happy, and they can only say they are not sad. Ask them what it is to love, and they can only say it defies description. Ach! That is evasion. A child’s answer.”
She looks out on the park. For a moment, you both watch an old man toss stale bread to the birds.
You lean on your elbows. “They aren’t real.”
She misunderstands. “The birds?” she asks.
You shrug. “The birds, sure. And love. Happiness.”
She laughs. “And you? Are you real?”
You sit back. Put your arm around her. “Do I seem real?”
She laughs again. “All things seem real. But are you real?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then probably not,” she says.
“And you? Are you real?”
She looks at you sideways. “I am no more or less real than any other woman.”
“Is this real?” You make a grand gesture with your arm. Take in the park, the birds, the bench, the world.
“No more or less real than any place else.”
You hear a honk. “Is that a goose?” You ask stupidly. She laughs at you.
Suddenly you become aware of the guy laying on his horn behind you in a futile vent of anger. Traffic’s at a standstill. Your sweaty hands on the steering wheel. Fumes from the hot fresh asphalt sag through your open window. This car was built before a/c. Before MP3 players, iPods and CD’s. When you bought it, there was a language tape stuck in the radio.
You look to the passenger seat, really expecting to see her there. She’s not. But the seat sags from age. The steam from the highway softening the old vinyl. Warm and sagging. As if she’d only just left.
by submission | Jul 11, 2016 | Story |
Author : Matthew Harrison
“Tell Mr Hoffmann, Jimmy,” said his father.
The noonday sun outside had been dazzling, and Jimmy’s eyes were still adjusting to the dimness of the shop. The old jeweller loomed formidably behind the counter. But at his father’s prompting, Jimmy piped up, “It’s my watch. The time is wrong.”
Mr Hoffmann frowned, his white eyebrows almost meeting. “Our watches are very gut,” he said slowly, becoming Germanic in his concern. “Vot is the problem?” His son Stepan came up, his younger brow likewise furrowed.
At his father’s signal Jimmy took his watch off, reached up, and put it on the counter. “The numbers – there’s a thirteen…” Then he saw Stepan. “I bought it from him.”
Mr Hoffmann glanced at Stepan. Then he put on an eyeglass and squinted at the watch. “Ach, Ja! Dreizehn!” He took the eyeglass out.
Then with ponderous humour: “Thirteen o’clock – Ha Ha! Zat vould make you late for ze lunch!”
“It did too,” his father said.
Mr Hoffmann invited Jimmy to choose another watch. With encouragement from his father, Jimmy looked, and chose a shiny new digital one. Mr Hoffman congratulated him, and passed the old watch to Stepan.
“In a way, it’s a pity,” said his father. “We could have used the extra hour.”
“As could we, as could we,” Mr Hoffmann agreed with a smile.
When Jimmy and his father had gone, Mr Hoffmann turned to Stepan. He was not smiling now. When he spoke, it was not in German or any other recognisable language. But it seems that Stepan understood, for with a miserable expression he picked up the watch and quickly did something to it so that the numbers ran from one to twelve again.
Outside, there was a sudden flurry. The sun flipped back in the sky, and then resumed its normal course.
by submission | Jul 10, 2016 | Story |
Author : Gary Bremer
I awoke with a start from a dream that I’d already forgotten. Groggily registering that it was sobbing from my six year-old son’s room that woke me, I quickly glanced at my phone sitting on my bedside table. 2:41 a.m.
Shuffling quickly down the short hallway to find out why he was crying, I stumbled over our cat…unseen and lying in the center of the hall, curious at the commotion this early in the morning. She gave a slight hiss as she disappeared just as quickly as she’d seemed to appear underfoot, annoyed that I couldn’t see in the dark as easily as she could.
I found him sitting up in his bed, slouched forward and quietly crying into his hands. I sniffed my nose loudly to announce my presence and not startle him. Sitting next to him in bed, I pulled his head into my chest.
“Did you have a bad dream?”
He continued to cry, and I had to repeat myself.
He replied, “Noooo.” Some sniffles. He wiped his eyes a bit.
“Why are you upset, then?”
“I’m afraid, because I know one day I’ll die, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“My little man, you don’t have to worry about that! You have your whole lifetime ahead of you. Also…”
He looked up at me.
I continued, “…scientists are making more and more progress with technology all the time. You know, they say the first person to live forever has already been born”
I could see a palpable change in his eyes. “What do you mean, Daddy?”
“Well, they say that one day we’ll be able to upload our brains into a computer, so we will be able to live forever…only having to replace parts as they wear out.”
“Wow, really?”
“Really, really. Does that make you feel better sweetie?”
He smiled slightly. “Yes Daddy, thank you. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I tucked the covers around his shoulders as he settled back into bed, and kissed him on the forehead. I whispered, “Get some sleep.”
The cat was nowhere to be seen on the walk back to my bedroom.
Before falling asleep, I recalled my own existential crisis in my youth. In order to comfort me, my father had told me how I had nothing to worry about dying, as I’d be able to live forever in Heaven.
I started quietly sobbing to myself, as I realized my son would probably be making up his own narrative for his son 30 years in the future, just as I did tonight, and as my father did for me.
Lies. All lies.
