by submission | Aug 15, 2015 | Story |
Author : Sean Kavanagh
A third term as President.
No one since FDR had served three terms, but he could feel that tingling sense of anticipation, that odd, pulsing of the blood that foretold victory. He was on the verge of making history. The campaign had gone well. He’d connected with the electorate in such a very personal way and now he could almost taste that landslide. The speeches, the personal appearances, even the tedious writing of his manifesto, it had all gone smoothly.
A glance at his watch: 9.59pm – just one minute until the polls closed.
He sat down in his chair in the Oval Office to wait.
His eyes fell on the hands of an antique clock, which presumably one of his predecessors had installed, but which he’d not yet removed. The Oval Office did look a little threadbare these days, but times were hard.
The election was over: the clock struck ten. Now all that remained was the count.
He looked at the ballot box on his desk and smiled.
Wanting to savour the moment, he went back to the window and looked out. It was a dark November night in Washington, snow falling early, as it did now. But all the snow would be immaculate. Untouched. No footsteps. No sidewalks cleared. No hills littered with snowmen or the remains of snowballing fights between children.
The snow lay undisturbed by man, as there were no more men. Or Women. All gone. In a plague so swift it was over before panic even began.
But he had been spared.
Just him.
And, as the last living member of the human race, he intended to see out his days doing what he believed to be right and proper.
The country…the world… needed a leader, and he was proud to be President of…everything.
Slowly, he walked over to the ballet box. Unlocked it (tampering was unlikely, but he was a stickler). Up-ending the box, the single vote fell out. His vote. He picked it up.
“Commencing count,” he said to, literally, nobody. He unfolded the ballot paper. His eyes went wide with shock. No….No, how?
He looked closer.
In his haste he’d folded the paper before the ink had dried, and now the ‘X’ next to his name was smeared beyond recognition. He took a deep breath and showed the ballot to the empty room. “Spoiled!” He announced, and he set the paper aside.
Such a defeat was bitter. It wasn’t a charismatic opponent, or a popular ideology that had defeated him, no, it was nothing but his own sloppiness and arrogance.
They’d always said every vote counted.
He hated it when the dead were right.
by submission | Aug 14, 2015 | Story |
Author : Rick Tobin
“So why spray millions of tons of toxic soup on the U.S. for years in chem trails if we had this fungus ready?” Harold Simpson leaned forward over half-finished plates of veal chop Milanese and Coho salmon amandine, adding impact while interrogating Elliot Thompson, Senator Farrell’s Chief of Staff. The two camouflaged themselves among dark business suites at lunch in Washington D.C.’s Fiola restaurant.
“Timing, like elections, is everything. You’ve worked D.C. long enough. We soften up targets first… then hit them hard. DARPA developed varieties of soups, confusing our enemies. Journalists wrote it was about metals used for HAARP communications or climate modification. Partially true, however, it was salts used in late winter and early spring that had a real bang. Those absorbed through their tough skins into their bio-operating systems. Made them vulnerable to what’s coming next.” Elliot leaned back and continued to dissect his salmon, turning his knife and fork like a Swiss surgeon.
“What about our people? You blocked the CDC conclusions: increased asthma and autism in children, obesity and lowered IQs. I met with the Director two weeks ago. They’re livid about outbreaks of common diseases, like measles, after mothers refused vaccination.” Simpson continued to hover over the table, whispering to his lunch mate. “Isn’t Farrell worried about the hell she’ll pay, revealing the back story on massive alien deaths next week? She approved the black project funds for Hawaiian research. Maybe she should delay.”
“Sit upright, Harry. You know the media vultures here watch for intense exchanges.” Thompson continued his repast, finishing the last bits of fish. “There will be inquiries, no doubt. She will deflect with standard collateral damage BS. You have to put the threat and risk in perspective. Simple fact is the Grays broke the Eisenhower agreement. In the 80s, a hundred thousand went missing…forever. Last year it was almost a million. How would you like to be veal on that plate?” Thompson picked up his heavy, red-cloth napkin, delicately touching his lips, removing almond chip debris. He noted his guest dropping his silverware as his jaw opened. “Really, Harry. You’ll make a mess of things. Pull yourself together.”
“So who gets the credit, or blame? I’m sure that’s been discussed.” Simpson waited for a response while quickly draining his glass of water, recapturing his composure.
“DARPA wants to stay on the sidelines for this one. We’ll probably tip the hat to Whittier and Mason. They may catch some flak for the early tests of ophidiomyces that took out the rattlesnakes on the East Coast and in Illinois. We covered that by comparing it to natural outbreaks of the bat fungus. Hey, the aliens read, too. It’s all a media war, but when we release the final product all over the country next week, good-bye Mr. Contact of the Third Kind…including their infiltration of hybrids into government and industry. It will be a slaughter.” The waiter interrupted the intensity with delivery of Italian ice cream.
“You’ll excuse me if I don’t share your enthusiasm, reelection season or not.” Simpson’s phone rumbled on the table. “I’ll have to take this, sorry. Give my best to the Senator.”
“Sure, Harry. I think she’ll be pleased. Oh, no need to get up to leave, even if you could. Overpowering thirst is the first sign. How was your dinner salad?”
No reply was expected as the Chief of Staff watched Simpson melt in his Brooks Brothers suit, becoming a pile of cilia and fine dust on the floor.
by submission | Aug 13, 2015 | Story |
Author : C. J. Boudreau
The algae were there! In the deep permafrost. Turning up the magnification and refocusing the cam, he could see the nuclei. They were photosynthetic, the rare green color in the frozen soil. Perhaps hundreds of millions of years old. Mars was not dead! Arturo took several samples from the most populated areas. He sealed the case, and climbed back out of the ravine to the rover. He left the case in the car and went back for his remaining tools. He probably shouldn’t have been here alone but his time here was limited and he’d wanted badly to look at this site.
He was climbing out again, awkwardly, with the tools when the side of the ravine collapsed on him. He was lucky he didn’t damage his suit.
The fall back into the ravine stunned him. When he was able to appraise his condition he found himself buried. He tried his com unit and found it wasn’t working. His suit, tough, mostly carbon, told him that it was in otherwise good condition, all its heads up displays green. Most of its controls were voice op. A couple were chin switches in his helmet. A good thing, since he couldn’t move his hands. Just one foot. He ached from some bruises, but was otherwise unhurt. Someone would come looking for him soon and see the car, and his foot. His primary concern was oxygen. If he ran low, he didn’t like to think about it, but there was the Rescue Unit in his suit, Cold sleep. Not hibernation, but freezing.
He hadn’t been there long when the storm came up. Dust storms on Mars can be planet wide and last months. This one didn’t, but it was long enough. Within a few hours he and his rover were deeply buried in red dust. When his oxygen indicator showed a quarter hour left, he initiated the Rescue Unit and icy fluid roared in.
He woke cold and aching in a white room to see a pretty, but reed thin, young blonde woman leaning over him. She said “Don’t try to speak yet, just nod. Are you Doctor Arturo Hartwood?”
He nodded yes. It hurt. She turned to someone outside his field of vision and said excitedly what sounded like “Cee! Yeti Zim! Trooz!” To him, she said “Rest now, we’ll talk later.” Another woman in white, military uniform with a close fitting cap tapped something on his arm and he passed out.
Sometime later he awoke feeling somewhat better. The militaristic nurse came in, smiled at him, said something unintelligible, scanned him with a little handheld instrument and left. Then the blonde woman came in.
“Hello Doctor Hartwood, I am Dr. Enid Veeder. I’m honored to meet you.”
She’d an accent he couldn’t place.
“Hello Doctor. How long will I be here?
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. We must ask the medics.”
“You’re not a medic?”
“No. I’m a linguist. I’m here because I speak your English.”
” No one here speaks English?”
“Not yours. You are a great celebrity. There is a statue of you in my hometown.”
“A statue to me?”
“Yes Doctor. I’m sorry your rescue took so long. They found your car and samples quickly but they couldn’t find you. Last Sixday, an aqueduct digging crew found you while checking for buried cables. Your discovery – oxygen producing native algae – made terraforming Mars practical. But your suit is amazing. It’s protected you, frozen in the permafrost, for two thousand years. They don’t make them like they used to.”
by submission | Aug 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Izabella Grace
Inside the smoky crystal, everything glows. I hang suspended in sunlight and tiny bubbles, like a fly trapped in amber. I scream for Mum or Tyler, but the crystal’s hum swallows my voice, like it swallowed me. My pale skin glows orange as the sunrise over their jagged, glass mountains. My ragged breaths whistle like the hot wind over their white deserts.
The Great Library’s twisted spire flashes into my mind. It glitters black as night and beckons like an outstretched finger. I try to resist its pull, like in my dreams, where I haunted its echoing, musty halls, where I studied dusty shelf after dusty shelf crammed with species-filled crystals.
A pulse beats, thrumming like an electronic drum. The crystal jolts and floats upwards, away from my scratched pine desk. It quivers, dipping beneath the purple lampshade, and buzzing louder than a wasp over my English Lit essay and chewed biro. Abduction hurts. It grinds you down, like a pestle grinds salt, and steals your flavour.
My bedroom door creaks ajar. Tyler’s Black-Jack-stained mouth drops open.
“In here!” I yell. “I’m in here!”
But he just stares at the hovering shard.
“Don’t stand there, Ty. Go tell Mum. Get a hammer. Do something.”
I punch and kick at the honeycomb walls, but my flesh peels and swirls like snowflakes. Tyler swipes a pudgy fist at the drifting crystal and misses. He climbs onto the bed and swipes again, his small fingers brushing the shard’s outer edge. He yelps, jumps back, his chocolate brown eyes widening in surprise. Then he bursts into tears.
Footsteps rush up the stairs. Mum stops in the doorway, her round face turning pale as milk.
“Oh, God, Hannah,” she says. “I told you to throw that thing away.”
The crystal glides across my cluttered bedroom, crashes through the bay window and rises up over our grimy north London street. People point and scream, and armed soldiers try to catch us, but the shards buzz louder. The hum slams into heads and scrambles brains. Bodies topple in waves like dominoes.
Wintry sky wraps around me. It glints like a tropical sea, filled with sparkling fishes: creatures, like me, made of black rock and flecked orange-gold. We should’ve guessed they weren’t ships. We should’ve known they didn’t break up in our atmosphere by accident. We should’ve realised they were weapons. Grenades. Each glittering shard a potential trophy, catalogued and stored on a dusty shelf.
The afternoon trembles with silent screams. Then two helicopters rise up over dark rooftops, blades thudding, huge nets spilling from their underbellies. I shriek and wave. “Up here! Up here!” But they dip below me, scooping up dazzling shards, like whales feasting on plankton. The air thickens with cloud and confusion. I twist and turn, desperate to find the nets again, but fog hides everything.
The cloud cracks like an egg, and the sun’s glare hurts my eyes. I swipe away hot tears and scan the empty horizon. Beneath my bare feet, the grey cloud boils like thick soup and spits out another shard, which wobbles and dances like a honeybee. Inside it, a shadow shifts, too dark and blurry to make out any features. I fix my gaze on it.
Our crystals hum their intoxicating song and sail higher.
We soar out into open space.
by submission | Aug 12, 2015 | Story |
Author : Izabella Grace
Inside the smoky crystal, everything glows. I hang suspended in sunlight and tiny bubbles, like a fly trapped in amber. I scream for Mum or Tyler, but the crystal’s hum swallows my voice, like it swallowed me. My pale skin glows orange as the sunrise over their jagged, glass mountains. My ragged breaths whistle like the hot wind over their white deserts.
The Great Library’s twisted spire flashes into my mind. It glitters black as night and beckons like an outstretched finger. I try to resist its pull, like in my dreams, where I haunted its echoing, musty halls, where I studied dusty shelf after dusty shelf crammed with species-filled crystals.
A pulse beats, thrumming like an electronic drum. The crystal jolts and floats upwards, away from my scratched pine desk. It quivers, dipping beneath the purple lampshade, and buzzing louder than a wasp over my English Lit essay and chewed biro. Abduction hurts. It grinds you down, like a pestle grinds salt, and steals your flavour.
My bedroom door creaks ajar. Tyler’s Black-Jack-stained mouth drops open.
“In here!” I yell. “I’m in here!”
But he just stares at the hovering shard.
“Don’t stand there, Ty. Go tell Mum. Get a hammer. Do something.”
I punch and kick at the honeycomb walls, but my flesh peels and swirls like snowflakes. Tyler swipes a pudgy fist at the drifting crystal and misses. He climbs onto the bed and swipes again, his small fingers brushing the shard’s outer edge. He yelps, jumps back, his chocolate brown eyes widening in surprise. Then he bursts into tears.
Footsteps rush up the stairs. Mum stops in the doorway, her round face turning pale as milk.
“Oh, God, Hannah,” she says. “I told you to throw that thing away.”
The crystal glides across my cluttered bedroom, crashes through the bay window and rises up over our grimy north London street. People point and scream, and armed soldiers try to catch us, but the shards buzz louder. The hum slams into heads and scrambles brains. Bodies topple in waves like dominoes.
Wintry sky wraps around me. It glints like a tropical sea, filled with sparkling fishes: creatures, like me, made of black rock and flecked orange-gold. We should’ve guessed they weren’t ships. We should’ve known they didn’t break up in our atmosphere by accident. We should’ve realised they were weapons. Grenades. Each glittering shard a potential trophy, catalogued and stored on a dusty shelf.
The afternoon trembles with silent screams. Then two helicopters rise up over dark rooftops, blades thudding, huge nets spilling from their underbellies. I shriek and wave. “Up here! Up here!” But they dip below me, scooping up dazzling shards, like whales feasting on plankton. The air thickens with cloud and confusion. I twist and turn, desperate to find the nets again, but fog hides everything.
The cloud cracks like an egg, and the sun’s glare hurts my eyes. I swipe away hot tears and scan the empty horizon. Beneath my bare feet, the grey cloud boils like thick soup and spits out another shard, which wobbles and dances like a honeybee. Inside it, a shadow shifts, too dark and blurry to make out any features. I fix my gaze on it.
Our crystals hum their intoxicating song and sail higher.
We soar out into open space.
