by submission | Feb 10, 2016 | Story |
Author : Danielle Bodnar
Listen. In the basement, there is the shelter. You’ll find everything you need: canned goods, camping gear, cell phone, travel router, multilingual slang phrasebook. Inside the phrasebook there is a list of numbers and letters. This is the code to unlock the time machine – the big black box at the far corner of the room. Put on the jacket that hangs on the chair by the bed. It might be cold. Inside the inner pocket of the jacket is a tablet with inter-dimensional GPS installed and an electronic spanner. It’s an old one, but it should still work.
When you get inside the box, go to the control panel. The correct coordinates have already been put in. You’ll be back home, albeit 50 years earlier, in no time. How do I know it works? I’ve tested it before, of course. With apes, like the first spaceships. You’ll be the first human to go back. But forward – unfortunately, you can only go the long way round..
Try and stop it. Tell the world that the comet is coming. You’re a bright young kid, get into the best university you can, study astrophysics. Don’t worry about papers – I’ve already forged some for you. I plan for everything. You will find these in an envelope, also in the inner pocket of the jacket. Don’t look for yourself thirty years later. And for the love of science, don’t come looking for me, ever. If you succeed, this will never have happened, but right now it looks like you’ve failed. It’s all right, though; we can try over and over again, forever if we have to. Katy, this world is too beautiful to lose like this. I have faith in you, but this is an inevitable event. If you think you can’t stop it, advocate for humanity to travel to the stars. Maybe you can save some of them. I have included a list of coordinates of the closest inhabitable planets inside the phrasebook, page 116. But don’t reveal them unless this is the course you must take.
Don’t worry about me. I brought you here without meaning to. I had every opportunity to keep you away from danger, and I didn’t take them. I knew it was coming, that it always would come, but I waited too long. I thought, with all my intelligence and clout, I could swoop in and save the world at the last minute. Genius that I am, I let Hollywood delude me. This is the least I can do. I know you can do it, Katy. You’ve been a tremendous help in my research. The others always nodded along to everything I say, but you spoke up. You asked questions. But I shut you out. I should have listened to you before, told you what I knew, but it’s too late now. Another thing – don’t wallow in regret. Lucky for you, Katy, you can try again.
Don’t worry about Muffy – she’s safe in her carrier in your room, right where you left her. No time. You must go alone. Hurry; it will be here in half an hour. I’m old, Katy, so old. My life is lived. Please go. Now. I’m so sorry.
by submission | Feb 9, 2016 | Story |
Author : Travis Gregg
The grizzled man, draped in furs, trudged his way up the mountain side. The morning air was crisp and he could see his breath as he slowly made his way to the crevice. The location was a sacred secret and he checked behind him often, double backed more than once, but no one had followed.
The crevice was just wide enough for him to squeeze through. In his youth the climb up to the crevice, down into the depths, and then back up to the surface had been trivial but every year it became more difficult.
“Have to start thinking about an apprentice,” he thought to himself. A new apprentice would be a lot of work. He was reluctant to admit to himself that the time was approaching when he’d need to step down, but the tribe couldn’t go without a leader, regardless of his pride. As he had been taught as a youth, the knowledge of the sacred place was to be passed down so as not to be lost.
Taking one last look around, he squeezed between the rock walls and descended into the darkness. He had a small torch with him but he hardly needed it. The way was familiar and the pathway opened up after the initial squeeze. Navigating the twists and turns, he pushed through the last tight place and eased into the impossible long and rigidly straight chamber he thought of as the throat.
He’d had no idea the total length of the throat but it was four spans wide and at least that again tall. The walls and floor were smooth as a frozen lake, or maybe even smoother, but they weren’t slippery at all, and they were very hard. Every time he came he marveled at the smoothness of the walls. He’d never seen anything in nature as straight and smooth but he also couldn’t imagine what could have built this place either. It was like stepping into a different reality.
Heading down the long narrow chamber, passing several sealed up entries, he came to his destination. The archway was circular and reached nearly to the roof of the chamber. This entryway opened up into a large wide room with a ceiling at least ten spans tall. Inside were row after row of waist high tables and chairs all facing towards one wall of the room. Scattered around the tables were dull metal boxes that held the reason for his arduous journey.
Sitting down at a table he got to work on one of the boxes. The metal sides slid out if you knew the trick and once it was open he twisted a couple of the pieces inside the box loose. Holding up his torch he evaluated the components on how impressive they’d be. The piece he decided on was a small cylinder that was clear with thin swirls of metal coiled inside. It was beautiful in its own way. More importantly though, it was clearly beyond anything his people could fabricate themselves. He knew he’d have to be careful descending back to the village, from past experience he knew these could break easily and then he’d have to come back for another.
For another season the tribespeople would be duly impressed and appeased by his gift from the gods. They would be assured he was still favored and his leadership would remain unquestionable.
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”.
