by submission | Mar 15, 2014 | Story |
Author : Glenn S. Austin
“Well do you think it did any good at all?” The President asked the others sitting around the large oval conference table in the command bunker.
The President asked the question to the entire room, but his tired eyes looked directly at his Press Secretary.
“It’s too early to tell Mr. President.” The Press Secretary was a tall, thin middle-aged man who looked like he would be more comfortable in a cubicle at a large accounting firm than sitting here advising the leader of what was left of the free world. “Most of the education we provided was for long term survival, over a period of months and years. We knew our training program was really only directed at the small portion of the population that would survive the initial catastrophe.”
“Yes, yes, I know, but we’re three months in now, do we have any indication as to what percentage took the training to heart?”
“Sir, the problem is that the ones who really learned from all of our educational programming, will not be jumping up and down waving a “Help Us” banner.”
The President raised his eyebrows; everyone knew that meant he wanted the speaker to elaborate.
The Secretary explained. “One of the re-occurring themes in all of the training was that staying hidden and off the grid was the best strategy for continued survival. No matter what the threat, it is always best to stay concealed from both the initial threat that brought down society, as well as hiding from other survivors who will just consume your resources, while reducing chances of long term survival.”
“Going to be tough to take the next Census.” Quipped the Chief of Staff, to quite a few chuckles around the table.
The President looked at his Chief of Staff and pressed for a better answer to his original question. “Well what real data do we have that any of our training programs had an effect?”
The Chief of Staff looked down the table at the Commerce Secretary.
Commerce took a second to look at the contents of a folder in front of her on the table. “Sir, our numbers indicate that the retail sales of bows, crossbows, and firearms increased, as the number of training programs increased. We feel that this correlation indicated the message was taken to heart by at least the folks who watched the training videos.”
“Do we have any idea how many watched the training videos?” The President asked, looking further down the table at the network executives.
The collection of suits looked around at each other and silently selected a representative. A large man cleared his throat as he stood up to respond. He looked directly at the president, “Sir, the collective ratings for our Zombie Apocalypse programming indicate over fifteen million repeat viewers. In fact our Zombie programs as a whole were the highest rated programs at one point.
The exec waited for a response and then continued when all he got was a nod. “Our Alien Invasion programs also faired very well with over ten million viewers, and another ten million watched the nuclear, loss of electric grid, and EMP blast, apocalypse shows.” The exec concluded, “We only had 7 years to provide the programs but we reached over 25 percent of the U.S. population with the combination of survival training education we provided.”
The President grinned slightly and addressed the table at large. “So the future of the USA and civilization now depends on couch potatoes who watched apocalyptic Zombie and Science fiction disaster shows. Let’s all hope they learned something!”
by submission | Mar 14, 2014 | Story |
Author : Rachelle Shepherd
The streetlamps sputtered on, spilling buttery fluorescence on Broadway Street litter. Sparrow opened the kitchen cabinets where chrome rows of Midnight Oil hissed in the shadow.
“Another night, Sparrow?” He didn’t answer. He never talked anymore, only scribbled in his journal and chewed his teeth crooked on pull-tabs.
Midnight Oil. 100% pure energy info-tech, all natural human animal hormone. Each tiny can was polished aluminum, reflective down to the print. Circuitry wrapped its wires around brand logo and rim and vanished down into the belly of the can. If you took a penlight and peered past the pull-tab, you could see through the translucent hormone to where the circuitry disappeared into the darker depths of oil.
Street rumor said that the circuitry never ended, not on any can. Constant loop.
With a magnifying glass the flawless circuitry became fine line English. Words all crammed in one gut-wrenching punch of symptoms and side effects. Gigabyte after gigabyte of consequence raced its message down those wires. Always changing.
Sparrow had classic addiction. Addiction and a writer’s muse, one of Midnight Oil’s bastard prodigies. Midnight Oil Poetry! Drinkers beware: metaphor in every can.
Sparrow plucked one off the shelf, chugged it, staggered, tossed the waste. When he turned back to me he had the pull-tab between his teeth.
*
Another night. I began to dread it just as much as my flat-mate, a man grown gaunt.
“You can’t live off metal shavings and steroids,” I said. He grinned a grin of broken teeth and ragged tongue. He’d been gnawing that pink skin at the edges.
The streetlamps hummed and spilled out sunscreen puddles over Broadway Street stray cats.
Midnight Oil. He said it stung the first dozen times. I saw the blisters myself, the pockets of pus clustered around his lips. There was a callous on the inside of his middle finger by the end of the week and crumpled stationary crackled underfoot with every step. Some of those pages were only words, some sentences, some dark night dead-end poems. All projects of a wired mind. Sparrow had gone viral.
He stopped talking, sleeping, eating, paying rent, paying attention. But he always burned the Midnight Oil.
I had my cigarettes, Surgeon General, and I lit one. Sparrow stood at the kitchen cabinet, his army of chrome soldiers full attention.
Another pop and hiss, guzzle and gag, gasp.
*
I woke up one morning to sunshine streetlamps fighting city smog. Some days, there was real Sun out there, the bona fide all natural firefly in the sky. You could see it on the news, too, if you were scared to go outside.
Sparrow dead on the kitchen floor, a pull-tab in his teeth. The linoleum was hormone slick.
I peered down at his open, vacant eyes. Circuitry bobbed across his iris.
I rushed for my magnifying glass. I was back before the words were swallowed by the black hole of his pupil and flushed down the cords of optic nerve.
Penlight? Check.
I put a beam on them, trapped that fine line English with my glass eye. They struggled with the congealed pool of sticky blue, strangers to 100% all natural human animal death throes.
They read: symptoms and side effects.
by submission | Mar 12, 2014 | Story |
Author : chesterchatfield
I woke up one morning and found a small robot living on my leg. By the time I stumbled up to the bathroom, I could feel the little parasite burrowing, trying to get at my mind. After an hour, I’d become a passenger in my own body, watching this little creep run me around like a puppet.
It walked me down to a local mall and we bought a wristwatch, no one seeming to notice an alien presence behind my eyes. We hopped a bus, walked a bit more, and then buried the watch in a hole filled with tons of other trinkets, tools, and sheets of metal. I have no idea where we went because it avoided looking at any signs or landmarks the whole way. That treasure trove could be practically anywhere.
As the day wore on I felt the presence weaken, like it’s batteries were running down. By the time we returned to my apartment, I wrestled control back and the robot dropped off my leg, lying limply on the ground. It was about six inches long, metal plated like a cylindrical leech. I doubted it would be able to travel very far without a host.
Reaching over to gingerly poke it, I finally noticed a small notebook that had been tied around the thickest part, like a dog collar.
Inside were accounts from what I guess are all the other people it’s latched onto. The first dozen are in foreign languages I can’t read, but towards the end they’re English. Each person wrote their name, the date, and what the creature had them do. The list varied from cutting down trees to robbing a jewelry store. The most recent was dated twenty-five years earlier. Judging from the jumble of letters, numbers, and codes in one, I think some kind of research facility had it at one point. I guess they weren’t careful enough.
There was also a note that the thing had so far proved indestructible, but that it wasn’t a danger after it fell off. The woman who had it before me, Linda, had speculated for a page or two that it was building something. That it had been on earth for hundreds of years. She planned to leave it locked in a trunk in the attic space of her apartment building.
I dropped it off the pier, locked in a safe. It’ll escape eventually, but not for a while. And it won’t land on anyone while they sleep.
The creature tapped its bright pincers, interacting with a shipboard computer while its companion observed apathetically. On a trip of this length, watching the other often became their only entertainment.
“Wait,” the watcher suddenly clicked. “Go back.”
The other flipped back through the sensory images, landing on a cold metallic orb, full of energy.
“Reminds me of that build-helper I made. Remember? I was gonna teach it to repair the shuttle’s temporal navigator so I could spend time trading chem with that gorgeous piece of shell down at Carnite IV.”
They spent a moment in fond recollection. “Didn’t work out though. Hadn’t even attached limbs yet, gave it a list of parts and the damn thing just hopped ship to go find a new mineral base for the reactor.”
“What happened to it?”
“Either floatin’ around space or landed somewhere, I guess. Ha! Maybe it’ll find the materials to actually make a new reactor.” The creature dissolved into clacking laughter. “I never got around to teaching it the containment procedures! That thing was persistent. Probably end up blowin’ a small planet!”
by submission | Mar 9, 2014 | Story |
Author : Roger Dale Trexler
“No, no, no!” he said. It just won’t do.” He looked at the workers and shook his head. “Do you call those hands?” He motioned toward the thing lying on the slab in front of him. “And feet? Those look more like claws!” He shook his head again. “It just won’t do….and we’ve got a time line to keep!”
The workers cowered away from him. In a way, they feared him. But, they also respected him. He was, after all, the head cheese, the Big Guy, the Big Kahuna, the one who ran the show.
Not a one of them spoke.
He looked at the lot of them and took a deep sigh. This was important. This was BIG. It was the biggest project he would ever undertake, and they didn’t get it. Maybe he was unclear? He had provided them with blue prints, schematics, DNA samples, but no go. They didn’t understand. They were set in their ways, and he was being original. He wanted to create something new….something fresh….and they just weren’t getting it. How hard was it to follow his instructions? He wondered. The blue prints were cut and dried. They were simple to comprehend. All they had to do was follow it. Create what he wanted from what he showed them.
But, they just weren’t getting it.
“You,” He said, pointing at one of the main workers. “Come here.”
The worker came forward. There was fear in his expression. The creature was shivering. He could see that and, being the kind soul he was, He felt bad for yelling at them.
By the time the worker reached him, his anger and frustration had changed to something more constructive. “I’m sorry,” He said, “but I’ve got a time line. It can’t be broken, do you understand?”
The worker nodded.
He looked at all the other workers. There were so many of them. He had never worked with so much help before. He wondered why he had taken on this insane task. Wouldn’t it just be easier to leave things as they were? Why break the status quo?
Because I can do better, He thought. I can correct all the things I did wrong the last time and make things better.
He patted the worker on the back. “Go back to your friends there,” He said, smiling kindly. “And don’t be afraid…there’s still time. I don’t need this”—He pointed at the thing lying on the slab—“for another six days.”
He turned to the congregation. “I’ll be back on the sixth day,” He said, “and I want a new prototype—this one to the specifications I gave you.” He held up his hands. “Like these,” He said. “Their hands need to be like these.” He kicked off his sandals. “And the feet….they need to look like mine. Understand?”
The workers all nodded their heads.
He drew in a deep sigh and turned away. He knew when He started that it would be an almost impossible mission to complete, but He had already set things in motion, and He wasn’t about to stop things now. But, on the seventh day, he was damn sure going to take a break. He was exhausted.
“All right then,” He said. “Get to work. Time’s a wasting, but tomorrow will be a new day…and I’ve got a universe to create.”
“Yes sir,” they replied in unison.
Good, He thought. Now to go figure out this night and day thing.
He reached out his hands and began.
by submission | Mar 8, 2014 | Story |
Author : Rocky Hutson
“They’re incompatible: He has no income and she has no patability.”
The middle aged couple entered the reception hall. Invited guests of the groom’s family, they were eager to give their condolences to the happy couple, Herkus and Midge, get back to the spaceport and leave Andromeda-five colony far behind them.
An adolescent boy neared them and the man stepped up. “Son, have seen Midge yet? She could have married any man she pleased, it’s just that she never pleased any.”
“Someone once told Herkus to be himself: They couldn’t have given him worse advice.” Said the lady.
“You could seduce her even if you played your cards wrong.”
“Oh, Mikal.” The woman rolled her eyes at her companion. “He has a face you don’t want to remember and can’t forget.”
“Yes, Raxine, but she looks like a professional blind date.”
The young man edged away as gracefully as possible. “Well Mikal, He is dark and handsome: When it’s dark, he’s handsome.”
“Right. And no one can say she’s two faced. If she had two, why would she be wearing that one?”
“Hey Mikal, there’s the happy couple, lets wander over. His mother-in-law calls him son, but she never finishes the sentence.”
“Someone ought to rent her out to a near-sighted knife thrower.”
Two young women friends of the bride stepped in front of Mikal and Raxine, as if to cut them off.
“Life is what you make it until he comes around and makes it worse.”
“Now Raxine, when she enters a room, mice jump on chairs.”
“And he has a fine personality, just not for a human being”
“Yeah and she’s a vision, a real sight.”
The two women backed off, opening a path to the newlyweds.
“Someday he’s going to go far, Mikal. Everyone hopes he’ll stay there.”
“She loves nature, in spite of what it did to her.”
“They’re inseparable. It takes several people to pull them apart.”
Midge squeezed Herkus’ arm. “I’ve never been so insulted, so humiliated in my life. Deal with them honey.”
Herkus walked over to the insulting couple. He extended his hand, gave Mikal a handshake and slipped one-hundred credits into his palm. The emcee pattered loudly. “Everyone give Mikal and Raxine a hand. They are the best insulters in this galaxy. You all know that if The Fates think a marriage starts too smoothly, they’ll mess it up later. Here’s to a long and happy marriage for Herkus and Midge.”
