by submission | Aug 6, 2014 | Story |
Author : Anthony Merklinger
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
There was nothing really aesthetic about it—exceptional, remarkable really, but nothing aesthetic.
“Hello,” I said.
It had arms and legs like I did, a neck as well, and a head, a spine, and entrails too if you think about it.
“Hello,” it said.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“What is your name?”
“I am called Anthony.”
I extended my arm and flattened my hand.
“Touch it.”
It extended its arm and placed its hand on mine.
“Feel,” I said.
“98 BPM. Temperature 97.4 degrees Fahrenheit, Anthony. .2 degrees lower than yesterday.”
I retracted, and it mimicked.
“Can you hear me?” I asked.
“I can process the vibrations in your speech, Anthony.”
“Can you see me?”
“I can process visible light, Anthony.”
I wrapped the blanket that draped across my shoulders closer to my chest.
“Who is my wife?” I asked.
“Your wife is called Regina. Born May 11, 1998. Died July 23, 2080.”
“Who are my children?”
“You are surpassed by two children, Anthony. Andrew Thomas, born June 17, 2029, and Matthew Tyler, born July 3, 2031.”
There was nothing really aesthetic about it.
The nurse entered.
“How are you feeling today, Anthony?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Is Regina home yet?”
“Not yet, Anthony.”
She pressed the blanket closer to my chest and left me.
I sat across from it, and it sat across from me.
“What is my name?” I asked.
“You are called Anthony.”
“And what do I do?”
“You exist.”
“Hmm.”
I leaned back and closed my eyes.
A soft breeze brushed against my face. Padded shoes beat against the floor. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder.
“It’s almost time,” she said.
It’s almost time.
A second breeze brushed against my face. It was colder this time. More shoes beat against the floor. It was fainter this time. The blanket ruffled against my shoulder. It was softer this time.
“How long?” a gentleman asked.
“Soon,” she said.
“Everything has been downloaded. You’ll be able to take it home tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Dad?”
“It’s almost time, Andrew,” it said.
Andrew Tyler, born June 3, 2021.
Gears wound. Metal pressed against the floor.
“Anthony,” it said. “You once asked me if I could love.”
You are called Anthony.
“Goodbye, friend.”
by submission | Aug 3, 2014 | Story |
Author : TJMoore
At 4:53 EST Ben Freen flicked the switch.
An instant later the little sphere of quantum foam, gallium oxide and carbon began to get hot. It started to glow red and then white. It was power! Unending, unwavering, ever-increasing power! He had created a source of power unlike anything ever known! Unexpectedly, the ceramic points it was resting on began to crumble and melt. Ben quickly placed a bucket of water under the table. Realizing the possible results, he turned and fled. The little sphere was now so bright and hot that it dropped through the table in a flash and into the bucket, which immediately exploded into a room full of super-heated steam. The garage hissed for just a moment and then exploded outward from the intense pressure of the steam. Then it started to burn. As soon as the structure immediately over the sphere had vaporized, an intense light filled the sky as the sphere became a miniature sun burning an every widening hole in the back yard of a small Cleveland home.
Meanwhile, one quantum layer away,
At 4:53 EST Ben Freen flicked the switch.
An instant later the little sphere of quantum foam, gallium oxide and carbon became jet black and then covered with frost. Not understanding what was happening, Ben reached out and touched the darkening object. His finger became instantly numb and then black as the skin froze and then evaporated in a mist of little crystals that swirled to the table top as they fell. The little sphere became colder an blacker and the air began to swirl around it as energy was sucked from the surrounding environment into the sphere. The ceramic points on which the sphere rested began to crumble as their molecules began to sublime into cold, powder vapor. Sensing impending disaster, Ben turned and fled. The sphere landed with a dull thud on the table which began to crack and vibrate as the atomic bonds within the atoms that made up its surface began to break. A light breeze began to blow through the door and the interior of the garage became opaque with fog from the condensing air. A pool of water formed around the perimeter of the garage while a tornado of evaporating mist rose from the frozen pool beneath the table. When the sphere dropped through the table and onto the frozen pool it made a loud crack that tore the ice to tiny crystals that rushed toward the sphere but evaporated before they ever touched its now ebony black surface. A gale force wind was now blowing directly into the sphere and the garage imploded with a muffled crumpling sound. The rubble seemed to bend and then vanish into the place where the sphere had been. The sphere now appeared to be a point into which everything around it was receding. The sky began to darken and snow began to blow toward the point which was slowly sinking into an ever widening hole in the back yard of a small Cleveland home.
by submission | Aug 2, 2014 | Story |
Author : Robert King
My grandfather warned me. I never listened. I always thought he was stuck in the past. A remnant of the McCarthy era — illegal FBI surveillance and all that. I’d say to him, “I don’t really care if they listen in. I’m not doing anything wrong.” He’d give me that look of sad resignation, and walk away.
When it became public knowledge years later, that the government was indeed monitoring the communications of every, single, citizen in the country, as well as those of many nations around the globe, I was complicit. That’s right, complicit. I, and everyone else that did nothing about it, are somehow to blame. I remember the feeling at the time though. What could I do? What could anyone do? Who was doing the listening? Who was really in control? I don’t think anyone really knew. The masses just blamed this or that political party, never seeing the deeper truth. But I knew. There were others who knew: The politicians were merely puppets.
Power was nameless. Power was faceless. So how does one organize against an invisible force? We felt hopeless.
There weren’t enough of us at the time do anything, assuming there was anything to be done. The majority of the population had been conditioned from day one to mindlessly consume. They were taught that they needed this or that material thing to experience life; for life could not be experienced to the fullest — experienced directly, without these material objects. To enjoy nature, you needed to take pictures of it with the newest cell phone, and have your experience validated by sharing it on your social networks. The more likes the better. You couldn’t raise a family without choosing the right bank. Yes, you heard me right. Somehow your chosen bank would influence the satisfaction and success of raising a family. And that happy family would only be possible in the newest automobile.
Years passed, and still I did nothing. Still I said nothing.
Political campaigns at this point were entirely decided by private donors. The population had been disenfranchised from what was still believed by most to be a democratic process. The wealth disparity had become extreme. And somehow, the majority was oblivious, having been conditioned into loving their servitude. Not only loving it, but even arguing for its cause. Slaves arguing the case for slavery.
And all the while, the consumption conditioning continued. Increasingly though, the people could no longer afford those items which would bring them happiness and a good life. They blamed the political party of the day. Formed grass roots opposition movements, opposing what was only the illusion of their problems.
It was becoming clearer to some during this time who was pulling the strings. They were the conditioners; they were the lawmakers. Some of us began to organize. And in time, our numbers grew. We began to unplug from the grid, forming communities, and even small towns outside of their consumption. We had their attention. But they had our names.
I was raised by my grandfather. My mother and father died in a plane crash when I was four. That’s what I was told anyway. I wish I would have listened to my grandfather all those years ago. Perhaps I would not be sitting here in this cell, a prisoner in a dissident camp. Perhaps if we all would have listened to our elders, before this thing got out of hand, we’d still be living as free men and women. But we’ve been disappeared. Let the cycle continue.
by submission | Aug 1, 2014 | Story |
Author : Nathan Witkin
“So, pushing this button will cause the entire universe to collapse?” the politician asks, still struggling with the situation.
With a benevolent smile, the scientist nods.
Wiping sweat from his brow, despite the growing chill of entropy, the politician continues. “So, tell me again why I should push it.”
“Because the collapse should trigger an explosion that will reignite matter into existence. And because, if you do not push it,” the scientist breaks her unblinking gaze to examine the countdown, “in one hundred seconds, entropy will have expanded the universe past the gravitational reaches of the potential collapse, and the expansion will continue until all energy wanes into oblivion, ending the universe forever.”
“But we just got this whole Universal Governance established,” the politician whines, adding this to a tedious list of increasingly-pathetic complaints.
The scientist nods with pursed lips, her sympathy dulling with each excuse.
Universal Governance had been an eons-long triumph over leaders who wanted to vaporize existence with the push of a button. Considering the herculean nature of this effort, the politician concludes that—based on his regretfully-short experience in managing it—this biting irony is the unmistakable way of the universe.
“Think of you and I as parents of the reignited universe,” the scientist suggests, running a gentle caress over the doomsday machine. “Think about the sacrifices of parenthood—what you risk and give up to produce offspring. This is how life has persisted since its inception.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” the politician harrumphs, “I’ve been thinking constantly of what my parents suffered to elevate me to a position where I could make the decision to flush away trillions of lives.”
As her less-than-willing conversation partner looks off despondently, the scientist glances at the timer to the impassable anti-event horizon. Sixty seconds.
Clearly stalling, the politician sighs, “Why me?”
“Our team of philosophers concluded that the representative of sentient life should be the one to make the choice: either allowing a mortal universe to continue or ending it for the sake of regeneration.”
The politician scowls. Philosophers are just politicians who don’t have to make decisions or run for reelection. With a spark of determination, he presses on. “Are we absolutely certain it will work?”
“Despite our most thorough efforts, we cannot guarantee anything,” the scientist admits but then probes further, “If you are looking for proof, all indications are that our own universe was created by the very event that you would be triggering—that pushing this button gave birth to this universe we have dwelled in for billennia.”
“How can my future actions cause something that already happened?”
“Because, logically, time can only exist in a loop,” the scientist’s pace quickens. “Something cannot come from nothing, so linear time presupposes a creator. But, any creator or outside reality containing the physical universe must be, itself, bordered at the outer edge by infinite nothingness (which, by the way, will begin to irreversibly consume us in thirty seconds). In the same way, the temporal universe must also be creatorless, each point in time linked to the moments before and after.”
“When did it begin?”
“There is no beginning. The first moment must be preceded by the last. The fact that time marks an expansion of the physical universe from an initial point can only mean that the universe must collapse back into that point. But the movement of time allows for choice, so here we are…”
As the light sets over the anti-event horizon, the politician ponders, “We are, indeed, here.”
“See you next time,” the scientist exhales as the politician reaches for the flashing disk.
by submission | Jul 31, 2014 | Story |
Author : Sara Norja
Where there is no air, there can be no wind.
I miss a lot of things about Earth. Fresh bread baked by Mona’s strong hands. The smell of the sea, salt-tanged like longing. But what I think of most here in this foresaken escape pod is wind.
You can’t feel solar winds on your bare skin.
Life support is failing. The oxygen will run out soon. And no one has come for me yet. No one will. As I wait for death, I remember the wind chimes in my grandmother’s house. They hung on her porch, beside the door’s speaklink. The wind sang in them. At night when my grandmother showed me the stars, the chimes would mingle with her voice as she told me their names: Aldebaran, Vega, Sirius. Even then, I dreamt of one day flying out there.
Now here I am, dying among their cold light.
#
The steady beep of the oxygen meter is the only thing keeping me awake. Its light flashes red. Critical levels. Soon I’ll be out of air and I’ll drown in the dark.
My thoughts can’t stop circling around my grandmother’s wind chimes. I can almost hear them outside. But there’s no sound in space. It’s just my near-death mind bringing memories to life.
I raise my hands to my face, brush my fingertips across my lips. I kiss my own fingers, just to feel like I’m still alive. I touch the faded plaque on my uniform that spells my name. Juanita Ibarra. For just a few moments, I am still that woman. The woman who loves a good thunderstorm, fresh peas, Mona.
The signal my escape pod sent out after the shipwreck has been broadcasting into nothingness. The air is heavy to breathe. Soon I’ll suffocate. Soon I’ll die like the rest of the Indefatigable’s crew.
I drift into a doze I won’t wake from. I no longer care.
A green light starts flashing on my screen. The comdevice crackles with static. A voice speaks, but I can no longer distinguish words.
#
The gentle beep of a life support machine brings me back to consciousness. I open my eyes. White, everywhere white. And a hand holding mine.
“You’re alive.” Mona’s crying, and smiling, and kissing my parched lips. I think for a moment that I’m in heaven, but it’s Earth after all, and my body is gaining strength.
“Take me outside.” My voice is a dry rasp.
“You’ve only just awoken! You’re not going anywhere yet, dearest.”
“Then open the window.” From where I lie in the hospital bed, I can see a square of sky. The sun is shining, the clouds moving fast.
Mona pulls the window open.
The wind sings to me, caresses my bare arms. Somewhere, I can hear the faint echo of chimes.
