by submission | Oct 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: John Szamosi
It was the old Irishman’s stories that would bring scores of people to his table every time he sat down for lunch. Sometimes humorous, sometimes sad, sometimes scary, other times just plain provocative, they had one thing in common: they were all made up. In other words, they were yarns, pure fabrications, shameless lies. We did not mind. Some of us were amateur writers or poets with pieces published here and there, but knew if we had any talent it would still be minuscule compared with his.
Within minutes they would have to push another table to ours, and soon that would fill up too. Ready for the third table.
The late arrivals would then want to know what today’s spiel was about but we mercilessly shushed them, “Psst, he’s not a DVD you can rewind and play from the beginning. Next time get your ass here on time.”
To be honest, there were quite a few, including his cousin and a poker buddy of his, who would not want to be anywhere near him during story time. Sitting in the far corners of the of the lunch room was not enough for some of these obnoxious types—they would put on headphones or even earmuffs. It’s their loss, that’s how we felt about it.
Members of his loyal audience would listen in silence, and only asked questions if they discovered inconsistencies. He then politely thanked them, waiting for a few seconds probably making the necessary corrections in his mind, and continued with the story.
From his perspective, a tale of his was a success if it elicited laughter, sadness (he was partial to tears or at least sobbing) or anger. If somebody turned beet-red and was ready to punch him, the yarn was a hit, so to speak. He could also tell if it was a flop: people yawned, fell asleep or just politely got up saying, I’ll finish my sandwich at my desk, or I’ve got to make a couple of calls.
His most valuable listeners were the ones who later the afternoon dropped by his office to give some kind of evaluation. These were thoughtful, supportive people who understood that’s what the Irishman wanted the most. If several showed up for discussion, he was beaming like a QB who just won the Super Bowl.
A big day in my life, the first time I could afford buying new car for cash, I called my mother with the good news. Instead of mentioning the Kia, I was going through the Irishman’s most recent fables. This guy should be a writer, said my mother. No, I told her, he does not write, only lies.
Then a sunny Friday noon his only story was that due to health concern he’s taking early retirement. We smirked and rolled our eyes; we thought it was a pitiful attempt at fantasy fiction, short and boring, apparently not his strong suit. But, hey, even the best storytellers run out of ideas every so often, right?
When a month later we got the news that his cancer was inoperable and the doctors didn’t expect him to last much longer, we were sitting in the lunchroom dumbfounded. We pushed three tables together in reverence to him, trying to recall his tales. We could only come up with a few fragments, none of them better than timid ambling on dry autumn leaves. We soon gave up; the old raconteur himself was the only story worth remembering.
by submission | Oct 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
They stared right through me. It used to bother me. Now, it’s essential.
I uncoupled the mag-links while Symplex’s security personnel looked past me. I didn’t fit their profiles, didn’t merit a glance. That’s what it is to be me.
I live by a pair of simple rules. The fact that they come from fantasy novels doesn’t make them any less realistic. Especially, in this reality.
Rule One: Amateurs obsess over strategy. Professionals obsess over logistics.
Rule Two: A good thief goes unseen. A great thief goes unnoticed.
When the last mag-link unhitched, the brainframe froze and everybody at Symplex knew they’d been jacked. They just didn’t know the jacker was freaking out alongside them.
It did freak me out. I hadn’t really thought I’d make it this far. You don’t go from feeling invisible most of your life to suddenly feeling invincible, so actually bringing down Symplex’s touted brainframe was a shocker.
Which was good because I had the same stunned expression as everyone around me. I completely fit the scene. Unworthy of note. Easy to dismiss. Something I was very used to as a clugee.
Actually, a child of clugees. My parents fled Louisiana after superstorm Naomi, whose cat 7 tidal surge never fully receded. Trying to make a new start farther west, my family was marked. Our hurricane-devastated zip code and area code became code for clugee.
Climate Refugee.
Unwelcome. Unwanted. Unrecognized.
America’s newest pariahs, pushed to the bottom of the ladder, the back of the bus. My parents gave up trying to fight for their rights to be counted, to be heard, to be repatriated into the country they’d never left, but which had abandoned them.
Clugee turned out to be a pretty apt slur for us because we constantly had to kludge our lives. Constant barriers. Push back. Marginalized to the extreme, but I didn’t give up. I fought. Tooth and nail to get an education, a decent career. To be seen. To be noticed. To be rewarded. Until I realized the real power I’d been given: invisibility.
I’d taken for granted the power of being taken for granted. A spit-upon cloak of invisibility.
Perfect for a thief. Unseen. Unnoticed
I schemed to steal all I was owed from the privileged, to re-jigger the balance sheet of justice. And I worked hard at it, grew wilier, grew richer. But my outlook remained poor. Nothing important had changed for my fellow clugees.
Until. I hit upon the perfect job. A caper that would turn the country on its head. Almost literally. The beauty of this heist was that I wouldn’t be taking anything. I would be giving.
Over the last two decades, Symplex had grown into the nation’s most reliable, highly touted, data security and privacy consortium. Its massive brainframe housed the personal and professional data of the everyday elite.
Once the Symplex brainframe was down, I inserted my viral “gift” that on reboot would automatically change the zip and area codes of the ruling classes to those of the disaster-fleeing masses. The security status of the privileged would turn to pariah in a matter of nanoseconds, and they would quickly experience what it is to be a clugee, feeling the disconnect, dislocation, and disdain my family and all the families like us had suffered as outcasts.
Unseen. Unnoticed.
And, maybe, that would finally unite us.
by submission | Oct 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Tam McDonald
Colin gave a polite cough to start the meeting. As team leader he sat at the head of the table. Brian, the secretary, sat to his left, perusing the agenda, which was blank and absolutely not taking any minutes. Tony, Richard and Lyndsey sat facing them, all eager to begin.
“I just wanted a quick meeting today to finalise the schedule for August, especially as Brian and Richard are on holiday, at the same time, and we’ll be a little shorthanded.” Colin began.
“I can’t believe you’re both going to that UFO conference.” Lyndsey put in, “Isn’t that a bit sad?”
“Actually, we should be able to gather some useful data whilst we’re there, some real-world insight.” Richard replied, making quotation marks around the words ‘real world.’ There was a chuckle around the table, though Richard looked slightly offended.
“OK, moving on, what have got programmed over the rest of summer? Brian, what’s in your workstream?”
“Well, we have the big cigar over Macclesfield on the fourth, and the big humming disc over Falkirk on the twelfth.” Brian enthused.
“Not Falkirk again surely!” sighed Colin, couldn’t we move it about a bit?”
“Not really, no.” said Brian, looking at Lyndsey for support.
“It would defeat the point really.” agreed Lyndsey. “It’s about having a concentration there, y’know, to attract them there.”
“What about Cumbernauld then?” Colin said reasonably. “It’s been a few years since they’ve had one.”
“I know that!” squeaked a clearly exasperated Brian. “But it’s not in the Triangle, the Falkirk Triangle. You can’t go blurring the lines of the triangle. A triangle has lines, clear lines. You’ll make it a rhombus if you’re not careful.”
“Or just some generic irregular polygon. Which won’t work at all.” Lyndsey offered helpfully.
“That’s a good point actually,” Richard said, now the neutral party. “You can’t infer anything from irregular polygons, they could mean anything, which means they mean nothing.”
“Fair enough,” Colin conceded “Falkirk it is then. Tony what about you?”
“I was going to send the rings out over Slough and then the collapsing pyramid out over the Isle of Man, for a bit of a laugh.”
“Great. Yes, to the Isle of Man, but better send the pyramid to Slough as well. The Olympics are on, and people might think the rings are advertising a well-known soft drink or something. You weren’t here when the hyperbolic paraboloid over Wigan caused a spike in sales of a particular snack. Let’s not have that again. OK, Richard what’s your plan?”
“I’m hoping to debut my new one over Cookstown on the 23rd. There’re still a few kinks to iron out but fingers crossed it’ll be ready for then. I’m quite pleased with it, it’s actually quite hard to describe. It starts as a disc but then expands into a kind of DNA helix type shape and then shoots off. It’d be too complicated to build physically but the new projection system means we don’t have to.” he sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
“Cookstown’s out for now, sorry.” Colin’s voice was quiet.
“How come?” Richard asked sadly.
“Well, it’s top secret obviously.”
“But we’re top secret.” said Tony. “Aren’t we the most top secret secret department of all? What could be more top secret than us?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s too top secret obviously.”
“What are you saying Colin? The only thing more top secret than us would be a real one! Is that what you’re telling me Colin?”
“I’m not telling anyone anything.” Said Colin sadly. “It’s top secret.”
by submission | Oct 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Martin Clyde-Wilkie
There’s an angel outside town, if you know where to look. Push through the gorse and scramble along the river bed, keeping your gaze away from the branch of lightning
frozen over the gully, until you reach the edge and can peer down at it.
It doesn’t look much like you’d expect. It’s tall and pale, and has wings but no feathers, just these burnt webs of bone stretched out over the stone.
The lightning is like a spear through its heart.
Mama says everybody knows it’s an angel but won’t say how. Papa says to forget it, that I have better things to do than gawk at something best left alone. He sounds scared when he says this.
Some nights I hear it calling out to me. Most just hear the wind but I can make out my name. Sometimes it’s a gentle whisper, and other times it’s loud enough to rattle the windows.
Last night it was a scream like a storm and the heavy clouds promise that tonight will be worse. Everybody is rushing about to nail their doors and windows closed, and putting out lights.
Nobody saw me slip away in the dusk, through the gorse that scratches at my bare arms, along the riverbed and down the side of the gully. This close I can hear the
crackle of lightning, smell the burn of ozone as it splits the air.
The angel lies still. The rocks all round its body are scorched black.
My hand, slick with blood, grasps the spear of lightning like it was pulled towards it.
It’s lighter than I was expecting, and slides out the angel’s chest with no effort.
The air goes still. It opens its mouth to draw breath, and pulls the storm with it.
by submission | Oct 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Laura Jarosz
“Whaddya mean, gone? Like, dead?”
Dante shrugged. “The safehouse was totally empty. Door hanging open, no Homer inside. No stories, either.”
I pressed my hand against my pocket and felt the reassuring crinkle of paper. At least I still had last week’s story. As I walked numbly away, I let my eyes devour the lovingly hand-copied tale, taking in the voice, the characters (my favorite: a hyperintelligent, pipe-smoking orangutan named Sven) and, most importantly, the twist. ATTIS (that is—the Authentic Tale Telling Innovation Synthesizer) sucked at twists.
It ended in a cliffhanger. If Homer really was gone, I would never know what happened to Sven.
I couldn’t risk taking public transportation back to the flophouse, or someone might turn me in for disconnecting myself from ATTIS. It was a small price to pay for knowing your ideas were yours and yours alone (not that I had any worth writing down—not like Homer’s). Plus, walking meant I wouldn’t be force-fed any ATTIS-generated drivel while I ride. Not like I could escape it—on this street alone, I could see at least three giant screens streaming ATTIS-generated entertainment. I glanced at one and saw—
A pipe-smoking orangutan.
Adrenaline pumping, I turned and ran back to tell Dante. ATTIS found Homer. They’d plugged him back in.
*****
It was months before I heard from Dante again. I’d started to believe ATTIS caught him, too. When he showed up back at the flophouse it was almost like seeing a ghost, but before I could stutter out a question, he told me to go nick two laser cutters from the chop shop and follow him.
Now, he was making me carry them both through a part of the city I’d never set foot in before–in fact, it was so deserted, I don’t think anyone had in a long time.
He stopped in front of a crumbling building made of actual brick. Never seen one those before. The door was wood. We just kicked it until it broke. What did we even need the cutters for?
When we threw it open…
Rows and rows of real paper books, each written by a single, human author. I wanted to scoop them in my arms and take a big sniff.
“This was the first stuff they trained ATTIS on,” Dante explained. “It all got worse from there. But it’s why—”
He gestured. Looming before us were two thick, massive metal doors, bludgeoned into place where an antique brick wall used to be.
“—ATTIS is here.”
The whine of heated metal tortured us until we were finally able to cut through, and restrained to a gurney amidst the blinking bank of computer readouts was a small man that had to be Homer. Dante started cutting through the restraints while I went to the small port in his left temple to disconnect him again. “It’s an honor, sir,” I said awkwardly. “I’m sorry ATTIS stole Sven from you.”
As Dante helped Homer to his feet, I glowered at the bank of computers, imagining the laser cutter ripping through them. But before I could even lift mine, they all emitted a horrid, unending screech, the screens blinking one by one to a garish blue.
I turned in shock, covering my ears.
Homer seemed unsurprised. He yelled into my ear over the noise. “The last idea I fed it was a story about a man discovering the secret to crashing an AI.”
