by submission | Oct 6, 2012 | Story |
Author : Ian Florida
Metal grates against stone as my cell door shrieks open. They shout as they slam their rifle stocks into my ribs. I laugh. They pause. They think I should be afraid. They think the metal mask they’ve strapped around my head keeps them safe. I know better; I have a plan.
The leather bites into my skin as they strap me to the cart. They wheel me through the compound’s silver corridors. We enter the fluorescent halls of the medical wing. The light stings my eyes. I blink.
In that instant they jab the needle in my arm. The blue fluid flows down the tube and through my paper thin skin into my tight purple veins. I try to relax and remember the plan.
A thump shudders through the cart as we push past a door. My mind swoons but I don’t need to see to know where we are. The sterile stench of disinfectant fills my mouth. We’re in the operating room.
White masks and blue scrubs crowd around. I find the one clutching the blue sack. The world starts to dim. I don’t have the concentration to make him pull a gun or unstrap my bonds. That would be too much. Remember the plan, something simple. A single word.
“Lean.”
My need burns like the morning sun setting fire to the fog.
“LEAN.”
My vision starts to focus. They haven’t noticed yet. I glance to the side, quickly so I don’t give it away. His hand is resting on the line, cutting off the blue river’s flow. I smirk.
The surgeon drops his knife, “he’s awake” he screams with a voice that reminds me of my cell being opened. One reaches for an alarm, the man at the foot my bed raises his gun; they try to jab another needle in my arm.
“Freeze,” I whisper. They all obey.
“Cut me free,” I order. The lead surgeon takes his scalpel and slices the leather straps. I smile in thanks, but his face remains blank. He is my prisoner now.
I touch the sunlit window and smile. “Shatter.” I collapse against the empty window frame. My muscles shake. I slip to the ground and let my feet dangle from the tenth story window. I sit that way until the sun burns a ruddy red and slips behind the hills to the west.
I sigh as the last light flickers beyond the ramparts of my prison. The sun is dead. I give the surgeons their death as well. I stop all their hearts but one: the man with the gun. I release him so that he may release me.
I can feel his heart race as he realizes I’m no longer strapped to the table. I can feel the wind on his face as he turns to see why the window is open. I can see myself through his eyes: bleached skin that clings to limbs as thin as reeds streaked with blood and cobalt liquid. I feel his trigger finger finish the arc it started so many hours ago.
I leave his mind and return to my own, it’s better to die in the place you were born. If I can’t be on my own world, at least I can be in my own mind and free.
by submission | Oct 5, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
When John Allen wakes, two suns, one red, one blue, peek through the line of smoking atmosphere generators fencing the horizon. He glances at his snoring wife as he shifts his weight to the edge of the bed. With luck he can get out of the house before she awakes. She’s not a morning person.
Dressing in his work coveralls is awkward due to his lame leg and arthritic fingers. He doesn’t know what caused his leg to ache so much, particularly in the morning. The “quack” doctor who comes once a year to check up on him is no help at all. He regrets the loss of mobility, but he gets by.
During breakfast, he checks the satellite readout of the day’s weather conditions. The damn monitor is on the fritz again, but after a few bangs he gets the readings he needs; 30% humidity. High temperature, 36 degrees Celsius. Oxygen 16 kpa. Nitrogen 44 kpa. Carbon Dioxide 6kpa. 32 mph winds, NNE. It was shaping up to be a good day.
John sips instant coffee as he scans the field maps on his tabletop console, dusty despite numerous air filters. Automated alerts inform him that a Nitrogen pump and a CFC emitter have failed and there are some irrigation malfunctions in sectors six, thirteen and forty-four. He should also check on the kamut field. The grain is nearly ready for harvesting. He could rely on the automated harvest indicator system, but some of these machines are older than he is and couldn’t be trusted. John prefers the tried and true methods of identifying crop readiness with hand and eye.
He hears Marg stirring. He slugs back the last of his gritty coffee, straps on his utility belt and makes for the airlock.
Outside, the breeze makes small twirling dust tornadoes across the yard. John puts his air filter on, grabs one of his many canes and makes his slow, limping way to the barn where his eeda-win beetle munches on frizzle, the tall, thin native grass that grows everywhere on this endless plain.
When he arrived fifty years ago this place was nothing more than a cold, inhospitable sea of sandy dunes with minimal plant life and a handful of hardy insect species. Today, the atmosphere is thin and dusty, but breathable. Water, drawn from deep, ample aquifers fills ancient craters with small, algae rich lakes. He’d helped introduce over five thousand agricultural and medicinal plant cultivars and personally engineered a breed of cattle that could subsist here.
For years this moon was a much needed, though humble bread basket for the seedships heading further into space. Today, he’s the only farmer left on Thuprair-E, fifth moon of the massive gas giant now cresting the horizon. The others, including his two sons, had left for more exotic and easily terraformed planets and moons. With the latest hi-tech machinery and temperate environments, the work elsewhere was much easier. John stayed. He likes a challenge.
Little Squirt croaks when John enters the tin Quonset. The giant, metallic green beetle shuffles in its stall, eager to get out. Massive, powerful pinchers clack anxiously.
It takes longer these days, but John has rigged an ingenious method of tacking up Little Squirt in the complicated harness and getting himself settled into the two-wheeled cart which contains all the tools he’ll need for the day.
“Come on, old friend,” John urges as he twitches the reigns. “We’ve got a long day’s work ahead.”
John gets his bearings, then slowly, steadily, beetle and man trundle off across a brave new world.
by submission | Sep 30, 2012 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
The four rotary blades of the harvester chopped violently at the dank, cold air as it rested with spidery legs on the jagged rock. The sickly sweet smoke of its four combustion engines wafted faintly up the heights. Every thought was punctuated by the thunderous crash of hungry waves slowly devouring the island below. The harsh bright flood lamps mounted on the harvester seemed like candles in the gloom, where perpetual sea fog choked the feeble light of two cold suns, painting “night” and “day” with similar drear.
Out in the distance, a magnificently fortified fishing vessel glowed dimly like a faint star as it dredged the shallows for the last exportable resource of an otherwise dying world.
“Nests up there?” Rob asked as Alec stumbled down the wet, crumbling rock.
“Think so, up there in the crags,” he gagged. “Must be; I’ve never seen such a cache of chips before.”
The smell of the droppings was fetid, stifling; it burned the back of Alec’s throat. Dried out chips never smelled this rank; fresh droppings must be near. Alec flashed his torch toward the harvester, summoning the crew using a pre-arranged signal that meant “proceed with caution.”
Rob leaned over and heaved onto a pile of fish-like bones.
“Where’s your nose plug?” Alec asked.
“Forgot it,” Rob said. “Must have left it at Karla’s last night.”
Inwardly, Alec seethed.
Below them, men with shovels and pails began pouring out of the belly of the insect-like harvester, ducking low to keep out of range of the propeller blades. Cones of light seemed to pierce the harvester from every direction. Out in the water, unseen denizens of the depths surfaced, wailing hideously.
Then, there was a new sound, one that the two scouts knew too well. It was the heavy flap of leathery wings.
Rob spun around. “Where is it?” he asked, panicked, searching the stygian blackness that engulfed the island.
Alec ducked behind a rock and pulled his rifle from its scabbard on his backpack. Blasters were no good here, the saturated air caused dangerous refraction and scatter. He clipped in a fresh magazine with oily calm, the red rage strangely stilling his mind.
“Where is it?” Rob hollered. He fumbled a few cartridges out of his coat pocket, dropping half into the cracked rock in the process.
With surprising calm, Alec waited for the huge, bat-like shadow to emerge through the fog in his rifle-mounted scope. Rob spun again as the hideous beast roared, with a deafening sound like a steam valve discharging. Below them, the crew scattered and scrambled in every direction for cover. One or two of the closer of the party took cover near Alec.
Long taloned feet pierced Rob’s thickly padded coat and planted themselves in his back, piercing almost as deep as vital organs, but still Alec waited. The thing lifted the flailing, screaming Rob from the ground, carrying him up and out of sight, leaving only a new, steaming pile of wet droppings and dropped cartridges.
“Shoot it!” screamed a desperate female voice now crouching beside him. “Alec, shoot!” Alec looked over and saw Karla’s anguished face peeking from under her hood, her nose pinched by a flesh-colored plug, its tight, elastic bands dimpling the pink flesh beneath her cheekbones.
Alec fired a single, pointless round into the now vacant gloom.
“Why didn’t you shoot?” Karla asked. She buried her face in her hands. Alec fired a second useless round into oblivion.
by submission | Sep 29, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
Black rain streaks the windows of Mr. Nielson’s 35th story apartment. Beyond the aqueous smear, a tiny room is illuminated by the hypnotic flicker of an enormous, wafer thin television screen. Outlined by the electric glow, a mass of limp flesh, suggestive of a human being, lounges in his plush, state-of-the-art recliner. Great folds of unrestrained fat ooze over the contours of the chair like a flesh volcano. Just below the lowest roll of skin, two plump varicose stalks disappear into a pair of dull gray slippers. Tubes run from the back of the chair and submerge into thick, calloused veins on the arm; a fat ham of an appendage, too heavy to move more than a few inches. A lit keypad rests just under the sausage-like fingers. It’s a grim spectacle of obesity and cybernetic horror.
Atop the gluttonous mass rests an odd protuberance, conceivably the head. All the usual features one might expect to find on a face are present. Lips, like two animated and bloated rubber bands, twitch occasionally in gross mockery of expression. A plump, lumpy nose droops a little off center. It’s effectively redundant as an olfactory device, for only one immortal stench permeates every molecule of the long neglected room. A thin, green tube plunges into the left nostril, while two more snake into funnel like ears. Technicolor fantasies of the hippest pop culture are mirrored in his vacuous eyes.
“And now a word from our sponsors,” the television intones. The volume automatically increases a couple decibels to shock the slumbering mind into wakefulness as images of miniature animals cavort about in absurdly constructed habitats.
“What does your child want this Holiday Season?” The honey dripping voice of the announcer is a diabetic’s nightmare.
A chorus of children cheer, “MiniPet!” in response. Scenes of giggling, joyous youth playing with living, breathing, six inch tall tigers, elephants, sperm whales, anacondas and giraffes flash across the screen.
“That’s right parents, get your children their very own zoo full of MiniPets that your children will love and enjoy for years. These fantastic creatures are exactly like their life sized counterparts, but without the life sized hassle. Each MiniPet comes with its own mini-habitat specially designed for their comfort and well being. Every child loves a MiniPet.”
The screen holds on the image of a three year old girl cuddling a snapping crocodile while the sappy jingle plays out.
The cut to the next commercial is slightly nauseating in contrast. A seizure inducing, strobe-like stream of faces flickers to mind numbing electro-beats. The announcer’s amphetamine juiced voice begins its tirade. “Tired of that sad, old face you were born with? Want sexy eyes, a glamorous smile and smooth skin without expensive, messy surgery. Get I-Face, now! Not only can you change your skin daily with this easy to apply silicon epidermis, but keep up on your friend’s updates and tweets through I-Face audio and optic implants! That’s right. Don’t’ be left behind. Have the face you have always wanted. But that’s not all! Want leopard spots? Green skin? Glowing eyes? Select from thousands of unique I-Face aps. Tired of the noise and distraction of the streets? Load the I-Face with your favorite music and movies. Don’t wait. Get your I-Face now. The new face of tomorrow.”
The camera pans out revealing a photo mosaic composed of a million I-face users. The face revealed is barely human.
Nielson’s glassy eyes stare, unblinking at the screen. Theoretically, information is being conveyed, yet there is no indication it has found fertile soil in the moldy mind of this viewer.
by submission | Sep 28, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
“Hi Kristen, it’s your mum…”
Jaques picked up a picture of Kristin Trinket off of her bedroom nightstand. Twenty years old, red hair, stunning green eyes. Crooked, imperfect teeth at home in one of the warmest smiles he had ever seen. He set the picture down and it made an empty noise in the cold little room, like asking for help on a crowded city street.
“I was just calling because I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”
He looked at her body. She had been pretty once, but not any more. Now she was dead. Two lacerations with a rusty old razor blade, one down each arm.
Through the door in the living room Jaques’ two coworkers were busy packing up all of her belongings into little cardboard boxes. They had the easy job. Jaques picked up her bloodied, limp left arm in his hand and reached into the cut she’d made. He found the round piece of machine and pulled it out. It was maybe four centimeters wide, and one thick.
“I was worried when you didn’t come to our tea date yesterday. And now you’re not answering your phone. Are you feeling alright, dear?”
Poor Kristen had been feeling down one day, so her Pharmaceutical Assistance Unit had administered some antidepressants. One adverse reaction run amok later, and here she was.
Jaques lit a cigarette in his other hand, inhaled. Who cared about the deposit now? Nobody.
He let the ash fall onto the floor. The cigarette sat between his fingers, waiting. Jaques was looking at her picture again. When she had needed people the most, where had they gone?
“Your father misses you. Ever since he lost his foot you coming over has been all he’s had to look forward to.”
Everybody had an assistance unit. It was state-mandated for the sake of people’s health – you couldn’t refuse it. It monitored all your vital signs. It synthesized the drugs you needed when it decided you needed them, and the pharmaceutical companies sent the bill to the state. The condition that people accepted this on was that they worked, so failure wasn’t tolerated. Jaques looked down at the device, covered in congealed blood. There had been a failure, and that was why they were there, to prevent an erosion of profits and trust in the establishment.
“Anyways, it’s getting late and I still have to visit the market. I just want you to remember that I love you, and your father loves you, and if you ever need anything we’re here for you.”
They would say she had moved, if anybody asked. Went to start a new life.
They would burn her body and all her things once they had emptied the apartment.
Jaques finished his cigarette and ground the butt into the floor. Then he produced a body bag from a pocket in his coat and laid it out on the ground. Without any ceremony he flopped Kristen Trinket onto the floor and shoved her into the bag.
“I love you, honey. I’ll call again tomorrow, alright?” She paused. “Bye, dear.”
In the other room the antique answering machine shut off, done recording its message. One of Jaques’ coworkers pulled it out of the wall and put it in a box. Jaques hefted the body bag over one shoulder and carried it into the living room. Nearly everything was packed up now, Kristen Trinket’s entire life summed up in a bag and some boxes in the back of a truck.
And then she was gone.
