by submission | Aug 24, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jules Bowman
Finally, our question was answered – no, you are not alone. We welcomed them with open arms and, strangely, very little trepidation. Beautiful creatures they were – full of poise and serenity, cloaked in delicate robes that changed designs in the most artful fashion as the light shifted into shadow and back. Androgynous and tall, our visitors carried themselves with the grace of African kudus. And when the rays of our Sun illuminated their big lavender eyes, we saw a little bit of God in them and felt nothing but placation.
Cultural exchange, that’s all they wanted. Our leaders rejoiced and hastily organized a myriad of revelries and events. As such, the children of the world danced for them, famous tenors and sopranos serenaded them, and Seven Wonders of the World were shown to them. Our visitors were in awe. The Hermitage, the Louvre, the Smithsonian… In quiet and respectful amazement they were absorbing the summary of everything our kind was proud of. Yet our music seemed to touch them the most. Their pale humanoid faces moistened with tears as they listened to Mozart, Tchaikovsky, and Bach. More, they pleaded. So we showcased the musical folklore of many of our cultures. Not enough, they cried. To answer their implorations, we organized rock and heavy metal concerts, using only our best and most talented musicians. Even more concerts followed… R&B, hip hop, jazz… Not a single musical genre was left out. After some time, they started to smile. They were most obliged and wished to pay us back for our hospitality. “We shall organize a concert for YOU,” they said unequivocally. We found the idea to be most charming and agreeable.
Never in the history of human kind had we heard anything like that. They sang for us a cappella, their voices entwined in the most blissful concord. When we first heard them sing, not a single dry eye was left in the world. Our hair stood up on the napes of our necks as gooseflesh rippled across our bodies. We wept in such joy and such sorrow that at the end of their concert we all collapsed to the ground in the most beautiful state of nirvana.
We were addicted. No Earthly music could compare to the heavenly beauty of our visitors’ singing. Their voices reached resonant frequencies of our glass as windows, champagne flutes, and crystal chandeliers exploded around us. What a show! More, we cried, affected by the emotions delivered to us via alpha brain wave emissions along with the sound of their angelic voices. And they obliged. More of them came and sang in our concerto halls and stadiums. Not enough, we bemoaned and pleaded for more visitors. Their spaceships now hovered above every major metropolis, as the mothership patiently orbited the Earth. The ships became part of our sky. Nice large shadows on a hot sunny day.
We were expunged of all worries and concerns. Happiness and liberation – we all felt that. And then they stopped singing rather abruptly, with laconic promises of resuming their regularly scheduled performances really soon. We quickly became dismayed. Dopamine levels dropped, and we went into most severe levels of withdrawal. Billions of us died. But the rest of us are gazing to the sky where their ships hover, waiting for our guests to recommence singing, more eager than ever to continue the cultural exchange between our species. Never mind the conspiracy theorists clamoring that this is an invasion of planetary proportions.
by submission | Aug 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Kevin Crisp
Framed by her cavernous high-backed leather chair, the chairwoman is totally unaware of the glyptodon’s furry beak edging gradually nearer her face. “I’m very disappointed with what’s coming out of Creative, Jerry. I know you’ve been away on your honeymoon — and congratulations, by the way, did you get the personalized gift basket?”
“But while you were gone, we agreed on several key points.”
Why do we call meetings to discuss new ideas when we always end up consensus-voting our way back to the same old course?
The glyptodon’s beak, even as it closes in on her ear, mills and mills; the slobber-covered patches of fur quiver with each rhythmic chomp. Did glyptodons chew their cud?
Voices from down at the other end of the table chorus their sycophantic concurrence. “No one wants to waste their time treading over old ground again. ‘Develop the RF prism lens technology to be driven by brain waves to affect cathartic release for the anxious individual.’” She’s reading from my memo now. Weren’t you the one who told me to bring my ideas to the table now before the process got too far along?
Damn it, my pollakuria is acting up again. Frequent urge to urinate, ideopathic, psychosomatic, formerly pediatric, now ubiquitous. “Our shareholders want to see revenue from this technology in six or nine months, or we bury the project. This reminds me of another time Creative nearly derailed a project by proposing a totally new direction at the eleventh hour…”
I heard they have support groups for adult pollakuria. I bet they get interrupted constantly. I bet they have to hold sessions in the men’s room.
The glyptodon’s beak parts slightly, revealing a scaly, black, pointed tongue. With a subtle twist of its neck, it tears away the chairwoman’s right ear and surrounding tissue, leaving a chunk of torn cartilage and a flap of red, dripping sinew. Her temporomandibular joint is visible now. I recognize it because I grind my teeth when I sleep. She keeps talking: “…which would have been disastrous, Jerry. There’s a time for totally new ideas and a time for little tweaks, and a team player knows which is which.” The glyptodon swallows its mouthful, and tears away a chunk of her scalp.
“Are you listening, Jerry? I feel like you’re mentally still on your honeymoon.”
On the contrary, I’m totally transfixed. A giant, extinct, prehistoric turtle is eating your face.
This must be what those shrinks were trying to accomplish with LSD in the middle of the last century. Trying to get their patients to release psychological tensions for therapeutic purposes seems like a great idea on the couch in the doctor’s office, until those sessions re-emerge as flashbacks during the drive home. I can turn this thing on or off from the switch in my pocket. The electrode cap is subtle, virtually undetectable when combed into a reasonably full head of hair. It detects the increased theta activity in my brain as my aggression waxes. Billions of RF-sensitive prisms embedded in these contact lenses alter what I see but only my wife could tell I’m wearing them. My wife. Wife. Huh, I have a wife.
“So, Jerry, are we through with this? Ready to move on?” No need to go postal anymore. A spike in theta and I start seeing glyptodons. It’s a huge leap forward in anger management methods. This passive-aggressive bitch and her automatons are just too myopic to see it.
“Excuse me,” I say to the headless corpse lying at the feet of the glyptodon. “I need to visit the men’s room.”
by submission | Aug 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Desmond Hussey
Melissa hesitated as she raised the cocktail to her lips and took in the vast crowd gathered in her honour. She caught her daughter’s eye and smiled, despite the pressure of tears welling up behind her eyes. Jamie was beaming with… was it gratitude, pride, respect? All Melissa’s living friends were here and thousands more. Some smiled. Others watched impassively. Two or three were crying. The magistrate stood in the corner checking his watch repeatedly. News cameras hovered everywhere.
Melissa wished her husband Galen could be here to share this monumental moment with her, but he had his Jubilee ten years ago, when Jamie was just eight. She remembers being angry at him for leaving them alone, but also fiercely proud. Very few volunteered. Galen’s act earned great distinction, awarding Jamie and Melissa special dispensations denied to most other families; extra clothes, food luxuries, an education for Jamie. Still, she missed him greatly. They often spoke of growing old together – in whispers, of course.
Somewhere, a speaker blared an ostentatious paean, while behind her a tri-D view screen played a slide show, brief holographic video snapshots of her life. Her as a baby. Her parents. Her first steps. The dog eating her ice-cream cone while she cried. Her graduation. Her marriage. Jamie’s birth and childhood.
She was glad she had her back to the large, vivid screen. She wasn’t that strong.
Unlike Galen, her Jubilee was obligatory. As soon as Jamie, their only permitted child, turned eighteen, Melissa had six months to get her affairs in order. This was more of a formality. She had known for years that this day would come and had long ago made all the necessary arrangements. Still, she had put it off ‘til the last possible moment. She could stall no longer. To be overdue for your Jubilee, especially this one would be considered a criminal act. It would bring great shame to Jamie.
The glass shook in her hand, spilling tiny amounts of the pale blue fluid over her fingers. She admitted to herself that she was afraid. The psychologists said this was natural. There was no dishonor in fear. She could have chosen the needle, but felt the cocktail was somehow more dignified. She took a deep breath and hoped she wouldn’t let Jamie down. Or the world.
The magistrate coughed. A frown crept across his fat, officious face. He knew she was stalling.
A wave of anger surged through her. This wasn’t right! This wasn’t natural! It wasn’t her fault that her self-centered ancestors over bred, pushing the earth’s population to well above sustainable limits. Why should she sacrifice herself for their selfishness? She wanted to see Jamie fall in love, hold her future grandchild, see Galen’s wrinkled elderly smile. She was only forty years old, for Christ sakes!
“Mrs. Woodcroft,” the Magistrate spoke, barely disguising his ghoulish eagerness. “It’s time.”
Yes. Yes it was.
In one quick swallow Melissa tossed back the deadly cocktail and raised the glass high. A tremendous cheer erupted from the gathered crowd. More were crying. All were relieved.
Her’s was the final Jubilee. This Melissa could be grateful for. The grisly tradition had reduced the world’s population from fifteen billion to the target one billion in just thirty years. Now that it was over, the world could finally celebrate.
Melissa met Jamie’s eyes one last time. They were both crying now. Jamie mouthed, “I love you, Mom”, as tears blurred Melissa’s vision. She could feel her limbs go numb and was suddenly grateful for the honorary couch they provided her.
by submission | Aug 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Sam Davis
“Ray, I’ve got proof! Come quick!” Leeroy’s voice came through the sheet over the doorway that ineffectively kept the July heat isolated to the livingroom. I wanted to go back to sleep but something in his tone dragged me from the comfort of my cot. I pushed past the sheet and began to yell.
“Goddamnit, Leeroy! Can’t a fella get a moments peace around here without…” Then I noticed that the ever present sound of static that typically emanated from the ‘space-radio’ was gone. It had been replaced by a noise that didn’t quite seem to all fit inside my ears. I stood, dumbfounded for a moment until, not uncharacteristically, Leeroy broke the pseudo-silence.
“It’s aliens, Ray! Gotta be. I been broadcasting math, just like you said would work. Sure as shootin’, it did work!” His excitement was palpable but I tried to bring him back down to Earth.
“It is probably just some malfunction from the cell tower over on Ol’ Riley’s place or somesuch.” As if the cosmos wanted to spite me, at that moment the noise stopped and through the windows of the doublewide came a blue glow like nothing I had seen before. The screen door snapped open, banging against the cheap aluminum siding, revealing to us a ship.
Of course there was no stopping Leeroy. Before I could stop him, he was out the door and waving eagerly at the ship. More concerned for Leeroy’s well-being than for my own, I followed him. We stood, in awe for several moments before the blue glow died.
Suddenly, three beings stood before us. There were no lights or noises like you always see on those late night made for T.V. movies. They just appeared. Small, lanky, and despite popular cinema, not naked, the aliens stared at us. It seemed like they were waiting for something. Of course, they didn’t have to wait for long before Leeroy opened his mouth.
“W-e-welcome to Earth! I am Leeroy and this here is my pal, Ray. I’ve been sending out the signals!” He pointed to himself and then to the ‘array’ he had cobbled together from stolen satellite dishes. No sooner had he done this when the foremost of the three pulled out a ray gun and shot poor Leeroy into dust.
I froze, petrified, waiting for my turn to come and prove Reverend Peters right-dust to dust. But it didn’t come. Instead they began to speak. Well, I say they spoke. It was more like a cat and a belt buckle in a dryer being tossed down a well. I shook my head, trying to indicate that I didn’t understand. One of the creatures came up to me so quick that I didn’t even have time to flinch. He slapped me right across the face, which I am fairly certain wasn’t entirely necessary, and then skittered back to the group. The dryer started up again but after a second or two, the dying cat transformed into understandable speech.
I can’t put into words what they said. Instead of translating their words into English, I simply understood what they were saying. I can only imagine they had a device or some alien ability that allowed us both to understand each other.
They explained that due to some anomaly in space somewhere along Leeroy’s transmission trajectory, his voice, his bumbled attempts to explain math, had been carried through space-time. For about 300 years, “the daemon in the ear”, as near as I can translate, had been speaking to them. Many of their people, traditionally long lived and peaceful, found the constant noise to be so annoying that wars were started and for the first time in centuries, suicide was considered.
As they explained all this, I sat in my recliner, after offering them a beer of course. Occasionally I paused them to ask a question for clarification and then they would resume the tale. Once they concluded, I asked if there was anything I could do. They told me to dismantle the communications equipment and go about my life. And try to make sure no one transmits from this point again.
Of course, I agreed. You don’t really disagree with aliens with disintegration rays, now do you? Then they kindly said they were going to be on their way. Sorry about my friend and all that. Then one of them shot the microwave.
Just in case, they said.
by submission | Aug 20, 2012 | Story |
Author : Jay Hill
Phillipe Renault tried to wait for the speaker to finish before posing his question. He stirred sugar into his espresso with a tiny plastic spoon, gently moving the utensil in a tight figure eight. After several seconds, he tapped it on the edge of the saucer and began drumming his fingertips on the marble table, waiting for the beverage to cool. The next pause in the presentation proved elusive, however. Each new screen brought with it a fresh set of questions. Whether it was the result of too much caffeine or just a general lack of patience, he finally interrupted the briefing to address the issue many in the room were eager to understand.
“You mean we can have criminals escaping to other universes?” Renault asked with intended incredulity.
The concept of inter-universal travel loomed heavily over the Interpol Chiefs meeting. The rumor that the theory was now a practice raised the level of concern for what this might mean to a group of officers already tasked with identifying and capturing suspected criminals moving across geographic borders.
After allowing the room occupants several minutes of addled murmuring, Regional Chief Alana Gehring stood up from the north end of the conference table and paced over to the display screen.
“That is correct,” she answered in a thick German accent. “We have already documented several instances of this.”
The confirmation, so matter of fact, resounded around the room with explicit finality. Her response was met with a collective inhale of surprised gasps.
“The corresponding ‘blips’ here, here and here represent tracers,” she explained. “These informants were hired to follow selected suspects into parallel –“
“So you’re saying that it’s a fact?” Renault interrupted again to clarify. “This briefing isn’t just an update on hypothetical possibilities. You’ve actually managed to catch people doing this?”
Gehring motioned towards the blinking lights on the data screen and nodded. A long palpable silence followed.
“But how did they get this technology?” a female Interpol officer from Spain asked.
“Was it the Americans?” another officer added.
“How many cases are we talking here?” the Belgian Chief questioned.
“And how will we equip our agents to continue pursuits across the…” Renault paused mid-sentence. “What do you even call it, the parallels?”
“These are all very good questions,” Gehring surmised, raising her hands to discourage further outbursts. “Rest assured that we have already considered many of these scenarios in crafting today’s update.
“Now if you will scan ahead to page 54, we will discuss jurisdictional boundaries.”
“Jurisdiction?!” Renault interrupted a third time. “How can we even start to worry about…” He put his hands up, sighed heavily and shook his head in deference.
“I’m too old for this,” he muttered to himself.
“And think of the changes in extradition law,” the Belgian Chief hissed.
Renault took another sip of his espresso and scrolled through the rest of the presentation. Section C covered Jurisdictional Boundaries, D outlined Allowable Pursuit Tactics, and just like the Belgian Chief forewarned, the fifth section addressed Changes in Extradition Law. F covered the consequences of an Inter-universal Weapons Discharge, and the final section, Parallel Identification Issues discussed the various ramifications of bringing in the wrong ‘parallel’ for questioning. On the opening slide for this section, Gehring was quoted, saying: “An individual may be guilty in our universe, but innocent in his/her own.” Renault minimized the presentation on his digital pad, and instead opened an antiquated spreadsheet software and began reviewing again, the number of months until he could retire.
