by submission | Oct 25, 2008 | Story
Author : Mark Ingram
Seeeee? Timmy thought self-importantly, I told them he was real, and I was right.
His smile was ear-to-ear as he held the proof of the night’s happenings before his eyes. In his hands, he wielded an iron poker like a baseball bat; a viscous, black liquid—Timmy had never heard the term “ichor” before—now coated the metal shaft. He admired the oily shimmer of all the colors reflecting off the fluid from the lights on the tree—he pushed the girly word, “pretty,” out of his mind.
They told me he was just make-believe—they told me there wasn’t any monster. Timmy mentally rehearsed the story he was going to tell his parents: I knew he was going to look for me, so I hid behind the couch, he paused to cognitively pat himself on the back for being so smart, and then, when he wasn’t looking, I got the poker, and I hit him in the back of the leg, and then I hit him in the head, and then I poked him in the back, and then . . .
He stopped and realized he was beaming just like he was imagining he would be in the morning; this was, in his opinion, the most amazing story of courage and cunning he would ever divulge. His gaze returned to the crumpled mass near the chimney, and he knew the monster would plague him no more.
He has a stupid, fat face, Timmy mused, and stupid, red clothes, and a stupid, ugly beard. And he’s so fat and gross. He stared disdainfully at the corpse—too young to recognize that spitting on the body would accurately symbolize how he felt. For a moment longer, he watched the thick ooze seep out of the monster, turning the fuzzy ball on the tip of its conical hat—knocked to the floor in the scuffle—from white to black.
Timmy had been a good boy this year.
by submission | Oct 22, 2008 | Story
Author : Mark Ingram
He toyed with the hunting knife as he daydreamed; it gave his hands something to do. He was not much of a thinker, but tonight, he allowed his eyes to shift out of focus and his mind to wander . . .
What would we do if aliens came to Earth? Would they come in peace or war; would they already know all that we could teach them; would they want to help us advance our technology; would they get us off this mediocre, blue-green rock . . . ? Start at the beginning: war or peace? The result of war is obvious. We have barely set foot on the moon; they have traveled a gagillion miles to get here. Their technology is far superior to ours.
We would be crushed.
Depressing thought.
He lit another cigarette. He was on his third pack since sitting down, and his five-o’clock-shadow had turned into a three-in-the-morning-overcast. He scratched it and went back to his musings.
Suppose they come in peace? That would be astounding—and very un-humanlike of them. Let’s assume that—after all the formal greetings between the human and alien nations—no one side offended the other. Highly unlikely, but that too would be a breath of fresh air. If they did insult each other (which would be almost a certainty due to both parties’ ignorance of the other’s probably radically different culture), there would be bad blood. Bad blood leads to distrust, leads to prejudice, leads to discrimination, leads to bloodshed . . .
We would be crushed.
Right, anyway, so if they came in peace and we didn’t piss them off, there might be talks . . . or something akin. The world would know of them. Some people would welcome our allies, some would stay at a cautious distance, some would be afraid; it’s inevitable. But there would never be uniformity of opinions among humans. Some groups would always fear the aliens. Even among humans, hatred has lasted between nations so long that they fight each other because they always have. Palestinians versus Israelis. Chinese versus Japanese versus Koreans. Northern Irish versus Britons. No matter how tolerant a culture claims to be, someone—some nation, some state, some planet—will hold prejudice against what’s different. And some subset of that will act on it. Whether the reason is that they don’t like the way the newcomers look or dress, are upset by the visitors’ ignorant disrespect of a specific human culture, feel threatened by them, or have their own way of thinking—perhaps even their own theology—challenged by the aliens’ presence, some people will act out. It might be minutes or days or years after contact. Hard to pacify the entire world’s concerns forever. Violence will ensue. And violence leads to bad blood . . . leads to bloodshed . . .
We would be crushed.
May they never know.
And with that, he thrust his knife deep into the writhing mass on the table in front of him until it went limp.
by submission | Oct 20, 2008 | Story
Author : Rob Burton
Dear Victim,
I am writing to you to tell you that, in a short while, you are going to be arrested for killing the Prime Minister. You didn’t do it, right? Wrong. Here at MI6, when we want to kill someone and say that you did it, you can be sure that we’ve made sure that you did.
I picked you for several reasons. Firstly, you have an interest in world affairs and have spent time on the internet researching terrorism. Now, I know that you are going to say, ‘but I wasn’t researching how to be a terrorist, I’m just concerned’. Well the courts won’t see it that way now that I’ve altered the list. Secondly, you have annoyed a few people over the years – some of them really hate you, you know – and so we got them to write their opinions on you on ‘mebook’. The press will look you up, and it will help us a lot if nobody likes you. Thirdly, you have short, dark hair, a heavy brow and a facial scar, which makes a conviction 18% more likely. Fourthly you are a liberal who is known to disagree with recent government policy – this gives you motive, and we like to eliminate as many threats as we can with one action. It’s more elegant. Lastly I picked you because, of all the many people who fit the profile, I don’t like the look of you.
According to your psychological profile, upon finishing this email you will attempt to run away – I hope you do, as it will further incriminate you – and that telling you this will not dissuade you. A few words of advice: Do not take your car, we can track it. Similarly, do not steal or borrow anyone else’s car. We can also track your mobile, PDA and laptop, and use them as listening devices. Do not go through any major urban areas; the cameras can pick up your ID using face recognition. Do not go anywhere near an airport or port either, for the same reason. Follow these simple rules and I give you six hours.
Thanks to the national DNA and biometric database, and a quick search through your bins, we have planted enough evidence around the site to easily convict you. Juries believe that DNA and biometric evidence is a rubber stamp for conviction. It is not, but they watch too much crime drama to be convinced otherwise. Also, we have hacked the new brain scan lie detector that Juries love so much, so it will show that you are feeling as guilty as a priest at a bondage party.
We thought that you might want to know why. Well, as you know, the current government has increased our budget and power exponentially over the last few terms. Now, it seems, the Prime Minister may be regretting a few of those choices. We cannot allow that, so we have killed him, demonstrating to his replacement (who is now guaranteed to win the next election) that we are not to be trifled with. This means that we can get whatever we want, which is more of the same, actually. Longer detention periods, fewer rights and greater surveillance. More power for us to play.
And why am I telling you this like some idiotic bond villain? Because it makes no difference to your fate, and because my boss and I think it’s hilarious.
This message will delete itself, leaving absolutely no trace, in two seconds.
Trust me. I know your reading speed.
by submission | Oct 19, 2008 | Story
Author : Denni schnapp
Oil painted rainbows on the pavement. Franklin coughed as he dragged Chrissy behind him.
“Keep your mask up,” he rasped, holding his own to his mouth with his free hand. The fumes made his eyes sting.
He paused, squinting. “Not–” Deep breath “Far. Now.”
His daughter remained silent, holding his hand as he resumed at a gentler pace.
The wind picked up, clearing some of the smog to reveal the silhouette of the Outer Settlement. There would be people, and air clean enough to breathe.
A sudden glare made him stop, Chrissy colliding with the heavy cloth of his coat. He pulled her behind him.
“Who are you? Where are you going?” a metallic voice rang out.
“Franklin Howards and my daughter Chrissy. Please–the bombs…”
The bombs had killed almost everyone before going on to poison the land.
“There’s no room! Leave the kid.” The latter an afterthought.
Chrissy clung tightly to his arm.
#
The bombs hadn’t killed her mother; cancer had seen to that. At another time there might have been kindly relatives, perhaps help from the government, but with millions struggling all that remained for Franklin was to return to the refinery, taking his daughter to live in one of the prefabs with their thin walls barely keeping out the noise and smell.
There had once been a forest, cut down during the building work. Only a few patches of shaggy grass remained. The kids had to play indoors. Not that there were many: another girl and two boys, all with wheezy coughs. Franklin couldn’t remember their names; he saw little of his daughter, let alone the other kids. By the age of twelve, they would be sent away to school-workcamp.
When the bombs fell, Chrissy had just turned eleven.
#
“Please, we’re just passing through!” Franklin fought for breath, inhaling deeply so that he could speak with a loud and confident voice. Don’t let them hear us wheeze.
“You people are always passing through.”
“We’re on our way to the harbour.”
“Ha! And where, pray, would you go from there?”
Franklin winced. Not in front of Chrissy. But his daughter gave no indication that she had understood, her eyes wide as she stared at the light.
“Give us the kid if you want, but you make your own luck.”
For a heartbeat time stood still. The school-workcamp was in the Outer Settlement. Chrissy would be better off there, with kids her own age.
“Leave the kid and go.”
Chrissy seemed to come to her senses. She tugged at his sleeve and Franklin stumbled back. After a few paces the beam cut off. They had rejoined the twilight zone and were of no further interest.
The sky was streaked with gold up where the soot couldn’t reach. The light settled on his daughter’s face. Franklin crouched.
“Chrissy, I want you to be safe…”
“Daddy, don’t go!” The mask distorted her voice.
He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Don’t you want to see–,” dammit, what was the boy’s name? “–Ollie again?”
“Ali,” she sniffled. Good, she was listening.
“I meant Ali. And the other kids that have left for school?” Workcamp.
Chrissy blinked and nodded. Brave girl.
“Come with me, Daddy!” She was keening.
There was no point trying to make her understand. If she was to have any future, he had no choice. He rose abruptly, holding her so tightly that it hurt him, but what hurt most was that she did not try to struggle.
The glare returned as he stepped over the perimeter. They stood motionless, waiting for the patrol to pick her up.
by submission | Oct 18, 2008 | Story
Author : Bill Richman
Bobby had always been a little different. His family felt it. So did the neighborhood children. His friends would have felt it too, if he’d had any. Of course, the other kids were quick to pick up on his oddities and use them to taunt him. He was used to that. Still, why did he have to hide what he felt? His longing to be accepted made him easy prey for those adults who knew what to look for and weren’t afraid to exploit it. Frank Martin was no exception. As a grounds keeper at the park, Frank saw a lot of kids every day, but his interests were very specific. As soon as he saw Bobby, he knew they were alike. It was only a matter of showing a little interest and acting a little bit friendly. Not too friendly, because that was dangerous. Just enough to pique the boy’s curiosity and draw him nearer.
“Hi!” Frank called to the boy, smiling and waving invitingly. “I’ve seen you around, and you look like maybe you could use someone to talk to.”
“M…me…?” stammered Bobby, looking around as though he expected the man to be addressing someone else.
“Yeah, you,” Frank chuckled nervously, glancing around to make sure no one was taking notice of them. “I’ve been watching you. I’ve seen the way you act. I know what you’re feeling. Do you want to come over to my house on Saturday? I think you’ll like it,” Frank blurted, knowing that he was going way too fast, but desperately afraid that he’d lose his nerve otherwise. “Of course, it’ll have to be our little secret,” he whispered, almost pleading.
“Um… well… I guess so…” Bobby mumbled, so stunned by the attention that it never occurred to him to wonder why someone like Frank would take so much interest in a boy like him.
“G…good…” stammered Frank, suddenly scared to death at what he’d just set in motion. “H…here’s my address. P…please don’t t…t…tell anyone wh…where you’re going.” With a trembling hand, he gave Bobby a small scrap of paper.
The lazy silence of Saturday afternoon was broken by a loud pounding and an angry voice shouting, “Police! Open the door!” Before Frank could do more than stand up and turn around, the door was thrown open, and an officer lunged into the room, followed closely by Bobby’s parents.
“What are you doing with my son?!?” screamed Bobby’s mother.
“I’ll kill you, you bastard!” shouted his father.
The officer pushed Frank roughly aside, revealing Bobby and another boy sprawled in full view on the couch, leaving little doubt as to what had been going on.
“Bobby!! What has he done to you?!?” wailed his mother.
“M…m…mom…? D…dad? It’s not his f…f…fault. I…I’ve felt this way for a long t…t…time now. Mu..mis… mister Martin is my f…friend.”
“Bobby? What the hell are you talking about, son? We raised you better than that!” moaned his father.
“D…d…dad? I… I’m s…sorry, bu..but it’s t…t…true,” Bobby sobbed. “I… I’m… a… a… r…r…READER!”
“Mister Martin, I’m placing you under arrest for contributing to the delinquency of a minor, possession of illegal materials, and teaching without a license. You’ll have to come with me,” snapped the officer, reaching for his handcuffs.
The well-worn copy of “Tom Sawyer” hit the floor with a crack like a judge’s gavel.
