by submission | Mar 14, 2009 | Story
Author : Tim Crosby
I am weeping in the burned rubble that used to be my home, in the ash that used to be my hometown.
Every day I look for other survivors. I have not seen anyone else in over five weeks – and even that was just a fleeting glimpse of silhouettes in the distance.
I cry because, when the chrome monstrosities screamed down from the sky, I did nothing. As my town was razed, I hid. While my wife and child were slaughtered, I ran away.
The hulking metal thing still sits in the center of town, watching and waiting. It wakes up now less and less frequently, as the number of survivors dwindles. Every time it wakes up, I feel the pangs of guilt and failure.
That saying from before this apocalypse still holds: you need others. Not much else applies anymore, but that much is true. I find it hard to sleep at night, knowing there are other survivors out there.
I still come to this place of my failure because it’s at the top of a hill; it’s the best place to see others before they can see you. Yet sometimes I am overwhelmed by my own failure, and I cry. Like now.
There is a crunch of a boot on gravel behind me. I wipe my tears and turn to see another human. We lock eyes for a brief moment, then I stand.
The combat is short and fierce. We are both desperate. Though I am bloodied and bruised, I am victorious. As I raise the other survivor’s head – no, as I raise my trophy – I let out a long ululation.
I begin making my way to the monstrosity. When I show it my prize, my masters will let me inside.
by submission | Mar 13, 2009 | Story
Author : Jeff McGaha
John fumbled at the door, the alcohol hindering his coordination. His frustration, first directed at the keys, grew to include the lock, the door, the house and eventually Mary. His fury cresting, he pounded his fist into the door. “Mary…honey…open up. My goddamn key don’t work.” The beating of the door grew harsher and more insistent. The pummeling shook the whole house. John’s slurred words became louder and callous as his entry was denied. Dogs began to bark, but the neighbors didn’t involve themselves. They never did.
Mary sat silently on the couch. She shivered with fear. For nine years, this had been their routine. John would get drunk on a Friday night and Mary would have to wear sunglasses for a week. The same thing seemed to happen every few months. Mary was frightened, but prepared this time.
Finally, John kicked in the door. His face flushed with anger and whiskey. He spotted Mary quivering on the sofa. “You stupid bitch.” John strode to Mary in three steps, knocking over a lamp and coffee table in his path.
“St-,” was all that escaped Mary’s lips before John had his hand around her throat and began choking her. He was angry and going to kill her this time. Mary took her right hand and jammed her palm into John’s chest. He flew across the room and smashed into the wall. The house rumbled from the impact. With the wind knocked out of him, John rested on the ground gasping.
Mary’s nostrils flared and she wanted to cry, “You are never going to hurt me again. I’m leaving you. The door wouldn’t open because I had the locks changed. You’ll be receiving divorce papers on Monday.”
Still wheezing for air, John mumbled, “How – How did you do that?”
Mary just shook her head and shrugged, fighting back the tears. John, clutching at his chest, blinked a few times confused. Mary lowered her head and stared at the floor. Finally figuring it out, John gasped loudly, “Nooo. We can’t afford that. Where’d ya get the money?”
“Women Against Marital Brutality – they own a clinic where they can perform gene manipulation. I’ve been on their waiting list for three years. I think it’s time for you to leave.”
John nodded knowingly and pushed himself up using the wall, his breathing still difficult. He looked at Mary sadly, “Did – did ya have anything else done besides strengthenin’?”
“Just go.”
John hesitated and then left. Mary shut the door behind him. The door frame was shattered and the locks were completely useless. Mary turned and leaned her back against the door. She slid down to the tiled floor and began to cry.
by submission | Mar 11, 2009 | Story
Author : Q.B. Fox
When we broke down, it left me with some time to kill, so I slipped into a little café near the port and bought a latte and a muffin. The breakfast rush had long gone and it was still too soon for an early lunch, so I was the only customer apart from a casually dressed fellow, sat against the wall and lost behind that day’s paper.
I idled away the minutes as the coffee cooled, breaking pieces off the muffin and staring dreamily out of the large windows at the beautiful people filling the sun drenched streets; amazingly perfect, colourfully dressed, beautiful people.
Of course, if you know nothing else about the place, and to be honest I knew very little more, you’d have heard about the accident. When was it? Five years ago? Ten?
Anyway, it was a funny thought, to think that all these perfect people had been made that way; remade that way, really.
It was so unexpected I jumped when he spoke. Perhaps I’d mumbled something of my thoughts out loud (I do that sometimes), perhaps he’d just guessed what I was thinking.
“You ever been to the aquarium, ever seen the reef exhibit?” he asked, a disembodied voice from behind the headlines.
I confessed I’d not seen anymore of the city than what I could see through this window.
“If you go during the day,” he explained, “and look into the tank, it’s filled with beautiful fish, all different colours and shapes and patterns, but each one as beautiful as the next.”
I crumbled a raisin out of the sponge, popped it in my mouth, turning to face him.
“But if you go in the evening,” he continued casually, half his attention apparently still focused on the news print, “they dim the lights, make it night time, and that’s when the ugly fish come out; grey and brown fish with bug eyes and pointy, sticky-out teeth; funny looking, bloated fish, with round bodies and stubby fins; freak show fish not meant to be out in the light of day.”
He paused; and I waited, waited to see where he was going.
“It’s not like those fish are put into the tank at night, they’re there all along, hiding in the crevices in the coral, waiting for it to be safe to go out.”
And then he did something that shocked me, made me see the whole world differently.
He lowered his paper.
by submission | Mar 9, 2009 | Story
Author : mjcast
I toss and turn trying to log on to the sleep server. By myself in my bed, my apartment, yet never alone. The endless chatter of the web constantly bombarding my consciousness with pictures, messages and update streams. I am unable to tune it out, log in and get much needed sleep.
My doctor says that I need to relax and try and get a good rest.
“In the past it had taken a while for someone who wasn’t born into the MindLine experience to adapt and tune out the streaming, however that was ages ago. You were born and immediately implanted with MindShare, you should have developed the coping patch within your mind to merge seamlessly with the software, and be able to filter out when you need to. Update your links to the sleep server and check those connections throughout the day.”
Thanks for the advice…but I can’t anymore. Damn doc wouldn’t even prescribe anything to help. Not since the Emphino Virus, were they able to prescribe anti-nets for fear of virus’ becoming drug resistant.
I had made it through 30 years of connected life then I lapsed on a Delta wave patch and I hit a midlife crisis, hard. It didn’t take long for things to come crashing down around me; with the level of connectedness everyone knows pretty quickly when something is wrong. Pretty soon my boss was calling me in for ‘special talks’ and recommending a pysch eval.
“The eval will help you get back on track. I looked at your entire avatar post history, you have no irregularities aside from the usual teenage stuff,” he had said.
However, I haven’t slept in two months. I can’t escape.
I lay here staring at the ceiling, viewing updates flashed from people on the other side of the world waking up and messaging to their avatars. Stream after stream, some from people I know in the flesh however mostly from contacts and associates across the wires. Thoughts, feelings, ideas instantly relayed through MindShare for all to see and peruse.
I had done it casually at first, bought the drill gun with plans to put in a half wall in my office. Left it charging in the garage for a couple of days till I knew for certain it was necessary. I hadn’t even allowed myself the ability to formulate the idea lest it be posted to my avatar.
That didn’t matter; I had leaked a post unknowingly. As soon as I tried to bore out MindShare and destroy my connection permanently, my hand froze and I got a post from the MindLine Security Authority that they were sending an ambulance to pick me up. A nice room had been reserved for my avatar at Ion Systems Hospital, a few weeks ago according to the post date.
I had been deemed a virus and am subject to be quarantined from the system. I look forward to the silence of life and the embrace of a systemless sleep…
by submission | Mar 8, 2009 | Story
Author : A. Munck
Man claims a bad joy. He has his hand on the radar. The oil, sweat sheen on his palm reacts with chemicals on the screen and reveals ships in the darkness. Man has waited a long time alone in the dark.
“Stasis… two-thirds.”
The new planet spun serenely below. Man woke up one by one to see which children, parents, brothers, sisters had died in their sleep. They gathered at windows, murmurous, tugging on crosses, pocket Qu’rans, rosaries, the Wiccan Rede on a Kindle, staring into the oceans and continents of another Earth.
Landing went well. Nearly all the equipment had come through intact. Man found trees in his new home. Cabins went up. A mill burdened the river. Maize and beans wed alien soil and children made pets of tiny tri-legged beetles. When the necessities of life had been established, joint town meetings were held in the new sister cities of Armstrong and Aldrin.
“We’ll build the First Unitarian Church of Terra Nova,” Man said. “We’ll build it between our two cities, and thank God for saving us all.”
Man put his back into it. The heavy ridge beam went up, made of unnamed wood, which Man called oak. The spine of the church was long and sturdy, the rafters straight. Walls rose. Glass was melted and a window stained; Man carved four altars, a cross, a star, a pentagon, a crescent.
He congratulated himself on his new tolerance. He came to worship – there were no Saturdays or Sundays, just days – and to sit for once together in peace.
“Brothers and Sisters,” he said. “Let us pray.”
Our Father Allah Mother-Goddess Yahweh,
Thou who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name,
Thy Kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
On Earth as it is in Heaven…
Man stopped praying and raised his head to gaze on the length of the high ridge beam, white with unleaded paint. There was nothing above him. The beam stared blankly at the floor.
“God, wilt thou not speak to me?” he cried, each brother, sister, child and parent separately, silently, in his own breast. The prayer went on without resonance. No sentience had grown on Nova Terra, and no sacredness felt. Though maize stretched high in the light of a red sun, some necessities of life had not survived the grafting.
Man was alone in his church.
