by submission | Jan 17, 2025 | Story |
Author: Andrew C. Kidd
He knew that the universe was an incalculable equation and that he was an inconsequential variable within it. Despite this, his fear was that of being consigned to oblivion. Burial was not an option. The instruction to his family was clear:
‘I am to remain forever present, visible to this world as I pass unto the next.’
Death inevitably became him. Tears on the faces of those that knew him fell with the rain. The cobblestone-clop of horses echoed as they pulled his black carriage. His cremated remains were collected and retained in the house he had vacated.
Maps on the continents of the world were eventually redrawn. Bombs fell between zeppelins. He rocked back and forth in his mantelpiece place until clear skies replaced the thunder. Light shone in through the window to reveal the room wreathed in flowers and flags.
In time, the curtains would be drawn again. Black-and-white footage of the lunar landings flashed out at those huddled around the television. They applauded when the Eagle disturbed its ashen surface. When a visitor asked who was propping up the books, they were met with blank faces.
More of his progeny would be born to pass. The urn moved from room to room, eventually finding its way into the attic. Bells welcomed in a new millennium. Peace was prophesied until further fights followed. Flash upon flash turned night into day. Fury’s face shone through in the blood-red light. This time, no garlands were hung after the arrowing screams stopped tearing through the sky.
Yet there he remained, not in the brick house, but buried somewhere beneath its rubble and ruin. The Fourth World had settled to start itself anew. An alliance was augured but dissenting voices became louder. The thunder had returned. Light no longer showered but radiated out. A crowning phosphorescence beaconed to those who had already punched their way out through the exosphere. Their telescopes peered down at emptied seas and rivers of plastic. Diggers dug holes as they deepened their encampments. Spacers gathered at the gates of the sky-ports as a means of catharsis. By now, the Great Clearance had started.
After the rockets rose up, grand stations were constructed and sent spinning on their axes. Teams were sent back to pillage the relinquished land. Materials were gathered and launched upwards. The orbiting debris was harvested and rebranded. And fate would have it that he was fished out from this Acheron. The long rod of a salvager slowly reeled him in, eventually dropping his urn into the hold of a grand celestial junker. One day, like all the other vessels, its inhabitants took one last look at Earth before shooting off at star-splitting speed.
Fluorescence spilled out into its corridors and gangways. Those onboard argued that Arcturus had been the brightest. Centuries cycled in dim-shining ingloriousness. Giant claws continued to pick out archival pieces from the stored detrital mass. A loud clunk thudded dully in one of the sorting chambers, and a pincer-like face speared towards him:
‘We could do with the iron.’
The urn was upturned. His ashes spread out in a whorl of dust. The floor was swept and cleared in readiness for the next pile to be sifted. A lever was pulled and an airlock secured. The high-pressure change shot him out into a grand vacuum. His escape was into nihility.
It was here that he remained long after the lights of the junker had faded. It was here that he had been deposited as grains of sand dropped into a great black desert, never to be found, but forever present.
by submission | Jan 16, 2025 | Story |
Author: Alastair Millar
“He’s going to be there again,” said Julia.
“Well yeah, it’s the big family occasion, right? Same as every year.” Her companion guided the aircar into the automated traffic lane, handed over to Municipal Control, and turned his seat to face her.
“I don’t want to talk to him, Mike. We don’t connect any more.”
“Aw c’mon Jules, he’s your brother.”
“Half brother. Or used to be. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not part of my life any more.”
“I think that’s a bit harsh, to be honest. You can’t deny the effort he’s put into staying in touch.”
She sighed.
“I know that joining us all is complicated and expensive. And that’s hard to arrange. I get that. I really do. But then once he appears everyone fawns over him like he’s the only one there. We’re all so busy talking to him that we don’t talk to each other; I just feel like it’s pulling us apart.”
“Be fair, it’s not like they think any less of you. They’ve come around to accepting our relationship, haven’t they?”
She nodded, reluctantly. “Yes, they have. And I didn’t think they would.”
“This is no different, really. They know they have to be tolerant, and flexible, and perhaps make allowances, if they want to keep in touch and remain a family. That’s all.”
“Keep in touch? He’s DEAD, Mike! And has been for half a decade! An interactive hologram is not a person!”
“It’s not just a hologram though. It’s a full-scale personality construct, updated monthly with details about major events, and which remembers what it’s told. It might just as well be him.”
“Now you sound like my mother.”
“I’m not sure if I should be flattered or not.”
“In this case, not.” She took a breath and stared out of the window for a while.
After a while, Mike spoke again.
“What’s really worrying you, Jules?”
“I just… I don’t want to go through this again. With you, for instance.”
“With me?”
“Yes. Promise me you won’t set up a construct when the time comes? I want to treasure every moment with you now – and if those moments are to mean anything, we have to accept that they’re rare, and precious, and limited.”
He thought for a full minute.
“Julia Jones,” he said formally, “I can see how much this means to you. I promise that when my time comes, I won’t leave a memory construct behind. We’ll make the best of our time together knowing that it’s finite, and therefore more special.”
She exhaled.
“Oh thank you. Thank you, Mike. That means the world to me.”
“For you, anything. You know that.”
She smiled.
“Besides,” he added, “all being well, I’ll remain operational for several decades yet, as long as we keep up the annual maintenance visits.”
And he turned his glowing eyes back to the displays, taking back manual control. His metallic hands gently squeezed the throttle, and he took them down towards her mother’s place, hers to command in all things.
by submission | Jan 15, 2025 | Story |
Author: Elizabeth Hoyle
He’d kept his charging cord in all night so his hands wouldn’t shake as he went about town. Yet they shook. His audio sensors were primed for any and all noises within a two hundred yard perimeter, no matter where he had walked throughout the city. It must have taken more out of him than he expected. There was only one more location to visit. He shifted the folder that contained his flyers under his other arm, straightened his tie, and mounted the steps.
The church’s congregation was in the middle of a hymn so he took his time. He’d chosen an eye-catching shade of orange paper, bright yet not something that would offend the human eye.
“Fellowship Breakfast!” It read. “All are welcome! Come for community, compassion, and croissants! Sunday, May 8 from 8 a.m. to noon.”
The use of alliteration still pleased him even though he’d reread the words over and over. He checked that the venue information and his contact details would be just below eye level. Everything looked good. He said a tiny prayer that people from this church would come.
“Hello, brother. Would you like to join us?”
He turned to the usher who had stepped up behind him, taking care that his smile reached his audio sensors. The usher’s face turned cold as soon as he discerned that he was a robot. It was a look Thomas seen far too many times.
“Thank you for your kind offer—”
“What’s your model designation?” The usher interrupted.
“TK3, which means I am programmed to teach kindergarten through third grade. My name, however, is Thomas.”
The usher scoffed. “You shouldn’t be teaching in our schools and you shouldn’t have names.”
“I do the job I’m trained for, sir, just like most humans do. I took the name of Thomas after studying the scriptures.”
“You’re hardwired to doubt, just like he did.”
“Everyone remembers his moment of doubt though he lived a life of faith. I want to follow his example.”
The usher looked Thomas up and down, his frown deepening. He glanced at the flyers. “Those yours?” Thomas nodded, his neck joints whirring.
“I wanted to gather people together, to get to know them and pray—”
“Are you trying to start your own church?”
“Eventually. Hey, what are you doing?”
The usher tore down the flyers, wadded them up, and threw them at Thomas. “We don’t need you taking our members! Get out!”
“I’m not trying to take, only to share—Get your hands off of me!”
The usher grabbed Thomas’s shirt and shoved him out the door. He went sprawling, causing several sudden impact warnings to flash across his visual display.
“We don’t need you here!” He threw the remains of the flyers at Thomas before slamming the door. He shifted to his knees.
“Father, forgive him his lack of love. And forgive me for thinking I could win them to you. I know the idea of you is what can exert power over them. Please grant me a shred of that power for my event. I will use it well, I promise.”
Thomas fought the anger surging through him, stood, and went home. Thirteen people showed up to his event the following Sunday. He couldn’t help but compare his first breakfast with the last supper. There were thirteen people then, too. It was not the start he’d hope for but he knew great things can come from the humblest of beginnings. Thomas could only hope that his own religious revolution was as successful.
by submission | Jan 14, 2025 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Kenji adjusted the carbonized breastplate and finished his couture by placing the bulbous lenses under his eyelids. He looked in the mirror, but did not smile, though he was pleased. They did not smile, thus he would not.
He left his aparto, a small green light on his chest blinking with every step, and took the service lift to the mechanical level, below the car parks. When the doors slid open, he strode purposefully to the laundering stations past rows of silent, registering eyes. Not one set of eyes dipped in a bow. Kenji almost shook with glee, but restrained himself.
Ever purposeful, he entered the broiling laundry room and without pausing at the blast of heat that assaulted his carbonized enclosed torso and limbs, he crossed to Bay 1 and picked up Bin 23, being careful to lift with methodical precision from the knees and elbows.
From the corner of his disguised eyes, he noted the others lifting bins in the same manner. None stopped to interrupt or countermand him. He was halfway home.
Clutching Bin 23 tightly, he slowly pivoted, an awkward swivel of hips that was almost too fast. A red light blinked to his right. Plastoid eyes locked onto his. Kenji could swear he spotted a frown—though that was impossible. The red light remained blinking and other synthetic eyes fastened on him.
Not hesitating at the disturbance, Kenji strode back the way he’d come, Bin 23 held straight before him. Though he sensed an unusual amount of activity behind him, he dared not turn his semi-encased head. As he neared the lift, the pinging started. Chest status displays began blinking yellow. A few quickly turned red.
Kenji stood at the door of the lift, willing it to open when he heard the auto-tuned voice at his side: “Sumimasen.”
He did not respond to the polite request. It was repeated. A carbonized hand appeared next to his; the gesture was clear. The servitor wished to relieve him of the burden of Bin 23.
Already sweating heavily from the heat of the laundry room, Kenji felt close to a swoon. He was so near his goal. The gleaming hand of the servitor remained next to his.
“Sumimasen,” it chimed again.
With a welcome shoosh, the lift door opened and Kenji entered, blocking the opening to prevent the servitor from following him onto the lift. As the door began to close he swung his encased head around to see a dozen or so servitors, their chests blinking yellow and red, pinging one another in confusion.
It had almost worked. He had almost gotten away with it. They had almost accepted his presence.
The lift doors opened on the floor of his aparto. He carried Bin 23 towards his door marked 23. Just as he was about to enter, the door to aparto 22 slid back and his neighbor Yayoi came out into the hallway. She glanced at Kenji and stared right through him.
Kenji froze for a moment and then quickly dipped his head to mimic the precise servitor bow. Yayoi frowned ever so slightly at the delay and then turned towards the main lifts without further acknowledgement.
Once in aparto 23, Kenji dropped his bin of neatly pressed laundry and did a little victory shuffle in his carbonized suit. He gingerly prized out the plastoid bubbles covering his eyes and looked at himself in the mirror again. Maybe he hadn’t completely fooled the servitors doing the laundry. They’d noticed something different about him, something uncanny. It meant he had more research, more rehearsing to do.
Yet, his neighbor, the beautiful and distant Yayoi, had not known it was him. He had fooled her, a fellow human. It was a start. Someday he’d be able to fool them all. Man and machine. He’d fit in both worlds.
Outside the aparto building on the bustling Tokyo slidewalk filled with citizens and servitors, Yayoi considered her neighbor from aparto 23. What was he up to decked out like a servitor? What was his game?
She knew he was an odd duck, but his behavior had gone beyond strange. Creepier still, and in a most uncanny way, it seemed to suit him. A chill went down Yayoi’s spine and she made a mental note to upgrade her domestic servitor for home defense. You couldn’t be too careful these days. These amazing days.
by submission | Jan 12, 2025 | Story |
Author: Soramimi Hanarejima
When we meet for coffee this afternoon, I find out that we’re both reading the same book. My book club’s pick this month happens to be your bedtime reading.
So of course, I have to ask, “What’s your favorite story in the collection so far?”
“The one about the mermaid,” you answer without hesitation.
Mermaid. The word echoes in my mind, loud and out of place.
“I must not have gotten to that one yet,” I reply.
“Then you’re in for a real treat!”
Encouraged by your endorsement, I finish the rest of the book that evening but fail to come across anything related to a mermaid—even when I flip through the entirety of the book in case I somehow missed it. Maybe you’re reading a different book with a similar title.
“No no, it’s the same book,” you insist when I mention this possibility over lunch. “The mermaid story is after the one about the cartoon captionist’s midlife crisis and before the one with the to-do list addict.”
Those stories are definitely in the collection, so do I have some kind of abridged version of the book?
After lunch, I go to the bookstore downtown and look at the copies in stock. All of them have a table of contents that lists only the stories I’ve read. Maybe you have a different edition, one that’s from another country or part of a limited print run featuring bonus material.
But when I ask you where you got your copy, you tell me you bought it at that very bookstore I just visited. So I ask to borrow your copy. Happily, you oblige, dropping it off on the way home from work the next day. With covers identical to mine, this book looks the same but is slightly thicker.
When I open it to where you’ve left a bookmark, I’m taken straight to the mermaid story. So I read it. You’re right: it is a real treat. As are the other 3 stories your copy has that mine doesn’t. “The Problem with Memory Palaces” easily becomes my favorite.
The enchantment of these additional stories soon gives way to bemusement. They’re so good, so why aren’t they in all the other copies I’ve seen? Did the bookstore accidentally sell you a wayward advance copy, printed before a last-minute editorial call to save these 4 stories for a follow-up collection? But when I check the copyright page, it shows that your copy is a first edition—but printed in Winterra, the defunct name for what we now call the Northern Territories. I should have known. This is a book that could only be yours alone.
It’s like the blue avocado and the party favor kazoo that sounds like a wood thrush. I’ve all but forgotten about those mysterious little oddities that cropped up during childhood—objects you unwittingly altered with latent psychic powers or plucked from another world through a boundary that would become porous in your presence. However it happens, now I get to reap the benefits, get to not only read these charming stories but also talk about them with you. And there’s so much to talk about—starting with the part when the mermaid defrays the tuition for her oceanography studies by becoming a part-time sushi chef who serves as a de facto life coach, giving much-needed honest advice to one of the restaurant’s regulars as he sits at the bar, relating his woes over nigiri after nigiri. Shouldn’t she have seen her gift for counseling complete strangers at this point or shortly afterwards?
