by submission | Jan 14, 2024 | Story |
Author: Kevlin Henney
The flood water had receded enough for the warden to take the bridge from the town, but there were puddles and pools and fallen branches enough to swallow the road and stymie his progress.
“He’ll be here soon. Be silent and still,” Walda said, standing by the roots of her home. “Make yourself a bit scruffy while you’re about it.”
Walda looked up at her house and nodded. The steps spiraling up the trunk were broken enough to show a storm’s passage, along with a missing half wall — the warden would see her kitchen as he approached — and the roof was intact but raised on one side like a lid.
Walda went to the log pile between her tree and the forest and picked out pieces that looked better for mending than burning.
“Morning, Missus Walda,” the warden said as he walked the path up from the road.
“Never married nor betrothed, Warden Greaves, as you know.” She dropped the wood by the long table next to the path.
“Some might prefer… well, folk might talk about a woman on her own.”
“Would some of these folk, by chance, be named Greaves?”
“Not for me to say, Mistress Walda.”
“Just Walda is fine… as you know.”
“Thought to check on you after last night’s storm. See that you were unharmed and whether your, umm,” he waved up at the house nestled in the branches, “home was in need of much rebuilding, perhaps a carpenter’s visit.”
“As you can see, I have this in hand.” She waved at the collected wood, axe and saw by the table.
“From the damage you must have had, I see your progress is good… very good.”
“I think you’re trying to say something, warden, but you’re struggling to spit out the words.”
“Mistress Walda, the word is you practice unnatural arts. I myself am surprised such a rickety house not only survived the storm, but has been mended with such speed as might catch the eye of the justice and the mayor.”
“Only if someone’s turning their heads, Warden Greaves. What is so unnatural about living in the woods? In the trees like the birds and the squirrels? Besides,” she pointed to the town colors flying from the pole midway between the bridge and her path, “that’s the limit of your law. Now, unless you’re lending a hand,” she picked up the saw and a log, “I suggest you stop disturbing the peace of any woman versed in herb lore and see who properly needs help the other side of that flag.”
“As you were, then,” the warden said, turning back down the path. “Just remember, Mistress Walda, flags can be moved.”
“As can weak minds, Warden Greaves,” Walda muttered as the warden receded down the path.
Once he’d crossed the bridge, she looked up at her home.
“As you were.”
As if it had never been any different, the house was whole and built — spiral stairs unbroken, kitchen hidden inside, roof firmly closed.
by submission | Jan 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: Cecilia Kennedy
Shapes drift down the aisles of the ferry I’m taking to an island I’ve never seen before. A coworker, Sally, swears it’s the best-kept secret in the entire Pacific Northwest. We’ve got a seat near the window, as parents and children run up and down the aisle next to us, from one side of the boat to the other, inside and outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of an otter or seal, but it’s always just birds, tricking you into thinking their wings are fins.
Out of the corner of my eye, a hooded shape makes its way up and back. It’s much colder on the ferry than it is on land, when the air is still, and the water isn’t kicking up waves. Sally tells me all about the shops—and there’s a glimmer in her eyes—a yellow spark of something I’ve never noticed before, when she tells me of the pizza slices and tempura-battered shrimp.
The hooded figure passes two or more times. I assume it’s good exercise, walking laps around the boat—maybe to ward off seasickness. As I talk to Sally, her eyes glow bright, and the hooded shape takes on speed. I hear a clunk, clunk slither sound, and the shape disappears, then reappears again, until I see something else I hadn’t seen before: antlers protruding from the hood, a serpent’s tail swishing along from behind. My breath goes still, and I lean into Sally’s stories a bit more to avoid looking at the aisles, and as she talks, the flame in her eyes turns green, just as the ferry reaches the dock.
We get out into the sunshine, the town all lit up with salty air and rays, restaurants and shops, but my skin grows cold when I see everyone, including Sally, shed their coats, bare their antlers, their slithering tails. All turn to look at me to see what I’ll do, as I’m surrounded by faces with pointy teeth and vulture eyes. I want to run, vomit, get back on the ferry, but when I turn around, even the ferry workers have shifted their shape, so there’s no escape. Sally places her tentacle on my shoulders, insists on the pizza place near the corner, where tiny antlered children run. I remove my coat, let the sun soak into my skin, order a slice of the specialty: basil pesto squid—and wonder when my tentacles will come in, when my shape will shift—and how long it takes to fully conform.
by submission | Jan 12, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jaryd Porter
“What’s the damage?” I asked.
Snafu used a couple of car jacks to keep the tank suspended, while she removed the treads. She’d removed her combat armor and left it lying in the loose grit around us.
“Most of everything’s fine, honestly,” she said. Her enormous biceps flexed and glistened in the desert sun. She chewed on a rawhide like a cheap cigar. Of the five of us, only Snafu qualified as a combat mechanic. Only she could fix our light tank and mend the plating after small arms fire. That made her our most essential crew member–the tank doctor.
“What was the grinding sound, then? The actuator? Serpentine?” I guessed. The others played cards in the dirt and drank warm beer, disinterested in the repair job.
Snafu pulled the right tread off of the tank like I pulled off a shirt–the tread had to be half of a ton alone.
“White, it’s just a freakin’ bolt that’s warped. I can work a little magic and have us up and rolling in minutes,” Snafu said. “Just keep your pants on about it.” She smiled, her teeth all thick canine teeth and her eyes serpentine and golden.
“You know, Snafu, the penalty for desertion is death?” I said. “Out here in the Wasteland, I don’t know if we’d even go to a tribunal or court. He might really just shoot us dead. Five mutants recruited from the middle of nowhere.”
“I’d rather get shot by Captain Jerrund than sit through court, anyway. Bite the bullet, if you will,” she said. “If he just shoots us, my parents won’t see this headline: ‘Deserting Mutants Executed on Sight, a Pillar Officer Keeps His Word.’ Then there’s just a picture of my body mangled and riddled full of lead.”
“Morbid, isn’t it?” I said.
“People don’t value human life on this planet. There’s too many of us, we’ve got clones, mutants, and aliens. Plus, consumption is in fashion and some of the geezers in the big city live forever. So…maybe we do value human life. Monetarily. If you don’t have the sum to cover your cost, you get eaten alive,” Snafu said.
She squatted low and pulled her giant monkey wrench out of the loose dirt. The powdery red grains soared into the air, uncovering her wrench’s polished silver. The wrench was longer than she was tall and probably more than my body weight. Snafu slung it over her shoulder with ease and began to adjust her spanner. Robot mechanics or a military grade automatic wrench was typically required to make the sorts of repairs that Snafu did, but she liked to show off too much.
She cranked the wrench patiently. The bolt, about the size of my chest cavity, dropped into the dust with a resounding thud. It looked like any old bolt, but almost a full foot in circumference. It was more of a boulder than a bolt, to me.
“It’s…warped?” I scoffed.
She grabbed a blowtorch and heated the massive bolt until it burned red hot. She beat it with her wrench repeatedly. I couldn’t see any visible difference between when the banging started and when it ended, but she smiled at the bolt and left it to cool off.
“Good as new?” I asked.
“With all those millimeter machining defects, White Flag, ‘fixed’ is always better than ‘new’,” she said. “Broken things need a little love and care, you know. Better than new.”
I couldn’t help but think she meant us mutants, not the bolt for the treads.
by submission | Jan 11, 2024 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
When astronauts landed on Wolan, some shed tears of joy at what they found while others salivated. They appreciated their fluids touching the dulcet air of another world. And they cried and drooled because there was enough timber to last for at least one decennial cycle.
Nearly as wonderful as the abundance of magnificent trees was the absence of beings of appreciable size on the planet.
On Earth, the resource masters received reports of Wolan’s riches. Outwardly stoic, each privately rejoiced. Every sterling image of four-meter-wide trunks rising forty meters up to split into limbs three times the thickness of the thickest of humans, was the most encouraging find they had received in a very long time.
Some of the masters recalled a distant past time when trees on Earth were the size of Titans. Earth folk had walked among those Gods; they had touched them and experienced a wonderment no officer had known. There were, as yet no holograms capable of replicating the grandeur of magnificent vegetable flesh.
From decision command, the chief resource master issued an order to the culling crew. ‘Select a corner and make your first cuts.’
‘Aye, Sir Mum,’ the culler chief replied.
On Wolan, the astronauts concentrated on finding a quarter acre a short distance from their ship. When they sighted a good lease, they set up an infrared boundary so that any culler, approaching from any direction, would recognize the boundary.
The culling team unpacked their pneumatic axes and scaling gear and approached the infrared barrier. Crossing it, they noticed that the weight of their equipment increased. With each step they took in approach to those first trunks, the strain on their hands, wrists, forearms, elbows, and biceps grew until each culler was plagued by ache.
Since seasoned astronauts were accustomed to all sorts of strains, no one made comment. But what they were not prepared for was an incapacity at lifting their drills above waist level upon switch on.
Fourteen cullers, with fourteen pneumatic axes expelling air, stood immobilized.
‘Culler chief report,’ the chief resource officer called from Earth.
‘Sir Mum, we cannot lift our axes,’ the chief culler replied.
‘Explain.’
‘We cannot raise them north of our middies, Sir Mum.’
‘Drop the axes.’
‘Aye, Sir Mum.’ The chief turned to their team and ordered a lowering of tools. Each culler choked their axe and laid it on the soil.
‘Apply hand axe. Single indentation.’
‘Aye, Sir Mum.’ The culler chief walked to the closest trunk and unsheathed their hand axe. They had no difficulty removing the tool, but as they went to swing the blade toward the tree, the axe head rebounded from a spot in space. The head took the axe with it, both bouncing back, flying from the culler chief’s hand to the ground.
‘Report.’
The culler chief picked up their axe. ‘Aye, Sir Mum. A pain radiates from my wrist toward fingers and forearm. It is the shock of impact. The axe did not touch wood.’
‘Reapply.’
‘Aye, Sir Mum.’ The culler chief again readied to swing their hand axe, and again the head struck a point in space prohibiting trespass. The axe tumbled from the culler’s hand, completing several somersets before reaching dirt.
‘Ah,’ the chief culler winced, clutching their hand which began to swell, purpling in expansion.
‘Report.’
‘Reattempted cut and axe re-met invisible barrier. Cannot lift axe with prime hand as hand, from wrist to fingers, swells.’
‘Pain?’
‘Severe.’
The other cullers, listening to the conversation, said nothing. Several remained in awe of the majesty of the trees, an awe that challenged the itch in their limbs to cut. Still others, not similarly overcome, grew angry at what they felt was arboreal insolence. Without awaiting order, they swung their axes at the trees but met with the same result. Half the culling team now clutched hands immobilized by pain and bruising.
The chief resource officer began a scan of Wolan’s surface. Expecting to find a hidden energy Foco responsible for the barrier, the officer found none. They commenced a subsurface planetary scan but that, too, produced nothing.
‘Sir Mum, what is the directive?’ the culler chief inquired.
‘Cullers will return to the ship. Chief engineer will prepare cannon. Captain, select target and fire.’
The cullers made haste and watched from their viewing screens as the ship’s cannon powered up. In the walls of the ship there was a surge of energy felt by everyone on board. It was a surge to which hey had grown accustomed during warp travel but not sub light speeds, much less in a stationary state.
‘Fire,’ the captain ordered. The gunnery office fired the cannon at a magnificent specimen standing 400 meters tall. The cannon had no effect on the tree.
‘Select a smaller specimen.’
‘Aye, Sir Mum.’ The captain located a sapling and ordered the gunnery officer to fire upon it. Again, to no effect.
A moment passed. Before the chief resource officer could advise, the gunnery officer turned toward the captain. As their pupils dilated, the gunnery spoke in their usual speech tone, but used words they never before would have had the temerity to utter: ‘I reject your attempt to designate us a name we have not chosen.’
In a trice, the captain heard the chief resource officer remark: ‘Captain, we reject your attempt to give us names we have not chosen.’
‘Sir Mum?’
‘I did not name you, captain. You are not at liberty to issue a claim.’
The captain, caught by the forest on his view screen, forgot to blink. With each mote that landed on their lenses, in each tear the ducts produced to wash away each blemish, pain infused the captain’s sight. It maundered into their being, that pain they had suppressed every time they heard themselves called captain. So damn singular, that title.
by submission | Jan 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: Lauren Everling
I didn’t want to end up here. I didn’t want to be in a holding cell with five other women who looked like funhouse mirror versions of themselves, wrinkled and geriatric, although one of them was only twenty-five. She got aged sixty-five for robbing a convenience store. I was waiting for my punishment, but after looking at that cellmate, the suspense wore away, as I knew whatever it was wouldn’t be good.
The day they took me away was cold, with stabbing pains in my stomach. I clutched it while shivering, the snow piling on my eyelashes. My family was everything but well-off. I’m sure now that I was in prison they felt a sense of relief, knowing that they had one less mouth to feed. Some older woman walking out of the grocery store next to where we lay our heads took pity on me and my family and gave me a slice of bread. One slice was all it took for the cops to think that I was stealing. When they forcibly grabbed me by my waist I kicked back, which the officers took as resisting arrest.
Now I sat here and watched a clearly middle aged woman with tattered clothing being pulled out of the cell. The officer threw her to the ground, grabbed her arm, and stuck the needle in. Immediately, her body thrashed and she gasped for air. Her gasp turned to a groan as her face sagged. All the skin on her body now hung off of her bones. Her diminished self got thrown back into the holding cell as a warning to the rest of us. The other un-aged women moved away from her. She became less than them now.
At this point my mind filled up with ping pong balls bouncing from one end to the other, each time reminding me of the horrors that soon would distort my body. The worst part is, they never warned you. As far as I knew, my next breath could be my last before I was forever someone who my brain could no longer recognize.
