by submission | Oct 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
Boswan Raz screamed with limited breath as he raced into the Earth Alliance council chambers. “They are here, Eric!” He paused, stopping finally, panting in excitement. “All of them. They’re landing their ships around the capital.”
Eric Hamilton tried to rise from his rotating chair–gaunt, weary, and worn. Months of intense confrontations with the Slodine race quickly sucked a decade out of him. “Then it worked. I thank the creative force for gracing me, at last.” He tried to rise to greet his aide, but his fatigue took his legs away.
“Sir, are you well? Can I….”
“No, Boswan. I need rest, that is all. If the complete Alien Council has come to celebrate our survival, that is honey for my wounds. I haven’t heard anything from the Slodine emissaries in two days. Are their ships still stationary?”
“No sir,” Raz replied. “All of their fleet is gone. Our astronomers believe…and I speak with trepidation, that the Slodine flew directly into the sun. They seemed to have committed some act of self-destruction.”
“Then it worked,” Eric whispered. “Send a special case of our best wine to the Archivist at Denver. I will award her with honors later.”
“I will, but I don’t understand.”
“Boswan, you were here when the Slodine invaded and made their demands. Our alien friends gave us no warning; I suspect out of fear, as they abandoned us. Only later did we learn that this strange empire had the power to leave entire systems silent. They fed off vibration. Our radio signals had drawn them like moths. When I was selected to negotiate, I feared we would be like other races and planets that fell quiet as they sucked away every capacity for making sounds. Our language would be gone–our technology destroyed. Nature would be silenced into a humbled stillness. They had the technology to absorb every vibration and send that energy back to their home world.”
“I know. Horrible.” Boswan trembled at the memory of those dark hours. “But what did you do in the private meetings that followed? You kept them to yourself.”
“It was a calculated risk. I suspected that their voracious appetite for vibration meant that they would do anything for our most valuable prize…a vibration of music restricted to only the chosen elite.”
“We have such a thing?” Boswan asked.
“Of course not,” Eric replied, slowly. “Not even the healing Solfeggio frequencies that were once removed from public access. No, but as a student of music history, I remembered one particular myth from the Twentieth Century. Our archivist found it. I styled it as our forbidden apple, available if they left our planet untouched. Seeing their greed firsthand, I was sure they would take the prize and then raze our world. It was my only ploy against an unstoppable enemy.”
“I must know, sir. What? What could you have possibly offered?”
“It won’t be a secret long, but I have placed a seal over it so it cannot be broadcast. I offered them the recording of Gloomy Sunday by Billy Holiday sung in G minor. It was forbidden long ago because it was rumored to cause listeners to commit suicide. Wherever you are,” he continued, looking skyward, “Billy Holiday, I salute you.”
by submission | Oct 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Haley DiRenzo
The seven bodies that you could come back as stare back at you after your death. Four men and three woman whose vessels are still capable of withstanding the Earth’s elements. You’ve been selected to inhabit one of them, not knowing how your soul and their skin will merge. You only have moments to decide.
You spent your first life as a woman, so would you want to come back as one of the young men? Your body would be less subject to the stares of those in public. You would be allowed to age, get wrinkles, turn gray, without all of the recommendations to get botox or to not get botox.
But even with the creases and sagging skin, you never felt as confident as you did in your old age. You knew who you were, and you cared so much less about what other people thought. So maybe you’d pick the older gentleman, revel in the assuredness a man who has lived that many decades must feel.
But also, it could be nice to start over as a woman, knowing all that you know now. The young one in the butter-yellow shirt looks almost like you, fresh out of college, the look on her face one of hope you shared before the world wore you down. If you could start over as this girl, there would be no train that you didn’t get on. There would be no acceptance of the soulless corporate job for just a couple years, which turned into a lifetime. There would be no marriage to the man who wasn’t right for you.
You could choose a new race, hair color, language. You could step into the middle of a life that had been cut short, use the talents of these bodies to change the world like you once believed you would do.
How does anyone decide who to return as? Each body begs silently to give it life again. To let it feel one more kiss from its lover, one more morning in the sun.
In the end, you turn away from the seven, in search of your old broken body instead. If it is not fit to return, you will understand. But even with the mistakes and the frailty you cursed it for, you wish to lie down with it for one last moment and whisper thank you.
by submission | Oct 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: John Szamosi
It was the old Irishman’s stories that would bring scores of people to his table every time he sat down for lunch. Sometimes humorous, sometimes sad, sometimes scary, other times just plain provocative, they had one thing in common: they were all made up. In other words, they were yarns, pure fabrications, shameless lies. We did not mind. Some of us were amateur writers or poets with pieces published here and there, but knew if we had any talent it would still be minuscule compared with his.
Within minutes they would have to push another table to ours, and soon that would fill up too. Ready for the third table.
The late arrivals would then want to know what today’s spiel was about but we mercilessly shushed them, “Psst, he’s not a DVD you can rewind and play from the beginning. Next time get your ass here on time.”
To be honest, there were quite a few, including his cousin and a poker buddy of his, who would not want to be anywhere near him during story time. Sitting in the far corners of the of the lunch room was not enough for some of these obnoxious types—they would put on headphones or even earmuffs. It’s their loss, that’s how we felt about it.
Members of his loyal audience would listen in silence, and only asked questions if they discovered inconsistencies. He then politely thanked them, waiting for a few seconds probably making the necessary corrections in his mind, and continued with the story.
From his perspective, a tale of his was a success if it elicited laughter, sadness (he was partial to tears or at least sobbing) or anger. If somebody turned beet-red and was ready to punch him, the yarn was a hit, so to speak. He could also tell if it was a flop: people yawned, fell asleep or just politely got up saying, I’ll finish my sandwich at my desk, or I’ve got to make a couple of calls.
His most valuable listeners were the ones who later the afternoon dropped by his office to give some kind of evaluation. These were thoughtful, supportive people who understood that’s what the Irishman wanted the most. If several showed up for discussion, he was beaming like a QB who just won the Super Bowl.
A big day in my life, the first time I could afford buying new car for cash, I called my mother with the good news. Instead of mentioning the Kia, I was going through the Irishman’s most recent fables. This guy should be a writer, said my mother. No, I told her, he does not write, only lies.
Then a sunny Friday noon his only story was that due to health concern he’s taking early retirement. We smirked and rolled our eyes; we thought it was a pitiful attempt at fantasy fiction, short and boring, apparently not his strong suit. But, hey, even the best storytellers run out of ideas every so often, right?
When a month later we got the news that his cancer was inoperable and the doctors didn’t expect him to last much longer, we were sitting in the lunchroom dumbfounded. We pushed three tables together in reverence to him, trying to recall his tales. We could only come up with a few fragments, none of them better than timid ambling on dry autumn leaves. We soon gave up; the old raconteur himself was the only story worth remembering.
by submission | Oct 15, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
They stared right through me. It used to bother me. Now, it’s essential.
I uncoupled the mag-links while Symplex’s security personnel looked past me. I didn’t fit their profiles, didn’t merit a glance. That’s what it is to be me.
I live by a pair of simple rules. The fact that they come from fantasy novels doesn’t make them any less realistic. Especially, in this reality.
Rule One: Amateurs obsess over strategy. Professionals obsess over logistics.
Rule Two: A good thief goes unseen. A great thief goes unnoticed.
When the last mag-link unhitched, the brainframe froze and everybody at Symplex knew they’d been jacked. They just didn’t know the jacker was freaking out alongside them.
It did freak me out. I hadn’t really thought I’d make it this far. You don’t go from feeling invisible most of your life to suddenly feeling invincible, so actually bringing down Symplex’s touted brainframe was a shocker.
Which was good because I had the same stunned expression as everyone around me. I completely fit the scene. Unworthy of note. Easy to dismiss. Something I was very used to as a clugee.
Actually, a child of clugees. My parents fled Louisiana after superstorm Naomi, whose cat 7 tidal surge never fully receded. Trying to make a new start farther west, my family was marked. Our hurricane-devastated zip code and area code became code for clugee.
Climate Refugee.
Unwelcome. Unwanted. Unrecognized.
America’s newest pariahs, pushed to the bottom of the ladder, the back of the bus. My parents gave up trying to fight for their rights to be counted, to be heard, to be repatriated into the country they’d never left, but which had abandoned them.
Clugee turned out to be a pretty apt slur for us because we constantly had to kludge our lives. Constant barriers. Push back. Marginalized to the extreme, but I didn’t give up. I fought. Tooth and nail to get an education, a decent career. To be seen. To be noticed. To be rewarded. Until I realized the real power I’d been given: invisibility.
I’d taken for granted the power of being taken for granted. A spit-upon cloak of invisibility.
Perfect for a thief. Unseen. Unnoticed
I schemed to steal all I was owed from the privileged, to re-jigger the balance sheet of justice. And I worked hard at it, grew wilier, grew richer. But my outlook remained poor. Nothing important had changed for my fellow clugees.
Until. I hit upon the perfect job. A caper that would turn the country on its head. Almost literally. The beauty of this heist was that I wouldn’t be taking anything. I would be giving.
Over the last two decades, Symplex had grown into the nation’s most reliable, highly touted, data security and privacy consortium. Its massive brainframe housed the personal and professional data of the everyday elite.
Once the Symplex brainframe was down, I inserted my viral “gift” that on reboot would automatically change the zip and area codes of the ruling classes to those of the disaster-fleeing masses. The security status of the privileged would turn to pariah in a matter of nanoseconds, and they would quickly experience what it is to be a clugee, feeling the disconnect, dislocation, and disdain my family and all the families like us had suffered as outcasts.
Unseen. Unnoticed.
And, maybe, that would finally unite us.
by submission | Oct 13, 2024 | Story |
Author: David Tam McDonald
Colin gave a polite cough to start the meeting. As team leader he sat at the head of the table. Brian, the secretary, sat to his left, perusing the agenda, which was blank and absolutely not taking any minutes. Tony, Richard and Lyndsey sat facing them, all eager to begin.
“I just wanted a quick meeting today to finalise the schedule for August, especially as Brian and Richard are on holiday, at the same time, and we’ll be a little shorthanded.” Colin began.
“I can’t believe you’re both going to that UFO conference.” Lyndsey put in, “Isn’t that a bit sad?”
“Actually, we should be able to gather some useful data whilst we’re there, some real-world insight.” Richard replied, making quotation marks around the words ‘real world.’ There was a chuckle around the table, though Richard looked slightly offended.
“OK, moving on, what have got programmed over the rest of summer? Brian, what’s in your workstream?”
“Well, we have the big cigar over Macclesfield on the fourth, and the big humming disc over Falkirk on the twelfth.” Brian enthused.
“Not Falkirk again surely!” sighed Colin, couldn’t we move it about a bit?”
“Not really, no.” said Brian, looking at Lyndsey for support.
“It would defeat the point really.” agreed Lyndsey. “It’s about having a concentration there, y’know, to attract them there.”
“What about Cumbernauld then?” Colin said reasonably. “It’s been a few years since they’ve had one.”
“I know that!” squeaked a clearly exasperated Brian. “But it’s not in the Triangle, the Falkirk Triangle. You can’t go blurring the lines of the triangle. A triangle has lines, clear lines. You’ll make it a rhombus if you’re not careful.”
“Or just some generic irregular polygon. Which won’t work at all.” Lyndsey offered helpfully.
“That’s a good point actually,” Richard said, now the neutral party. “You can’t infer anything from irregular polygons, they could mean anything, which means they mean nothing.”
“Fair enough,” Colin conceded “Falkirk it is then. Tony what about you?”
“I was going to send the rings out over Slough and then the collapsing pyramid out over the Isle of Man, for a bit of a laugh.”
“Great. Yes, to the Isle of Man, but better send the pyramid to Slough as well. The Olympics are on, and people might think the rings are advertising a well-known soft drink or something. You weren’t here when the hyperbolic paraboloid over Wigan caused a spike in sales of a particular snack. Let’s not have that again. OK, Richard what’s your plan?”
“I’m hoping to debut my new one over Cookstown on the 23rd. There’re still a few kinks to iron out but fingers crossed it’ll be ready for then. I’m quite pleased with it, it’s actually quite hard to describe. It starts as a disc but then expands into a kind of DNA helix type shape and then shoots off. It’d be too complicated to build physically but the new projection system means we don’t have to.” he sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
“Cookstown’s out for now, sorry.” Colin’s voice was quiet.
“How come?” Richard asked sadly.
“Well, it’s top secret obviously.”
“But we’re top secret.” said Tony. “Aren’t we the most top secret secret department of all? What could be more top secret than us?”
“I can’t tell you. It’s too top secret obviously.”
“What are you saying Colin? The only thing more top secret than us would be a real one! Is that what you’re telling me Colin?”
“I’m not telling anyone anything.” Said Colin sadly. “It’s top secret.”
