by submission | Aug 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Dave Ludford
Had he been walking at a faster pace or with any real sense of purpose Ryan Jennings would have missed it completely. Scuffing the forest floor aimlessly however with first one foot then the other, his meanderings revealed something that he at first thought was some kind of weird seed or pod that had been covered by a small pile of dry autumn leaves. He stooped to pick it up: it was approximately the size of a peach stone, metallic blue-gray in color and felt cold to the touch. His curiosity was further piqued as it seemed to be breathing, pulsing as it was with a tiny amount of energy. He held it between thumb and forefinger and brought it closer to his eye, the better to examine it more closely. It began to pulse more intensely.
It was at that point he felt a sharp pain in his finger, like someone had jabbed his skin with a needle. Uttering a mild expletive he instinctively- and with more than a hint of panic- tried to shake it off but it clung resolutely to his finger. He flicked at it with the fingers of his other hand but it still wouldn’t budge. It was firmly anchored.
“I’ll be damned…first you sting me, now you won’t let go!”
The pain he’d felt soon subsided and Jennings began to feel a peace and calm he’d not felt for a long time flow slowly through his body, overcoming him and diminishing the worries and anxieties that had recently plagued him. Soft static crackled in his head like a mistuned radio and he felt instantly certain the pod was attempting to communicate with him in a language he couldn’t recognize but which, on a far deeper level, he understood perfectly. He intuitively felt the meaning rather than understanding individual words strung into a narrative. There were images, too, flickering like early silent movies; a jumble of images that at first didn’t make sense. It was as if the narrative and images were out of sync and it took several minutes for the two to become reconciled. When they did, and Jennings slowly began to understand what was being communicated to him, he felt deep, overwhelming emotion.
“Oh jeez, this is just mind-blowing,” he whispered.
The pod referred to itself as ‘refugee intelligence’ which had been distilled into small vessels, one of which Jennings had discovered and which he now held. It had been one of a dozen, containing as they did the entirely preserved language, culture, science and philosophy of an advanced race whose planet- many millions of light years from earth- had been almost entirely destroyed by a civil war of attrition that had lasted for several centuries. The pods were the only means to ensure that the intelligence would survive and could be shared with other cultures. The vessels had been launched and flung to various far corners of the universe, trusting to luck they’d find host planets that would be welcoming, would tap into and benefit from a vast, immeasurable source of knowledge.
They hadn’t. They’d been thought of as a plague or pestilence and destroyed; contact with the others had been lost completely. The one Jennings held was the last of its kind and the fate of the intelligence was literally in his hands. The choice was simple: crush it and destroy it forever, or let the pod detach itself and share its erudition.
Jennings showed no hesitation. He raised his hand and opened his palm.
by submission | Aug 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
“Thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-six…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-seven…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-eight…thirty-four thousand one hundred twenty-nine…”
Clarisse counted. And counted.
Her mother watched from across the room. Her nine-year-old daughter was spending another entire twenty-four hour day counting, and Rochelle felt helpless. It was the end of July and usually Clarisse would be outside: in their garden, riding bikes with friends, going to the community pool. But for the seventh time this month, she was sitting in the rocker by the bay window counting.
“…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-one…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-two…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-three…”
It started on July 4. Rochelle had risen early planning to make red–white-and-blueberry pancakes for breakfast to celebrate Independence Day. Instead, she found Clarisse in the rocker by the bay window counting aloud. And when Rochelle asked what she was doing, Clarisse only held up her fingers, one at a time, to indicate the obvious: she was counting.
Nothing Rochelle had tried that day stopped Clarisse from counting. In the past, her young daughter had done some borderline obsessive-compulsive things, like not talking for almost three days, walking exclusively backwards for close to a week, stacking rocks all around their neighborhood for most of last summer.
Child’s play. Youthful creativity. That’s how Rochelle had thought of it. Clarisse trying out ideas, challenging herself, messing with routine, like all kids do. But what kind of kid woke up at midnight and counted until they reached 86,400. The number of seconds in a day.
What kind of kid did that?
Her daughter. Her only child. Her one anchor in the world after the horrifyingly ironic death of her husband five years ago. A power engineer for the electrical utility struck by lightning. A bolt so powerful he’d been incinerated. In just a second his life vanished and Rochelle’s became fatefully unclear. Only focusing on Clarisse provided clarity. She had to be there for her daughter, let her know that she could always count on her mother.
“…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-four…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-five…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-six…thirty-four thousand one hundred thirty-seven…”
Clarisse counted. And counted. And Rochelle suddenly felt how little her daughter could count on her. For the first time since her husband’s death, she wept. She went to her knees, shook, sobbed and let her collected grief spill.
Time stopped. Or more correctly, it fractalized, and Rochelle came to herself on the floor in her house being held by Clarisse.
“I’m here, Mom. It’s okay.”
But Rochelle could clearly see that things were not okay. Because at the same time, she was being held by Clarisse, her daughter was also in the rocking chair across the room counting, and also outside the bay window stacking rocks in the front yard. When Rochelle looked around, she saw her in the kitchen and coming down the hallway.
“What’s happening?” She asked her daughter.
“You finally made it here.”
“Here?” Rochelle asked, both fearful and fascinated.
“On the edge of time,” Clarisse softly explained, “in a temporal fractal. Time like any other dimension has infinite intricacy. Usually, we experience time as a tension between misaligned temporal contexts. Here we can explore the unobstructed timelessness that defines a moment.” Clarisse shrugged and smiled, her nine-year-old mischievous smile. “At least that’s what’s going on according to Dad.”
“Dad? Your father? What do you mean? He’s here?”
Clarisse, and the many of them along the infinite edge of time, stood and held out a hand. “Come. I’ll show you.”
Rochelle took her daughter’s hand. She felt dizzy. With excitement. “How can this be happening?”
“You let go of the past for just a second and found your way in, to truly be in the moment with us,” Clarisse confided. “I was really hoping you would. In fact, I was counting on it.”
by Stephen R. Smith | Aug 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Steve Smith, Staff Writer
Abby woke with a start, a conversation with someone vaguely familiar against a kaleidoscope oceanview suddenly vanishing, dulcet tones replaced with a hockey organ ringtone her ex had programmed that couldn’t seem to be exorcised from her phone.
“Good morning, you’ll want to get a robe on, our package is about to arrive.”
The voice was familiar, but she wasn’t expecting anything, was she?
She jammed her feet into raccoon slippers, pulled on an Osaka Spa terry robe she’d liberated years ago, and shuffled towards the front door, startling as the buzzer sounded.
“Sign here,” the brown uniform all business, presenting a tablet and a pen, then, formalities behind them, wheeled a Pelican case taller than her into the front hall before turning and leaving without another word.
There was a label stuck to the front of the case above a hand-shaped impression. “Push Here” was scribbled on the label in a typeface a little too uniform to be hand drawn. She placed her hand flat on the depression and withdrew it quickly, a needle prick in her palm slowly oozing blood.
“Motherfucker,” she spoke out loud to the empty hall, and sucked the blood from her palm, staring suspiciously at the towering plastic case.
The hockey organ ringtone again.
“Sorry about that,” the familiar voice again answered, “we should get started.”
Abby needed coffee, and abandoned the monolith, turning towards the kitchen, taking the phone and the familiar voice with her.
“Who are you, and what is this thing? I didn’t order this, it’s blocking my hallway, and the lock stabbed me.” She fitted a pod into the coffee machine, positioned a mostly clean mug under the spout, and waited.
“You completed three telephone surveys over the last six months, and based on your feedback, employment, relationship status, and your browsing habits, we’ve determined you to be an ideal candidate.”
“Candidate for what? You’re supposed to ask permission before you send appliances to someone, what have you volunteered me for exactly?”
“You’ll want to get the door again.”
Abby had just retrieved the mug of coffee when the front door buzzed a second time. Frustrated, she shuffled down the hall, squeezed past the towering obstacle, and opened the door.
Another driver handed her a much smaller box, which she also signed for.
Back inside she opened the new package to find a very large, thick-plastic bag with a zipper running from one end to the other.
Puzzled, she squeezed through the gap and headed back towards the kitchen, pausing as the capsule hissed open behind her.
“What the actual fuck…”
She stopped mid-sentence. Inside the case stood the spitting image of her, moisture glistening on her bare skin, hair slicked back, but definitely, unmistakably her.
“The bag arrived a little early, I suppose it will save a little cleanup.” Mirror Abby stepped clear of the capsule and into the hall, leaning her head all the way left then right, the cracking of the neck joint echoing in the small space. “Please put the coffee on the counter, I’m going to want that when I’m finished.”
“We just needed your DNA to calibrate the appliance, sorry about the prick.”
Mirror Abby spoke in the voice she realized was familiar because it was hers, just spoken at her, not by her.
“Not the worst thing that’s going to happen today, I’m afraid.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
We’d all seen the predictions, and everyone had seen at least one post-apocalyptic movie or series.
Some of us were foolish enough to think we were ready. No matter which flavour of apocalypse story preferred, we’d all missed one critical point.
Hatred.
The two decades leading up to the final breakdown were marked by unprecedented levels of largely propaganda-induced divisiveness. The reasoning was simple: if we were arguing amongst ourselves, we weren’t picking on those who oversaw us.
Those self-obsessed bastards did their job too well.
When it finally fell apart, when the lingering fears of law and consequences were removed, the people didn’t coalesce into survival-oriented tribes co-operating to reach an unknown future: they turned into ravening packs of anger-driven fanatics determined to deal with all those who differed in opinion.
Amongst bloody battles and gruesome massacres, those ravening packs fragmented as internal disagreements went from denunciation to murder in minutes. When internal strife reduced a pack to chaotic groups, bigger packs tore them apart. No thought of any future, nothing in reserve. Scorched earth tactics and petty genocide covered the land in ashes, bones, and horrific totems.
Initially, those who fought also preyed on those who hid, because those in hiding invariably had stockpiles of supplies. After stripping those havens, the meanest packs turned to cannibalism. The biggest thought themselves actually powerful, then got themselves annihilated trying to breach the few fortified cities.
I wonder what life is like inside those spiked rings of electrified walls and towers? I don’t think their strategies are as good as they thought, and the war that burned London to the ground without a single gate opening tells me they didn’t manage to leave all of the rabid factionality outside. I doubt anyone paused to keep a record of the reasons. If they did as I do, I’d like to read their diary – if it survived. Only to assuage my curiosity, though, because the lessons learned no longer have any relevance in this aftermath we now fight through. Sometimes I wonder if there’s somewhere in the world where people farm and live in peace. I don’t know if it exists, but I am sure it’ll be somewhere untainted by that which was laughably called ‘western civilisation’.
The watch fires of Brighton are burning low tonight. An evening drizzle has turned to rain, and I can see shadows moving under the trees by the Old London Road.
They’ll attack over and through the barricades at Preston Park after midnight. It’ll be a brief and brutal raid that’ll cost both sides precious able-bodied people. Those who retreat will be saddened by their losses but buoyed up by the supplies they gain. They’ll settle back into their camp below the flyover, sentries slightly inattentive because of the victory. The ebullience of winners, however brief, is always a vulnerability.
It’s all the advantage we’ll need when we rappel from the flyover to take their lives, what they took, and everything else they have.
We’re a small group, merciless, but without hate for any of those left out here. We will survive, and the particular hatred behind that is what drives us: one day, somehow, we or our progeny will be waiting for those who rule the cities when they finally emerge.
Despite having discussed other options for ages, we remain unanimous: vengeance first. There is a toll to be paid, and we will exact it for all those who cannot.
by submission | Aug 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Daniel Aceituna
“This must be the place,” the police chief said, as the motorcade arrived at the address the time traveler had given them.
The traveler jumped out of the car, “Quickly, we must get into that apartment; billions of future lives hang in the balance.”
After breaking down the door, they rushed into the empty apartment and found an ironing board with an iron lying on it.
“That’s it!” The time traveler knelt and unplugged the iron.
He then stood up, pressed a button on his belt, and said, “Your descendants thank you,” as he faded away.
Moments later, they received a call from the president’s office. Another time traveler had showed up.
A half-hour later, they arrived at the same apartment.
“That’s it!” the new time traveler said. She knelt under the ironing board and plugged in the iron.
“Billions are in your debt,” She said, pressing a button on her wristband. She faded away.
“Chief, the president’s on the phone.”
“Sure. Let me guess.”
by submission | Aug 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: W.F. Peate
“No regrets using the hydrogen bomb General?” asked the reporter.
“We saved lives. Their surrender stopped further bloodshed.”
“Why didn’t you use the less destructive atomic bomb? Ninety percent fewer deaths.”
General Liana crossed her arms over the silk leashes of her medals. “The Americans needed two atomic bombs to convince the Japanese to surrender in 1945. We were one and done with hydrogen. “
“Gave the Americans a taste of their own medicine,” said the reporter with a snort. He pressed Send. “All our people and two billion in the occupied territories are hearing your words now.”
“Long live the Supreme Leader,” they said in unison.
A slice of light brighter than a thousand suns baked the building. The stink of burning insulation made the reporter cough so hard he brought up a piece of lung.
“Elevators are out,” said Captain Gran, her intelligence officer. “Massive solar flare. Strongest on record. AI says our planet is requesting the Sun destroy us because we’re destroying Earth with nuclear weapons.”
The general lifted an eyebrow. “Heavenly bodies talk?”
“In 2017 the Cassini spacecraft recorded an exchange between Saturn and its moon Enceladus. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory converted the energy into something we could hear. Just like an antenna converts radio waves into a Sting song.”
Liana touched the yarn bracelet her three year old daughter Eden made in daycare one floor below. Her heart sank when she recalled Sting’s lyrics from the song Russians:
“How can I save my little boy/From Oppenheimer’s deadly toy?”
Gran read Liana’s worried look. “Eden is safe. I called daycare.”
He read the translated transcript:
Earth: “Mother Sun, lice are burning my crust with fusion fire
Mother Sun: How many nuclear explosions?”
Earth: “2,045.”
Mother Sun: Comet trash. Let me burn off your lice.”
Mercury: “Remember the last time Mother burned one of us. Asteroida’s bones float between Mars and Jupiter.”
Mother Sun: “I’ve learned since then. I got Uranus and Neptune back in orbit.”
Uranus and Neptune: “Thank you Mother Sun. Blessed be Thee.”
Earth: “Mother get rid of my lice.”
Liena sagged into the chair next to Gran. He put his hand in hers. “Little Eden will die if we don’t do something.”
“Send Mother Sun a message that we won’t ever use nuclear bombs again.”
The reporter grumbled, “Maybe we don’t deserve to survive as a species. Mother Sun may have a screw loose. She destroyed one of her own children.”
“She fixed two planets’ orbits,” said Liana with a firm voice.
“Where will you say you got permission to do this?” asked the reporter.
“Uranus.”
Gran laughed as he typed and sent: “Mother Sun, we won’t ever use nuclear bombs again.”
Mother Sun: “Who are you?”
“The lice,” said Gran.
Mother Sun: “How can I trust you not to ever use my fire?”
“I am a mother with a child,” said Liana.
Flares in the sky enflamed then went dark.
“Elevators are on again.”
Eden sat on Gran’s knee. “Mommy where have you and Popsicle been? Can you make me French toast? Mommy what’s wrong?“
Liana stared out the window. “What have I done? I let children die. We can’t get them back. How horrible a thought. We have to save other children.”
Gran’s forehead furrowed, “Are you okay?”
“No. They’re gone. Millions of them. The other children out there. The other children. I have to help . . .”
The evening sun settled deep in the purple-orange horizon. Liana in her head heard Mother Sun say, “Together we’ll keep the others in safe orbit.”
