by submission | Sep 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Eli Hastings
The man turns a circle in the intersection, the four way crimson stop light flashing overhead, so he is encircled in crimson glow now, and now, not. The yellow Walkman gripped like a handgun in his right fist. The headphones nearly the age of the Walkman and the cassette clipped into it. When he was young, and lived with his rich mother and pacifist stepfather in a leafy neighborhood, there was a wolf-dog. The naturopath couple that owned the dog were proud of it—3/4ths wolf, ¼ Husky, 130 pounds of which at least 30 was matted once-white fur. That dog upon a warm day would take to the manhole cover in the intersection. Lay across it dead center of four streets that were getting busier the more people flooded into the neighborhood. But 12 cars a day or 120 that dog didn’t move for a horn’s idiocy, much less the shriek of a yuppy commuter. Threatening tire squelches caused him to look up, and give a side eye to the receding coups of the era—Subaru XLTs, Miatas. The boy loved that dog. He never got near him, never met his eyes, just scooted along to the bus stop and back again, admiring the wolf, eyes peeled for the popular predators of his block.
The artist is Soundgarden, the album is Louder Than Ever, the song is “Hands All Over.” Once he listened to it religiously, such as the day that the boy got head-locked on his way home from the bus by Travis Scalley. It wasn’t the first time, just the first time on this block. The hard drums tried to help the boy wrench free, but Travis had grappling with smaller beings down cold. When the boy found himself facing the cerulean blue of the sky and blackness closing down his vision, Soundgarden split by one ear phone’s slippage, he quit protesting. Spine against humid, May-damp grasses, he just stared up at Travis, hoping to scare the fucker away with the nihilistic apathy in his glare. But Travis’s sneer filled the sky of the boy’s world like a sickle moon, nothing else to look at but that blade. And then suddenly the cloud-cut cerulean again, Travis backstepping up the block. The boy rolled his head the other direction and the wolf had stood up, taken one step—most of its torso still covering the manhole. One quiver of its wet snout and it circled the manhole and laid its burden down again upon the steel, huffed.
The man stands now on a manhole cover in the center of the intersection, Soundgarden has plowed into “Gun,” and the light rain has made the steel beneath his sneakers as slick as oil. He wouldn’t have believed it, but headlights seem to approach from all four directions at an even speed and even distances. He knows this because he spins on his slick soles. Eight headlights pin him into blindness and the silly bitchery of horn bleat. He sticks the banana yellow 80s Walkman into his belt. He brings his hands up like claws. He pulls his lips back from his teeth and spins, waiting to understand in which direction he must move.
by submission | Sep 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ann Tandy
Good morning, and welcome! You may be feeling a little disoriented: this is the natural result (and, indeed, intent!) of the stimulating effects of the musk exuded by the Great Beast. Your appendages may feel a bit stiff, but they will grow strong and agile once more, never fear!
You may be confused (and perhaps alarmed) by some crunching noises around you. There is no need for concern and, in fact, great cause for celebration! The fact that you are awake and hearing crunching noises, rather than experiencing the crunching, means that you are one of the fortunate Chosen Few set aside by the Great Beast for later glories. Congratulations!
Please use this time to take stock of any changes you notice in your exterior form: extra/fewer limbs, nodes, fur patches, sensory organs, teeth, claws, openings, etc. Please note all changes on the form provided in this packet; a little effort on your part now will make your processing more efficient, and will have the added benefit of distracting you from the crunching and (no doubt by now) screaming.
Soon the Great Beast will have satiated its centuries-long-denied appetites on your less-worthy compatriots and retreated to its lair, at which point it will be safe to come collect you. We are excited to have you join our team, and look forward to working with you!
by submission | Sep 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: Mina
– Oi! Shortarse! Cap’n says we got company in just under two standard hours. You gotta put that fucking pest in the cage.
Cyn sighed and put down his welding pen that he used for small repairs. He patted the feline lying in orange and purple glory the usual four foot away from him. Although he knew Jax heard him just fine without speaking out loud he scratched behind the blue tufted ears and crooned:
– Sorry mate, you gotta go in the cubbyhole. I’ll leave the cage unlocked. I’ll come and get you when the rozzer’s been n’ gone.
Jax made its displeasure felt, but also its acquiescence, in Cyn’s mind. Although it looked more like an Earth cat than anything else, it was a rare species native to the outermost world of the Cassandra nebula. Jax sprang up onto Cyn’s shoulders almost making him overbalance.
– Hey, watch it mate! I almost face planted the floor and it ain’t none too clean.
Jax snicker-purred in his mind and Cyn set off muttering about how some critters were lucky to have no bollocks already or they might be in danger of losing them.
The shielded cubbyhole for illegal contraband was Cyn’s pride and joy. It measured twenty by twenty foot but was literally invisible to all of the rozzer’s sensors, which measured the full size of the hold even though part of it simply wasn’t visible when the dampening field was on. Cyn had designed it five years earlier but was still the worst paid crew member of the twenty on board the trading ship. The cubbyhole was half empty as Jax would fetch a king’s ransom on the black market of Lupus Prime.
The feline sprang down and curled up in the wire cage. Cyn had laid down a thick blanket on the floor and he left Cyn with its favourite biscuit snacks and water. Cyn switched on the dampening field and stomped off to the next repair job. A genius at ship engineering despite little formal training, he was a simple man at heart. He had developed an unshakable fondness for Jax who returned his loyalty with a fierce possessiveness. Together, the loneliness eased and Cyn found Jax’s presence in his mind comforting. He was aware that Jax was a manipulative little sod, having wangled staying out of its cage and near Cyn for the most part, but he didn’t mind. Jax looked out for him and the other wankers on board had stopped the bullying in the face of Jax’s lightning speed and four-inch retractable claws.
Beginning its grooming routine, Jax settled down to wait out the inspection for illegal freight. The rozzers wouldn’t find anything and it felt pride in its human’s skill. Jax’s species bonded for life and, with no others of its kind to meld its mind with, Jax had adopted the ugly but curiously gentle little man. It hadn’t taken much to persuade the downtrodden Cyn to plan an escape route for them. At the refuelling stop on New Mars, they would be sneaking off on the ship’s escape shuttle craft. Cyn had spent every spare moment upgrading its systems under the guise of maintenance, and he had installed the dampening field on it so that no sensors would pick up the shuttle leaving or follow its flight path. As a final “up yours!”, Cyn would damage the dampening field in the cubbyhole, knowing that the crew would not be able to repair it without him.
Jax felt a fleeting sense of guilt for having applied its influence to the human. But it would take care of him. With a smidgin of business sense, Cyn could sell his dampening field to contraband ships across the galaxy. They would be able to buy a one-man razor ship and Jax wanted to show Cyn the wonders of the universe. Jax’s tribe would not understand its affection for a human but space was vast and it was unlikely to cross any of their disapproving minds.
Yes, it thought with a rumbling pur in Cyn’s mind, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. In the distance, it felt Cyn smile.
by submission | Sep 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
There’s a giant beetle who lives in my apartment compound.
He does pull-ups on the taller of two high bars, in the patch by the motorcycle shelter, and chin-ups and hanging Vs and other exercises I don’t know the names of. When he’s done, he rotates the joints of his six legs and stretches his forelegs. Then, he breathes deeply for a while, and he puts his hard shiny shell against one of the poles of the high bar, standing straight for five minutes. He’s there every fourth day at around the same time in the late afternoon.
Yesterday, I saw him carrying a little beetle. He had gone somewhere down the hill and returned with a heavy backpack and a heavy trolley bag. He put his young on the rubber matting under the second shorter high bar. The little beetle was sleeping.
He sat cross-legged, observing army ants darting out of the surrounding leaves of grass. He grabbed one ant in his claws, studied it, and removed its head. The body shook, and the antennae stopped moving. He put the separated parts on the matting, and he caught another ant and another and another. He may have caught six or seven ants.
Staring over the fragments, he made a scraping sound, softly buzzing to his tired nursling.
He got up and did his exercise routine. And when he was finished, he awoke the little beetle, put the backpack on his shell, held the young one’s claw, and pulled the trolley bag, and they left. The army ants lay on the matting, silent, and I wondered why the giant beetle who lives in my apartment compound decided to analyze ants that day.
by submission | Sep 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Kelly was rambling in a lush meadow south of Killarney when he tumbled and fell headlong into the demon’s lair. As demons go this one was unerringly civil and greeted Kelly as a long lost uncle might.
“Faith! ‘Tis Kelly is it not? You’re a welcome sight. Have a nip with me,” the demon exclaimed and offered forth a chipped mug filled with a peaty distillation.
“Well met,” Kelly replied, extending a hand to clasp the bone-cold of the demon’s drink. He tipped the chill cup and let it burn blessedly down. “Ahhhhh. That’s a swell number.” He saluted the demon with his mug. “I be Kelly. One of a million. But only meself. To what do I owe this pleasure, sir demon?”
The demon snorted delightedly, blue flame flitting from his nostrils to singe the long, pointy, blood-stained beard that framed his hollow face. “Kelly, Kelly. No wonder your fame precedes you like the savor of me mum’s lamb stew. I’m no sir. You’ll not be talking to the likes of Maxwell’s demon in these here parts. We’re plain demon folk that plots our mischief as it pleases us. Have another try,” the demon offered, refilling Kelly’s mug.
Ever a sociable guest, Kelly hoisted the drink. “Faith,” he toasted with a smile, then wiped his lips before continuing. “Whatever the need, whatever the circumstances, the pleasure’s mine. What can I do you for, your infernalness?”
“Only your company for a few moments. Then I must return to business. The diabolical consumes us these days. No rest for the wicked in these troubled times.”
Kelly grunted his keen assent. “Aye. To be sure. Trouble afoot. You sure I cannot help?”
“Faith, me very mother! Kelly, your presence is our succor. You provide our purpose. Without you all would be lost in immediate victory. The struggle is all. Surely, you know that?”
“It may be. I take little notice. My aim is to others. A gain for all and nothing for meself.” He tapped the demon’s mug. “Except the sustenance that allows me to ramble, tumble and be of service. ‘Tis only natural.”
The demon refilled his mug. “To nature.”
Kelly saluted. “Our better ones. Though I make no personal distinctions.”
“Aye,” the demon assented. “Better natures. Me sworn enemy and bitter love.” A molten tear appeared at the corner of the demon’s cat-like eye and then dropped to the damp hard packed earth where it sizzled for a brief moment.
Kelly patted the corduroy breeches at the demon’s knees. “Faith, you mustn’t despair.”
“You know it to be so, though I do fret. To war is to breathe for me brethren, and I ken less and less of your ways and wonders, Kelly.” The demon motioned to a corner of his dark lair where amid piles of gnawed bones there lay an astonishing assortment of smart-tech: phones, watches, glasses, clothing, tablets, laptops and more.
Kelly shrugged. “Toys and tools. They change nothing. Leave us to our own devices. We will always meet you halfway, poor soul.”
“That is why you are legend, Kelly. You truly ask nothing of yourself. You serve all and hope for the best. You fear nothing—not even entropy.”
“Pshaw. Thermodynamics is a child’s bogeyman. Quantum relativism a witch’s wart at midnight. Metaversal mechanics a pocked pixie.” Kelly dismissed them all with a wave. “The here and now. ‘Tis simple. Complexity is to desire. To control. You’ll not find me there. Help is a hand—at hand.”
The demon stood. He was three-quarters the size of Kelly, though his shadow blacker than the singularity, towered over them both. He kicked at a gleaming laptop with his cloven hoof. “Strange and heartbreaking that you have no enemies, Kelly. I would have sold my soul twice over to make war upon you—with rocks, blades, guns or Denial of Service attacks. And you would only open your arms wide to my aggressions. You’d assist in my assaults. You can see why I grieve. Why I despair.”
“Aye, my good demon. You suffer. But, I cannot. The lot of us will share the same heat death. Only then is it to mourn. Fill me cup once more and let us toast. Then I must get to roamin’ once more.”
The demon poured the draught. They clinked cups and raised them.
“To your devices,” the demon prayed.
“And nothing for meself,” Kelly added, his smartphone buzzing in his pocket.
by Julian Miles | Sep 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
There’s a broken statue back against the wall, head and arms missing. Some humourist planted the arms in a nearby flowerpot, mossy hands up like odd blooms. There’s no sign of the head.
Headless… It’s strangely apt for this sodden remnant. England was a little place. Biggest part of an island close to Federat, back when it was called Europe. Before that, it was the seat of some pirate empire. Still holds the record for nearly conquering the world, apparently.
The Sundown War did this place no favours. Nobody predicted the tectonic consequences of a major nuclear exchange. Even now, they’re still studying the minutiae of the effects, trying to define the cause. If the remaining pieces of the nuclear powers were honest, they’d admit most of their budget is being spent on it. They don’t like their terror weapons being too dangerous to use.
The remaining sane people note those same powers didn’t consider the predicted results of nuclear war enough to not use their arsenals. No, it took the fracturing of a tectonic plate, swarms of earthquakes, and worldwide devastation to make them hesitate.
The Uluru Islands are doing surprisingly well, all told. The indigenous tribes have adapted well to the sudden loss of the coastal provinces that comprised Australia as the rest of the world knew it.
The risen Rotorua is likely to become habitable soon, too. Should relieve the overcrowding around Wellington nicely.
“Monty, you with us?”
I wasn’t, but am now.
“Yes.”
“Where we goin’?”
“Head towards the big churchy pile, Tone.”
The headless statue on a balcony fades into the evening mist that’s risen while I was daydreaming. I check the image on my phone. We’re looking for an old building, more likely narrow tiles on a collapsed roof. Next door to that is our target.
There!
“Bring us up against the red roof. Give it a thumping, too. See if we can walk on it.”
“We going under?”
“Not likely. Have you seen the water foxes hereabouts? Furry torpedoes the length of my leg. No, we’re staying dry. The roof just makes it easier to unload the place next door.”
After Tone smacks the roof enough times to make us happy, Jonno goes across the angled roof and takes a crowbar to the side of the bay window. It used to give a good view of the street. Now the water laps barely a half-metre below it.
With a dull ‘crack’, the entire south side of the bay comes away from the building, sliding down into the water before toppling forward and sinking.
“That’ll bring a few water foxes to investigate. Let’s get in and get gone.”
Tone hooks the roof, while Emma keeps it steady by alternating running and idling the fan at the stern of the skiff in response to his hand signals.
The centre of the upper floor has fallen, leaving a ring of still, dark water. I’m not a fan of ambush pools, but we’ll have to risk it.
“You watch for ripples. I’ll go to the end and work back.”
Jonno nods, unslinging his repeating crossbow.
The right side is too narrow, but the left is good. I grab the handle of a case and move back. Looks like this upstairs was prepped like the old girl said: her uncle stashed the stock before the evacuation as the sea came in.
The vinyl will be playable even if the sleeves have rotted. Record labels often survive, too. We all hope for favourites, but it really doesn’t matter. Music is always tradeable: the last echoes of a lost world.
