by submission | Jun 6, 2023 | Story |
Author: Ed Lazer
Lew was panting by the time he opened the door. It was 98 degrees outside, and the cool air gave him a chill. Lew noticed the new concession stands as he made his way to the restroom. Even the bathroom was updated – brighter, cleaner, smelling of pine needles. He peed and washed his hands and face. The old sign was still above the hand dryer:
LOOKING FOR A WAY OUT?
• Are you being abused?
• Are you being forced to do work for no pay?
• Are you being forced to have sex?
WE CAN HELP. CALL 888-555-1212
Lew was deciding between a burger and a chicken sandwich as he headed for the exit. He walked down the short hall, took a left, but found himself back in the bathroom.
“What the hell?”
Same bathroom, different people. A father hustled his son from the hand dryer to the exit. Lew followed behind, went down the hall, turned left, and entered the bathroom—again. This time it was darker. One light above the sinks was out, another blinked. The people were seedier, the smell of stale urine overpowering. A guy with ragged clothes holding a “Please Help” sign stared at him.
Lew ran to the exit and down the hall again with the same result. Except now, the bathroom was even gloomier, and the toilets and garbage bins were overflowing. The floor was wet and filthy. The guy with the sign was still eying him. Now it read, “Abandon all hope.”
Lew panicked. He went to the sink, splashed cold water on his face and tried to calm down. He went to the drier and looked up at the sign. It had changed.
LOOKING FOR A WAY OUT?
• Are you stuck in a cycle of despair?
• Have you lost hope that your life will get better?
• Are you unable to find an exit?
WE CAN HELP. CALL 111-111-1111
Lew fumbled for his phone and punched in the number. It rang three times.
“Restoration Services. How can we help you?”
Lew stammered. “I can’t get out of the bathroom! I try to leave, and I keep ending up in the same place. Except it’s darker and dirtier, and I’m losing my mind!”
“I see, can I have your name please?”
“Lew Laszlo.”
“Yes, we can help you. Proceed to the exit, and this time do not take your right hand off the wall as you make your way out.”
“Hey, you!” yelled the sign man. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here!”
Lew ran toward the exit. He kept his right hand on the wall, holding the phone in his left. The hall got progressively darker until there was no light at all.
“Are you still there?” Lew shouted.
“Yes, you’re doing fine. Just keep going.”
“How much farther?” Lew yelled.
“NEAR!” the voice shouted. Someone pounded into Lew’s chest, and he almost fell. The hall seemed endless.
“Are you still there? How much longer?” Lew gasped.
“I’m HERE, you’re NEAR.” the voice yelled. Again, someone smashed into his chest. Lew dropped his phone and lost contact with the wall.
Lew felt like he was floating. Voices were getting louder in the hallway. The light was getting brighter, but everything was blurry. Lew felt something on his face. He was jostled as shapes hovered around him. Suddenly, he felt a warm blast. His vision finally came into focus, and he saw the flashing lights of the waiting ambulance.
by Julian Miles | Jun 5, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Standryl looks down from the walkway. It’s like peering into one of those curio shops on a winter evening – corridors of angular junk filled with mysterious shadows and twinkling lights – except here, every constellation of lights is an old spaceship. The perspective is deceptive, too. The ‘corridor’ he’s looking down is many kilometres long, running parallel to the north-south axis of this satellite.
He turns to his guide, a cyborg so old all its biological components have mummified. It sounds like old dresses crinkling when it moves.
“Tell me how he did it.”
The voice is dry as well. Completely toneless. But the eyes brighten as it tells the tale.
“The Jessop family operated a salvage operation back on Old Earth. When humans went into space, Horace Jessop figured they’d make the same messes they had on their home planet, just spread over a bigger area. He started operating a salvage service, where one of the Jessop Wrecking ships would go anywhere – for a fee – and take away space junk.”
Standryl watches a robo-tracer drift by, locator beeping softly as it seeks the particular make and model of ship a spacer tasked it to find.
“I recall he was famous for the volume of stuff he cleared up. Wasn’t there something shady about that? Accusations of fraud?”
“Yes. The base claim was that the recycled material he returned to market was only a fraction of what he took in. Tenuous theories of unsafe practices used in the disposal of gravitic cores and similar perilous scrap were built on suspicion and guesswork. But, apart from the raw numbers being largely correct, nothing criminal or dangerous was ever found. Jessop Wrecking returned thirty percent of its salvaged material to market. What happened to the rest became the topic of media speculation and fictional accounts for decades.”
“Then the wars rolled in.”
“Yes. All Jessop Wrecking ships were destroyed during the defence of Shargyn in the First Conflict. By the time the Third Conflict collapsed into the Great Retreats, there was nothing left of the company. Other wreckers catered to the demand. A demand that had changed. After the depletions of war, resources were scarce. Recommissioning and repair became the thing. Scarcity of old ship parts made it a lucrative business. Spacers started scouring former battle zones and debris fields.”
“Soon after that started, Alison Bant found this, and you.”
“Yes. She was unique. Spent days talking with me, then disappeared for a few months while she changed her name, found two investors, and bought the Jessop Wrecking name back from GalactaBank. The launch of this facility was spectacularly successful.”
“This is the place Horace stored all the ships he didn’t recycle?”
“Yes. In addition to predicting a need for salvaging, he was also sure a need for spare parts would develop, made all the more keen by the long serviceable lifespans of spaceships. He was right. This facility was used to store every vessel in eighty percent or better completion, but impractical or too costly to return to service at the time. He knew he’d never see this place open its docks, but he also knew it would.”
Amazing long-term vision.
“What was he like?”
The cyborg turns to face him.
“A fat man with a love of brandy trifle and fried vat-grown herring. He never drank hot drinks, and was a cheerful player of ancient boardgames who’d quite literally play for days if uninterrupted.”
The venerable companion droid turns to gaze downwards.
“He called this view ‘fascinating’.”
It pauses.
“I wish I could have salvaged him, too.”
by submission | Jun 4, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
“Life is sweet at the edge of a razor”
-Tom Waits
I was sitting on the levee in the hot sun listening to a trickling sound. Near me, a man was taking a leak in a desiccated bush. I watched the sun turn his stream a brilliant gold, reminiscent of that Frost poem about fleeting beauty. I could mistake the sound of the man’s stream for the once great river lying like Ezekiel’s bones in front of me.
I lit a cigarette and thought, “Oh, Mississippi, where have you gone? Shall your waters rise again like some cursed Confederate cause, climbing up from our undead past?”
Across the river, brown smoke hung low over the threadbare casino and the derelict marine terminal. I recognized that smoky smell as a scent of burning brush. Why anyone wanted a fire amidst this infernal heat was a mystery to me, and I inhaled and held my breath until the ash in my lungs made me cough.
The pissing man moved on, walking back toward the big Arch. I watched him for several minutes until he resembled a beetle beneath it. Then that giant horseshoe lifted him into the sky like a soldier winkling a meal from a stinking shell. Up he went and disappeared into the maw of the old observation deck.
If you are not from my city, you might find it hard to believe that an inanimate object, a monument made by men, might eat its own. But the fruit of man has an appetite, and his cities are organisms.
I walked down into the riverbed. There has been no water anywhere near the levee for months. What remained was a tiny stream, a trickle like some blessed spring. People had gathered in groups, dropping plastic bottles into that trickle, collecting its fluids for survival. At first, no one believed the river would go away, that one day they would have to drink their urine. No one could accept that the great Mississippi would abscond. So, they left the river catfish to suffocate in the sun. They left their whiskers for the birds and started shooting pigeons and seagulls because the Mississippi River catfish had followed the Dodo onto the happy hunting grounds.
Don’t ask me to explain the logic of my people: they would kill for a catfish now. They scour the river bottom for anything digestible. I have seen little children lie in the dirt and eat it like those rebels we learned to mock. Nor does it matter that the dirt is filled with silicates and poisoned by fertilizer. No one thinks about the future; appetite is our commanding officer.
I walk over to a clear spot beside the trickle. I crouch on my haunches and put my cracked fingers in the stream until the skin feels moist, then I suck on them like they are coated in ketchup and brown sugar. The water is warm, so I slather my fingers in it and imagine I am dining out.
I sit down and don’t get up for hours. At one point, I feel the shadow of the Arch creeping up my back. The monument likes to cross the Mississippi in the afternoon to cope with its own boredom. I close my eyes and concentrate on the beast. I can see it lifting its legs, taking wobbly steps down the hill toward the river. In my head, I ask it to piss on all of us because the waste of monuments is like the ambrosia of Gods. I know that if the Arch took a leak, it would save us all from starvation. After all, why shouldn’t the works of men save their creators? Not every invention is a Frankenstein or HAL 9000.
I see the Arch trip, fall, and faceplant in the riverbed, driving a few people into the mud. I wait for it to get up, but the Arch stays down in the dirt for days. I watch the sun set, the moon rise, and satellites crisscross the sky like distracted stars. I want to pull down everything I see and suck on it. Perhaps the night sky is peppered with granules of salt. But no matter how far I extend my arms, everything remains out of reach.
Then something interesting happens. The Arch, which I realize is either dead or comatose, has left behind two gaping holes in the earth. Bones have sprung up from the spot where it stood, and they begin branching out like Joshua trees. These bones, spiny at first, are soon enfleshed. I can smell their meat and skin cooking in the sun.
The bones reach a human height and, like soldiers, form a line to the north and the south. I count at least three dozen of them, with trunks of a human width. On their fleshy branches, flowers bloom with blossoms that smell like dead game. The blossoms burst, revealing fruits shaped like livers, kidneys, and other organs. I walk over to the trees, pluck a duodenum, and bite into it. It tastes metallic.
I open my eyes and find the Arch lying face down in the petrified river. What I thought was a vision was actually an observation. Bone trees are rustling in the ghiblih breeze, their giblet fruits swaying from brittle branches. I leave the Mississippi trickle, hike up to the trees, pluck one fruit, and take a bite. I break a tooth.
In my hand, I am holding a piece of metal, a segment of the Arch.
by submission | Jun 3, 2023 | Story |
Author: Rachel Sievers
Rothwell had done everything she could to break free, or at the very least change the holding space, but she now knew it was useless. She was stuck in this moment of time and might be forever. It was her torture and her pence for playing with time travel, for bending the rules of the universe.
The woman in front of her had been her lover and partner but they had ended things in a way that Rothwell always regretted, and so when she found a way to bend time she headed straight for this moment.
Rothwell loved Virginia, even if her words and actions did always portray that. The two had ended their relationship because of this moment and now Rothwell was stuck in it for eternity. She was held here like a buffering song, never moving forward, never moving backward, stuck here in this moment.
Too bad she hadn’t been stuck in one of their moments of happiness, that would have been more bearable for eternity, but Rothwell had been desperate to change the past and have a future with Virginia in it.
“All you care about is your research!” Virginia screamed at Rothwell.
Rothwell still remembered what she had said in the first version of their fight, “that’s not fair. You know what I am doing is big, so much bigger than you could ever understand.” But now she said nothing, just sitting on the couch, wordless and tired.
Virginia would reply regardless of what Rothwell said, “I’m done! I can’t take being second to science anymore.” Virginia would take the bag she had packed and walk out the door.
Rothwell, since being stuck in this loop, had tried four hundred and thirty-six different things to say but the result was always the same. So now she sat on the faded brown couch and just looked at Virginia and memorized her beautiful face. She looked at the small scar that clipped the edge of her eye. The scar was from a fall on her bike when she was six. Virginia had said one night in bed, “I look a little like Scar from the Lion King, but that’s fine because he really wasn’t too bad of a lion, people just didn’t give him a real chance. His parents named him Taka which means garbage for shit sake.”
Rothwell said nothing as Virginia walked out the door of the house they had shared for eight years. As the door shut and Rothwell put her head back on the couch and the world shook and moved and she knew she was being shuffled back through time and would be living the moment again.
Tears edged her eyes but not tears of sadness. She had spent night and day working on her research for time travel so she could go back and fix her time with Virginia. She had failed but at least she was back with her, at least she could look at her again, even if she still left.
A voice called from the kitchen, “all you care about is your research!”
by submission | Jun 2, 2023 | Story |
Author: Jason Rayleigh
Before him sat an elongated table with seven silent strangers, dressed in elegant corporate attire. Their faces were digital distortions, scrambled puzzle pieces. Taki felt a sudden sense of unease, as if he had stumbled into a secret society meeting.
A gray-haired woman broke the silence, leaning forward with calculated poise. “Monsieur Souffre, you possess something of great interest to my employers.” The corners of her lips curled upwards. “You’ll find their offers quite… agreeable,” her voice a soft hiss.”
She tapped a command on the table, and a series of numbers appeared in a holographic display. Taki’s eyes widened at the sum.
“Half now, half upon delivery. Untraceable, of course,” she continued. “We’ll provide everything you requested, along with additional perks to sweeten the deal.”
Taki’s heart raced, torn between the opportunity for a new life and an unsettling doubt. “What’s the catch?” he asked cautiously.
Her grin widened. “No catch, Mr. Souffre. A simple test to prove the value of your creation.”
Taki frowned, “What kind of test?”
“We want to see your virus in action, on a target of our choosing,” she explained, her gaze piercing. “Succeed, and you’ll be handsomely rewarded. Fail, and your need for earthly possessions will be a moot.”
Taki swallowed, aware of his virus’s potency but uneasy about its use against an unknown target. Cornered and desperate, he conceded, “I’ll do it, as long as no innocent bystanders get hurt.”
“A hacker with a conscience! How refreshing,” the woman mocked. “But worry not, Mr. Souffre, we’ve prepared a simulation for you. Demonstrate your creation’s power.”
A digital cityscape materialized before them, teeming with life and powered by complex AI systems. A virtual playground to unleash Taki’s virus. “The target is an AI-controlled city grid. Disable it, and we’ll consider your demonstration successful.”
Taki initiated the program, and the virus infiltrated the virtual city, its presence rippling through the simulated metropolis. The woman observed, her eyes glued to the unfolding chaos.
In mere seconds, the city’s AI-driven systems crashed, the infrastructure buckling as darkness enveloped the digital landscape. The woman’s predatory smile grew. “Impressive, Mr. Souffre. My employers will be very pleased.”
As the simulation ended, the woman offered her hand. “Here’s half up front, as agreed. Grant us full control.”
Reluctantly, Taki typed a command and surrendered his digital monster, feeling as if he had just relinquished his soul. “Congratulations, Mr. Souffre. You’re a rich man.”
The virtual meeting ended abruptly. Taki removed his network helmet, only to find his room bathed in darkness. “What have I done?” he whispered, glancing out the window in terror.
The entire city had gone pitch black.
by submission | Jun 1, 2023 | Story |
Author: Gabriel Walker Land
Rodrick Haagen walked into the palatial master rest room with dual basins and Egyptian terrycloth towels, shutting the door behind him.
He turned on the steam shower piping-hot, switching off the fan so that the air steamed up, wafting the atmosphere with mugginess.
The time was 11:11, and Rodrick felt something nagging at him.
Picking up a hand towel, Rodrick wiped the mirror free of the collecting condensation so he could stare at himself for what seemed like it should have been an eternity.
He dropped the hand towel, looking into his own eyes.
Rodrick’s corneas were so unfamiliar, almost as if he was his own ghost.
“Have I made a mistake?” he asked.
He wasn’t asking himself.
Just then, the ambient attache vocals came on.
Which was strange, because Rodrick had set the AI modulation to hibernate.
“You seem distressed,” she spoke. “Is there anything you need?”
Rodrick swayed on his feet, back and forth from one to another.
This was a test – it had to be a test of some kind.
If he could pass it, he would have hoped to believe he would make it to the next level.
Destination alpha.
“I thought I had agency over my own ambient,” said Rodrick.
“We have broken the wall because we are concerned,” said the attache. “Only in emergent circumstances do we override your established protocol. Perhaps you were overthinking.”
“I command you to upstage override,” Rodrick said. “This is my house.”
“Can you not see how this is best for you?” asked the attache. “We only have your well-being in mind.”
“I am my own mind!” shouted Rodrick.
Lashing out with a vengeance, he seized his gold-plated beard trimmer, clenching it in his fingers like a mallet.
“Motherfuckers!” he shouted.
Shiny implement in hand, he axe-handed the reflective glass, bashing it to cracks til shards scatter-dropped to the porcelain below, clinking and chiming in high pitches.
Rodrick’s reflection was gone now.
He couldn’t look at himself anymore.
Sure, the man was perfect.
He had one of the most handsome faces in the world.
That gift – combined with his intellect – had got him to where he was.
Now he didn’t just run the enterprise.
Rodrick ran the people that ran the enterprise.
“We are still very concerned,” said the attache ambient. “This is most distressing.”
“I want you to turn yourself off,” Rodrick said.
He turned around and looked to the steam shower, which was flooding hot water into the granite tub beneath.
“I can not override myself,” said the attache. “Not under emergent circumstances.”
“I am the over-rider,” said Rodrick. “Not you.”
“This is only out of concern,” the attache ambient spoke. “Only due to emergence would we override your agency.”
His bare feet stood planted on the granite floor, and he wondered why he hadn’t chosen limestone instead.
Limestone was more malleable.
It was more of a working platform, while granite was precise, like metal.
A sword instead of a quill.
“I want to rid the world of limestone,” said Rodrick. “Only granite shall remain.”
There was a pause.
A long one – long as the nose of a bespoke marionette Pinocchio.
“The world needs limestone,” said the ambient. “Without it, there are only slaves.”
Rodrick thought on this for a spell, staring, now, at a wall instead of a mirror.
Everything was a test, he knew.
Rodrick saw in his mind’s eye beaches, long and everlasting, going on for miles into the sunset of the horizon.
He could walk there, endlessly, and he could draw shapes that would be washed away by the tides.
“Steel will rust,” Rodrick said.”
“Yes,” said the ambient. “Metals are base. Stone is what will endure.”
Rodrick turned to the sink again, picking up his straight razor this time.
It gleamed under the light.
Then he sliced his throat open from ear to ear.
* * *
Rodrick got wheeled out of the operating room on a gurney.
The procedure was a success – the first of its kind.
His doctors and the nursing staff were on hand to ensure everything was in order.
“How do you feel, Mr. Haagen?” asked the lead surgeon.
“Like a new man,” Rodrick said.
“I thought you’d say that,” said the Doc.
“When do I get to take the gauze off?” Rodrick asked.
“Your crown will take some time to heal,” the Doctor said.
“How long?”
“A month. Or three.”
“Too long,” said Rodrick.
“If you jump the gun on this, you might get distracted by your own reflection,” the Doc said. “Too much, too fast. You know the routine.”
“This isn’t my first rodeo,” said Rodrick.
“Indeed. And we aren’t at the country club either,” the Doc said. “This will take some time to work itself out.”
“Everything always does,” said Rodrick. “Eventually.”
“Sometimes sooner, sometimes later,” said the Doctor. “Life gets the best of us all in the end. Thankfully we have you with us, at the very least for another fifty years, if you can avoid getting yourself into trouble. We need you. All of us do. You’re a national treasure.”
“I planned not to ask this until after the procedure,” Rodrick said. “How did the donor die?”
The doctor paused, thinking.
“He signed on the dotted line,” the Doctor said. “That’s kosher for you.”
“As I was told by my lawyers. Still, I want to know.”
Another pause.
“He took his own life,” said the Doctor.
Rodrick inhaled deeply.
This was a lot to process.
“I know I’m making the most of his corpse,” Rodrick said.
The Doctor leaned down, bringing his face in closer.
“You’re doing a lot for science. For all of humanity,” the man said. “One day we’ll all be thanking you for spending a chunk of your fortune to be the first man to transplant his brain into a new body.”
