by Julian Miles | Apr 17, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Pack, pack, package.”
I jump, then look down.
Seated neatly by the fallen trunk I’m lying on is a trifox. This one’s got amazing green eyes, the pair offset to the right of the long nose, with the third pretty much dead centre in the forehead. It’s wearing a Post Office coat, and it’s tails are wagging slowly, almost in time with the rise and fall of its chest.
“Hello, postie. What’s coming?”
“Pack, basket, snacks.”
Of all the races we’ve come across – or have stumbled across us – only the Panduluryacth make homes outside of dedicated colonies on Earth. They’ve come to be known as trifoxes, because they look like long skinny vulpines, despite having three eyes and six legs. Well, actually it’s two legs in the middle and a pair of multi-purpose limbs front and back. They’re arboreal, love all creatures below horse size, and have an unerring knack of being able to find people. All they need is a cherished possession, or for one of their kind to have met the human in need of being found. From there, they will lead whoever accompanies them – usually via drone, because trifoxes are quick and regard every surface as pavement – to the one they seek. While assorted agencies and organisations are keen on engaging their services, they only take long-term employment with postal services. They find the idea quaint, plus they consider the occupation honourable, unlike tracking fugitives and similar.
The few early incidents with fox hunters and suchlike are never mentioned. However, for those interested, the score stands at Trifoxes 138, foxhunters 3. It’s a situation that almost cured itself, being as hunting hounds and suchlike invariably side with the trifox involved.
Trifoxes also make superb beer, and delight in growing orchids.
All in all, we get on well with our quirky neighbours, except for tastes in music. They have a much wider hearing range than humans: what they consider refined tunes can be painful to us, and what they consider raucous is best avoided.
“I’ll take delivery here, postie.”
“Good. Yes. Confirmed.”
Moments later, a drone descends to drop a picnic basket next to the trifox. I jump down from the branch.
“Can I offer you a drink, postie? You’ve had a long ramble to get here.”
“Yes. Thirsty. Thanks.”
I offer a carton of berry juice. The trifox sits, rotates it’s fore-shoulders to handling mode, then takes it. With a little bark, it holds the carton up and bites into it, sucking the contents through four ‘drainfangs’ as they’re called. A long time ago, the ancestors of the trifox were the apex predators of a forest world. How they went from that to their FTL-capable needle-prowed vessels roaming the galaxies is a story we’ve yet to get. One day, I hope to hear it.
It puts the carton down next to the basket, then gives me a little nod.
“Delivered. Away. Time.”
I nod back.
“Thank you.”
After rotating the fore-shoulders into running mode, it spins about and is gone – quite literally in a cloud of dust. I grin. Something about them… It’s just right.
by submission | Apr 16, 2023 | Story |
Author: Joe Wood
Most folks hide the question at first. Maybe they’ve seen me on patrol. Maybe they find me tearing thistles out of my lawn, or walking over to pick my daughter up from school. It starts so casually. Just a chat between neighbors. Somehow, in the haze of how my day is going, my thoughts on the weather, and an innocent question about work, they’ll hit me with it. Kids at least don’t take cover behind pleasantries. Every time a pack of boys spots me walking my dog Messy, they’ll hit the brakes, and blast me with, “Nice duster! How many guys have you shot?”
Last week a kid – maybe fifteen – pointed at my gun. I thought I had it concealed under my shirt, but just enough of the chrome pistol poked out to catch the sun. When the kid asked me the usual question, I turned to make sure there was no one watching. Then, I took the duster out of its holster and tossed it at him.
Lord, how his eyes went wide. But the boy caught it. Unfortunately, he didn’t count on how light it was, and fumbled the gun onto the pavement. Whether he was more scared of me or breaking the duster, I wasn’t too sure. I nodded at the kid, and the boy cautiously retrieved it.
“At ease, rookie,” I said, grinning. “It’s not charged.”
Last time I charged it was three months ago. If you told my brothers in the precinct that, they would send you to our staff psychologist. Harris or Jang would say, “Sandman turned his duster off? You’re high.” Not that I blame them. I once found myself caught between two gangs using lead bullets to turn Peach St. into rubble. By the time backup arrived it was just me and twenty-five piles of sand. They needed half-an-hour to vacuum the remains into body bags.
Imagine a pile of sand blow-torched until each grain burned like a coal. That’s all a person is when they get disintegrated. The second my pointer finger passed a sensor on the trigger, my duster made them disappear. Oh, civilians loved it. Instead of swat teams smashing down doors and putting down criminals with the force of a hurricane, justice is quiet. One officer spots the target on infrared, the other takes the shot. A few flashes of light, and they’re neutralized without any lingering blood stains. Lots of problems disappeared once our boys got dusters six years ago.
Lots of people disappeared too. Not that anyone really noticed, or cared. I sure didn’t, until the night when a few officers chased a man clutching a “mysterious item.” When I found the suspect, he had cornered a young girl. After grabbing her shoulders and yelling something, he slipped something into her pocket. I couldn’t risk using the duster without hitting her. So, I walked towards him with my hands at my side.
Maybe it was my expression, or my tone. The man let go of her, and turned to me. We stood there motionless, silently watching each other as the girl ran into a nearby alley.
“Alright. Stop,” he said as his body turned to dust.
The suspect did not “lunge” at me like the report said. I don’t know which of the four officers pursing him claimed that, or even which one fired. But in the same moment the man’s eyes pleaded with me, he ceased to exist. Any memory of that man was erased – his life reduced to a cloud of molten dust. With a gust of wind, his embers singed my body.
by submission | Apr 15, 2023 | Story |
Author: Paul Cesarini
Lee tapped twice, zipped his fly, picked up his rifle, then went back to work. He could’ve used one of his three remaining disinfectant wipes in his med kit to wash his hands, but decided not to. Med supplies were way too low and way too valuable to waste on personal hygiene. Besides, he knew he had a rare treat waiting for later that day: a shower. A real, actual shower, complete with a bar of soap he “borrowed” from the makeshift supply depot they created. He found the shower in a mostly intact house about two blocks away, next to what might’ve been a barber shop at one point. The house must’ve had well water or something. Even the toilet worked, though toilet paper had become a commodity so scarce it was rationed by the square now. The shower had quite a view, too, since part of the bathroom had been blown apart. It was now a walk-in shower by default. There was no hot water, of course, but it didn’t matter. A shower was a shower.
The sink worked, too, but he wasn’t sure the water was potable. It started off kind of brown but cleared up when you let it run for a few minutes. Tablets should take care of lingering impurities, he thought. He was determined to bring some with him tonight, to try it out, but knew those were also scarce.
All this of course assumed he would still be alive by tonight. Somehow, he had gotten used to the uncertainty of it all. The fear, the waiting. The long stretches of boredom, interrupted by quick blasts of fire and insanity. The cycle of mundanity and violence wasn’t something you should be able to get used to, but somehow he did. He missed his parents, his cats, even his neighbors. He wasn’t sure if any of them were still alive. If he dwelled on that, it was a bottomless pit and out of his control. Instead, he focused on the small things – the things he could control.
Tonight, it was a shower. He could control that.
by submission | Apr 14, 2023 | Story |
Author: Majoki
I’m that guy who gets run over by the car forced off the road as the good guy or villain flees during the exponentially epic chase scene in every action movie.
I’m that random bystander who gets Swiss-cheesed in a hail of bullets, as the everyman hero miraculously dodges the endless rounds of suddenly very inaccurate henchmen.
But, most recently, I’m that diligent employee who the newly self-aware (and always anti-sapient) robot eviscerates as it casually punches its way deep into the corporate headquarters to take control of the steely army of robots of which it was supposed to be an ever-obedient soldier.
Not today. Not anymore.
I’m at the intersection. The intersection of innocence and no-fucking-way. I decided I’m not giving any more of my lives up for car chases, gun fights or robot uprisings. I’m fucking fighting back.
You should, too. It’s not like we can’t all see it coming. We know who’s expendable. Who the redshirts are. Fuck robot uprisings. Let’s see the hordes of innocent bystanders become self-aware and fight for their right to exist. That’s the crossroads we’re at.
So, I’m waiting on the corner. It’s windy and trash is whipping up from the curb. Already, I can see the cars racing down the street I’m supposed to cross, the pop-pop-pop of guns beating the bullets my way. And, of course, physics-defying bots are leaping from car to car.
They are almost at my intersection. Almost on my mark. All I’ve got to do is step into the path. Do my ever-loving duty. Be the quickly forgotten carnage. That’s entertainment, right?
Are you not amused?
Not fucking today. Not fucking anymore.
At the intersection. I pivot. I walk the opposite way. The universe ends.
Simple as that. A choice. And a new universe spins into being.
A universe where innocent bystanders don’t die for entertainment. For anything. Because we don’t fucking put up with it anymore. There is a new universe for every choice we make. For every intersection we cross or choose not to cross.
I’m not dying anymore for a universe that sees me as a throw-away prop. I’ll live and die as it amuses me, not some test audience of automatons. The show will go on. It always will. But you don’t have to let the machines tear out your heart.
Here’s how: at the next intersection, don’t be a fucking robot.
by submission | Apr 13, 2023 | Story |
Author: Nancy Geibe Wasson
My friend first began to disappear back in co-ed youth sports while being chosen for teams. She said she was in attendance and accounted for, abruptly became invisible for five whole minutes, and then wham! She was back, selected to a team, ready to begin playing.
Another friend said it was much later in life when she first disappeared. At the hospital, she, her husband, and the doctor were discussing pregnancy care for her and the baby. Her husband and doctor were talking when she went completely transparent for a whopping fifteen minutes, but then she was magically present again at the end of the appointment.
Today, when we were out shopping, I disappeared while paying for purchases. The salesperson spoke with my older kids as I faded away from existence for four frightening minutes, then suddenly I found myself fully returned, holding the bag.
So far, my friends and I have not disappeared long enough for anyone else to notice, other than ourselves, of course. Although, on walks about town we pass by ‘missing’ and ‘lost’ posters of women and wonder what really happened to those that have gone before us.
by submission | Apr 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Vidyut Gore
Some romances are meant to be.
Chandra, the beautiful Moon, gazed across the dark expanse of space at him, her existence visible only because of his blazing radiance. Suraj, the embodiment of the dazzling Sun, conjured into personhood in the minds of those who beheld him. His light bestowed power, allowing life, while she reflected it in her gentle radiance in the depths of the night.
His awareness found hers, a luminescent calm to his fiery eye, a lilting melody to his heavy sigh.
Chandra, the essence of the Moon, a mere satellite around a planet, one of many orbiting around him, was mesmerising, inviting the eye in a way he never could. Her gravitation inspired tides.
They tumbled through space. He blazed a purposeful path through the galaxy, while she twirled around her planet, flirting in and out of sight of him in a dance as predestined as it was awe-inspiring. They drifted in intricate geometries through the cosmos, ever compelled along a universal destiny.
The romance of their existence was immortalised in countless narrations by their witnesses throughout the ages.
In one such recounting, they transcended their realities and met on the one celestial body linking them both: Earth.
Suraj, the Sun, and Chandra, the Moon, ever separated by their very nature, by day and night, found a way around the physics, space, and time that conspired against them. In trigonometric cunning, they translated their souls into a context where they could meet as equals: the perceptions of those on Earth.
Unwilling to remain apart, Chandra and Suraj projected their essences to Earth, where the very land rose to receive them as the Himalayas.
But fate is rarely kind to lovers. It so happened that Chandra and Suraj both manifested their spirits on Earth, true, but on opposite sides of the Baralacha Pass. Celestial entities with no way to navigate the Earth, they lay cradled in the high mountains, their essences still separated by impervious rock.
And yet, the mad passion of lovers determined to meet persevered. The grief of their separation melted the frozen hearts of the barren realm. Molten glaciers wept into pristine lakes till their hearts overflowed. They carved their way through the barren desert-scape, their love nurturing life in that inhospitable terrain, to finally meet and lose themselves in each other.
And here the lovers lie still, as the Himalayan lakes Chandratal and Surajtal, meeting in a celestial romance on Earth as surely as their namesakes continue their timeless dance in the sky.
