by submission | Feb 4, 2025 | Story |
Author: Jared S Moya
A sharp pain pierced Darya’s side. His knees buckled as he drew his hand to the wound and toppled to the ground. His shoulder slammed into the packed dirt of the dry riverbed, his teeth clacking against each other. Rolling onto his back, he noticed a lancer round had penetrated his jump apparatus control panel, leaving a large piece of aluminum embedded in his side through his jacket.
Further down the riverbed, the repeated windup and pop of Fibbley’s energy rifle sounded off like a broken fan blade.
Clenching his jaw, Darya grabbed the exposed end of the shrapnel and yanked, removing the sliver with a wheeze. Blood gushed out and touched the cold Dormini air, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing up his spine. He took a deep breath. His hand wandered to his ChestPak and pressed the blinking yellow button.
A series of loud beeps sprung forth, followed by a monotone robotic voice.
“Assessing,” it said.
Darya breathed a sigh of relief. He felt lucky to have retrieved the ChestPak from the Compliance officer on Sintra-3. The officer had him pinned, fists hammering down, and Darya was losing fast—until Fibbley landed his lucky shot. After that, it was as simple as taking the pack off the corpse.
“Compressing,” came the robotic voice.
The sharp prick of the syringe caught him off guard. He’d forgotten to adjust the settings again. No matter, it was over in a split second, then the sealant spray deployed. The icy grasp of the sealant sent a shiver up his spine. He looked down again when he felt the cold mist of the spray let off and saw his ChestPak running codes.
“Medical care complete. Diagnostics complete,” it said. “Diagnostics confirm: deep laceration of the abdomen, fracture of rib. Blood loss staunched. Setting sensors to monitor lung and breath control for further disruption.”
Another close call. He rolled onto his stomach and crawled towards the near bank, collecting his battle rifle off the nearby ground as he did so. Fibbley’s rifle charged and fired off a volley again. Another set of lancer rounds flew over the riverbed, whizzing past his head. The locals lived up to their reputation, Darya thought.
“Darya,” came a voice over the comm system.
“Cap’n,” Darya said.
“We’re nearly there. You boys alright?”
“Good as gold,” Darya grinned, patting his ChestPak.
“You got the artifact?”
“Fibbley has it.”
“Good. Hold on. We’re coming. Out.”
Darya beamed a broad grin. Nearly there? Well, loot splits better five ways than six, and Fibbley’s energy rifle always felt good in his hand. He chuckled, raised his rifle, and aimed it at Fibbley, his brow furrowed. Shouldering his rifle, finger above the trigger, he breathed out, feeling his lungs empty. Fibbley looked over at the last moment. His face snapped into an image of shock.
“Alert. Irregular lung motion. Compressing.”
The syringe punched out. Darya’s hand clamped down on the grip as he rolled back. The magazine sprayed into the air as he shrieked out in pain. The syringe receded, and he heaved himself onto his knees.
Ignoring the beeping of the ChestPak, he swapped in another magazine. The overhead flak had stopped now, and Darya realized he’d not heard the iconic windup of Fibbley’s energy rifle in several seconds. At least, he hadn’t until he turned to see it was pointed right at him.
The last thing he heard, aside from the windup, were just two words, spoken methodically and clearly.
“Compression complete.”
by Julian Miles | Feb 3, 2025 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
…And so the seas rose again, while volcanos and storms brought even more devastation and starvation. Those godly ones who led us looked within themselves and made a decision: in their image was the world, and in their image it would be again. But until the disasters abated, they would retire. There would be a time of darkness, but they promised to return in glory. The people lamented, but their gods were resolute: in order for great things to eventually continue, many things must first cease. They were withdrawing to ensure people survived. Doing it with sorrow, but it was the only way: the best for everyone.
And so they went, along with their chosen, into the heart of the land. Under a great mountain they created a haven, and into that they descended. Outside the grand entrance to that place there was a vicious war, as those expelled sought to re-enter and the unchosen sought to enter. Many more – equally unchosen but loyal – kept both hordes at bay until the gates closed.
In the aftermath, a frenzy took hold. Countless were those slaughtered in the killing madness that seized all. In the end, vanishingly few remained. Of them, only one was spoken of with awe.
Jenna strode from those gates so covered in bloody ruin that even those still in the grip of the madness shrank from her presence. Out into the storms and wildfires she went. Many said she had gone to die alone in the manner of all savage beasts.
She did not. Years later she returned, bringing with her an easing of the furious weather.
Upon a crude cart she brought a slab, and walked at the head of a throng, each of whom brought a slab of their own. Big ones, small ones, every possible size, colour, and shape. This multitude confronted those who had remained.
None dared stop her as she walked through and right up to the gates. With enormous effort, she lifted the slab from the cart and staggered forth to set it down against the junction of the two portals. Then she sank to the ground.
Laying hands upon that slab, she spoke her last words.
“Curse you for abandoning when you could have saved. We will do better. Without the fear and greed, without the lies and cruelty, we will remake this world. Stay inside your white god mountain. Watch us do what you would not.”
She died at that moment, anchoring the slab with her life. One by one, those who accompanied her laid their slabs, first to cover her body, then to cover the gates.
Those who had remained were the first to go forth and return with their own slabs. The pile grew into a ring, and still grows. Everyone brings a slab at some point in their lives: to lay a burden down, to mark a new hope, in remembrance, or in thanks.
It is also the way of this new world to bind agreements by placing a slab. Not one promise so made has been broken.
Those old gods were both right and wrong: the mountain has become a shrine, but not to them. It is Jenna’s Grave, and we honour her with every slab.
by submission | Feb 2, 2025 | Story |
Author: Neille Williams
“Gramps, a star just fell out of the sky!”
Billie hollered out to her Grandpa, who had just poured his second whiskey and was reclining against the kitchen bench.
“Sweetie,” he began, ambling over as she pressed her eager face against the window glass, “stars don’t just fall out of the sky, you know. Their gravity tries to collapse them but their core’s temperature pushes out at the same time, so they stay up there in space. Everything balances out!”
Billie whirled around to look her grandpa squarely in the face.
“So, why did one just land in our yard?”
She blinked her blue eyes furiously at him and put one jaunty hand on her hip. At nine years of age, she had inherited his love of all things floating in outer space. She’d also inherited his stubbornness and would not be dismissed until she got the perfect answer. He didn’t go out to the yard much since Billie’s Grandma had passed, content with his pleasant memories of her gardening, snipping, watering, carefully picking aphids off beautiful, blooming roses. Sighing, he took Billie by the hand to check the yard.
The moon-bathed enclosure seemed otherworldly, dusty beams exploring every inch of the garden as the two stood, peering into the depths. Everything seemed as he had left it, unkempt rosebuds poking their sleepy heads up from the grass. It took a few seconds to process things fully, indeed, one generous glass plus an extra gulp of whiskey did not make for a completely clear head. When complete cognition seized him, he heard Billie squeal and the rush of wind-whipped growing things seemed as loud as a lion’s roar. Things were moving – no, not everything – just the natural unchecked flower-blooms which had claimed this territory for themselves after their gardener had deserted them. Before his eyes, the roses grew massive, their pungent heady aroma all around him, oppressive and sickly-sweet.
“Look, Gramps – it’s the star!”
Billie pointed into the midst of the yard, where a black rock flecked with silver sat gleaming in the moonlight. As they watched, it seemed to shrink and grow dull, the life-force of it fading away. With as much fascination as shock, Gramps realised it was nourishing the roses; they were gigantic and cartoonish now, swarming all over the yard.
Everything balances out.
Above them, the stem of an enormous rose held its petals aloft like a strange offering to the stars. In an instant, they lost the moonlight; and he felt the first soft puncture on his leg, then more biting into soft exposed flesh. Billie screamed and he wondered just how large the aphids were now.
Everything balances out.
He reached out to find Billie but nothing was left of her, and soon, like the ancient stars that once claimed the sky, nothing would be left of him either. The aphids tore holes in him then burrowed deep, and the core of him grew cold, like a star collapsing into a hole of endless space and time.
by submission | Feb 1, 2025 | Story |
Author: R. J. Erbacher
Admiring what lay outside the glass, the vastness of space overwhelmed him. The window on the spacious observation deck was a circular aluminosilicate pane, a meter in circumference, the handles on both sides allowed him to effortlessly hold his prone body suspended in the zero-gravity environment. He didn’t like to come in here because of the smell but the view was amazing. The panorama was a plethora of stars, like twinkling glitter dust sprinkled onto a black blanket, with a resplendent orb, center point. He put his hand onto the glass as if he could touch the surface of the planet just beyond, which was… he couldn’t recall the name. It wasn’t earth, the color was different; not the blue with swirling white he barely remembered. Not Mars either, that was long gone too. This was more of a dusty beige with two huge impact craters, like a pair of cartoon eyes staring back at him. He chuffed at the image. Ah, well. All things considered; it didn’t matter which planet or moon it was.
He supposed it was the long stretch of loneliness that did this to him. Messed with his realization. Caused his head to twinge with pain, tilt off its axis just a little bit. The view wasn’t helping either, reminding him of the great emptiness that surrounded him. How big everything else was and how small he was. And how alone. Another orb floated into his view, red and gelatinous. This one he could reach out and touch, the tip of his finger coming back with a dark stain. He wiped it on his flight suit. If he just had someone to talk to it might keep his head… level.
The ship’s onboard computer spoke, snapping him out of the malaise that enveloped him. This was not who he wanted to be talking to. Not at all. The annoying voice actually made his head hurt worse. He wasn’t really listening either; something about an urgent aspect of the guidance that needed his attention. So many minutes left to make a correction or some such. He did not respond. Gazing at the nothingness on the other side of the glass, he yearned to be out there, swimming through the great void in his attempt to fly. How delightful a dream would that be, drifting and twirling through space, like a majestic eagle, the wind under his wings. As a young boy he remembered that you could make dream-wishes come true by blowing on a dandelion, but as he looked at the expanding terrain in the window, no green vegetation appeared to be down there, anywhere. A-shame. Again, the monotone speaker chirped with its warning. He barked back at the computer that he was on his way. One last, longing look at the view and he launched off the wall spinning his weightless body in the direction of the door, pushing the floating corpses out of his way as he glided towards the command deck.
by submission | Jan 31, 2025 | Story |
Author: Dart Humeston
“Two popular restaurants were closed yesterday while the city health department warned four others.”
Tisha, the television news anchor said, her luscious blonde hair framing her stunning face.
“This despite the city cutting the health department’s budget by 60%,” said Brad, Tisha’s co-anchor. His jet-black hair was short on the sides, but the top towered high like a cumulus thunderhead.
“Despite that, the health department issued 70% more citations and closed 34% more restaurants this year.” Tisha said. “We sent a reporter out to interview Charlie Woods, the director of the health department’s Food Establishment Inspection Division.”
The screen showed the reporter inside Mr. Wood’s office, which consisted of a steel desk with multiple computer screens. He was a chunky older man with bushy eyebrows and a flat nose.
The reporter asked him how with a 60% cut in budget, his division could increase inspections.
“Easy!” Said Woods. “Social media!”
“Social media?” the reporter asked.
“Yeah! After the cuts, we lost almost our entire staff, so we purchased software to assist us.”
He brought up a map of the city’s east side on one monitor.
“See this red square hovering over those streets?” He asked. “That encompasses about a five-block square area. By selecting a restaurant in the area, our software will analyze all photographs uploaded to social media within the last 30 days.
“What?” the reporter asked.
“This program searches every social media platform, and based on the date, time, and location embedded in each image, collects all the images for each establishment.” he said, laughing. “It analyzes the meals using the Cuisine Scope software package and then alerts us when it detects issues with the food.”
“So, you conduct all of your inspections via analyzing people’s photos of their food?”
“You betcha!” Woods replied. “Close to 70% of people take selfies at restaurants, pictures of their family/friends and their food.
“How does this software work?”
“The Cuisine Scope examines every image pixel by pixel to ascertain the temperature of the food and quality based on color, consistency, shape and several other highly technical methods. It also examines the backgrounds in photos analyzing restaurant tables, floors, counters and even the kitchen area for cleanliness. Cooks use social media too!”
This is accurate?”
“Sure! With the hundreds of images examined, it is easy to spot a dirty kitchen counter, a bug on the wall, dishes not being cleaned, illegal electrical connections, and rotten food. In my ten-years as director, this software has proved superior to human judgment. Not to mention restaurant owners can’t bribe the software.”
“Is this legal?” the reporter asked.
“If it is on the wide-open internet, it is legal. Plus, our software always adds five “likes” to any platform we copy the photo from.”
“So, no outside inspectors?”
“Nope.”
“And the software does it all?”
“Hell, it even issues the citations! I just turn it on in the morning.”
“Then what do you do all day?” The mystified reporter asked Woods.
“This!” He said, turning another monitor toward the reporter.
“Angry Birds!”
The reporter said, “Returning to you in the studio.”
Tisha and Brad appeared on screen. Tisha’s lips were parted, and her micro-bladed eyebrows squeezed together.
“Wow, Tisha, you eat nothing without photographing it first!” Brad chuckled. “I wonder how many restaurants you’ve put out of business. Didn’t you eat at a closed restaurant the other night?”
Tisha gave Brad an angry glare and turned back to the camera with an enormous smile, her white teeth framed by her fire engine red lipstick.
“And now, let’s go to sports!” She said.
by submission | Jan 30, 2025 | Story |
Author: Tamiko Bronson
“How will they find us, Grandma?”
She smiled, pulling her paintbrush across each rice paper lantern. Velvet black ink seeped into the fibers, revealing names:
Tsuneo.
Kazuko.
Satoshi.
Our ancestors.
“Come, Kana-chan.”
We carried the lanterns to the garden. One by one, we lined the path.
“The lights will guide them.”
I slipped my hand into hers, resting my cheek against her cool, soft arm. Cicadas sang, inviting the late summer twilight. Evening dew perfumed the air. Like every year at Obon, we waited, ready to welcome our ancestor’s spirits home.
That was in the old times before stars rained down and clouds blackened the sun. We fled to the caves, but they could not protect us. Our planet poisoned, cicadas silenced, we sought refuge beyond the skies.
“Kana-chan, hurry. Board the starship.”
Grandma urged me forward.
“Can’t you come?”
“Later.”
“How will you find me?”
Lips smiling, eyes glistening, she slipped her hand into mine.
“The lights will guide me home.”
The final call echoed across the platform. A soldier pried us apart and ushered me up the boarding ramp.
Shaking my head, I bury these weathered memories once more. I gather lightpods and inscribe each with a name.
On the last:
Matsu, my grandma.
I arrange them in the habitat window, casting a faint glow on our new planet’s rocky terrain.
No garden path.
No late summer twilight.
No hand to hold.
Yet, like every year at Obon, I wait, ready to welcome my ancestor’s spirits home.
