by submission | Aug 22, 2024 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
The project began as deep space exploration. All that was found was uninhabitable, far flung planetoids and asteroids, space, and more space. And finally, the edge of space, that was the most salient discovery we made and a puzzling phenomena. We found that space was moving into a metaphysical oblivion, that space was a material of sorts, a thing in and of itself. We started sending probe drones into that metaphysical oblivion. We programmed them with coordinates to return and land on earth if they were to survive… whatever lay beyond the universe.
None of the probe drones returned, it least not in the way we expected. When we sent them through they immedietely registered as though they’d already returned to earth. ‘Had to be a malfunction’, we thought…
Then Dr. Niard suggested something totally absurd. If they’d already arrived on earth, why not look for them here? In fact, why not look for them at the Research, Launch and Logistics center we worked at every day.
“What like in the drone hangars? Or the supply rooms? They’re lightyears away, how could they be here?”, I said,
“No”, he said,
“Underground. Buried.” A few eyebrows raised, bewildered expressions were hard to hide, but he was insistent that we at least give it a shot.
So we contacted the local university’s archeology department, asking them to do a deep metal detection for a specific type of alloy used in the construction of the probe drones, Erisium, an alloy that was truly immune to corrosion and entropy. They inquired as to why and Dr. Niard replied,
“Honestly, the less you know, the better.”
Much to our surprise and, apparently, Dr. Niard’s chagrin, the archeological team detected Erisium buried just outside the Research, Launch and Logistics center’s foundation. They began digging and a day later dug up the first drone probe we’d sent through, affectionately named “Helldiver-1”
We all turned to Dr. Niard, looking for some explanation.
Dr. Niard shook his head grimly,
“I’ve always carried a sort of delusional paranoia with me, that maybe, just maybe, I’ve been myself before. That moments of stark deja vu are actually recollections of an elementary similarity of a time I’d been myself before…”
“Uh… what?!”
“Don’t you see? The drone probe we sent through that metaphysical abyss, that unknowable emptiness, we sent it one, or many universes’ ago, and it recycled into a new universe. The Erisium enabled the probe to survive the harsh conditions of the early universe and it waited, waited until our solar system formed and familiar landmass developed at its programmed coordinates. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found another Helldiver-1, or multiples of Helldiver-2’s and 3’s.”
It was a horrible implication, that the universe, reality as we know it, perpetually recycled, and that fate is a very real and terrible possibility.
by submission | Aug 21, 2024 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
Sitting there in a car waiting for my date to come out, it had caught my eye, standing still like the sail of a ship in a dead calm sea, trying to blend with a hedgerow in the dying light of dusk. My eyes were fixed on it, made out the details, like how it flexed its fingers in anxiety of having been spotted. Movement caught my attention, pulled me away for the barest moment and it was off, dashing across the street. I tracked it as it entered a column of light cast by an old mercury vapor lamp, it faded until it was a silvery blur, barely there, then began to rematerialize as it left the blue-green glow, sprinting across a lawn, taking a moment to glance back at me and finally disappearing behind a house.
The shadow became my obsession, even though I would never see it again. I came back to the spot over and over, long after the girl and I called it quits, even after she had moved, and some other family settled in. I came back so many times that the family finally got a restraining order and barred me from coming back. As I grew older, I kept an eye on real estate listings and when the house came to market I pounced on it. Fate foiled me. The day before settlement the house burned down. Months later a developer bought up all the land in the area and turned it into a mall. Some speculated that it was the developer that set the fire, but I know better. The shadow was toying with me.
When the mall came I was excited. The restraining order didn’t hold anymore, but I found that the spot was now in the middle of parking lot, ablaze even in the dead of night under thousand-watt bulbs that no self-respecting shadow would hang around in. Even worse, as I grew older, and the taint of years crept over me compounded by the construction I lost the sense of where the moment happened. Was it there in aisle 21B outside the Orange Julius or over there in 14 J near the salt dump?
It was with a bit of relief that I began to notice the little things recently. My razor blade moved from one side of the sink to the other, the milk carton placed in the cabinet with the cereal, the shed door left open overnight. I know it’s him, I feel him coming closer. All these years I thought I was the one in pursuit.
Maybe shadows hold grudges. All those years ago I caught him where he shouldn’t be. I take some measure of comfort in thinking that he has been as obsessed with me as I have been with him.
I know he is here. I can feel his presence, hear his labored breath mimic mine as I scramble up the steps. But the joke will be on him, I am waiting. I am ready. Make your move and we will see who is the hunter and who is the hunted.
by submission | Aug 20, 2024 | Story |
Author: E. S. Foster
The weeds along the pathway clung to my IMRA uniform. The High Witch glared at me as I stumbled over diamond-patterned sticks. “We have no cause for your people here,” she repeated. Her staff—a branch braided with moss and who knew what else—swung toward my head.
I reeled backward, almost tripping over a row of wilted flowers. These people were worse than I thought. After IMRA had sent my colleague, Winston, last month, I wasn’t keen on visiting. But now it was my turn to do the convincing.
“Be gone, lest a curse fall upon you!”
“Ma’am, believe me, IMRA and I only have the best interest of humanity at heart. But the last of the federally mandated rockets are being launched within the next year. Earth isn’t sustainable for humanity anymore. We must relocate.”
I finished my speech with a grunt, a puff of air fogging up my mask. If this High Witch struggled for air, she didn’t show it.
I turned to the orange sky. Through the empty branches, streaks of black clung to the horizon. I tried distinguishing the rotting, empty buildings of the Upper East Side. As if on cue, a soft rumbling rose from miles away.
Several cultist members suddenly leaped out of the park rocks. Their potato-sack robes were sewn with oak branches and acorns, making it easy to blend into the trees. They barreled toward me, some with even larger sticks. I bit my lip.
“We’re reclaiming the earth!”
“This is our home!”
“That’ll be another IMRA rocket!” I shouted over the noise. “Our New York division has one more available in August.”
The High Witch scowled at me.
“Please, I have the information packets—we can provide supplies in the meantime—”
The High Witch threw up a calloused hand. The group forming behind her quieted in a breath. I glanced at each one. Most were older, wearing the tattered hoodies and scarves from their homeless days. Others were more like the “earthers,” as we called them. Some of the many hundreds who refused to leave their farms, villages, and homes. IMRA welcomed them, but they made it clear that they’d rather brave earth’s harsh elements than whatever lay beyond.
“They can send whatever agents they like, even the less experienced ones like you. But we won’t do it.”
“Why not?”
I was more impatient than intended, but the High Witch only shook her head.
“We said this to the last one. The trees are dying, it’s true. Yet they still speak. They seek our help. As we become one with nature, we speak for them. If you are to take the coward’s way out, fine. We will speak for nature and build from the ground up.”
I sighed, lingering on her words. “Can I at least offer you some blankets?”
***
*International Martian Relocation Association, Rocket 8674, prepare for launch.*
I stood on the slick front deck of the ship, gazing out the window at the sea of brown. Behind me, the aisles of seats trembled.
Please locate your designated seat.
Winston turned to me as we strapped ourselves in. “A record of five thousand plus. Have any luck with those Upper East Side earthers?”
“No.” I tossed my head back.
We stared at the fiery smog underneath the long window. “Hopefully the last few come to their senses. Nothing but insanity down there now,” Winston remarked.
I remembered the High Witch’s words.
“No,” I murmured. “There’s some hope.”
by Julian Miles | Aug 19, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The room used to be part of a well-appointed apartment. Under the ravages of damp and neglect, it looks like it was abandoned hurriedly. If you peer through the grimy windows and look down, you’ll see waves breaking against ruined shopfronts, and seagulls perched upon tide-tossed vehicles.
In one corner there’s a desk. On the open leaf lies an old personal datapad, one of the first generation of ‘long life’ mobile devices that arose after the technological excesses of the early twenty-first century were outlawed.
A gloved hand disconnects a rapid charge pack and pockets it.
The datapad screen glows faintly, almost obscured on the upper half where the accumulated muck hasn’t been wiped away.
It finishes starting up. A single notification flashes slowly: ‘194 unopened messages’.
There’s a soft sigh, like someone had been holding their breath.
“Play most recent.”
There’s a moment’s silence. The notification changes to ‘Message left 71:06:21:35 ago’, then displays a ‘No Image’ banner.
The voice is hoarse, the sentences broken up like the speaker is concentrating on doing something else.
“Hey, Helen. Must be a couple of months since I last called. Don’t know why I keep doing this, but I never get a decline or a bounce, so I guess that pad I bought you is lying in a drawer somewhere, long forgotten. Anyway, here I am over the United States of Australia, flying something that should’ve been scrapped last century, on the way to somewhere I can’t say to deliver something I can’t tell you about.”
The speaker stops, mutters unintelligibly, then continues.
“Okay, I’ll keep this brief as getting distracted like that again will end me and my latest glorious career. Like I said: I’m not sure why I keep leaving messages for you. But, hey, at least I’ve stopped pouring my stupid heart out. You’re off doing whatever you were doing when we collided and fell in love. I’d like to think it was roving journalist like you told me, but, if I’m honest – and if I can’t be honest while effectively talking to myself, what’s the point? – I think you were lying. Still don’t understand why I’m so sure of that, but there you go. I’d guess it’s a part of me looking for a bigger reason than you just not loving me as much as I loved you.”
A second soft sigh turns into a sob.
“Funny, that. Sad, too. Of all the things I could hold onto as a surety, I’m convinced you lied to me. Which, in the end, explains why you left: I wasn’t the man you thought I was.”
The speaker swears. There’s a distant sound of autocannon firing in short bursts.
“Right, this episode of my irregular confessional’s going to have to end early as it looks like these arseholes won’t leave me alone until I make them. So, wherever you are and whatever you’re doing, I wish you well.”
The pause is filled with the roar of powerful engines. It ends with a throaty chuckle.
“Actually, I wish I was with you, and not just because it’s a mugs game I’m playing out here. Best wishes, lady. Sorry for not being who you expected.”
The message ends.
The single notification flashes: ‘193 unopened messages’.
The datapad is picked up and brushed off.
“Shutdown device: mypad.”
The notification changes to ‘Shutting down’.
Another sigh. The gloved hand trembles, then crams the datapad in with the rapid charge pack.
“Sorry for not being who you thought I was. Love you, Phil. Maybe, one day…”
The voice trails off. A door closes.
by submission | Aug 18, 2024 | Story |
Author: Don Nigroni
I was in my study writing verse when this big fellow with a long grey beard and shaggy grey hair inexplicably appeared in front of me. He handed me a sheet of paper.
The paper read:
***
This morning, I was sitting in my living room reading Moby Dick when a big fellow with a long grey beard and shaggy grey hair inexplicably appeared in front of me.
I looked up and said, “Who are you and how the heck did you get in here?”
“Why don’t you just call me St. Peter,” he replied. “I guard the gates to, let’s say, Heaven. I decide whether to let people inside to spend eternity seeing the Beatific Vision or to recycle them. Less than a tenth of a percent are admitted but that’s why I’m here. You seem like a nice guy and, when your time comes, the gates will be opened for you.
But I’ve had this nagging feeling that not everyone eligible wants to spend eternity in Heaven. You’ve lived a rich full life as a nature photographer, traveling hither and yon. I want to know if you’d prefer Heaven or a new life after you pass away?”
I had so many questions flooding into my mind all at once. But I answered, “Heaven sounds boring. I’d rather be, as you say, recycled.”
“Let me assure you that Heaven is supremely and stunningly wonderful. Let me also point out that only a small percent of people on your planet live in comfort. You don’t know what your next life might be like.”
Then the flood of questions came pouring out:
“If you’re from Heaven, how come you have a physical body?”
“How do you recycle people?”
“How can you do what you do with tens of millions dying and being born each year?”
He calmly replied, “I’m an incarnation who, with a host of others, let’s call them angels, reincarnate unworthy people.”
“No offense, but I think I’d prefer reincarnation to Heaven.”
With that he departed as inexplicably as he arrived.
***
After reading the paper, I looked up at him. He stroked his beard and said, “This is a follow-up study. So, what would you like next time, Heaven or reincarnation?”
Seventy-two years ago, I was born into a wealthy family and subsequently led the life of a man of letters.
After careful consideration, I replied, “I’d rather leave that decision up to an expert, you decide.”
And with that he departed as inexplicably as he arrived.
by submission | Aug 17, 2024 | Story |
Author: Pete Smith
I come to with a start. There’s a bell ringing. That’s not good. That’s never good.
Raising my head from the bar, I try to focus. Oh yes – it’s the… landlord chap. Land. Lord. I giggle like a child. He’s ringing time. I look at the clock, and indeed, it’s saying midnight. Shut up, clock; you’re not the boss of me.
I drain my glass and plonk it down heavily on one of the… round things. Beer mats! That’s it. I remember now.
I should go.
Off the bar stool. Whoah! The room spins a bit, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. The barman gives me a disapproving look. Cheeky sod. I knew his grandfather.
Stumble to the toilets. Almost go in the ladies. Get my bearings and shove open the door to the gents. Look at myself in the mirror. Bloody hell. Lean my head on the wall above the urinal and let out a very long… sigh.
I should really stop drinking. I know that doesn’t seem like such a big thing, not from the outside, but it’s difficult when you’ve seen all the shit I have. Death. Destruction. Attack ships on fire, blah blah blah.
I know. Into each life. But I’ve got about a dozen lives worth of shit bouncing around my brain at present, and sometimes you just need to find a way to let off steam.
Anyway.
Outside and the cold air hits me. I’d forgotten it was winter. I look up at the stars.
Feeling slightly less disoriented now, I wrap my scarf around me and head for the car park.
Round the corner I spy a familiar figure hunched over, throwing up in the gutter. Oh dear. He’s changed, at least – though not as much as I’d like. I pull my hat down over my eyes and quicken my pace, but he recognises me, of course.
He grabs feebly at my coat as I pass. “Please… stop” he slurs, but I ignore him and hurry past, as he knows I will.
I find my ride where I left it in the corner of the car park. Only one here so I’ll need to move it. Don’t want any trouble. Cold fingers fumble with the keys and drop them. Bloody hell. Bend down to get them and slip a little. End up with my back leaning against the blue door, breathing heavily.
I’m in no state to drive, but that’s okay. I’ll just… pop back for a couple. Yes. Not like I have a choice, anyway.
I know, I know. I drink too much.
The doctor said I should stop.
Ha bleeding ha.
