by submission | Jan 12, 2023 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I was an English Lit postdoc, down on my luck—and money—when I saw an advertisement seeking test subjects for a sleep study at a local university. It paid well; well enough that I glossed over the cautionary warnings describing the potential risks and side-effects. Along with dizziness and constipation, the fine print also stated that test subjects could find themselves unconscious for prolonged periods of time. I was prepared to take those risks. I never dreamed, however, that I might sleep for a million years. That’s how long it had been, according to the creatures who were hovering over me when I woke up.
They resembled enormous hermit crabs with large pincers, complemented by rows of smaller appendages down their chests. They initially regarded me as having the mental capacity of a rock. Imagine their surprise then, when they learned that I could communicate with them telepathically. To them, long-gone H. sapiens occupied a “dead-end” rung on the evolutionary ladder while their species was currently at the top of the food chain.
“This is Earth, right?” I asked.
“If you mean the third planet orbiting the star known by the ancients as ‘Sol’—yes, it is. We call it KGGG-GRRGG-ZSSHH!” The creature created a series of short, rasping noises produced by rubbing its antennae against the ribs on one claw.
I communicated to them that their verbal communication hurt my ears.
“We’re sorry. To us, our voice is very shrill. Let us continue to communicate by thoughts only.”
“Fine by me.”
One “crabby” came up to the table and jabbed me in the arm with some sort of probe.
“Ouch!” I said loudly, pulling back. I thought it, too, along with many other impolite words that perhaps didn’t translate. Their spokesman, a crab I called Rufus, because he reminded me very much of my pet fish from high school, pulled the offending crab aside. He explained to the offender that I was a sentient being and deserved to be treated with respect.
“A thousand pardons. [Unintelligible] will not hurt you again. He didn’t realize that your shell was so thin. Nor did I. In fact, we hypothesized that your species’ structure consisted of an internal skeleton surrounded by a calcium carbonate shell. Clearly, this is not the case. May I touch your … skin?”
“Sure, as long as you don’t poke me with anything sharp.”
Rufus stroked my arm gently. I could tell he was experiencing something akin to a mixture of awe and delight.
“And all of your species—”
“We’re called humans.”
“All humans had this same composition of outer shell?”
I realized that Ruffus’ use of the past tense was apt; I was quite probably the only human being in existence.
“Yes, different colors but the same chemical makeup.”
“Extraordinary!” To emphasize the point, a crab in the back hit one of his claws against another as if beating a drum.
#
In the days and weeks that followed, I was treated civilly. They trotted me out to meetings and seminars, where I was asked hundreds of questions about humans and life on earth one million years ago. Their species could hardly fathom the idea that we had mastered space travel, walked on the moon, and explored every planet in the solar system with space probes and robots. Their claws beat and their antennae bobbed up and down in amazement when I went into detail about humankind’s accomplishments. They were anxious to know what caused our extinction and disappointed when I told them that I hadn’t a clue.
#
It’s been well over a year since I woke up in the future. I’ve been unable to make peace with the fact that I’m the only living person in existence. I am totally alone. If there was just one other person in this world—male or female, of any age, race or ethnic origin—I might reconsider. But there isn’t. There never will be.
Last month, I started the injections that they think will turn me permanently into a crustacean. I’m already developing ‘stubs’ in my head that will grow into antennae. My hands are forming into claws. My skin’s texture is hardening markedly.
To them, I’ll always look like a freak, but soon I’ll belong to a their species. I won’t be alone in the universe. Plus, I’ll never have to hunt for a knife or fork. But I will miss the days of consuming steaming plates of Chesapeake blue crabs.
by submission | Jan 11, 2023 | Story |
Author: Sarah Klein
Mark stared at the screen on the small object. He shook it gently. He was fascinated it was still on. An object like this from salvage, an object he didn’t recognize – it meant it had to be at least twenty years old. As he tilted it, he saw the small black squares at the top glint in the light. Ah, solar, of course. That was so rare now he had forgotten.
There was a small screen that displayed the “input error”, several rows of buttons underneath, and holes in the side where one might put specialized wires. He pressed each button one at a time, watching as “INPUT ERROR” continued to flash across the screen – it was responding, at least.
Martin turned it and looked at the holes on the side. Most of them were tiny, but there was one about the size of a pinky finger. That would be to charge it, maybe? Mark looked around, stuck it into his pocket, and remembered it was three PM and since this wasn’t something he wanted to sell at market, he would have to put it away and look for more salvage. He sighed, shifted from foot to foot, then approached the garbage pile in front of him, using his long stick to sort through.
That night he brought it down to his workshop, but the device clicked off under the artificial light. Odd. He made a mental note to bring his tool set with him to the salvage yard tomorrow, and he’d inspect it there.
He carried it out there in the pocket of his cargo pants; he could feel its heft as reassurance it was still there. When he reached the yard the sun was already high in the sky. He told himself he should get some work done before he fiddled around with it.
It was while he was poking in a pile with his stick that he absent-mindedly put his hand into the pocket containing the object. His pinky slipped into the larger hole and he twisted it around a bit, his unconsciousness picking up on how perfectly it fit. There was a strange chirpy noise emitted from the object. Then, suddenly, he felt a crushing pain sear through it, and it was trapped. Whipping his hand out, he tried to pull his pinky out by holding the object in his other hand and tugging it, to no avail. As panic started to rise in him, he felt what seemed like a tiny needle enter his finger. He felt a bit woozy and high immediately and sat down. The panic continued to hum inside him, dulled by the disorientation of whatever had entered his bloodstream, and his limbs began to feel leaden.
He gasped as he felt what must have been wires shoved into his arm. He knew because he held up his arm, and they were beginning to spike out. The injection must have been some kind of anesthetic; he still felt somewhat distant from his core of pain and he began to thrash and flail, wires erupting out of him. After agonizing minutes it stopped, with small wires snaking out of a hundred points, threaded throughout his whole body. After the acute terror subsided, he willed himself to stand up. The wires flurried, pushed themselves into the ground, and lifted him up to his leaden, clumsy legs. He lifted his hand up, and finally loosed the object from his mangled finger. As he squinted in the sunlight, a perverse blend of man and machine, he saw the words on the screen: INPUT ACCEPTED.
by submission | Jan 10, 2023 | Story |
Author: Henry Peter Gribbin
My name is Ben. I am a middle-aged schoolteacher from Pittsburgh. I am also a homeowner. I recently bought a house that sits on a busy street in a thriving community. The previous owners were an elderly couple who recently passed. The husband was a successful stockbroker who made his fortune in the 1960s by investing in up-and-coming companies. The wife was a noted political analyst who had a knack for predicting events in the world arena about to unfold.
When I moved in the house was bare of furnishings. The first thing I did was go upstairs to the master bedroom and took a look around. I opened the closet to check on space when I noticed a panel at ground level. It looked about four feet by four feet. The odd thing was the panel had a door handle. I instinctively turned the doorknob and opened the panel. I was hit by a bright light. It didn’t look artificial but looked like actual sunlight. I crouched down to take a closer look. I felt like I was being drawn to the light. I entered the panel and was instantly returned back into the closet. This time the closet was filled with ladies’ garments. I arose and went back into the bedroom. The room was fully furnished. There were pictures, family pictures of an older couple and their family. I recognized the older couple as the previous owners. I walked through the second floor and walked downstairs. In the living room was an old television set with rabbit ears. There was an old rotary phone sitting on an end table. I also found an appointment book. Today’s date was June 25th, 1965. The appointment book showed that the couple was engaged all day but would return by 7 pm.
I went out on the front porch. My key worked in the front door lock so I decided to take a walk. After proceeding one block I determined that I was indeed back in 1965. The manner of dress, vintage automobiles, and trolley cars made up my mind that this was so.
I bought a newspaper from a vendor for a dime. The date on the paper did show June 25th, 1965. I walked down the avenue and went into a diner. I was hungry so I ate. The food was very good and very inexpensive. When it came time to pay the bill I wasn’t sure if my present-day 20-dollar bill was legal tender. I crumpled the bill and handed it to the cashier. She didn’t look at the bill twice and handed me change.
I continued walking around the neighborhood, but around 6:30 I had this strong urge
to return home. I surmised that I had to return before seven. I went home, went to the bedroom closet, crouched down, and entered the panel. I immediately came back out into my empty space. Everything was back to normal.
The next day after moving some furniture and personal possessions into my new home I decided to try my luck with my secret time portal. Once again I returned to June 25th, 1965. I walked around the neighborhood and had a nice lunch. I returned around 6:30. I did this day after day. One would think I would be bored with this routine, but I wasn’t. One day I went to the movies and watched a recently released James Bond movie. I took trolley rides to different parts of the city. One day I had a thought. I took the trolley to old Forbes Field. The Pirates were playing the Giants. It was Clemente versus Mays. I sat in the bleachers and watched a much younger me sitting with my father. It seemed I enjoyed eating my hot dog more than watching the game. But once again I had to be back home before 7 pm. I knew this was imperative.
One last thought. I bet the old couple utilized this time travel to their advantage. But instead of moving backward in time to the same day, they moved forward to the same day in the future.
I still travel back to that day in 1965 but not nearly as often. Maybe one day I will take a companion with me. Well, maybe I won’t. I don’t want to take a chance and ruin my little secret.
by Julian Miles | Jan 9, 2023 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“What are doing?”
I step the lance down to standby and look round. There’s a Luminarian fledgling regarding me, eyes lit in glorious shades of orange.
“I’m clearing droppings from this rooftop, young edular.”
It waves stubby wings in disagreement.
“No such elevated, hu-u-man. My fam drular.”
A working class wyvernkin up here? Well I never.
“You’re a long way from the river cliffs, young drular.”
It shrugs.
“Hu-u-man Gaildor demanded I go forth, make progeny. My progenitor translated command as for me to travel far away.”
Commander Gaildor is prone to swearing at beings who irritate him. Luminarians do it by radical acts such as breathing or being within a couple of metres for more than a minute. Humans do it rarely, but enjoying relationships with any of the numerous kin he’s employed is a sure-fire way to achieve it.
In my case, it was his second cousin twice-removed – I think. It wasn’t clear. Got lost in the bellowing and frothing at the mouth.
“I too offended Gaildor. Therefore, this must be far enough.”
It nods and points to the lance.
“You are in disfavour, yet wield fire.”
Given their reverence for the many forms of fiery death available on this planet, now’s the time to get creative with bland facts.
“It’s lesser fire, young drular. For cleansing alone. Even so, it must be controlled.”
The ears go flat and tilt my way: sure sign of interest.
“Can drular do?”
“Yes. Attend me ”
It moves round to stand by my side.
“If the droppings are not cleared, the weight will crush the dwelling below.”
It nods.
“In the heartlands, the fams use such gifting to build famcaves.”
That’s not going to catch on with humans anytime soon.
“As offworlders, our elders have decreed we are not worthy.”
I turn the lance up to half power. The energy beam makes the atmosphere scream as it rips the flammables from it, giving itself a fiery aura.
“Such magnificence.”
Nothing I can say to that. I nod.
“Attend. This is half power. It will carve through dro-, giftings up to a metre thick. The danger is that this eager fire will cleave the roof of the human famcave below with greater ease ”
The wings droop.
“Such is the way of fire. Only deep waters will stifle it.”
My turn to nod.
“Does this wielding offset your disfavour?”
“The disfavour will pass with time. This allows me to earn chits in the meanwhile, so that I may pay my way.”
The beautiful eyes widen.
“My fam has no earner of chits. It would be a thing of wonder for their least drular to bring that.”
I pull out my tab, bring up my worksheet, add a ‘trainee’ option, then offer it.
“Then you will be a wonder, young drular.”
It reads the text, clawprints it, then grins at me.
“I be Viri of Fam Parfar.”
“Will of… Fam Jones.”
“To wielding, then, my mentor.”
Yes. To work it is.
by submission | Jan 8, 2023 | Story |
Author: Diego Lama, Translated by Rose Facchini
God called Alberto on his cell.
“Hey, it’s God,” He said. “I wanted to let you know that the world annoyed me, so I’m getting rid of everything except you, okay?”
“Okay,” Alberto responded. Then he added, “Thanks!”
“Now, let’s free you from all those non-essentials,” God said before getting to work. “Be with you in a few.”
“Okay.”
After a few minutes, twenty men in uniform entered Alberto’s apartment using the service key. They started to pack up chairs, paintings, glasses, books, rugs, computers…
“What are you doing?”
One of them motioned for him to look outside at the street where several other crews — hundreds of people — were dismantling and taking away everything that had at one time been his city: lampposts, traffic signals, sidewalks, manhole covers, cars, benches, statues, signs.
Within half an hour, the apartment was empty.
Alberto followed the workers to the ground floor where all his things, along with those of his neighbors and everyone else in the area, disappeared onto big trucks that were coming and going on the street. A deluge of rubble began to fall from atop the tallest structures; they were demolishing apartment buildings. Alberto set out along what was left of the road while thousands of workers continued to move in every direction with vans, cranes, wheelbarrows, and bulldozers, taking everything away.
Alberto took shelter in the park, but a crew soon arrived even there to uproot trees and bushes. The city had become one enormous dusty construction site.
He lay down in a ditch that had once been a fountain and dozed off into a strange and restless slumber. He woke up some hours later to utter silence. He climbed out of the ditch and looked around.
In place of the city, there was nothing but a vast expanse of gray, a desert of detritus.
In the distance, the few remaining groups of workers were loading rubble onto the trucks.
Alberto started walking around aimlessly.
After a few hours, he stopped. Everyone had gone. He was alone. There was nothing left.
Then the phone rang: It was God.
“You all right?” He asked. “In just a minute, I’m going to have the stars, then the Sun, and finally this planet taken away, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So, you’ll be free from your body. You’ll be able to move around at will in the great void for all eternity. Sound good?”
“Thanks!”
“Don’t mention it. See ya.”
by submission | Jan 7, 2023 | Story |
Author: Daniel P. Douglas
When a sleek and shiny bizbot from Rush, an upstart Venusian drift-pod vendor, showed up on the same mid-day shuttle to Godessa, Ogleblatt fumed. He glared at the bot’s silver and blue pinstriping and decided to call up Ortega on holo. He punched in her number and set the transceiver on the lopsided fold-down tray in front of him.
“If I could look miserable, I would,” Ogleblatt said. “But I chose the kind empathy theme for my default facial expression. Implants and lasers work miracles. Wearing the wavy brown hairpiece was my idea.”
Ortega mimicked a jovial chuckle. She’d heard Ogleblatt tell his plastic surgery and wig story at least ten times in the past month. “Just refer the bot to Hammer in Procurement,” Ortega replied. “Besides, what makes you think that business bot wants anything to do with you?”
“See, this is the part that kills me.” Ogleblatt slouched and whispered, “The bot is from Rush and they’ll stop at nothing to get control of our pod sailing lanes. How many times do I have to explain it to you?”
The cabin lights dimmed and Ogleblatt felt the shuttle liftoff from the Moon. He peered out the window and watched the lunar surface recede below. “Those Venusian lanes are Godessa’s most lucrative subsidiary,” he bragged. “We make billions off them.”
“Yes. People everywhere love those unpowered, untethered, high-altitude hypersonic thrill rides as much as Godessa’s unrivaled resort offerings.” Ortega’s holo flickered as she shifted the view from the one of her seated behind a large glass and chrome desk to a close-up of her young face. “Look, nothing bad is going to happen. Besides, your flight to Venus isn’t very long.”
“Long enough for me to fire you and promote that hellhound, Bachrus. Plus, we have a layover in Houston.” Frustrated, Ogleblatt fumbled with the tray table’s lopsided end, jiggling Ortega’s crooked holo.
“Oh, right. Sorry, when I booked your flight, Transia had the cheapest rates, and Hammer only—”
“Only approves the cheapest rates, I know. Acts like he owns the joint.” Ogleblatt bent forward, leaving mere inches between him and Ortega’s holo. “Lotta folks don’t like him. Maybe someday the Board will do something about it. They don’t like roadblocks or prima donnas, you know.”
Uncertain how to respond, Ortega held her breath, then sighed and smiled. “Personally, I always go comet class on Ajax. All direct and non-stop.” She wanted to keep him distracted.
Confusion shared space with some of Ogleblatt’s kind empathy. “Since when can you afford to fly Ajax?”
Ortega worked up a wide grin to charm and calm Ogleblatt. “I never pay full fare.” She licked and pursed her full, red lips and watched Ogleblatt slide back into his seat. “More to the point,” she said, trying to soothe him further, “I doubt this bot intends to do anything during the flight except maybe run a software update. So, all’s bueno bueno.”
“Ugh,” Ogleblatt murmured. “That sounds like something Hammer would tell you to say…. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you two are plotting against me.”
Ortega glanced past her transceiver and waved, winked, and blew a kiss. She nodded and smiled. She spoke a few muffled words to her out-of-frame guests. A moment later, she turned to look at Ogleblatt, then widened the holo view to show her seated—along with Bachrus and a Cheshire-themed Hammer—at a large glass and chrome desk.
“You’ll never replace me!” Ogleblatt shouted.
“Take another peeky peeky at the bizbot, Oggy,” Hammer purred. “We already have.”
