by submission | Aug 10, 2024 | Story |
Author: C.R. Kiegle
“You’ll need to initial here, here, annnnnd, here,” the man at the check-in counter told Estella as he flipped through the pages of the form. The room was lit with white, sterile lights that had a slight blink.
“Mmm. Okay,” she replied quietly, marking her initials with pen strokes that looked less like letters and more like the scribblings of a toddler on a sugar-high.
“Don’t you want to read through the form first?” the man asked. Estella shook her head.
“I want my mother’s eyes.”
“Yes, but, the procedure-”
“She was murdered.”
“Ah.”
That was all that needed to be said. Sure, the procedure to transplant eyes was not one that could be reversed. Sure, her eye-see computer and all the memories of her life she had stored within it would be replaced with those of her mother’s. But despite all the happiness she had experienced in the three years since her mother had died, living with the knowledge that she would never really know who killed her mother had gnawed away at her until even what should have been the happiest moments of her life felt numb.
Estella took a seat on one of the grey waiting room chairs whose backs barely reached the curve of her back, staring ahead blankly. A moment, a breath, and she opened her eye-see.
“Awake at last, mi amor,” her husband whispered at her in the first memory she had queued to watch. It was the second day of their honeymoon on an island in the Pacific, and in the distance behind him she could see the pinks and oranges and blues of a tropical sunrise.
“It’s still early, dear,” she had replied. His greying hair had an attractive orange tint in the rising sun, but the shadows exaggerated the lines of the wrinkles on his face.
The memory flashed away as Estella waved her hand, and another appeared in its place. Her mother sat next to her at the top of the mountain they had scaled for Estella’s 18th birthday, just four years ago.
“Good choice, going early,” her mother had said as they watched the sun rise below them. “And happy birthday.”
“Thanks, mom,” Estella had replied. She watched her mom put her arm around her shoulders, and the current Estella felt cold when she couldn’t feel the warmth of her mother’s arms around her.
“Estella?” a nurse’s voice interrupted. Estella waved her hand again and the eye-see flashed away, and once again she was in the sterile white room.
“We’re ready for you.”
Blue eyes shut and green eyes opened hours later. Estella was still Estella, but even before she went to start her mother’s eye-see computer she could tell her eyes were no longer her own as she realized how poor her mother’s vision had been.
“Queue my last memory,” Estella told the eye-see. Within an instant she was in her mother’s office at night, walking to the elevator. Forgetting it was a memory, Estella tried to turn her head, but found herself unable to swivel her head.
Footsteps sounded louder and louder in the hallway behind her. Sterile white lights blinked above her.
“Hello?” Estella asked in her mother’s voice. At last, she turned.
“Your daughter looks so much like you, mi amor.”
Estella waved her hand before she could watch the man move any closer, tears falling from her mother’s eyes.
“You alright?” a nurse asked as she checked Estella’s vitals.
“Can you- can you-” Estella stuttered.
“Do you need something, honey?”
“Can you- can you delete a memory from the eye-see?”
by submission | Aug 9, 2024 | Story |
Author: Rick Tobin
A massive bright white RV was parked oblivious to the dangers of LA criminal elements on Figueroa Street. A sloping blue ramp led to a double door in the rear. The words “Second Chances” were stenciled over the back entry along with a welcome “Please Enter” sign.
Sheila McKenzie climbed the incline, wobbling in three-inch platform heels. Her tight shredded one-piece black dress was streetwear for business as usual, but today was different. Two of her friends mentioned Second Chances. They both disappeared. Sheila was tough. Cops didn’t listen. She was going to find them, one way or the other.
A slim, older man with salt-and-pepper hair opened the doors before she reached them. He was dressed in casual business attire and spoke in a soft, gentle manner.
“Hello, Sheila. I’m Ronald. Please come in.”
Sheila turned her head aside, startled by a stranger knowing her. “You a cop?” She started her interrogation.
Ronald smiled, motioning her inside. Sheila was worried she couldn’t see behind him. Every sex worker knew to evade any car, van, or truck if you couldn’t see everything inside. This was different. She had her tiny Beretta pistol hidden near her inner thigh. She’d do whatever was needed for her BFFs.
“What’s up? Why should I come in?”
“No need for concern Sheila McKenzie. Ruth and Emma are fine. We know you want out of this lifestyle just like your friends. We have a path for a second chance. You won’t need your weapon. I’m harmless. They’ll tell you the same.”
“They’re inside? How did you know?” Sheila stopped talking.
“We anticipated your visit. You’re a decent person. We’re glad you came.”
Sheila resisted for a moment but let her guard down long enough to take his outstretched hand, helping her over the elevated doorway into a waiting office. She was surprised by the RV’s spaciousness with its beautiful, clean, and welcoming atmosphere. The walls were covered with gorgeous photos of wondrous outdoor vistas. She took a seat in a soft chair across from Ronald near his table supporting a large screen.
“Is this a job interview?”
“No, Sheila. You’re already approved. Did you feel a change since you entered?”
She hadn’t until he mentioned it. The fire in her uterus was gone–the gnawing pain from several STDs. Her crippling scoliosis was gone and pimp scars. Partially lost vision in her left eye cleared, letting her see her friends clearly as they appeared on the screen, with welcoming live outdoor scenery behind like the walls around her.
“Sheila…you came!” the two women twittered. Sheila knew their voices but had never seen them so healthy and happy. “We’ve found men of our dreams here, girl,” one chimed in. “We are safe and free of all the pains of LA. Please join us. It’s wonderful!”
The screen went blank. Sheila sat stunned, tears in her eyes.
Ronald waited and then explained to her that her friends had chosen the Second Chance. His world, far away, needed women to grow their new colony currently filled with lonely men. She would be treated as royalty if she agreed to the transfer, as her friends had. He was aware she had no ties on Earth…no family, children, and now no close friends.
Ronald made it clear she would not be forced, but she would not remember their meeting if she left of her free will, though her healing would remain. Her answer came quickly with no remorse. “Now,” she exclaimed, placing the Beretta on the table. “I’m ready. I think I’ve always been ready.”
by submission | Aug 8, 2024 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
The V-Training has always been controversial, even more so now, some forty years since it was first introduced. The ground offensive has been obsolete for decades and wars are waged from afar, controlled by the kind of people who first designed the V-Scapes, the war torn and ravaged world in which the recruits are forced to spend so much time.
The protestors argue that the training is barbaric and draconian and has become simply a badge of honour. The Factor Rite’s argument hasn’t changed, although they are always careful with the language they use. They declare the training is necessary because they have to be sure all soldiers are able to cope with whatever the world might throw at them.
The V-Scapes, they insist, are closely monitored and controlled and all recruits are able to exit at any given time. Factor Rite argues that it isn’t real but of course the trauma is; not just for those who fail and are forced back out into the very real world with their very real trauma, but also for those who pass, the soldiers with their demons festering, their trauma bottled and stored, saving it for later, for another day.
Recruit 857 had been shocked by how grotty and rundown the Holo- Suite was. The paint, behind the consoles lined up against the walls, was yellowed and stained. The cheap wooden desks were scuffed and scratched, cables snaking across the floor, in all directions, searching for available connections points. He had been forced to step carefully between them as he made his way toward a headset that had lost its lustre and sheen.
But getting back there, to that grubby and dimly lit room, was all that mattered to Recruit 857 now. His hand hovered over the exit button, aware of course that the training time varied from recruit to recruit. But it was always at least a month and often as long as two. Could he last another hour, another day, another week, another month?
Recruit 857 had already seen so much, so many dead; citizens, comrades and the enemy, although he was no longer able to differentiate between them, and he wondered if this was a good or bad thing. Was it possible that this was what they wanted, what they needed from him?
by submission | Aug 7, 2024 | Story |
Author: Alzo David-West
We were all enjoying a day on the beach. The sun was bright, and the water was cool. People were laughing and swimming. People were sunbathing and picnicking under umbrellas. People were having a fun day.
Then slowly, there it was, a dark cloud over the distant waves on the horizon. The weather forecast didn’t say anything about rain. The cloud came closer. Not many people noticed at first, and those that did thought it was just curious.
But then the cloud wasn’t a cloud. It was dragonflies — swarms and swarms of dragonflies buzzing about, bumping into things, flying all over the place, hitting people in the water, and hitting people on the sand.
Swimmers started running ashore. Children and women were screaming and grown men, too. Some people were still sitting, recording the scene, taking selfies, sending messages, and searching their smartphone apps to figure out what was going on.
I guessed, probably as several others did, that the swarm was an insect migration, and the dragonflies had gotten lost. I searched on my smartphone like the old grey-headed man next to me was doing, sitting on a blanket, with his old wife lying down, trying to sun her back.
The news said the dragonflies were everywhere. Social media alerts and social influencers reported dragonfly clouds all across the country. Emergency conferences with meteorologists and insectologists were livestreamed, but the experts and specialists couldn’t explain the “entomological anomaly” that was happening.
More and more dragonflies were coming, and the situation was turning dangerous. People were getting struck in the eye. Some went blind. Others choked on the dragonflies. People couldn’t drive with dragonflies raining on their windshields.
There were accidents and crashes and turnovers on highways and sidewalks. There were explosions. States of emergency were declared in townships and city centers nationwide, yet there was nothing the National Guard or the Army could do.
The president rapidly issued an executive order for the pest-control and fumigation industries to work with the Air Force, and 24/7 extermination initiatives were launched by every state government on the continental landmass.
More dragonflies came. Demoralized and frustrated senators, governors, and mayors were motioning to release drone bombs and drop fire bombs and atom bombs to stop the dragonfly invasion. Those demands were too extreme, but they gave lots of people an idea.
Men, women, and kids in towns and cities — even big cities like New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago — started making smoke bombs, pressure-cooker bombs, and bonfires for the fireballs and white and black smoke to repel the dragonflies. Great fires started to break out uncontrollably, some by accident and others intentionally. Pandemonium let loose as the fires raged from sea to sea.
Soon enough, all sorts of individuals and groups began crawling out of the woodwork — crime gangs, fascist killers, lone wolves, religious cults, secessionist rebels, terrorist radicals, vigilante punishers — all vying for power and control, all because the dragonflies came.
The dragonflies kept coming for days and days, months and months, and they never stopped, except briefly in the winter. The next wave was worse.
Now’s over a year. America is a third-world war zone. State and local governments have collapsed. Nowhere’s safe. Children can’t go on the streets alone. Day and night are death sentences. People hide in their homes. There’s no more food.
Emergency aid is slowly on its way from Africa, Asia, and Europe, but nothing’s guaranteed. The dragonflies are still coming. They’re still coming.
There’s thunder in the air.
by submission | Aug 6, 2024 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The network was nearing completion, and nobody felt the weight of it more than Yehzaat. He knew what the ZG3 network would mean for humanity.
Finally, there would be universal access to enlightenment. No longer would the conduit to nirvana be through prophets and priests, it would be through ZG3 portals. Direct pipelines to salvation, to fulfillment, to peace. Enough bandwidth to handle the entire planet’s prayers.
Too often, human nature had interfered with the divine. Corporeal weakness and corruption had co-opted the spiritual source, distorted the message, cluttered the channels. No wonder the world was so unbelieving, so suspicious, so lost, so confused.
Yehzaat had known there was a better way. A simpler way. ZG3.
Good thoughts.
Good words.
Good deeds.
That was ZG3. Thus, deep in the Zagros mountain range near Persepolis, Yehzaat, coordinated the final installation of the QVs, quantum-processing vessels, designed to cut out the ecclesiastical middlemen, the oft-corrupted clerical class, and let the masses connect directly with ethereality. The promise of pristine spirituality.
As the project neared completion, Yehzaat conceded that he couldn’t have created the ZG3 network without the input of the clerical class. That was quite obvious as he looked out on the seemingly endless stacks of QVs networked together in the hollowed-out mountain.
Indeed, priests and prophets had played a key role in getting ZG3 up and running. From the clergy of every religion, Yehzaat had exacted a tithe. A necessary offering to bring each of the myriad QVs online.
With a bow to the heavens and the supreme sacrifice from the broken clerics he’d collected, Yehzaat initiated ZG3’s final systems upload, filling the vacant vessels. For not even this vast array of quantum processors could connect with the divine. Not alone. Machines have no soul.
Good thoughts.
Good words.
Good deeds.
The once-empty vessels thrummed with renewed spirit.
by Julian Miles | Aug 5, 2024 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The farthest corners of the room are lost in shadows as the night draws in. A small group huddles closer to the fire and the pool of light shed by the bulky oil lantern, hung high enough above that its thick smoke goes up and out rather than down and around.
All are attentive to the four elders sat with their backs to the fire. As the audience sorts itself roughly by height as well as status, the elder wearing the tallest hat nods to an even taller figure stood in the shadows to one side.
“Is it done?”
The figure steps into the light, shoulders wider than any present, and dressed in hunting leathers from head to toe.
“It is.”
The elder in the shortest hat clears her throat.
“Will you tell?”
The leather-clad one shakes their head and extends a beckoning hand. From the utter darkness on the other side of the room, a slight figure in leather robes treads lightly onto view, then stops and bows to the elders.
“I hight Jonas, Apprentice Blightbinder. To me falls that task.”
The elder in the second-tallest hat waves impatiently.
“Yes, yes, protocol must be observed. But tell us quick: what of the Michael?”
Jonas claps his hands together.
“That blight is bound, elders. Slain in his sleep, thence into the ground with his head, heart, prick and ballocks. For the rest, down to the sea.”
The elder in the second-smallest hat leans in, eyes narrowing.
“What of his outlandish creations?”
“His eldritch cart was dragged entire to the cliff above Shipkiller Cove, then cast down for the rocks and waves to render harmless.”
“And his familiar?”
“You mean ‘Fone’? For all that he pronounced it mobile, it showed no signs of stirring from the cage we confined it in. Indeed, by the time it went over the cliff, it had even stopped flashing angrily when prodded.”
The four elders nod. The one in the tallest hat continues.
“What of his remains?”
“The parts removed have by now been interred at three separate crossroads. The spademen went in different directions, and none saw whence the others headed. The offal went into the wolf pit, and the husk went over the cliff on the other side to his cart. It was wrapped in chains of cold iron first. Thus, we are doubly sure this blight will not return, turn revenant, or gift a changeling.”
The one in the shortest hat addresses her questions to the Blightbinder themselves.
“What think you of his claims to be from tomorrows unseen?”
“I think it unlikely.”
“Was he a harbinger of doom?”
“All agree he spoke of himself as a ‘time tourist’ seeking ‘selfies with witches and druids’. I’m also told by many drinking with him in the moot hall that he boasted about becoming contagious.”
“Your gleaning from these ravings?”
“He came to liaise with the Mhor Druids about imbuing throwing weapons with frightful diseases.”
The one in the tallest hat wrings his hands.
“What an awful plot. It’s a joyous fate we stumbled across him and stopped his evil.”
The Blightbinder nods.
“We have done well. The powers will look kindly upon us for many moons after this.”
Everybody heaves sighs of relief.
Down on the rocky shore, the rising tide starts to pound the wreckage of the first prototype of a temporal relocation pod into smaller pieces.
