by Julian Miles | Mar 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
The moonlight turns the billowing drapes violet where they intrude on the silver trails it throws across a marble floor. The distant sound of a saxophonist is barely discernible, like some fey melody carried on a breeze to tempt the unwary into folly.
“We can’t go on like this, Hubert.”
Hubert rolls onto his side, sucking in his gut as he does so.
“Whyever not, Daphne?”
She turns from watching the play of the harbour lights.
“He suspects. I fear what he would do.”
“Piffle, dear heart. You’re imagining things.”
A tall man in a red suit brushes the drapes aside as he steps into the room from the balcony.
“She’s not. He knows. The thugs he hired are waiting in the alley for your departure. Daphne’s going to be the victim of a brutal home invasion. You’re going to be found floating in the harbour, nothing but a mugging gone wrong.”
Hubert lunges from the bed, snatches one of the pistols from his discarded gun belt, and drills the intruder through the heart.
The red-garbed man looks down at the neat hole in his suit.
“Commendable aim.”
Daphne passes out. Hubert keeps looking back and forth between the smoking gun and the shrinking hole in the red material.
The shot gentleman cuts a short bow.
“Daniel Continuity Plotmore, at your service. Please, call me DC.”
“What?”
DC moves quickly, retrieving and then handing Hubert his trousers.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just an assistant.”
“To who?”
“God. For this particular world, that would be Algernon Westlake, a renowned author of torrid romances in a nearby reality. Unfortunately, Algernon just got dumped. His latest bestseller, ‘Balcony to Passion’, has suffered a hitch while he works through the hurt. Which is entirely unfair to the characters who get to suffer because he needs to vent.”
Hubert pauses as he buttons his waistcoat.
“Algernon is the true name of God?”
“From a niche viewpoint unique to this world, yes.”
“This world is nothing but a backdrop for some torrid pulp romance?”
DC waves towards the balcony.
“Hardly ‘nothing’. I mean, look at that view. It takes genuine vision to craft that.”
“We’re all puppets in some book?”
“Not entirely. I mean, now it exists, most people in this world will live lives free of his influence. You, on the other hand, were destined for a premature death.”
“We’re all a figment of somebody else’s imagination? Come on.”
“You just watched my suit regenerate after I ignored a bullet.”
Hubert shudders, then points a finger at DC.
“How do you fit into this?”
DC grins.
“Powers come in many forms. Divinities are only some of them. I come from one of the others, one with a greater interest in equity for mortals. Right now, Algernon is dreaming up a revised storyline that’s much better than tawdry arranged murders. The inspiration will wake him, and also help him towards emotional healing.”
Hubert looks down at where his shirt strains about his gut.
“Any chance he could trim me up?”
DC chuckles.
“Until he edited you to look like how he imagined his ‘rival’ to be, you were.”
Hubert draws a sheet over Daphne.
“What about her… Us, even?”
“Wait for her to call after the silly argument you had tonight.”
“What argument?”
“The one Algernon’s going to write tomorrow.”
“I should go?”
“Out the front door.”
Hubert conceals his doubt and confusion, nods curtly, then leaves.
DC chuckles.
“Another happier ending.”
He turns to look at you, then winks.
“I really shouldn’t give spoilers, but sometimes I simply can’t resist.”
by submission | Mar 27, 2022 | Story |
Author: Anonymous
I prowl in the dark shadows. I inch into one’s thoughts and destroy all that is good, leaving man with nothing but me. It is inevitable for man to descend, and it is happening now. I keep mankind in the dark; I am what man fears most: fear itself.
__ * __
Tyrone
The dictator was worried. I lurk in his shadow, never leaving him alone for who knows what could heal him. The doctors feared he had a mental disorder that was causing hallucinations, bipolar thoughts/actions, and PTSD of Earth and his past decisions. I am only clasping harder on his soul. Tyrone stopped pacing and began to record a message to all of Mars, telling them to be purified and continue the fight in becoming superior compared to Earth.
__ * __
Adonia & Liam
Traveling to Athens together had been a treacherous journey. They were now in the capital city of Athens, which was full of danger for them both. Liam was briskly guiding Adonia through the paved streets while trying to keep her invisible to danger. He hadn’t been this close to her in a while. He had forgotten how cloudy-blue her eyes were, they brought a new sense of beauty. He wanted to stay on Mars if it meant being with her. Soldiers passed by. Liam stood in front of her so her eyes, those beautiful eyes, could not be seen. “Urian, finding a purifying building should be easy. I want to be able to see you.” Adonia said while counting the drains they were passing.
“Not this way, not by getting purified,” he said, refocusing.
“Why would you say that?”
“Because I love–”
“Love what?”
“Nothing,” Liam said as he lead her towards where the ship was that would take them to Earth.
“We’re not going to a purifying building, are we?”
“We are.”
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m trying to save you Adonia! Can you not see that?” Liam yelled.
I was lurking in the alleyway and slithered between them.
Adonia stumbled, then forced Liam to let go of her. “No!” Liam shouted. It was too late, for Adonia had already drawn attention to herself and was taken by soldiers to a purifying building. Liam followed behind, rushing after them. Cries of mothers, fathers, and children could be heard as Adonia entered the building. She squirmed in the soldiers’ grip. She realized the situation far too late. The soldiers placed her with the other crippled and disabled citizens, all of who had no part in the dictator’s plan. Adonia felt a shiver go up her spine as she heard a metal-framed door shut behind her. “Urian?” she started to yell, “Uri–”
__ * __
Liam
Liam can picture the final scenes on Mars as if it had happened just seconds ago: The cries of families being torn apart, the screams coming from inside the purifying chambers, and the panic seen inside Adonia when she realized what would happen, but then the doors to her death had separated them. All he had wanted was to live a life with her, and tell her who he really was: Liam from Earth not Urian from Mars. “She would not come. It’s all my fault,” he whispered to himself repetitively as he traveled back to Earth empty-handed. I finally have won, for I have his soul.
__ * __
Tyrone
In a prisoner ship heading back towards earth, I forced Tyrone to shutter at his past decisions: such as when he left his family when they arrived on Mars, forcing everyone to be purified, declaring war, and when he did not shut down the machine as he recognized his blind daughter in the clustered crowd of disabled in the last purification group before the invasion.
These thoughts crowd his mind as I morph his body into something less than a man, a monster of what I am: fear.
___
by submission | Mar 26, 2022 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
These are strange places we live in; I won’t say ‘times’ because we transcended time a long time ago, before and after time. But the places, the feelings, the sights and the smells are oh so intoxicating. A good desire from which to draw our chaos. We’ve become so many animals, so many plants, rocks and pebbles and all in such strange places. A species of changeling, or simply, changing species? Can’t say I’ve ever seen my true form, or yours, but this is what we do, isn’t it? For as long as I can’t remember.
We somehow embody the desire for more in a universe of infinite potential. Does our desire drive the engine of creation? That great mana wheel of emergence? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know, but I’ve heard that being a hindhu cow is a pretty safe bet, so I’ll catch you later, see you at the next cycle!
by submission | Mar 25, 2022 | Story |
Author: David Penn
On this world in the Pica region each house has a bell. It calls constantly to the families in every other house and the bells there call back. It is the business of all Tzogg-Charans to keep these bells ringing, and so sacred do they hold that duty that if one stops they will scythe off parts of their own glassy flesh to repair it.
The clamour of the bells is considered beautiful and something that must be allowed to grow to perfection. Over many decades the bells may be shaved, re-layered or otherwise modified, as households tune each to its own individual sound, or “ke-ra”, a term for which there is no adequate English translation.
The tone-field, shape, harmony, pitch and clarity of each bell must reach certain levels of perfection which are beyond the capacity of human ears to distinguish. An achieved perfection of tone-field is particularly important as it will please the whole household, with its many levels of occupants. It is intended that it will also please the community at large, though it is well understood that this is not easy, given the differences of tastes between households, which can be profound while at the same time subtle and hard to discern. Nevertheless, it is the avowed desire of every Tzogg-Charan community, however large, that one day all its bells will chime in harmony, and the highest and most skilled levels of tuning and re-tuning are dedicated to this probably impossible goal.
The tuning of the bells, however, cannot go on indefinitely. Though the bells are extremely long-lived, each one reaches a point after many decades when adjustments, modifications, grafts, and shavings and so on no longer have any effect, and at this point a bell is considered to be in decline, indeed “dying”.
Through some interior agency or process that no outside observer has ever understood, at a certain point the sounds of the bell will begin to convert to light, which pulses in a vast range of dazzling colours, many unknown to the human eye. When the bell is fully agreed by the whole household to be, now, a lamp – or a “krin-girri” (again, translation into English can only be very approximate for this term) – it is placed on a long, tough kind of Tzogg-Charan leaf, much like a banana leaf though gold in colour, and “given to the river”. This is floated gently and with much ceremony on the surface of any local flowing body of water and allowed to travel downstream.
Tzogg-Charans wear special metallic red and blue feathers for this occasion, giving their intricately plated armour a tinselly effect, which is a sign both of mourning and celebration.
Strangely, as the lamps float along the river – particularly after they reach the community’s outskirts or disappear out of sight of the mourners – they begin again to emit sounds, often more beautiful than they ever gave out during their whole life as bells. When this happens, the guardians of each bell-lamp will find each other and embrace, however estranged by distance or time they may have become over the course of their lives.
It is outlawed for any Tzogg-Charan to see what forms the bell-lamps have taken during this final transformation, an edict which all obey out of the deep respect they hold for their planet and the unseen ocean beyond the rivers, and so no living Tzogg-Charan has any idea what the bell-lamps in this last stage look like, though the flashing lights seen above the jungle in the distance, and the occasional clear, mesmerising note of music, provoke endless speculation.
by submission | Mar 24, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hunter Liguore
The doctor’s face grew worried. The mother glanced up between pushes, doubting her decision for a natural birth. The process was longer. More risks.
One cut, one stitch, one minute.
The jingle for Insta-Baby-Byrthing ran through her head, as she pushed and sweated it out. When the baby cried, she held her breath. “Tell me, doctor, is my baby normal?”
The doctor frowned. “I’d hoped for a better outcome.”
The mother squeezed the baby’s plump, fleshy hands and cried. “It’s all my fault.” She felt again for the built-in, mechanical Palm-Pilot, normally entwined with bones and tendons.
The doctor lifted the baby’s vacant hand. “It’s sturdy. An implant might function as good as a natural-born Pilot, but it’ll allow her to function in society.”
“Unlike me,” the mother said. “I wanted to die when I figured out I was different than the other children.”
The doctor gave her a Pilot-implant brochure. “The Pilot-0900 quality—almost like the real thing.”
“Are there risks?” asked the mother. “I’d tried an implant; it malfunctioned and shut down the left side of my brain for two days.”
“I see.” The doctor nodded. “Maybe your child isn’t a candidate.”
She squeezed the baby, lovingly. “You’ve no clue how hard her life will be. She’ll be isolated, forced to communicate only verbally. No Pilot Socials. She won’t find work, since every opportunity is wired to the Pilot. She’ll never get off this planet. She’ll be forced to live at home and resent me for having her—worst of all, wherever she goes, she’ll be taunted as a Flesh-Hand.”
“There’re two options.”
“Doctor, there are no options for a Pilotless baby!”
“You can try adoption,” said the doctor. “Give your baby to a family financially able to accommodate her handicap. There are schools now for the Pilotless.”
“I didn’t know.”
“The other option is to send her to a private commune for special children.”
The mother gasped. “No!”
“She’d learn to cope with her handicap.”
“Handicap. I hate that word. Why not call us techno-cripple for god’s sake!”
“Look. I’m only trying to help. Once the birth certificate is reported with a deformity to the Government-Byrthing-Agency, she’ll be tagged as a hazard to society. It’s really your only option.” The doctor raised his Pilot to finalize the baby’s future.
“No implants, no donor-pilots,” said the mother. “No adoptive families. No communal, or disposal, which you didn’t mention—those black-social-sites that’ll do it in 24-hours. There’s always hope. So long as she has a loving mother that’s all that matters.”
The doctor finalized the baby’s chart. Baby’s hand—deformed. Parent denied customized methods of treatment.
Seconds later, the Government-Byrthing-Agency issued the baby a routing number that would keep her from entering the normal functions of society.
The mother watched it press into her baby’s hand, causing her to cry.
“It’ll be all right.” The mother soothed. She didn’t worry about the number. In time it would fade. Hers had faded years ago.
by submission | Mar 23, 2022 | Story |
Author: Josh Price
A loud crash woke Eve. She shook Adam and he rolled over, blinking, sleepy.
“Did you hear?”
He shook his head.
“There was a crash.”
“Where?”
“Outside.”
Scowling, he nodded his head like he understood, but wouldn’t remember anything later. He could sleep through the beginning of the world.
The first tendrils of light were snaking their way into the garden, shining on tree leaves, illuminating the path leading to the gates in soft, warm glow. Eve knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep now, so she got up to investigate.
No one said they couldn’t go outside the gates, they just never did. The only rule was: don’t eat the fruit from the tree. She stood up, nudging Adam with her foot, smirking as he grumbled and rolled over.
Walking along the path, she made her way to the north edge of the garden—the sun warming her by the time she reached the gates.
She pushed them open, they made no noise.
She looked at the vast expanse of flatland outside the walls and felt very small; she had forgotten they persuaded themselves all that existed was Eden.
Eve looked south, seeing something she didn’t recognize. She walked toward it. The object was translucent and spherical, buried in a long trail in the dirt. It had come from the sky.
She stood before the sphere and it pulsed once; flashing red. Jumping back, she let out a fearful cry.
The sphere pulsed again—deeper red this time. She turned and ran back to the garden to wake Adam. She wanted him to see. When they got back to the sphere, it was completely deflated; a long tear across its surface.
“What do you think it is?” Eve asked.
“I don’t know,” Adam said.
“Do you think this is how we got here?” She asked, but Adam just stared at her.
“Let’s go back,” he said.
Eve didn’t know how she’d come to be, couldn’t remember. Adam said she was made from him, but she didn’t trust his memory either.
Adam was content to do nothing. She would go out of her mind if she stayed in this garden her whole life. Wasn’t there more than this? She didn’t know.
Later, she was standing by the tree, thinking about Adam, bored by his disinterest. Yet, she loved him, her love fueled her curiosity. Her curiosity was love.
Adam was approaching, staring at the tree, something different in his eyes. Eve felt excitement rushing through her. She wanted more of this curious Adam.
“You ever wish he’d just tell us?” He asked.
“Yeah, of course. Do you?”
“Not until today,” Adam said.
“What’s come over you?” Eve asked.
“Do it Eve; take one.”
She asked him: “Why me?”
Adam looked away, a flicker of hatred in his eyes.
Eve stomped over and plucked an apple from the tree.
“Here, you eat it,” she said.
He took the apple, bit it. Adam grabbed Eve and pulled her close, kissed her too hard, shoving the bit of apple into her mouth with his tongue.
Furious, she chewed it up and she swallowed it—daring him.
“Coward,” she hissed. Adam’s eyes turned red, smoke billowing from his mouth and racing through the air, serpentine. Eve chased the smoke to Eden’s gates—out to the deflated sphere near the east wall.
Pulsing red the smoke entered the flaccid skin, filling it whole again. For the first time, she realized she was naked.
“What are you?” she asked. But she already knew.
The End
