by submission | Apr 13, 2022 | Story |
Author: Jeremy Nathan Marks
Now it’s up to me, ooh, what will be
-Hall & Oates
Jakob’s favorite record was damaged. Every time Daryl Hall would sing about “one less toothbrush hanging in the stand,” the lyric repeated on an endless loop. This was terribly disappointing since Jakob’s life had been shaped by that record. He met his ex-wife at a concert where Daryl Hall stood on stage singing that song mere feet from the two of them. Jakob was on the way to the hospital for the delivery of his first child listening to the single playing on the weekly Top 40. When he left the courthouse after losing custody of that child, Jakob listened to the song on his long drive home. In fact, every time Jakob bought a toothbrush, “She’s Gone” danced across his mind.
And now that record, his personal soundtrack, was stuck on repeat. It was a bad omen.
One Saturday afternoon, lulled by nicotine and Stroh’s beer, Jakob had a daydream where people carried tiny record players in their pockets. They walked, strolled, jogged to the sound of their favourite songs. Everyone had a tiny phonograph in their pocket, a turntable connected by string to a pair of cans attached to their ears. Jakob knew that it would be infinitely better to hear your favourite song rather than trying to recall it. Memory was no one’s friend.
For example, on a national gameshow and with a chance to win big money, Jakob, a contestant, had insisted that Daryl Hall’s given name was John, while John Oates’ was Daryl. This had cost him a small fortune. It was terribly disappointing to forget the name of his favourite singer, the front man of his favourite band. His ex-wife had chided him about this for months, her bitterness accelerating the dissolution of their union.
A robin crashing into his apartment window roused Jakob from his reverie. He quickly grabbed a pencil and paper and set to sketching his pocket phonograph. It was such a simple concept, why hadn’t someone thought of this before? If men in horn rimmed glasses and pocket protectors could invent microchips, why couldn’t he, Jakob, invent a portable, microscopic HiFi system? He had taken a computing class in college and was the first among his friends to use a computer at work, so he was set to become an inventor.
For weeks, Jakob laboured over his sketch. He diagrammed a tiny turntable with a needle whose eye not even a camel could pass through. The machine’s rubber mat sat on a petite platter, and beneath the platter was a driver belt made from a tiny hair elastic positioned atop a petite base plate. The entire apparatus would be powered by a single coin cell battery. Jakob reasoned that he did not need to develop a head set, since he had seen some of those on the market (though it did not occur to him why). All he needed was to partner with an inventor who could make the head set plug small enough to connect to his platform, then he would be off to the races.
Jakob’s pocket phonograph was a godsend for him. In recent weeks, he had been without love or companionship of any kind. His house plants had died from neglect, and his beloved hermit crab of four and a half years expired. Jakob had gone to a few discos, but could not bag a broad. A terrific loneliness entered his dreams, where he ended up in bed with his ex-wife who lay there like a dead fish.
But more concerning to Jakob was his toothbrush. One morning, after a night of fitful sleep and sour dreams about conjugal coupling, the toothbrush started speaking to him. Initially, it kept repeating “In the morning there’s one less toothbrush hanging in the stand,” which concerned him less than the fact that he still could not replace his favourite record. Steep child support payments kept Jakob perennially short on cash. To fend off a mounting despair, he interpreted his toothbrush’s words as support for his pocket phonograph project.
But Jakob would never find a buyer for his design and his toothbrush would not stop talking. His pocket phonograph sketches made little sense to the companies that received his letters of inquiry. In laboratories all over the country, designers were already working on a similar project that involved the use of cassettes. One morning, Jakob’s toothbrush tried telling him this. It stopped singing its Hall and Oates lyric and said
Jakob, your wife is with a man who bought her a pony with
money he made from selling something called a TPS-L2 to
a company called Sony. That model is already on the
market. It uses cassette technology. You can buy another
copy of the Hall & Oates single you love so dearly for a
mere fraction of the price you will pay to purchase a 45’.
And for the record, your wife no longer needs your child
support. Get a better lawyer.
But Jakob no longer trusted his toothbrush. During a recent visit to the dentist he had been told that he had better start brushing his teeth. When he insisted that he had a toothbrush and that he brushed every morning and night, the dentist and hygienist did not believe him. His teeth told a different tale. And then it occurred to Jakob that actually he had stopped brushing. All he did was listen to his toothbrush and what good had that done him? His new divorce lawyer cost him more than double the fee of the old one and he was still paying support to his wife.
Could this mean his pocket phonograph project was similarly doomed?
by submission | Apr 12, 2022 | Story |
Author: James Eustace
The lights had been flickering in the study for quite some time, but it wasn’t until the room itself seemed to switch off that Greg was concerned enough to call the power company. “Don’t worry,” the lady on the phone reassured him, “we’ll send someone round.”
Within a few minutes there was a knock at the door and Greg opened it to see a helmeted man dressed in high-vis gear. “We’ve had reports of reality problems here,” the man said, flashing his ID.
Greg was confused. “Reality problems?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the man replied, walking past him into the house, “it happens from time to time. Which room is the issue?”
“Where did you say you were from again?” Greg asked, following him down the hall, “The power company?”
“Never mind,” the man said, ignoring his questions and instead brandishing a small handheld device that was all bleeps and whirrs, “my machine’s picking it up anyway.” He marched on through the house into the study, which had by this point reappeared.
When he got there he sucked his teeth as he studied the device’s monitor. “You’ve got a big problem here,” he said.
“I do?” Greg asked, worried.
“Definitely,” the man confirmed, “you’re being removed from our plane of existence.”
Greg looked at him blankly, as the room vanished again. “I’m what?”
“You can’t think it’s normal for your study to keep disappearing, right?” The man added, as the hallway room joined it, wherever it was.
“I don’t, but I thought it was just a power cut,” Greg protested feebly, “the person at the power company…”
“Your house is made of electricity is it?” the man asked.
“No,” Greg replied, feeling stupid.
“Listen,” the man said kindly, “I know this will probably come as a bit of a surprise for you, but our universe’s existence relies on a trans-dimensional energy field.”
“A field?” Greg looked at him blankly.
The man sighed. “Some people call it a ‘field’, some call it a ‘being’. Whatever term you want to use it seems as though there’s less energy to go around at the moment. No one really knows why, but not as much energy means not as much universe, so some things are starting to drop out of existence, particularly things that don’t attract energy, or don’t keep the being’s interest or whatever terminology you want to use. Boring things. Like you.”
“Like me?”
“Like you,” he repeated.
All this talk of inter-dimensional beings had got Greg thinking. “You’re not really with the power company, are you?” he asked.
The man shook his head.
“How…” Greg trailed off.
“How can you fix things?” the man asked.
Greg nodded.
“Well, it would help if you could do something interesting or exciting. Make yourself stand out.”
This time the whole house flashed in and out of existence.
“And quickly,” he added, a trace of urgency in his voice, “you don’t have much time.”
“Do something exciting?” Greg thought for a moment, “I guess I could…” His voice trailed off again. And, this time, so did he, along with his home and all his possessions.
The man found himself standing in an empty lot. He sighed and walked back to his truck.
“No joy?” the woman in the driver’s seat asked as he climbed into the cab.
“Nope.”
“Imagine being literally too boring to exist,” she said, as they pulled away.
“Where to next?” he asked.
“An accountant in Lubbock.”
by Julian Miles | Apr 11, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
Day 2. Pieces of the Eridani Dawn are still leaving blazing trails across the sky, day and night. Not that there’s a lot of difference between them on this world. It’s always some sort of twilight. Estoro says the cold will be our main problem.
Day 4. Keeping the fire going has drawn survivors in. I never realised how many beings it took to run a spaceship. Hallie says we must search for things to help us stay alive.
Day 7. There’s not much left. Very little food. Indri says we have hard times ahead.
Day 9. Estoro says I should keep this diary going. Nataloc says it’s a waste of time. Bruno is still crying. The Lakshane and Morobus keep arguing. They’re starting to worry me. Those two races outnumber all the others here combined.
Day 11. The Morobus attacked the Lakshane last night. Then something long and black came out of the trees and attacked them both. There was a battle. After the creature left, Estoro came over and told me to note this:
“It’s a furred, serpentine form, about nine metres long and two in diameter. No visible eyes or nostrils. Powerful bite. Tough hide. Only became enraged when we fought back. I think if we hadn’t, it would have just taken prey and departed.”
Day 12. Nataloc led the three surviving Lakshane away after they killed the wounded Morobus. Estoro made everybody remaining drag the bodies and all the bloody dirt a long way from the camp before leaving them in a pile. Some complained. He said they could do whatever rites they wanted there.
Day 13. Something happened. Those who stayed to do rites haven’t come back. We heard screams.
Day 14. Hallie went to check. Says they’re all dead. She looks worried.
(40% power. Will update fortnightly.)
Week 4. The Lakshane attacked two nights ago. Bruno was taken, two others were killed. Hallie says Lakshane are carnivores.
Week 6. Estoro led us away from the camp. Others elected to stay, but he said he wouldn’t be cattle for the Lakshane. We left at night. Hallie covered our tracks.
Week 8. Still moving. Headed uphill for days. Charlie got taken by a smaller furry serpent.
Week 10. Found some caves. Eighteen of us left. Don’t think Cliore will make it. His wound got infected.
(25% power. Will update monthly.)
Month 4. It’s colder. Cliore died. Moved deeper into the caves. Hallie is teaching us to forage.
Month 5. Still really cold. I enjoy hunting. Penny got bitten by something like a big beetle. She died.
(15% power. Going to hibernate this. Will update every Earth year if I can keep track.)
Year 1. Bostal died to a furry serpent, but we killed it. Moved to better caves. Hal and Viv jumped off the peak together. I’m good at making hides into clothes. Estoro says our ship will have been moved from ‘missing’ to ‘lost’.
Year 2. Nataloc attacked us! Estoro and Splassarn died fighting him. Crow dragged him down. Elizabeth and Mabduk beat him to death with rocks. We voted: Hallie is our leader.
Year 3 (Probably). Going to use the last of the battery to burn this diary into permanent store. My name is Jo. We are Hallie, Mabduk, Trimm, Henrick, Elizabeth, Tapuln, Shavel, Abdorc, Crow, and Indri. We’ve decided to go on for as long as possible.
This planet is now called ‘Harmr’. Trimm says it means ‘sorrow’ in Old Norse. We who live here build cairns for our dead. Please build a cairn for the one of us who couldn’t.
by submission | Apr 10, 2022 | Story |
Author: DJ
The house smelled of rotten eggs. Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. Jeremy took a sip of coffee. The lines on his face suggested that he had had his share of stress in his life. His brother Leon, was cradling his coffee mug. “It’s so cold in this house,” Leon said. “By the way, who else is here?” Jeremy smiled.
“Nobody,” replied Jeremy. “I live alone.” Leon’s eyebrow lifted.
“Where are those footsteps coming from?”
“I told you this place is haunted,” Jeremy replied.
“Prove it,” Leon said.
“Go upstairs. Enter the third room on the left, sit on the bed, with the door closed and wait,” Jeremy instructed. “You won’t want to stay in that room for five minutes.” Leon rolled his eyes and climbed the stairs. He found the third bedroom on the left and entered. A dresser was to Leon’s immediate left. A piggy bank sat in an open dresser drawer. Leon closed the door behind him. This part of the house was warm and smelled of lilacs. Then he sat on the bed and waited for something to happen.
The closet had a sliding door. As it slid open he felt a weight that bore down on his legs. Then it forced him down on the bed and pinned his hands and legs. He struggled to even raise his head, as a temporary paralysis took over. His breathing grew shallow. Suddenly something screamed directly in his ear, “Get out or die!” When he could move, Leon leaped out of bed and ran to the door, which flung itself open. As soon as he was out of the bedroom, the door slammed shut behind him. He ran downstairs; he practically flew outside. Then he got in his car and tore out of the driveway.
A skinless man appeared in the doorway and walked across the kitchen, leaving a bloody trail along the floor. He sat down at the kitchen table and took a sip of Leon’s coffee.
“You don’t scare me, Charlie,” said Jeremy calmly. “You never do.”
by submission | Apr 9, 2022 | Story |
Author: Connor Milligan
Reece Elliot rushed into his manager’s office, Tim Woods with the last printout that the pre-Dic machine will print. The print said “The situation in the future is unprintable. The exit door has now closed.” Reece handed over the sheet to Tim. Reece explained to him what it said. They both had a look of confusion, but disbelief also. They both knew the trouble this will cause, and how much will have to go into finding out why.
Reece and Tim now stood in front of the big, green machine. With its enormous size, the Pre – Dic machine had huge circler buttons, and cogs that were always working. But now nothing was working. There was no sound emitting from it anymore. Reece turned and looked at Tim, ‘What will we do now?’ looking down at the piece of paper, Tim said ‘We have to get Roy here now’
Roy Logan had been in a re-education camp for 5 years. He was sent there because his government saw him as a social threat. Spreading secrets, and information on new technologies such as the Pre- Dic machine.
He now sits on his bed in his cell. The blue walls have lost their sense to him. His room felt smaller by the day. Roy thought he will never get out of this hell of a place. Roy was holding a book Called In Side Gods Mind. Suddenly a guard came to his door and ordered him to stand. The guard lets Roy know that he is being released on a day release for a certain project.
Outside, the prison Roy takes in a deep breath of fresh air. Taking in the moment, he still did not know what he had to do. Were there guards playing a game with him? A second later, a brown car was waiting. The horn beeped. Roy did not care because he liked the sound. After all, it felt known to him. Walking up with curious steps, he approached the drivers’ window. With a sure glance, he could not believe his eyes. ‘No! Whatever it is, I am not doing it.’ said Roy. Tim rolled down the window, and said ‘ We need you on this.’ Roy starts to walk back to the prison not bothering to listen to Tim. Roy starts to bang on the prison door, yelling for them to let them back in. Tim then shouts, ‘It’s the Pre Dic Machine’. On hearing this, Roy turns around.
In the car, Roy asks for a cigarette. Tim hands him over one. ‘You never truly understood me, did you?’ Roy asks Tim. ‘People say you are a man before his time.’ Replied Tim. Rolling down his window to blow out the smoke, Roy says, ‘Just like the Pre – Dic Machine’
Tim shows Roy into the room where the Pre – Dic Machine is. One look at this machine, Roy has many questions but takes a moment to be in ore of the machine. He turns to Tim who is now standing with Reece in the room. He asks what was the last note it had printed. Reece hands over the note to Roy.’How do we not know that the message has not been intercepted and changed by someone else?’ asks Roy. ‘We have been using this Machine for nearly seven years now. Everything it has printed has been right, or close to.’ Roy re-reads the message again.’ When you say “We” does that mean the government?’ Both Time and Reece look at each other. ‘I will take this as a yes then, If this machine can print out from here, but the messages are from the future, we don’t know who is sending them. It could be the Russians, Chinese, or even some other life form.’ Tim has a perplexed look on his face. He did not take into account that the messages could be from an enemy, trying to trick them. ‘So what do we do now?’ said Tim. ‘You have to hope that it starts to print more and whoever is sending them is on your side.’ replied Roy. ‘We will have to wait for now.’ Roy turns and starts to head for the exit door. ‘Wait! where are you going?’ says Reece.
From the closing exit door, Roy says’ To the future’ he leaves them with a wave.
by submission | Apr 8, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
The speed at which Michiko’s roboto folded the origami crane was breathtaking. She would have her thousand orizuru in mere minutes and then her prayer must be answered. She knelt on the tatami resting her weary arms delicately on the edge of the kotatsu as the low table began to fill with the multi-colored cranes. With pride and relief, Michiko watched her roboto’s sleek beryllium digits deftly fold, crease and fan each paper square into an ancient symbol of hope—her only hope.
She’d already died once and was near death again. The cancer that gnawed at her bones would not be put off again. Men and medicine had saved her before, but it turned out to be only a two-year respite. Her fellow beings had tried and now could offer no salvation, so she turned to her own deus ex machina. Machinations of the divine.
Roboto.
An orphan and solitary being for thirty-six years, Michiko had almost refused the medidroid prescribed for her cancer care. At first, the droid’s presence in her flat, her refuge, had unnerved her. But she had no one and she could not care for herself.
Roboto did. It shopped, cooked, cleaned, obeying her silently after she had disabled its vocal features. Day after day in silent communion, roboto helped medicate, feed, bathe and dress her. Michiko had been grudging, then hesitant, then surprisingly curious, and one morning after a night of tortured dreams and anguish, she’d awakened with a strange sense of comfort, of peace, her wizened fingers clasping roboto’s cool digits.
Michiko began to use the honorific robot-sama when addressing her companion. When her condition allowed, she would walk among the cherry trees in Nishi Koen with roboto at her side. She began to play the shamisen again. She had always spoken sparingly and that did not change, but she spoke gently to roboto when asking for help. She simply lived. At one point with her strength regaining, she dared to dream of freedom, and yet the heaviness returned, deep in her marrow. She knew. Men and medicine soon knew.
She wondered if roboto knew.
Weaker every day, Michiko mourned for herself. It was a new feeling. Though a solitary being, she was not the self-pitying sort. Yet, as she watched roboto care for her, she realized that she would miss the steadfastness, the complete presence, of her companion.
And so she began to pray. Why not call upon a greatness of spirit, something beyond her kind? A thousand cranes, the most perfect prayer. But she could not manage the delicate work. Roboto. It took the rest of her waning strength to teach the technique, but roboto soon mastered it.
Now, minutes from completion, she knelt revelling in the necessity of being.
Roboto finished folding the thousandth crane and began to link them into one long chain. Michiko, now supine on the tatami, reached out, one hand close enough to touch roboto, but not touching. Through a gathering dizziness, she whispered aloud her last thought, “What would you say to me, roboto-sama? What would you say?”
Roboto, as ever, gave immediate presence to her voice, though unfamiliar with the mortally soft inflection of the query. The anticipation of a thousand cranes ready to soar stilled the room.
“I am Michiko,” roboto answered, releasing the delicate creatures of its creation and reaching, naturally, for the shamisen.
