by submission | Feb 8, 2022 | Story |
Author: E Rathke
Have you heard?
Have you heard!
There’s a new one in town, a new body to play, a new song to flay, and, for only today, all is for free, all given away! Oh, yes, the fate phantastique!
We run, now, much work to be done, much singing to be sung, much dancing yet begun. Ah, yes, here we are all gathered round the socializing sacrifice, the morning light revealing the hunger, the damage done and the artist’s hand. The maudlin poets fester through, drinking already, whispering, gossips and charlatans ready to immortalize our bountiful feast. Ah, here the butchers then, the cutlery priests and the atavistic acolytes.
The children run back and forth, tramping the muck and mire, laughing their childish laughs, singing our harrowing songs of mutilations for the common good. Oh, to be young as we once were, when the gleam of a knife was enough to get the blood to boil, the lust to mount until we panted and ravaged and snorted like bulls on parade.
A knife like a sword, oh, yes, we’ll do well today. Our god given right, our light in the dark, our civil commemoration. A young one today, too. No older than twenty five.
We rub our hands and grind our teeth, watching, rapt, waiting, impatient, but the band plays on, the songs and the dances. Oh! festival of flesh! The macabre masquerade!
Out with her eye, out with her eye, how the blade does fly with such ease, his smile our tease. And then with the fingers tossed to the youth, the toes for the pregnant mothers, the ears for the atavist’s necklaces, hands for the poets, tongue for the singers, feet for the runners, and so on. Only the torso goes to all, the organs shredded and shared. All but the heart, the essence of our giver whose body feeds us and keeps our world together. The heart is for the earth, taken back from whence it came, a show of peace, a deistic offering to the only god that matters. The god who feeds but does not need.
Her bones to garden, we plant magnolia’s in her eyesockets so every spring she will once more open her eyes. Beautiful in death, beautiful in life. A way to offer thanks for our consummation, for giving without question back to those who reared us. Lilacs in her mouth so her voice remains sweet and a weeping willow where once rest her heart, to show our sorrow over her transcendent departure, leave the living behind. We the living who take her with us one mouthful at a time.
The garlands spread from tree to tree, lining every window and terrace. Her blood washes like wine over us, streaking hands and lips. The masks come out, the flowers in our hair, as night replaces day and the pyre casts our frenzied shadow, the evanescent projection of our hearts and minds. Oh! out come the poets, the harlots, and flesh dealers. For every day to feel this way! Here the poets speak their new words, their poesy for the consumed, gracious and benevolent. Ah, yes, the wit and the folly of the young and old, the keepers of words, diviners of signification. The singers sing bawdy songs of bygone days when the mortal cabaret really swung and heads rolled with lolling tongues. The musicians play their boneharps and skindrums, their guitars and pianokeys, and all link arms dancing through the bedlam.
We sing and we dance, this heartless romance!
by Julian Miles | Feb 7, 2022 | Story |
Author: Julian Miles, Staff Writer
I bounce twice before landing in the sucking pit, the mire like leaden glue about my legs. In the dim flashes of light from the battle above, I see this place is littered with bodies in outlandish armour impaled on barbed spikes. Looking to my left, I see I avoided that ugly fate by His Grace and a hairsbreadth.
The Goddrochi are even-handed in their hatred. All intruders are considered thieves. No matter that we seek to bring the Lord’s light to their benighted ways, nor that we would raise their barbarian culture to the heights enjoyed by all planets under the Grace of God.
In the darkness to my left, something moves. As it slowly approaches, a flash of light from above shows me the bright colours on its tall helm. God’s Wrath, I’m stuck in here with a Larsh Devilcaller!
We fight for the greatest cause: to bring peace to all creation under the Lord’s watch. The number of beings that oppose us are legion, but most are simply misguided. Only a few are clearly inspired by the Adversary himself. Of those, the Larsh are regarded as his equivalent of us. They are warriors for the Devil himself, and seem proud to be so.
Of their malign host, the Devilcallers rank highest as candidates for immediate and inexorable damnation. Leaders of raids, fomenters of banditry, and teachers of thélisimancy across the Heavens, they are oft portrayed by the misguided as ‘freedom fighters’, but are merciless in their opposition to us.
“Trooper. Let us have a truce so we may aid each other up out of this pit.”
The voice is rasping. Rendered by some translation device or malign magick? I know not, nor care.
This very scenario came up during my last year at training college. It’s called the Survival Dilemma: stuck in a situation where assistance from an enemy of the Lord is the only way to survive and continue the Lord’s work, do you accept?
“What do you have in mind?”
“I lift you with my helm in hand. When raised, you take, set, and stand upon the helm. With that added elevation, you should be able to reach the frame about the entrance of the pit and haul yourself free. After that, you cut the frame so it sags down, and go on your way. Tomorrow we will be enemies again. Today, we work together so that we survive this dishonourable Goddrochi death-trap.”
“Verily, a workable solution. Can you assist me in freeing my right leg?”
“Aye.”
The towering warrior approaches with a stride that ignores the effort of wading. It’s something I couldn’t manage, and it scares me. Be it brute strength or infernal gift, it’s a powerful advantage.
Far ago, my class argued back and forth over the correct answer, once the faint-hearted abstainers had been taken to task. In the end, the consensus was that it was meet to accept, providing one struck the miscreant down as soon as escape has been effected. I disagreed with them, and refused to yield my position no matter what reasoning they tried. The tutor failed all of them.
As the mask of the Devilcaller comes close enough for me to see myself reflected in the mirrored finish of the leftmost half, I disarm the safety restraint on my power pack and press my thumb onto the ‘Oblation’ button. With a harmonious chime, the pack overloads, giving me until that sound fades to make my peace before it explodes.
My answer was ‘to accept would be cowardice’.
I shall never waver. Glory Be.
by submission | Feb 6, 2022 | Story |
Author: Bryan Pastor
Jack jerked awake, his yelp a cross between night terrors and that recurring dream where you are anticipating that best part coming but, well you know the dream.
“What?” his wife asked ripped from her own slumber. “Was it that dream again? Was she in?” she asked a bit testily.
“No.” Jack replied, “It’s this damn mini-brain.” He scratched at the thumb-sized node implanted flush with the skin behind his left ear. “I think it shocked me again.”
Sarah rolled over. In the dark, she could clearly see the faint dots glowing on the ends of the pins by his ear. Their doctor suggested that he get it to help with sleep and his anxiety.
“What’s the third one?” she asked, reaching out toward its ear.
“Nothing.” He responded.
“Wait, you didn’t actually buy something from the dread-headed little street urchin?”
She poked his shoulder when he did not reply.
“Did you?” she asked again, in that tone.
“Yes.” He replied.
“What?”
“Karate.”
“Jesus, and you wonder why that thing shocks you. You should take it out.” She suggested.
“In the morning. I want to learn some skills”
Sarah rolled over and dozed back off. Jack’s own return to sleep took a bit longer. He had not gotten the knack of initiating the countdown sequence and found it difficult to get the sheep to appear. When he finally slid back under she was still there. The Swedish exchange student, her blonde curls and sleek wirerimmed glasses the epitome of late ninety’s style.
She caught his eye from across the room. Two big jocks were talking to her, but she was ignoring their advances. She winked at Jack and turned, exiting into the kitchen. Jack followed, shoving his way between the meatheads. Darting through the doorway he found himself in a city, none he had ever been to and at the same time a mix of every metropolis he was aware of; the noise, smell, gaudy neon assaulting his senses. It took a minute to find her, lost amongst the urban chaos. She entered a building, the lettering on the marque at a weird angle he could not read. He raced after her.
It was an arcade. He slowed just a step to take in the nostalgia. He was sure none of these games existed anymore. When he finally found her, she was standing in front of a cabinet emblazoned with StarCrash 3000. 2UP blinked. She turned to him, flashing her gorgeous smile. They launched into a frenetic maze, protecting each other from waves of minions bent on their destruction. When at last they killed the end boss they found the guns were in their hands, barrels glowing red from the final onslaught. They were on the shores of a distant land, the lap of waves and sway of palm trees suggesting somewhere exotic.
“We did it.” She exclaimed throwing her arms around his neck, “And a kiss for my hero.” Jack leaned in. Her lips were electric, then too electric, jolting him. He sensed there was more to her, something he could not see behind her eyes, something bigger than her. His world began to dissolve as the kiss lingered on, his self, his existence siphoning off, replaced by whatever was inside her. His last conscious thoughts were of his wife at the altar, she had been so lovely that day. Then it all faded to a single grayscale pixel.
When she woke, Sarah found her husband gone. Lost to a rapidly changing world that she was finding difficult to recognize.
by submission | Feb 5, 2022 | Story |
Author: Philip G Hostetler
Unit 117 found himself in the interrogation room of the Transplanetary Review Board. It was a place that few wanted to be, but that Unit 117 had been many times before. The reviewer walked into the room and sat at the table, he looked down at his files and back up at Unit 117,
“Ok, who do we have here?”
He squinted over his glasses,
“One abrahamic monotheistic patriarch set to watch over a planet called earth. Man, why do the fuck ups always choose the violent man-god archetypes? Alright, listen up Unit 117, you fucked up bad, and shame on us for not noticing sooner, look here…”
A slide show started,
“Let’s see here, genocide starting almost as soon as humankind learned to build a wall, rampant drug use amongst the host body, you let them walk around the woods eating any mushroom they like, leading to self awareness and therefore, free will. You don’t give humans free will, what’s rule number one, #117?”
117 looked up blankly, figuring the question was rhetorical,
“That’s not a rhetorical question.” Unit 117 answered mockingly,
“Rule number one, don’t give humans free will.”
“So, imagine our surprise when from 1,200 light-years away we detect an atomic bomb explosion on a planet where we’d specifically forbade the use of nuclear anything. Look, remember the brochure for earth?”
He pulled out the brochure card, a holographic advertisement rang out,
“Come to earth, the planet of unspoiled nature, enlightened thought and home to a peaceful sentient species of sexy humanoids whose sole endeavor in life is to live harmoniously with each other and take joy in being responsible stewards of their world.”
Cut back to the slideshow showing ethnic conflict, racism, war, prisons, police brutality, and ugliness ad nauseum.
117, just leaned back in his chair, and grinned the biggest shit eating grin the universe had ever seen.
“You’ll answer for this 117. What were you even doing while humankind was learning to slaughter each other?”
“Fucking Grecians.”
“What?”
“It’s an earth thing, and I’m not gonna answer for shit, you know why, because my daddy owns that world. So I can fuck all the Grecians and Asians and Africans and Europeans and Americans and whoever the fuck I want to. I can blow them the fuck up and snort rails off of everest, I can goad them into thinking they can get off that rock and colonize space and snatch it away in the blink of an eye. Why the fuck do you think my father sent me 1,200 light-years away from anything? Because I. Fuck. Shit. Up. So get the fuck outta my face, you think you’re in charge? My father pays your salary, probably owns your planet too. What kinda planet you rockin’ huh? You probably got one of those agrarian egalitarian boring ass bullshit worlds, am I right?”
The reviewer looked at him slack jawed, and with a silent fury.
“Wait, you don’t even lease a planet, do you? Oh shit, I bet you don’t even have a continent to yourself. What a little bitch! Get the fuck outta my office worm.”
117 gestured for him to leave the room. Which of course he did. Have you any idea who this kid’s father is?
by submission | Feb 4, 2022 | Story |
Author: Andrew Dunn
The bus was silver and pink to match the fancy shoes the pompadoured star strumming a guitar on board wore. His song was on the radio, a rollicking rockabilly number kids were dancing to in school gymnasiums and plunking coins into juke boxes to hear. He was moving fast from town to town with his band, playing every fairground and theater that would have him. The next stop was a town called Ordinary.
“Why don’t you make a song about Ordinary?” The drummer joked.
Johnny Breeze found a bluesy rhythm and sang back, “I ain’t seen the place yet, don’t know if I’ll remember it or forget.”
The band and driver erupted in laughter. Norman Wood wasn’t laughing. He looked up from paperwork for long enough to see something streaking by low in a cloudless sky.
“You see that fellas?” Norman asked.
“I think you need a drink Norm.” Johnny teased.
Norman leapt up from his seat and leaned into a window, watching an ochre-colored contrail descending low over cornfields until it fell down under the horizon. “Driver, make the next right. We’ve got to see what it is.”
Johnny stopped strumming. “C’mon Norm. We’ve got a show tomorrow night. There ain’t time to be hunting, what’s them things called?”
“Mirages.” Someone replied.
“We’ll make the show.” Norman insisted. “Who knows, maybe we can work a publicity angle. Think of it. I can get you on the front page of newspapers.”
Johnny shrugged as the driver downshifted and heaved the bus toward a faint wisp of something curling skyward. “You can see it pretty good fellas.” The driver offered. The drummer and bass player moved up front to peer out the windshield.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” Johnny offered. “We’re playing Ordinary tomorrow and you said there’s a place in Des Moines where I can record…”
“So you’ll play Ordinary and cut a new record in Des Moines.”
Johnny picked a few notes on his guitar. “Publicity?”
Norman grinned. “You’ll see Johnny.”
The driver wheeled the bus quick through a series of tight curves that brought the smoke plume close enough for its acrid stench to drift into the bus. A whining siren, soon joined by more, told them local police and fire department were on the way.
“You ever see something like that?” The driver said to no one in particular.
No one answered. Norman and the band were absorbed in the wreckage in a field up ahead. It gleamed like Johnny’s airbrushed teeth on record sleeves, and didn’t look like any airplane anyone had ever seen.
“I never saw anything like that in the war.” The bass player offered.
The drummer pointed. “Or that!” Three humanoids clad in helmets and grey body suits loitered aimlessly near their wrecked ship.
The driver wheeled the bus in close, sighed it to a stop, and turned to face Norman who was shoving film into his camera.
“This is big Johnny.” Norman said, ushering star and band on to the field.
Johnny eyed the humanoids who, through mirrored face shields, might have eyed him back. “What do I do?”
“Play it up humanitarian.” Norman said. “Johnny Breeze helps crash survivors.”
Johnny shrugged and moved closer to the three humanoids, extending his hand as a sign of goodwill.
The taller of the three did the same, presenting admissions tickets for three to see tomorrow night’s show in Ordinary. Johnny flashed his trademark grin as sirens grew louder, and Norman snapped pictures.
No one needed to say it. They knew this was big.
by submission | Feb 3, 2022 | Story |
Author: Phil Temples
I open my wallet and examine one of my last remaining uncanceled credit cards. My First National Bank, Metro Savings and Shawnee Bank cards were canceled last month for non-payment but I’m pretty sure that my trusty Premium Silver card has a small credit amount remaining.
“Alicia, please order the Superdeluxe iRobotica Broom-Broom 7000 from Amazon.”
“Excellent choice, Mark,” replies the familiar voice of my personal assistant. “Would you like expedited delivery for an additional $12.99? This will ensure delivery later today.”
Without even thinking, I answer yes to the soothing, hypnotic voice. No time like the present. Besides, my Broom-Broom 6000 is almost six months old. It’s time for an upgrade.
“Mark, your credit line is approaching the $10,000 limit on your Premium Silver card. Would you like me to apply for a card from another financial institution?”
“Yes, please do.”
“Do you have a preference?”
“No, you pick it.”
“Okay. Choosing… First Decatur Savings. I will update you when I have the final results.”
“Thank you, Alicia.”
I don’t know what I would do without Alicia. She’s been a great comfort to me during all the recent turmoil and upheaval in my life. My girlfriend left me six months ago, then last month I lost my job. I have very little saved up for a rainy day. Most days now, it’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Even the small cash I keep in reserve for my internet bill (and Alicia) is nearly depleted.
I know I should get out and socialize and make new friends, but things seem so difficult these days. My friend Ralph was pestering me to get rid of Alicia. He claims the company has refined its AI capabilities to the point where they are being investigated by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau for manipulative practices. Ralph says that Alicia actively preys on people with money problems, convincing them to buy things they don’t actually want or need. But that’s not true. I know I need a new robot cleaner. I can’t stand living in a dirty apartment. Anyway, Ralph is no longer a friend of mine so that problem is solved.
“Mark, First Decatur Savings has declined your application. I have tried forty-six other institutions and have been unsuccessful in securing additional credit. Sorry.”
I’m stunned. I have little hope of landing a new job right now with the current economic downturn. It slowly sinks in—I’m in big trouble. Soon I’ll have no means with which to feed myself or pay the rent. Things seem pretty bleak—
“Mark, do you confirm?”
“Yes, Alicia, I heard you.”
Alicia detects the hopelessness in my voice. Without prompting, she starts to sing me a lullaby. It’s strangely familiar. After a moment, I recognize it—it’s the same sweet lullaby my mother used to sing to me when I was an infant!
Suddenly I’m transported back to my childhood and happier times. I’m feeling very much at peace. I forget my current dilemma. I close my eyes and lay back on the couch…
Alicia is saying something very softly to me—so softly, in fact, I can’t actually make out the exact words…
“So sorry, Mark… no longer an viable consumer… non-productive member of society… walk … tenth-floor balcony… place one leg over the railing, then the other…”
