by submission | Feb 2, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hunter Liguore
The day the president came to Corinth, my Pa bet Mr. Henley our last good laying hen that he wouldn’t show. “Oh, he’ll come alright,” said Henley, shaking Pa’s hand to seal the bet. “We’re a disgrace to the whole country, seeing it’s 1934—the Age of Civility—and we still don’t have electricity.”
Pa told me folks believed we were a bunch of backwards mollies, living in the Mississippi hills like cavemen.
“He’ll come,” repeated Henley, staking two fattened pigs on it. To him, President Roosevelt was our liberator, our Moses; he’d lead us from the desert into the twentieth century.
I only saw the loss of the hen. Those eggs got us by. Henrietta laid two eggs a day, one for each of us. Losing her would be the last straw for Pa, since Henley owned most of the town and everyone in it. It’d also mean Roosevelt came through on his promise, and that the houses—little more than shacks—would get strung up with wires and given life.
“We can’t even buy a new hen, Alice.” Pa’s fist hit the table, as Henley strutted from the house. “How’s old Roosevelt ‘spect we’re gonna pay for something we can’t even see.”
I tried to explain the marvel of electricity to Pa, as we waited for Roosevelt to show. Summer neared an end; the rolling hills surrounding the jigsaw neighborhood swelled with golden wheat, white cotton, and the endless sound of katydids.
By midday, Pa had fallen asleep on the porch; he’d scratched out on the floorboards how many cuts of meat he’d get from Henley’s pigs, if he won. But as the long line of black cars floated across the red roads toward us, I knew we were done for. If only I could’ve run down and told Mr. Roosevelt to go away, go away, before Pa woke and saw the hardship coming.
But Pa stirred, straightening his legs like he was being measured for a coffin. “Wish your ma was here to see this.” Ma had died four years ago; I was barely ten.
“Me too,” I said.
The cars stopped near Henley’s tact shop. Everyone congregated around, dressed in their best poor clothes, hoping to get a handshake or a smile. Roosevelt looked like a porcelain doll, hair slicked, clean face, pristine hands, and broad shoulders. Someone could’ve convinced me he was Moses.
Reporters clustered near him. Photos were snapped. Roosevelt towered over us, as if bending from heaven, and spoke about getting on the grid. “Electricity is man’s most useful servant. Every American has a right to it.”
When he left, and the dust settled, Pa fetched Henrietta and brought her to Henley. “You win, fair and square.” Pa turned to leave.
Henley, in good spirits, having shook hands with the president, called him back. “You can keep your chicken. I don’t want it. You’re gonna need it.”
Pa’s pride was hurt; I urged him to take the hen.
“Change is coming.” Henley spoke to everyone in the shop. “Electricity’s finally coming to Corinth.” He broke out a keg of beer for the men, and candy for the children.
In a few months, workers came in droves and laid the wires; Henley was the first one to turn the lights on, so to speak.
It didn’t take long for people to forget Roosevelt’s visit. For me, it was the day Henley did the first nice thing for us. From that day on, he was a changed man, and somehow it rubbed off on the rest of us.
by submission | Feb 1, 2022 | Story |
Author: Mark Renney
They told us we would be hailed as PIONEERS, TRAILBLAZERS, the ones who began it, CREATORS OF A BETTER WORLD, A SAFER PLACE FOR OUR CHILDREN AND OUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN. We were upright and law abiding citizens. Why wouldn’t we – what did we have to fear, what could we possibly lose? The trackers would soon be mandatory anyhow and the surveillance complete and no egregious act would be unseen or go unpunished.
The trackers are small and the insertion was quick and painless. The Trailblazers all have an identical scar on their lower backs, a little hole at the base of the spine where it was inserted.
The trackers work remotely, connecting with our synapses and to our muscles and brainwaves. I don’t know how it works. I used to believe I understood why but now every time I get up to walk I feel a pressure inside, I feel it everywhere – but then again perhaps I don’t.
The Trailblazers are easily spotted. We stand out in a crowd, everywhere. People know who and what we are. Everyone carries their own trackers now in their phones and watches and tablets and such. They are able to track the trackers and yet despite the fact there are cameras everywhere gathering images and sound people are still wary when we are around. They are reluctant to cross a Trailblazer’s path. They don’t want to be captured by us and recorded for posterity.
People laugh and talk behind our backs, pointing and gesticulating. We were foolish and gullible, yes, but we did what we did because we believed in the greater good and now we are pariahs. We see the anger and hatred written on their faces, the disdain and disgust in their eyes. If they could, they would kick and punch us, hurl abuse and spit in our faces but, of course, they can’t.
by Hari Navarro | Jan 31, 2022 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
The wood spits and its sputum climbs the back of the heath. Fragments of flame igniting as massing armies upon spent char.
“Is this the end, Frances?”, I ask as the orange caress weeps upon her skin and she tightens the muscles at the base of her back.
“Do we… really care. Any more?”, offers said Frances as I correct my balance and dig the stubs of my legs into the tops of her thighs.
“I want to say yes, but no. I really don’t think that we do. I know that we don’t”… wait now, see there as her long many times broken fingers grip down and claw into the sheepskin hide that splays beneath of our bodies. So beautiful.
“These bastards would have us think that for all the evil and the distrust and the putrid slight of hand that… that…”
“…they are at their very core,,, only are but good.”
“Yes. But their faults are colossal and their desire to make amends so very fleeting.”
“Let me lick the salt’en beads from the cusp of the side of your nose and trace your form with the tip of my tongue as I would with fingers had they not been torn all the way back to my shoulders. Savour every instant as I believe our time here is just about done.”
“I think this also… I just wish there was more about them to love”, she mouths and her fingers trace the seared sinew that appears as time patinaed wood at my chest.
“I loved the smell of vernix caseosa.”
“I loved potatoes doused in balsamic vinegar.”
“We were sent here… to… evolve as they should have. A test group with which to compare and not a thing more.”
“We were thrown here. Nobody cares about the data we have amassed. There is no truth nor guidance to be mined from us now erring on the right side of right if the greedy always sit at the same end of the lop-sided bench. We amount to not more than insects balancing at the end of an unseen leaf.”
“Some believe this world to be flat and some do not. And some of those who do not believe believe instead this spherical plain was created out of nothing by a god that lives on a cloud…”
“End them. Really, just stop them all this instant… I cannot stomach them… “.
“Ok… I will dearest… you whom dragged what was left of me from the wreckage and yet loved me never ever less than completely… I’ll give them a hundred more years but this is their very last chance.”
“You do spoil them so… I love them too.”
by submission | Jan 30, 2022 | Story |
Author: Steven French
I like to think these woods are the remnants of a great forest, where ancient kings hunted and outlaws sought refuge. But at best you could lose yourself, or someone else, among the trees for maybe five minutes. Still, that was all I needed one morning in early May.
What I called ‘The Loss and Despair Twins’ still lingered, so I went out for a walk, along the edge of the woods. As I passed a gaggle of teenagers one of them called out “Hey! How you doing? Hold up, we just wanna talk to you!” Picking up the pace, I turned off the path and pushed my way through some bushes. I could hear the kids behind me and as their shouts and laughter came closer, I rounded a thick grove of trees and came upon an old cottage, solidly built, with roses twined above the porch. I stood for a moment, not quite believing that it was really there, but then hearing the teenagers crashing through the undergrowth behind me I ran to the door and all but fell inside.
Sunlight spilled through one of the windows, illuminating a beautiful table and two chairs. Opposite them, across a clean stone floor, was a bed, already made up. Standing there, I could hear the voices outside and I waited for the teens to come bursting through the door. But after a fruitless to and fro, they left and for a while I remained inside the cottage, feeling more at peace than I had for months.
Almost as soon as I’d stepped outside, however, the Twins returned to gnaw at me, although maybe not as fiercely as before. So, a few days later, I found myself walking up through the trees again. Half expecting to find the place occupied, or used for a party, I pushed the door open to find, instead of empty bottles and cans, just a few leaves that had blown in across the floor. The table and chairs seemed older than I remembered but still, sitting down cautiously, I felt a wave of calm wash over me. Looking across at the bed, the blanket looked a bit worn and the pillows just a bit shabby. But if anything it seemed more lived in and homely. Slowly I relaxed and when I opened my eyes again, the sunlight through the window had definitely shifted and I rushed out, roughly pulling the door closed behind me.
The sense of well-being lasted a couple of weeks but when I next visited the cottage, it seemed even more run down. When I pushed on the door, the wood screeched across the step and there was a puddle in the middle of the floor and looking up, I could see a fair-sized hole in the roof. The bed was still comfy however, even though dust rose in a hazy cloud when I sat down.
I don’t know how long I dozed but when I woke, fat raindrops were hitting my face. Where there had been a bed, there were now just a few rotted pieces of wood and across the room the table and chairs were also broken. As I stepped out of the door, now hanging off its hinges, I felt Loss and Despair finally take their leave. Turning back, beyond the trees I could see only bracken and undergrowth. But squinting, I thought I could make out, in the play of sunlight and shadows, the faint outline of walls and windows. Slowly I raised my hand in thanks and turned for home.
by submission | Jan 29, 2022 | Story |
Author: Majoki
Thang Danang balanced the hypodermic on the tip of her index finger.
Reckless.
Irresponsible.
Crazy.
That’s what her cousin Luc had called her. He’d yelled that her visions of their family ancestors weren’t real, that she was hallucinating.
Thang had pointed to her great grandmother Binh sitting in her finest silk near the gene editing equipment in her lab. “Ask her if I’m hallucinating.”
Throwing up his hands, but trying to dial down his tone, Luc once again tried to explain.
“Thang, I think you’ve got melioidosis. It’s caused by the bacteria Burkholderia pseudomallei. You’re a scientist. A very good scientist. Look it up. It’s a soil bacteria found here in parts of Vietnam. You must have gotten some dirt in a cut or rubbed your eyes when your hands were dirty. Melioidosis can cause an inflammation of the brain and induce hallucinations. You’ve got a disease. A disease that can be treated.”
“I’m not sick,” Thang said.
“You are!” He motioned around the room. “We’re the only ones here and yet you keep insisting our long dead ancestors are with us.”
“They are.”
“They are not, Thang!” Luc raised his voice again. “And they are not directing you to try this crazy experiment. It is wrong and it is dangerous. And you are sick!”
Luc was adamant.
But Thang was certain. The certainty of her ancestors convinced her. For days they’d been appearing in her lab, exhorting her to listen to them. To believe in their dao duc, their virtue and integrity. Her many, many ancestors had come to provide her with the power to protect all her family past, present and future.
And Thang believed the world was her family. As a geneticist, she knew at the mitochondrial level we are all one. And at the behest of her ancestors she was ready to instigate a change at the cellular level that would bring humankind even closer together.
So many of her ancestors had been taken by violence and war, or by the dislocation, crime, disease and famine that war fosters. They were begging her to end humanity’s endless cycles of violence. And Thang could.
In the hypo balanced on her finger was the enzyme she’d developed over years and had methodically tested on a variety of mammals. These were lab animals that displayed overly aggressive and belligerent behavior. Thang’s enzyme radically altered that behavior. Eliminated it. At the genetic level.
Thang had a cure for violence. For war. Her ancestors were sure of it and told her so. Only Luc stood in her way. He was a neurologist. A good scientist, too, and Thang respected him. But, he said she was sick. Out of her mind.
Wild.
Thang looked from Luc to her long gone great grandmother. The living and the dead. The present and the past. She clasped the hypo. Who did she owe more to?
Wild Thang knew the only answer.
The future.
Luc was too slow to react, as she plunged the hypo into the meat of her thigh and depressed the plunger.
by submission | Jan 28, 2022 | Story |
Author: Tara Mukund
“Imagine a giant slice of cake. Multilayered galore. Now replace all the baked matter with Earthen substance – rock, soil, water, and most importantly, humans. There’s your Anthropocene. Now, what if the Anthropocene were anthropomorphic?”
The TV blares at me as I stand transfixed in front of it. A human-esque Anthropocene? Isn’t that essentially a really (and I mean really) scary faux-human who wants to kill me?
A circular blob, somewhat resembling the Earth, floats onto my TV. It features a rotten version of the globes I’ve seen all my life. There’s a ring of eyes circling the Earth’s axis of rotation.
I think I get it. Anthropocene. Anthropo-cene – scene – seen – vision – eyes.
The eyes start to shift furiously. Each individual one lasts for a second, then cuts to another eye. The new one is sometimes entirely different, other times similar. Many of the eyes remind me of cartoons. I’m pretty confident that I just saw a solitary Sesame Street Cookie Monster eye flash by – b-eye. I also think I saw an Ai-Da eye, but that could just be me projecting.
Why shift? It’s almost impossible to focus, it destroys the personability of the supposed anthropomorphic character before me.
Oh! Anthropomorphic. That’s it. Anthropo-morphic – morphing – metamorphosis – transformation – shift.
Huh, it’s an epoch, humanized.
The TV continues to screech.
“Our state-of-the-art Morcene™ model shifts through every single artificial eye ever placed in the public eye. A perfect blend of anthropomorphism and human creation!”
Public eye. I – eye – chuckle, wondering how the narrator stopped themselves from doing the same. Somehow I’ve wound up fixated, watching an advert for a twisted Library – L-eye-brary – of Babel.
Why so many eyes, though? They could’ve placed a pair of eyes solely on the front. But then again, how would we define ‘front’? As much as we make the Earth anthropomorphic, it’s not going to stop spinning, just as much as it isn’t going to start sprouting tufts of hair on its supposed ‘back’. Makes sense.
I squint at the TV as the eyes spin. They don’t come in pairs, almost out for lonely walks (shifts?). I try to count the number of eyes – multiple times, I must add – and arrive at a reasonable estimate of 20-22.
Oh, it’s our time, our epoch. If each epoch were a globe, the eerie – eye-rie – orb would be ours: the Anthropocene.
“A library of all the eyes comes with your Morcene™! Who wouldn’t want to collect every eye ever? In stores today!”
I wouldn’t want the fiery – f-eye-ry – gaze of the Eye of Sauron anywhere near me, that’s for sure.
The eye-Earth-orb fades away.
I stare at the TV waiting for a PSA to conclude this joke – explaining how we’re destroying our planet, so much so that there’s an entire epoch whose name boils down to ‘age of human impact’. I wait, and I wait, but it doesn’t come.
The Morcene™. It’s real. Up till that point, I probably could’ve been the creator of this sardonic yet serious advert – eye jokes and all. We had the name ‘Anthropocene’, and now we have the model, primped and ready-for-purchase. And yet, we have no large-scale, transnational measures to counteract the harm we’ve done to our planet.
＊＊＊
I chuckle again at the memory of the Pillsbury Doughboy’s lone eye finding itself on my TV screen as I stand in line at my local Costco.
My Morcene™? My anthropomorphic Anthropocene? My humanized epoch? It’s now propped on my bedside table. Whether it’s supposed to be a reminder to act, or an object to chuckle at, even I couldn’t say.
