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…”
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.
