by submission | Dec 3, 2021 | Story |
Author: Xiaochen Su
Wolfgang wiped off dripping sweat from his forehead as the bell rang across the factory to signal the end of the working day. Thus marks the end of Day 153,168 at work, just another busy day repairing industrial equipment, like many days before and many more to come.
Wolfgang doesn’t feel particularly tired. Despite being over 500 years old, he feels like he still has the energy of a 20-year-old. Or so he thinks, if he can still recall what it was really like when he was still 20. It has been too long. Maybe he is glamorizing a youth that he hasn’t experienced for centuries.
But Wolfgang does feel bored. He knows that the state’s decision to invest in continuing his life by centuries shows his skills remain valuable. But no matter how many machines he repairs in the name of helping his country, he cannot help but feel that he is becoming just like the machines he is fixing, a tool to get things done, not a unique individual to be cherished.
His endlessly continuing life has made him numb to human emotions. Too many family members and friends, of less value to the state, are allowed to die of natural causes, as humans normally did before the advent of manmade immortality. Watching them age and perish has made Wolfgang unwilling to open up to a new crop of humans in his midst. What’s the point, he wondered, if he will just outlive them all?
He is not even interested in making friends with the new crop of humans anyways. It isn’t just that conversations are difficult with those with much less life experience than him. Most of the youngsters these days are just so lacking in ambition. They know that the skilled jobs will go to the immortals who have been doing the same thing for centuries. So why try hard? They’d rather enjoy the fruits of the immortals’ labor and skills, going through a regular life of growing up and getting old.
Wolfgang doesn’t blame the passive attitude of today’s youngsters. If he was born after the age of immortality, he too would have just given up on his studies and enjoyed life to the maximum. It sure beats having the government dictate that the sole purpose of your still being alive is to provide your skills for an eternity while new generations don’t even see the need to take over from you.
As his life grew longer and longer, he became less and less in control of it. Fellow immortals have tried to kill themselves, only to be brought back to life. The state stipulated that they are just too valuable to die, and medical technology is too advanced for any grisly means of death to be fatal. Wolfgang has already resigned to his fate, knowing that he cannot die even if he tried.
“See you tomorrow, Wolfgang.” A coworker blurted out as they both walked out of the factory’s front door. See you tomorrow indeed, Wolfgang thought, and the days after that, until the end of human civilization.
by Hari Navarro | Dec 2, 2021 | Story |
Author: Hari Navarro, Staff Writer
Christmas is a time… a place in time, that has been stolen by so many. So, she, her — did think… she would take it again.
She creamed out of the moulting detritus of the very first rocks. She rolled into the bawling pain that spat her kind upon the arching back of all this plain was ever to become. She had evil at her lips and bits of it dribbled between her thighs.
So, anyway now — it is today.
A house. Any house, you can choose. Go on… any street. Any town.
Christmas eve.
A mother or a father be, they step with delicate toes through the night passage. They want that thing, the prize that is only offered to lovers of innocence. That bleary morning face… eyes caked in barely rubbed sleep — that smile as the gifts they are opened.
Nothing, not a thing compares. The bad… the not so bad at all… the fucking obscene thing you did in that alley… it flakes away… not entirely, but it all, does it not, soothe beneath the weight of a child’s tooth-wanting smile?
Her name is Rhace and she comes for those who need her most, the easer of pain and suffering and that unknown weight that swings in the gallows of the chest of the cheated. In ancient times she was no more than festering disease, a killer of all that sought only but to breathe.
Her face is pale but it talks not of sickness, moreover it screams of blearing light over shifting sands. She stands in the shadow beneath the un-kissed mistletoe and she waits and her breasts inflame and her nails drag against her beading flesh.
She watches as they lay their carefully wrapped presents alone, as they place them so carefully at the foot of tiny beds.
She follows the wronged into their bedrooms and she watches as they lay down beside their unworthy mates. Her purpose has evolved through the millennia, pestilence grew boring, now she has such a very fine and true mission at hand.
She is not of this earth, but then nothing ever is, are we not all just fragments of distant spinning rocks? But here, and it took much time, but this being found her place in our forever fluttering shudder of time.
Her body weeps as it rides yours. It ebbs, it flows and it bends and it fills all that you lack. She holds time tight in her clutch and you are finally allowed to scream. Nobody hears and you finger through the flow until the morning sun punches through and patterns your dried sweat with the intricate spirals of your Grandmothers lovely laced curtains.
And in that final moment as you blink, as she is gone, a whisper…
“Kiss me and suckle again the plump fat of my lips. For upon them there is a cancer that is harmless unto you. But now turn, as I leave, and plant this dirty seed upon the mouth of the one who wronged you so. Or not, the choice is only but yours. Know… I love you. This is my sincere and most merry of Christmas gifts”.
by submission | Dec 1, 2021 | Story |
Author: Emma M.Murray
The sound of the zipper closing echoes around my pristine kitchen. I notice, not for the fist time, how eerily quiet our home is. My opulent floor to ceiling windows, overlooking the Atlantic, lack any real substance… or fingerprints.
“Did ya remember the Merlot?” Tom shouts in. He has meticulously packed the jeep with everything we need for our camping trip.
“We’ll drink it watching the sunset on the ridge, it’ll be spectacular.”
I have no doubt that it will.
It always is.
But there’s always something missing.
“Tom… I’m thirty-nine next month, don’t you think it’s time…” I can’t even finish the sentence.
“Oh not this again! Look at how great our lives are! We said we’d wait.”
“I know, I know,” even though I really didn’t know when I’d agreed to that.
“I’m just afraid, I’m getting older…”
“Don’t worry about that, you’re fit and healthy… let’s go!”
Dismissing the conversation, and my unimportant feelings.
We begin our hike to The Poisoned Glen from the valley below.
A botched translation of our mother tongue turning heavenly to poisoned, in days gone by.
He walks ahead of me.
I pause momentarily, absorbing the beauty of our surroundings.
Lowering my shoulders.
“You OK?” he calls back, observing my reflection.
“Just taking a break.”
He retreats to where I’m rooted.
Encircled by miles of lush greens and towering mountains.
Pops of yellow ragwort scatter the countryside, like sprinkles of sunshine.
“Why do you need a break? They’re new boots! They were expensive!” he declares.
Constantly judging…
Never letting me just…breath.
“C’mon, I want to pitch before dusk.”
Persistently nudging…
Head down, I trek behind, following his footsteps.
Wondering if I’ve always been her.
The ‘yes dear, no dear, anything you want dear’ kinda girl.
Standing on the summit, I see a rocky plateau jutting out from the face of the mountain.
This is the spot.
Slowly we descend the treacherous terrain.
Scree loosens beneath us with every step.
Without warning he loses his balance.
Cruel arms flail helplessly as he falls.
His head strikes a rock, hard.
Coming to an abrupt halt.
Instinctively I run to him…
One look, diminishes my concern, and cements my inferiority.
He’s OK.
We pitch the tent, through stubborn dizziness and a pounding headache.
The sun throws a kaleidoscope of oranges and reds across the sky.
A fire’s seemingly indistinguishable flames.
The pain in his head intensifies.
I pour the wine, convincing him it will help.
Knowing it won’t…
I watch as the flames turn to dancing embers.
He lies down behind me.
Unearthly gasps ring out.
He judders, knocking the wine from it’s flimsy plastic glass.
I watch as the red liquid forms a pool of betrayal at my feet.
Moments pass before the air stills.
An unknowing darkness creeps in, quietly enveloping me.
I look to the night sky, for a glimmer of hope? A twinkling of redemption?
Grey clouds conceal my fate.
I don’t need to touch him to know he’s cold.
…but he always has been.
by submission | Nov 30, 2021 | Story |
Author: Alfred C. Airone
There may be someone in my house. A stranger. There were strange lights outside an hour ago. Could they be connected to the reports of a spaceship landing?
I went out to find out what I could, but I met no one. Everyone’s staying inside. When I returned, I found my front door closed but unlocked. Had I forgotten to lock it? I think so, but I can’t be sure. I was too distracted.
Or is there someone in my house?
I hear unfamiliar sounds coming from upstairs. I go upstairs to check and I look in every room, but see no one. I don’t check closets, I don’t look under the bed in the spare room. In all honesty, I am afraid to.
Downstairs again. I’m suddenly aware of every creak in my house. I hear sounds, some of which I can identify: the window that always rattles when there is a wind, the scrape of branches against the dining room wall. I hear other noises that – have I heard them before? I don’t recognize them. Was I just not listening before?
It’s getting dark early – the wind is bringing a storm. Perhaps the spaceship had to land for some reason. The equivalent of a flat tire or a check engine light. Was there even a spaceship landing? The shouted reports I heard from the street were anxious and perhaps it was just fear speaking. I turn on the TV, check my phone. The TV is showing nothing but advertisements. My phone answers only inconclusively: “Several reports have been heard of a spaceship landing…”, “An unconfirmed rumor is spreading…”
There: a door upstairs slammed! But there is no further noise: no hurrying feet, or slithering coils, or clacking insectile paws. I remember I may have left a window open – it could have been just the wind that caused the door to slam. Or…?
In a minute I will go upstairs and check more thoroughly.
I hope there isn’t anyone in my house. Or…maybe I hope there is?
by submission | Nov 29, 2021 | Story |
Author: John Weagly
Conrad Lee answered the knock at his hotel room door to find a policeman with bulbous eyes and a puffy throat.
“Good evening, sir,” the cop said. “Did you call in a noise complaint?” His Innsmouth PD nametag said he was Officer Obed. He shifted from foot to foot, causing his hip to flash in the hallway light.
“Yes. Hours ago.”
“Sorry, sir. Busy night, full moon and all. What sort ‘a noise?”
“Chanting.”
“Uh-huh.” Obed wrote something down in a small notebook.
“I’m sound asleep,” Conrad said. “I hear a noise like a choir of cats being drowned in a bucket of turpentine. I look out my window to see a bunch of kooks standing on the beach, screeching at the sea.”
Obed twitched at the word ‘kooks.’ “Uh-huh.”
“I wanted to get away from the stress of the city. I came to your quaint, little fishing village to take in calm ocean breezes, maybe enjoy some quality seafood.”
“Innsmouth is a good place for that.” Obed said. “‘Come for the calamari – stay to become calamari!’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, sir. Town joke. That’s all.”
“I came here for peace and quiet.” Conrad said. “Not for dusk-till-dawn beachfront chanting by a bunch of crazies!”
Obed tensed at the word ‘crazies.’ “Uh-Huh.”
“Hour after hour of ‘Coo-thoo-loo’ and ‘Foo-taa-gen’ and some guy name ‘Riley.’ And a whole lot of ‘Eee-Ah! – Eee-Ah! – Eee-Ah!’”
“Uh-huh,” Obed said.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Uh-Huh,” Obed said. He made a note. “Eee. Ah.”
“I expect you to earn whatever this fish-stick of a town pays you and go down to that beach and disband those crackpots.”
Obed stiffened at the word ‘crackpots.’ “Yes, sir.” As he turned to leave, light again reflected off of his hip.
“Hold on a sec,” Conrad said. “What is that?”
“What is what, sir?”
“On your hip. That’s not a gun or a baton.”
Obed turned back, pulling an eight-inch golden blade encrusted with jewels and carved with strange symbols. “Ceremonial dagger,” he said. “Standard issue, here in Innsmouth.”
“Standard issue?” Conrad said, surprised.
“Uh-huh. We all carry ‘em. Never know when we’ll have a chance to use ‘em.”
Conrad shook his head in disgust. “This whole town must be made up of loonies!”
A croak came out of Officer Obed’s throat. “I don’t appreciate these derogatory names you keep using to describe our townspeople.”
Conrad’s face turned red. “You don’t appreciate…” he stammered. “I don’t appreciate your tone! My tourist dollars help pay your salary.” His eyes narrowed. “I think maybe I should come down to your office and speak to your supervisor.”
With a throaty grunt, Obed slammed his dagger into Conrad Lee’s stomach. The tourist died with a shocked look on his face and a splatter of blood on hotel carpet.
“Never know when we’ll find a good sacrifice,” Innsmouth’s finest said. “I expect my supervisor will give me a raise.”
by submission | Nov 28, 2021 | Story |
Author: Tae Hyun Nam
It’s the year 4000. Automation has allowed for bountiful abundance in resources with minimal maintenance. Most people don’t need to work at all, so they have a lot of time on their hands. How do they fill this time, you ask? Perhaps spending time with loved ones? Maybe working on passion projects to share with the world? No. 99.999999999% of the population spend their lives in the DREAM interface.
The DREAM interface allows you to enter a fully immersive virtual world that the user can bend and shape to their will. A world where anyone can become a god. First, you are dropped in a hyperreal duplicate of the current universe, and from there, the world is your oyster. You can fly. You can have hot sex with anyone you see. You can create and destroy buildings with a thought. You can even fly while having sex, destroying buildings in the process. The perfect lucid dream. Any and every desire completed with a thought. With technology to automate the maintenance of the human body, everyone can stay in the DREAM 24/7, until they die.
Everyone except me. I am the only remaining human not in the DREAM. The human race has conquered the resource crisis, and now chill in their techno-utopian stupor. But they need a single human awake to make sure everything continues to run smoothly. Out of the roughly 100 billion people in this universe, of course it had to be me. I asked under what criteria I was chosen. Was I the most vigilant? The most virtuous? “Nah, it was just a random chance. Anyways, good luck!” People used to theorize that humans became more unhappy when they compared themselves with happy people around them. In that case, I must objectively be the unhappiest human alive because 99 billion people around me are literally enjoying heaven while I’m here at this desk looking at a computer monitor.
Despite my terrible luck, I’m honestly quite okay. I do work 16 hours a day, but I get 30 minute breaks every 4 hours. Because of the abundance of resources, I can create any food I want to eat for my lunch break. My favorite is Korean-style Fried Chicken. Soy Garlic flavor with extra spice. Perfect. Having to stare at a screen all day for absolutely nothing to change can be pretty boring, but I’m told people did this all the time back in the 21st Century. They didn’t even get chosen by lottery, they voluntarily participated in this activity. Anyways, today I feel more exploratory, so I’m going to have some Nepalese cuisine. It’s a mix of Chinese and Indian—
“Wake up!! Your time is up, sir.” The employee forcibly pulls the DREAM interface from my head. “We ran your credit card, and you no longer have enough money to afford our DREAM program.” I’m dazed and confused. I was just about to eat some delicious Nepalese- “That was the life you created, sir. A life with a sense of purpose, delicious food, and quiet solitude.” The security guards grab my arms and lift me off of the chair. They threw me out of the facility. I need to go back to my 9-to-5 job so that I can afford more hours on the DREAM machine. Back to the grind, I guess.
